Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 1 M. Myriel 
In 1815, M. Charles-Francois-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D--He was an old man of about seventy-five years of age; he had occupied the see of D---- since 1806.
Although this detail has no connection whatever with the real substance of what we are about to relate, it will not be superfluous, if merely for the sake of exactness in all points, to mention here the various rumors and remarks which had been in circulation about him from the very moment when he arrived in the diocese. True or false, that which is said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all in their destinies, as that which they do. M. Myriel was the son of a councillor of the Parliament of Aix; hence he belonged to the nobility of the bar. It was said that his father, destining him to be the heir of his own post, had married him at a very early age, eighteen or twenty, in accordance with a custom which is rather widely prevalent in parliamentary families. In spite of this marriage, however, it was said that Charles Myriel created a great deal of talk. He was well formed, though rather short in stature, elegant, graceful, intelligent; the whole of the first portion of his life had been devoted to the world and to gallantry.
The Revolution came; events succeeded each other with precipitation; the parliamentary families, decimated, pursued, hunted down, were dispersed. M. Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy at the very beginning of the Revolution. There his wife died of a malady of the chest, from which she had long suffered. He had no children. What took place next in the fate of M. Myriel? The ruin of the French society of the olden days, the fall of his own family, the tragic spectacles of '93, which were, perhaps, even more alarming to the emigrants who viewed them from a distance, with the magnifying powers of terror,--did these cause the ideas of renunciation and solitude to germinate in him? Was he, in the midst of these distractions, these affections which absorbed his life, suddenly smitten with one of those mysterious and terrible blows which sometimes overwhelm, by striking to his heart, a man whom public catastrophes would not shake, by striking at his existence and his fortune? No one could have told: all that was known was, that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.
In 1804, M. Myriel was the Cure of B-- [Brignolles]. He was already advanced in years, and lived in a very retired manner.
About the epoch of the coronation, some petty affair connected with his curacy--just what, is not precisely known--took him to Paris. Among other powerful persons to whom he went to solicit aid for his parishioners was M. le Cardinal Fesch.One day, when the Emperor had come to visit his uncle, the worthy Cure, who was waiting in the anteroom, found himself present when His Majesty passed. Napoleon, on finding himself observed with a certain curiosity by this old man, turned round and said abruptly:--
"Who is this good man who is staring at me?"
"Sire," said M. Myriel, "you are looking at a good man, and I at a great man. Each of us can profit by it."
That very evening, the Emperor asked the Cardinal the name of the Cure, and some time afterwards M. Myriel was utterly astonished to learn that he had been appointed Bishop of D----
What truth was there, after all, in the stories which were invented as to the early portion of M. Myriel's life? No one knew.
Very few families had been acquainted with the Myriel family before the Revolution.
M. Myriel had to undergo the fate of every newcomer in a little town, where there are many mouths which talk, and very few heads which think.
He was obliged to undergo it although he was a bishop, and because he was a bishop. But after all, the rumors with which his name was connected were rumors only,--noise, sayings, words; less than words-- palabres, as the energetic language of the South expresses it.
However that may be, after nine years of episcopal power and of residence in D----, all the stories and subjects of conversation which engross petty towns and petty people at the outset had fallen into profound oblivion. No one would have dared to mention them; no one would have dared to recall them.
M. Myriel had arrived at D---- accompanied by an elderly spinster, Mademoiselle Baptistine, who was his sister, and ten years his junior.
Their only domestic was a female servant of the same age as Mademoiselle Baptistine, and named Madame Magloire, who, after having been the servant of M. le Cure, now assumed the double title of maid to Mademoiselle and housekeeper to Monseigneur.
Mademoiselle Baptistine was a long, pale, thin, gentle creature; she realized the ideal expressed by the word "respectable"; for it seems that a woman must needs be a mother in order to be venerable.She had never been pretty; her whole life, which had been nothing but a succession of holy deeds, had finally conferred upon her a sort of pallor and transparency; and as she advanced in years she had acquired what may be called the beauty of goodness. What had been leanness in her youth had become transparency in her maturity; and this diaphaneity allowed the angel to be seen.
She was a soul rather than a virgin. Her person seemed made of a shadow; there was hardly sufficient body to provide for sex; a little matter enclosing a light; large eyes forever drooping;-- a mere pretext for a soul's remaining on the earth.
Madame Magloire was a little, fat, white old woman, corpulent and bustling; always out of breath,--in the first place, because of her activity, and in the next, because of her asthma.
On his arrival, M. Myriel was installed in the episcopal palace with the honors required by the Imperial decrees, which class a bishop immediately after a major-general. The mayor and the president paid the first call on him, and he, in turn, paid the first call on the general and the prefect.
The installation over, the town waited to see its bishop at work.
一八一五年，迪涅①的主教是查理·佛朗沙·卞福汝·米里哀先生。他是个七十五岁左右的老人；从一八○六年起，他已就任迪涅区主教的职位。
虽然这些小事绝不触及我们将要叙述的故事的本题，但为了全面精确起见，在此地提一提在他就任之初，人们所传播的有关他的一些风闻与传说也并不是无用的。大众关于某些人的传说，无论是真是假，在他们的生活中，尤其是在他们的命运中所占的地位，往往和他们亲身所作的事是同等重要的。米里哀先生是艾克斯法院的一个参议的儿子，所谓的司法界的贵族。据说他的父亲因为要他继承②那职位，很早，十八岁或二十岁，就按照司法界贵族家庭间相当普遍的习惯，为他完了婚。米里哀先生虽已结婚，据说仍常常惹起别人的谈论。他品貌不凡，虽然身材颇小，但是生得俊秀，风度翩翩，谈吐隽逸；他一生的最初阶段完全消磨在交际场所和与妇女们的厮混中。革命③爆发了，事变叠出，司法界贵族家庭因受到摧毁，驱逐，追捕而东奔西散了。米里哀先生，当革命刚开始时便出亡到意大利。他的妻，因早已害肺病，死了。他们一个孩子也没有。此后，他的一生有些什么遭遇呢？法国旧社会的崩溃，他自己家庭的破落，一般流亡者可能因远道传闻和恐怖的夸大而显得更加可怕的九三年①的种种悲剧，是否使他在思想上产生过消沉和孤独的意念呢？一个人在生活上或财产上遭了大难还可能不为所动，但有时有一种神秘可怕的打击，打在人的心上，却能使人一蹶不振；一向在欢乐和温情中度日的他，是否受过那种突如其来的打击呢？没有谁那样说，我们所知道的只是：他从意大利回来，就已经当了教士了。
①迪涅（Digne）在法国南部，是下阿尔卑斯省的省会。
②当时法院的官职是可以买的，并可传给儿孙。
③指一七八九年法国资产阶级革命。
①一七九三年是革命达到高潮的一年。
一八○四年，米里哀先生是白里尼奥尔的本堂神甫。他当时已经老了，过着深居简出的生活。
接近加冕②时，他为了本区的一件不知道什么小事，到巴黎去过一趟。他代表他教区的信众们向上级有所陈请，曾夹在一群显要人物中去见过费什红衣主教。一天，皇帝来看他的舅父③，这位尊贵的本堂神甫正在前厅候见，皇上也恰巧走过。拿破仑看见这位老人用双好奇的眼睛瞧着他，便转过身来，突然问道：
“瞧着我的那汉子是谁呀？”
“陛下，”米里哀先生说，“您瞧一个汉子，我瞧一个天子。
彼此都还上算。” 
②拿破仑于一八○四年三月十八日称帝，十二月二日加冕。
③指费什。
皇帝在当天晚上向红衣主教问明了这位本堂神甫的姓名。不久以后，米里哀先生极其诧异地得到被任为迪涅主教的消息。
此外，人们对米里哀先生初期生活所传述的轶事，哪些是真实的？谁也不知道。很少人知道米里哀这家人在革命以前的情况。
任何人初到一个说话的嘴多而思考的头脑少的小城里总有够他受的，米里哀先生所受的也不例外。尽管他是主教，并且正因为他是主教，他就得受。总之，牵涉到他名字的那些谈话，也许只是一些闲谈而已，内容不过是听来的三言两语和捕风捉影的东西，有时甚至连捕风捉影也说不上，照南方人那种强烈的话来说，只是“胡诌”而已。
不管怎样，他住在迪涅担任教职九年以后，当初成为那些小城市和小人们谈话的题材的闲话，都完全被丢在脑后了。没有谁再敢提到，甚至没有谁再敢回想那些闲话了。
米里哀先生到迪涅时有个老姑娘伴着他，这老姑娘便是比他小十岁的妹子巴狄斯丁姑娘。
他们的佣人只是一个和巴狄斯丁姑娘同年的女仆，名叫马格洛大娘，现在，她在做了“司铎先生的女仆”后，取得了这样一个双重头衔：姑娘的女仆和主教的管家。
巴狄斯丁姑娘是个身材瘦长、面貌清癯、性情温厚的人儿，她体现了“可敬”两个字所表达的理想，因为一个妇人如果要达到“可敬”的地步，似乎总得先做母亲。她从不曾有过美丽的时期，她的一生只是一连串圣洁的工作，这就使她的身体呈现白色和光彩；将近老年时，她具有我们所谓的那种“慈祥之美”。她青年时期的消瘦到她半老时，转成了一种清虚疏朗的神韵，令人想见她是一个天使。她简直是个神人，处女当之也有逊色。她的身躯，好象是阴影构成的，几乎没有足以显示性别的实体，只是一小撮透着微光的物质，秀长的眼睛老低垂着，我们可以说她是寄存在人间的天女。
马格洛大娘是个矮老、白胖、臃肿、忙碌不定、终日气喘吁吁的妇人，一则因为她操作勤劳，再则因为她有气喘病。
米里哀先生到任以后，人们就照将主教列在仅次于元帅地位的律令所规定的仪节，把他安顿在主教院里。市长和议长向他作了初次的拜访，而他，在他那一面，也向将军和省长作了初次的拜访。
部署既毕，全城静候主教执行任务。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 2 M. Myriel becomes M. Welcome
The episcopal palace of D---- adjoins the hospital. 
The episcopal palace was a huge and beautiful house, built of stone at the beginning of the last century by M. Henri Puget, Doctor of Theology of the Faculty of Paris, Abbe of Simore, who had been Bishop of D---- in 1712. This palace was a genuine seignorial residence. 
Everything about it had a grand air,--the apartments of the Bishop, the drawing-rooms, the chambers, the principal courtyard, which was very large, with walks encircling it under arcades in the old Florentine fashion, and gardens planted with magnificent trees. 
In the dining-room, a long and superb gallery which was situated on the ground-floor and opened on the gardens, M. Henri Puget had entertained in state, on July 29, 1714, My Lords Charles Brulart de Genlis, archbishop; Prince d'Embrun; Antoine de Mesgrigny, the capuchin, Bishop of Grasse; Philippe de Vendome, Grand Prior of France, Abbe of Saint Honore de Lerins; Francois de Berton de Crillon, bishop, Baron de Vence; Cesar de Sabran de Forcalquier, bishop, Seignor of Glandeve; and Jean Soanen, Priest of the Oratory, preacher in ordinary to the king, bishop, Seignor of Senez. 
The portraits of these seven reverend personages decorated this apartment; and this memorable date, the 29th of July, 1714, was there engraved in letters of gold on a table of white marble. 
The hospital was a low and narrow building of a single story, with a small garden. 
Three days after his arrival, the Bishop visited the hospital. 
The visit ended, he had the director requested to be so good as to come to his house. 
"Monsieur the director of the hospital," said he to him, "how many sick people have you at the present moment?" 
"Twenty-six, Monseigneur." 
"That was the number which I counted," said the Bishop. 
"The beds," pursued the director, "are very much crowded against each other." 
"That is what I observed." 
"The halls are nothing but rooms, and it is with difficulty that the air can be changed in them." 
"So it seems to me." 
"And then, when there is a ray of sun, the garden is very small for the convalescents." 
"That was what I said to myself." 
"In case of epidemics,--we have had the typhus fever this year; we had the sweating sickness two years ago, and a hundred patients at times,--we know not what to do." 
"That is the thought which occurred to me." 
"What would you have, Monseigneur?" said the director. "One must resign one's self." 
This conversation took place in the gallery dining-room on the ground-floor. 
The Bishop remained silent for a moment; then he turned abruptly to the director of the hospital. 
"Monsieur," said he, "how many beds do you think this hall alone would hold?" 
"Monseigneur's dining-room?" exclaimed the stupefied director. 
The Bishop cast a glance round the apartment, and seemed to be taking measures and calculations with his eyes. 
"It would hold full twenty beds," said he, as though speaking to himself. Then, raising his voice:-- 
"Hold, Monsieur the director of the hospital, I will tell you something. 
There is evidently a mistake here. There are thirty-six of you, in five or six small rooms. There are three of us here, and we have room for sixty. There is some mistake, I tell you; you have my house, and I have yours. Give me back my house; you are at home here." 
On the following day the thirty-six patients were installed in the Bishop's palace, and the Bishop was settled in the hospital. 
M. Myriel had no property, his family having been ruined by the Revolution. His sister was in receipt of a yearly income of five hundred francs, which sufficed for her personal wants at the vicarage. M. Myriel received from the State, in his quality of bishop, a salary of fifteen thousand francs. On the very day when he took up his abode in the hospital, M. Myriel settled on the disposition of this sum once for all, in the following manner. We transcribe here a note made by his own hand:-- 
NOTE ON THE REGULATION OF MY HOUSEHOLD EXPENSES. 
For the little seminary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1,500 livres 
Society of the mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 " 
For the Lazarists of Montdidier . . . . . . . . . . 100 " 
Seminary for foreign missions in Paris . . . . . . 200 " 
Congregation of the Holy Spirit . . . . . . . . . . 150 " 
Religious establishments of the Holy Land . . . . . 100 " 
Charitable maternity societies . . . . . . . . . . 300 " 
Extra, for that of Arles . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 " 
Work for the amelioration of prisons . . . . . . . 400 " 
Work for the relief and delivery of prisoners . . . 500 " 
To liberate fathers of families incarcerated for debt 1,000 " 
Addition to the salary of the poor teachers of the 
diocese . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2,000 " 
Public granary of the Hautes-Alpes . . . . . . . . 100 " 
Congregation of the ladies of D----, of Manosque, and of Sisteron, for the gratuitous instruction of poor girls . . . . . . . . . . 1,500 " 
For the poor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6,000 " 
My personal expenses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1,000 " 
------ 
Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15,000 " 
M. Myriel made no change in this arrangement during the entire period that he occupied the see of D---- As has been seen, he called it regulating his household expenses. 
This arrangement was accepted with absolute submission by Mademoiselle Baptistine. This holy woman regarded Monseigneur of D----as at one and the same time her brother and her bishop, her friend according to the flesh and her superior according to the Church. She simply loved and venerated him. When he spoke, she bowed; when he acted, she yielded her adherence. Their only servant, Madame Magloire, grumbled a little. It will be observed that Monsieur the Bishop had reserved for himself only one thousand livres, which, added to the pension of Mademoiselle Baptistine, made fifteen hundred francs a year. On these fifteen hundred francs these two old women and the old man subsisted. 
And when a village curate came to D----, the Bishop still found means to entertain him, thanks to the severe economy of Madame Magloire, and to the intelligent administration of Mademoiselle Baptistine. 
One day, after he had been in D---- about three months, the Bishop said:-- 
"And still I am quite cramped with it all!" 
"I should think so!" exclaimed Madame Magloire. "Monseigneur has not even claimed the allowance which the department owes him for the expense of his carriage in town, and for his journeys about the diocese. It was customary for bishops in former days." "Hold!" cried the Bishop, "you are quite right, Madame Magloire." 
And he made his demand. 
Some time afterwards the General Council took this demand under consideration, and voted him an annual sum of three thousand francs, under this heading: Allowance to M. the Bishop for expenses of carriage, expenses of posting, and expenses of pastoral visits. 
This provoked a great outcry among the local burgesses; and a senator of the Empire, a former member of the Council of the Five Hundred which favored the 18 Brumaire, and who was provided with a magnificent senatorial office in the vicinity of the town of D----, wrote to M. Bigot de Preameneu, the minister of public worship, a very angry and confidential note on the subject, from which we extract these authentic lines:-- "Expenses of carriage? What can be done with it in a town of less than four thousand inhabitants? Expenses of journeys? What is the use of these trips, in the first place? Next, how can the posting be accomplished in these mountainous parts? There are no roads. No one travels otherwise than on horseback. Even the bridge between Durance and Chateau-Arnoux can barely support ox-teams. These priests are all thus, greedy and avaricious. This man played the good priest when he first came. Now he does like the rest; he must have a carriage and a posting-chaise, he must have luxuries, like the bishops of the olden days. Oh, all this priesthood! Things will not go well, M. le Comte, until the Emperor has freed us from these black-capped rascals. Down with the Pope! [Matters were getting embroiled with Rome.] For my part, I am for Caesar alone." Etc., etc. 
On the other hand, this affair afforded great delight to Madame Magloire. "Good," said she to Mademoiselle Baptistine; "Monseigneur began with other people, but he has had to wind up with himself, after all. He has regulated all his charities. Now here are three thousand francs for us! At last!" 
That same evening the Bishop wrote out and handed to his sister a memorandum conceived in the following terms:-- 
EXPENSES OF CARRIAGE AND CIRCUIT. 
For furnishing meat soup to the patients in the hospital. 1,500 livres 
For the maternity charitable society of Aix . . . . . . . 250 " 
For the maternity charitable society of Draguignan . . . 250 " 
For foundlings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 500 " 
For orphans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 500 " 
----- 
Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3,000 " 
Such was M. Myriel's budget. 
As for the chance episcopal perquisites, the fees for marriage bans, dispensations, private baptisms, sermons, benedictions, of churches or chapels, marriages, etc., the Bishop levied them on the wealthy with all the more asperity, since he bestowed them on the needy. 
After a time, offerings of money flowed in. Those who had and those who lacked knocked at M. Myriel's door,--the latter in search of the alms which the former came to deposit. In less than a year the Bishop had become the treasurer of all benevolence and the cashier of all those in distress. Considerable sums of money passed through his hands, but nothing could induce him to make any change whatever in his mode of life, or add anything superfluous to his bare necessities. 
Far from it. As there is always more wretchedness below than there is brotherhood above, all was given away, so to speak, before it was received. It was like water on dry soil; no matter how much money he received, he never had any. Then he stripped himself. 
The usage being that bishops shall announce their baptismal names at the head of their charges and their pastoral letters, the poor people of the country-side had selected, with a sort of affectionate instinct, among the names and prenomens of their bishop, that which had a meaning for them; and they never called him anything except Monseigneur Bienvenu [Welcome]. We will follow their example, and will also call him thus when we have occasion to name him. Moreover, this appellation pleased him. 
"I like that name," said he. "Bienvenu makes up for the Monseigneur." 
We do not claim that the portrait herewith presented is probable; we confine ourselves to stating that it resembles the original.
迪涅的主教院是和医院毗连的。
主教院是座广阔壮丽、石料建成的大厦，是巴黎大学神学博士，西摩尔修院院长，一七一二年的迪涅主教亨利·彼惹在前世纪初兴建的。那确是一座华贵的府第。其中一切都具有豪华的气派，主教的私邸，大小客厅，各种房间，相当宽敞的院子，具有佛罗伦萨古代风格的穹窿的回廊，树木苍翠的园子。楼下朝花园的一面，有间富丽堂皇的游廊式的长厅，一七一四年七月二十九日，主教亨利·彼惹曾在那餐厅里公宴过这些要人：
昂布伦亲王棗大主教查理·勃吕拉·德·让利斯；
嘉布遣会修士棗格拉斯主教安东尼·德·梅吉尼；
法兰西祈祷大师棗雷兰群岛圣奥诺雷修院院长菲力浦·德·旺多姆；
梵斯男爵棗主教佛朗沙·德·白东·德·格利翁；
格朗代夫贵人棗主教凯撒·德·沙白朗·德·福高尔吉尔；
经堂神甫棗御前普通宣道士棗塞内士贵人棗主教让·沙阿兰。
这七个德高望重的人物的画像一直点缀着那间长厅，“一七一四年七月二十九日”这个值得纪念的日子，也用金字刻在厅里的一张白大理石碑上。
那医院却是一所狭隘低陋的房子，只有一层楼，带个小小花园。
主教到任三天以后参观了医院。参观完毕，他恭请那位院长到他家里去。
“院长先生，”他说，“您现在有多少病人？”
“二十六个，我的主教。”
“正和我数过的一样。”主教说。
“那些病床，”院长又说，“彼此靠得太近了，一张挤着一张的。”
“那正是我注意到的。”
“那些病房都只是一些小间，里面的空气很难流通。”
“那正是我感觉到的。”
“并且，即使是在有一线阳光的时候，那园子对刚刚起床的病人们也是很小的。”
“那正是我所见到的。”
“传染病方面，今年我们有过伤寒，两年前，有过疹子，有时多到百来个病人，我们真不知道怎么办。”
“那正是我所想到的。”
“有什么办法呢，我的主教？”院长说，“我们总得将就些。”
那次谈话正是在楼下那间游廊式的餐厅里进行的。
主教沉默了一会，突然转向院长。
“先生，”他说，“您以为，就拿这个厅来说，可以容纳多少床位？”
“主教的餐厅！”惊惶失措的院长喊了起来。
主教把那间厅周围望了一遍，象是在用眼睛测算。
“此地足够容纳二十张病床！”他自言自语地说，随着又提高嗓子，“瞧，院长先生，我告诉您，这里显然有了错误。你们二十六个人住在五六间小屋子里，而我们这儿三个人，却有六十个人的地方。这里有了错误，我告诉您。您来住我的房子，我去住您的。您把我的房子还我。这儿是您的家。”
第二天，那二十六个穷人便安居在主教的府上，主教却住在医院里。
米里哀先生绝没有财产，因为他的家已在革命时期破落了。他的妹子每年领着五百法郎的养老金，正够她个人住在神甫家里的费用。米里哀先生以主教身份从政府领得一万五千法郎的薪俸。在他搬到医院的房子里去住的那天，米里哀先生就一次作出决定，把那笔款分作以下各项用途。我们把他亲手写的一张单子抄在下面。
我的家用分配单
教士培养所津贴一千五百利弗①
传教会津贴一百利弗
孟迪第圣辣匝禄会修士们津贴一百利弗
巴黎外方传教会津贴二百利弗
圣灵会津贴一百五十利弗
圣地宗教团体津贴一百利弗
各慈幼会津贴三百利弗
阿尔勒慈幼会补助费五十利弗
改善监狱用费四百利弗
囚犯抚慰及救济事业费五百利弗
赎免因债入狱的家长费一千利弗
补助本教区学校贫寒教师津贴二千利弗
捐助上阿尔卑斯省义仓一百利弗
迪涅，玛诺斯克，锡斯特龙等地妇女联合会，
贫寒女孩的义务教育费一千五百利弗
穷人救济费六千利弗
本人用费一千利弗
共计　一万五千利弗 
①利弗（livre）当时的一种币制，等于一法郎。
米里哀先生在他当迪涅主教的任期中，几乎没有改变过这个分配办法。我们知道，他把这称作“分配了他的家用”。
那种分配是被巴狄斯丁姑娘以绝对服从的态度接受了的。米里哀先生对那位圣女来说，是她的阿哥，同时也是她的主教，是人世间的朋友和宗教中的上司。她爱他，并且极其单纯地敬服他。当他说话时，她俯首恭听；当他行动时，她追随伺候。只有那位女仆马格洛大娘，稍微有些噜苏。我们已经知道，主教只为自己留下一千利弗，和巴狄斯丁姑娘的养老金合并起来，每年才一千五百法郎。两个老妇人和老头儿都在那一千五百法郎里过活。
当镇上有教士来到迪涅时，主教先生还有办法招待他们。
那是由于马格洛大娘的极其节俭和巴狄斯丁姑娘的精打细算。
一天棗到迪涅约三个月时，主教说：
“这样下去，我真有些维持不了！”
“当然罗！”马格洛大娘说。“主教大人连省里应给的那笔城区车马费和教区巡视费都没有要来。对从前的那几位主教，原是照例有的。”
“对！”主教说。“您说得对，马格洛大娘。”
他提出了申请。
过了些时候，省务委员会审查了那申请，通过每年给他一笔三千法郎的款子，名义是“主教先生的轿车、邮车和教务巡视津贴”。
这件事使当地的士绅们大嚷起来。有一个帝国元老院①的元老，他从前当过五百人院②的元老，曾经赞助雾月十八日政变①，住在迪涅城附近一座富丽堂皇的元老宅第里，为这件事，他写了一封怨气冲天的密函给宗教大臣皮戈·德·普雷阿麦内先生。我们现在把它的原文节录下来：
“轿车津贴？在一个人口不到四千的城里，有什么用处？邮车和巡视津贴？首先要问这种巡视有什么好处，其次，在这样的山区，怎样走邮车？路都没有。只能骑着马走。从迪朗斯到阿尔努堡的那座桥也只能够走小牛车。所有的神甫全一样，又贪又吝。这一个在到任之初，还象个善良的宗徒。现在却和其他人一样了，他非坐轿车和邮车不行了，他非享受从前那些主教所享受的奢侈品不可了。咳！这些臭神甫！伯爵先生，如果皇上不替我们肃清这些吃教的坏蛋，一切事都好不了。打倒教皇！（当时正和罗马②发生磨擦。）至于我，我只拥护恺撒……” 
①指拿破仑帝国的元老院，由二十四人组成，任期是终身的。
②一七九五年十月，代表新兴资产阶级的热月党，根据自己制定的新宪法，由有产者投票选举，成立了元老院（上院）和五百人院（下院）。
①法兰西共和国八年雾月十八日（一七九九年十一月九日），拿破仑发动政变，开始了独裁统治。
②教皇庇护七世于一八○四年到巴黎为拿破仑加冕，后被拘禁在法国，直到拿破仑失败。
在另一方面，这件事却使马格洛大娘大为高兴。
“好了！”她对巴狄斯丁姑娘说。“主教在开始时只顾别人，但结果也非顾自己不可了。他已把他的慈善捐分配停当，这三千法郎总算是我们的了。”
当天晚上，主教写了这样一张单子交给他的妹子。
车马费及巡视津贴
供给住院病人肉汤的津贴一千五百利弗
艾克斯慈幼会的津贴二百五十利弗
德拉吉尼昂慈幼会的津贴二百五十利弗
救济被遗弃的孩子五百利弗
救济孤儿五百利弗
共计三千利弗
以上就是米里哀先生的预算表。
至于主教的额外开支，以及请求提早婚礼费、特许开斋费、婴孩死前洗礼费、宣教费、为教堂或私立小堂祝圣费、行结婚典礼费等等，这位主教都到有钱人身上去取来给穷人；取得紧也给得急。
没有多久，各方捐赠的钱财源源而来。富有的和贫乏的人都来敲米里哀先生的门，后者来请求前者所留下的捐赠。不到一年功夫，主教便成了一切慈善捐的保管人和苦难的援助者。大笔大笔的款项都经过他的手，但没有任何东西能稍稍改变他的生活方式，或使他在他所必需的用品以外增添一点多余的东西。
不但如此，由于社会上层的博爱总敌不过下层的穷苦，我们可以说，所有的钱都早已在收入以前付出了，正好象旱地上的水一样；他白白地收进一些钱，却永远没有余款；于是他从自己身上搜刮起来。
主教们照例把自己的教名全部写在他们的布告和公函头上。当地的穷人，由于一种本能的爱戴，在这位主教的几个名字中，挑选了对他们具有意义的一个，称他为卞福汝①主教。我们也将随时照样用那名字称呼他。并且这个称呼很中他的意。 
①卞福汝（Bienvenu）是“欢迎”的意思。
“我喜欢这名称，”他说，“卞福汝赛过主教大人。”
我们并不认为在此地所刻画的形象是逼真的，我们只说它近似而已。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 3 A Hard Bishopric for a Good Bishop
The Bishop did not omit his pastoral visits because he had converted his carriage into alms. The diocese of D---- is a fatiguing one. There are very few plains and a great many mountains; hardly any roads, as we have just seen; thirty-two curacies, forty-one vicarships, and two hundred and eighty-five auxiliary chapels. To visit all these is quite a task. 
The Bishop managed to do it. He went on foot when it was in the neighborhood, in a tilted spring-cart when it was on the plain, and on a donkey in the mountains. The two old women accompanied him. When the trip was too hard for them, he went alone. 
One day he arrived at Senez, which is an ancient episcopal city. He was mounted on an ass. His purse, which was very dry at that moment, did not permit him any other equipage. The mayor of the town came to receive him at the gate of the town, and watched him dismount from his ass, with scandalized eyes. Some of the citizens were laughing around him. "Monsieur the Mayor," said the Bishop, "and Messieurs Citizens, I perceive that I shock you. You think it very arrogant in a poor priest to ride an animal which was used by Jesus Christ. I have done so from necessity, I assure you, and not from vanity." 
In the course of these trips he was kind and indulgent, and talked rather than preached. He never went far in search of his arguments and his examples. He quoted to the inhabitants of one district the example of a neighboring district. In the cantons where they were harsh to the poor, he said: "Look at the people of Briancon! They have conferred on the poor, on widows and orphans, the right to have their meadows mown three days in advance of every one else. They rebuild their houses for them gratuitously when they are ruined. Therefore it is a country which is blessed by God. For a whole century, there has not been a single murderer among them." 
In villages which were greedy for profit and harvest, he said: "Look at the people of Embrun! If, at the harvest season, the father of a family has his son away on service in the army, and his daughters at service in the town, and if he is ill and incapacitated, the cure recommends him to the prayers of the congregation; and on Sunday, after the mass, all the inhabitants of the village--men, women, and children--go to the poor man's field and do his harvesting for him, and carry his straw and his grain to his granary." To families divided by questions of money and inheritance he said: "Look at the mountaineers of Devolny, a country so wild that the nightingale is not heard there once in fifty years. Well, when the father of a family dies, the boys go off to seek their fortunes, leaving the property to the girls, so that they may find husbands." To the cantons which had a taste for lawsuits, and where the farmers ruined themselves in stamped paper, he said: "Look at those good peasants in the valley of Queyras! There are three thousand souls of them. Mon Dieu! it is like a little republic. Neither judge nor bailiff is known there. The mayor does everything. He allots the imposts, taxes each person conscientiously, judges quarrels for nothing, divides inheritances without charge, pronounces sentences gratuitously; and he is obeyed, because he is a just man among simple men." To villages where he found no schoolmaster, he quoted once more the people of Queyras: "Do you know how they manage?" he said. "Since a little country of a dozen or fifteen hearths cannot always support a teacher, they have school-masters who are paid by the whole valley, who make the round of the villages, spending a week in this one, ten days in that, and instruct them. These teachers go to the fairs. I have seen them there. They are to be recognized by the quill pens which they wear in the cord of their hat. Those who teach reading only have one pen; those who teach reading and reckoning have two pens; those who teach reading, reckoning, and Latin have three pens. But what a disgrace to be ignorant! Do like the people of Queyras!" 
Thus he discoursed gravely and paternally; in default of examples, he invented parables, going directly to the point, with few phrases and many images, which characteristic formed the real eloquence of Jesus Christ. And being convinced himself, he was persuasive.
主教先生并不因为他的马车变成了救济款而减少他的巡回视察工作。迪涅教区是个苦地方。平原少，山地多，我们刚才已经提到。三十二个司铎区，四十一个监牧区，二百八十五个分区。巡视那一切，确成问题，这位主教先生却能完成任务。如果是在附近，他就步行；在平原，坐小马车；在山里，就乘骡兜。那两个高年的妇人还陪伴着他。如果路程对她们太辛苦，他便一个人去。
一天，他骑着一头毛驴，走到塞内士，那是座古老的主教城。当时他正囊空如洗，不可能有别种坐骑。地方长官来到主教公馆门口迎接他，瞧见他从驴背上下来，觉得有失体统。另外几个士绅也围着他笑。
“长官先生和各位先生，”主教说，“我知道什么事使你们感到丢人，你们一定认为一个贫苦的牧师跨着耶稣基督的坐
骑未免妄自尊大。我是不得已才这样做的，老实说，并非出自虚荣。”
在巡视工作中，他是谦虚和蔼的，闲谈的时间多，说教的时候少。他素来不把品德问题提到高不可攀的地步，也从不向远处去找他的论据和范例。对某一乡的居民，他常叙说邻乡的榜样。在那些对待穷人刻薄的镇上，他说：“你们瞧瞧布里昂松地方的人吧。他们给了穷人、寡妇和孤儿一种特权，使他们可以比旁人早三天割他们草场上的草料。如果他们的房屋要坍了，就会有人替他们重盖，不要工资。这也可算得上是上帝庇佑的地方了。在整整一百年中，从没一个人犯过凶杀案。”
在那些斤斤计较利润和收获物的村子里，他说：“你们瞧瞧昂布伦地方的人吧。万一有个家长在收割时，因儿子都在服兵役，女孩也在城里工作，而自己又害病不能劳动，本堂神甫就把他的情形在宣道时提出来，等到礼拜日，公祷完毕，村里所有的人，男的，女的，孩子们都到那感到困难的人的田里去替他收割，并且替他把麦秸和麦粒搬进仓去。”对那些因银钱和遗产问题而分裂的家庭，他说：“你们瞧瞧德福宜山区的人吧。那是一片非常荒凉的地方，五十年也听不到一次黄莺的歌声。可是，当有一家的父亲死了，他的儿子便各自出外谋生，把家产留给姑娘们，好让她们找得到丈夫。”在那些争讼成风，农民每因告状而倾家荡产的镇上，他说：“你们看看格拉谷的那些善良的老乡吧。那里有三千人口。我的上帝！那真象一个小小的共和国。他们既不知道有审判官，也不知道有执法官。处理一切的是乡长。他分配捐税，凭良心向各人抽捐，义务地排解纠纷，替人分配遗产，不取酬金，判处案情，不收讼费；大家也都服他，因为他是那些简朴的人中一个正直的人。”在那些没有教师的村子里，他又谈到格拉谷的居民了：“你们知道他们怎么办？”他说，“一个只有十家到十五家人口的小地方，自然不能经常供养一个乡村教师，于是他们全谷公聘几个教师，在各村巡回教学，在这村停留八天，那村停留十天。那些教师常到市集上去，我常在那些地方遇见他们。我们只须看插在帽带上的鹅毛笔，就可以认出他们来。那些只教人读书的带一管笔，教人读又教人算的带两管，教人读算和拉丁文的带三管。他们都是很有学问的人。做一个无知无识的人多么可羞！
你们向格拉谷的居民学习吧。”
他那样谈着，严肃地，象父兄那样；在缺少实例的时候，他就创造一些言近而意远的话，用简括的词句和丰富的想象，直达他的目的；那正是耶稣基督的辩才，能自信，又能服人。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 4 Works corresponding to Words
His conversation was gay and affable. He put himself on a level with the two old women who had passed their lives beside him. When he laughed, it was the laugh of a schoolboy. Madame Magloire liked to call him Your Grace [Votre Grandeur]. One day he rose from his arm-chair, and went to his library in search of a book. This book was on one of the upper shelves. As the bishop was rather short of stature, he could not reach it. "Madame Magloire," said he, "fetch me a chair. My greatness [grandeur] does not reach as far as that shelf." 
One of his distant relatives, Madame la Comtesse de Lo, rarely allowed an opportunity to escape of enumerating, in his presence, what she designated as "the expectations" of her three sons. She had numerous relatives, who were very old and near to death, and of whom her sons were the natural heirs. The youngest of the three was to receive from a grand-aunt a good hundred thousand livres of income; the second was the heir by entail to the title of the Duke, his uncle; the eldest was to succeed to the peerage of his grandfather. The Bishop was accustomed to listen in silence to these innocent and pardonable maternal boasts. On one occasion, however, he appeared to be more thoughtful than usual, while Madame de Lo was relating once again the details of all these inheritances and all these "expectations." She interrupted herself impatiently: "Mon Dieu, cousin! What are you thinking about?" "I am thinking," replied the Bishop, "of a singular remark, which is to be found, I believe, in St. Augustine,-`Place your hopes in the man from whom you do not inherit.'" 
At another time, on receiving a notification of the decease of a gentleman of the country-side, wherein not only the dignities of the dead man, but also the feudal and noble qualifications of all his relatives, spread over an entire page: "What a stout back Death has!" he exclaimed. "What a strange burden of titles is cheerfully imposed on him, and how much wit must men have, in order thus to press the tomb into the service of vanity!" 
He was gifted, on occasion, with a gentle raillery, which almost always concealed a serious meaning. In the course of one Lent, a youthful vicar came to D----, and preached in the cathedral. He was tolerably eloquent. The subject of his sermon was charity. He urged the rich to give to the poor, in order to avoid hell, which he depicted in the most frightful manner of which he was capable, and to win paradise, which he represented as charming and desirable. Among the audience there was a wealthy retired merchant, who was somewhat of a usurer, named M. Geborand, who had amassed two millions in the manufacture of coarse cloth, serges, and woollen galloons. Never in his whole life had M. Geborand bestowed alms on any poor wretch. After the delivery of that sermon, it was observed that he gave a sou every Sunday to the poor old beggar-women at the door of the cathedral. There were six of them to share it. One day the Bishop caught sight of him in the act of bestowing this charity, and said to his sister, with a smile, "There is M. Geborand purchasing paradise for a sou." 
When it was a question of charity, he was not to be rebuffed even by a refusal, and on such occasions he gave utterance to remarks which induced reflection. Once he was begging for the poor in a drawing-room of the town; there was present the Marquis de Champtercier, a wealthy and avaricious old man, who contrived to be, at one and the same time, an ultra-royalist and an ultra-Voltairian. This variety of man has actually existed. When the Bishop came to him, he touched his arm, "You must give me something, M. le Marquis." The Marquis turned round and answered dryly, "I have poor people of my own, Monseigneur." "Give them to me," replied the Bishop. 
One day he preached the following sermon in the cathedral:-- 
"My very dear brethren, my good friends, there are thirteen hundred and twenty thousand peasants' dwellings in France which have but three openings; eighteen hundred and seventeen thousand hovels which have but two openings, the door and one window; and three hundred and forty-six thousand cabins besides which have but one opening, the door. And this arises from a thing which is called the tax on doors and windows. Just put poor families, old women and little children, in those buildings, and behold the fevers and maladies which result! Alas! God gives air to men; the law sells it to them. I do not blame the law, but I bless God. In the department of the Isere, in the Var, in the two departments of the Alpes, the Hautes, and the Basses, the peasants have not even wheelbarrows; they transport their manure on the backs of men; they have no candles, and they burn resinous sticks, and bits of rope dipped in pitch. That is the state of affairs throughout the whole of the hilly country of Dauphine. They make bread for six months at one time; they bake it with dried cow-dung. In the winter they break this bread up with an axe, and they soak it for twenty-four hours, in order to render it eatable. My brethren, have pity! Behold the suffering on all sides of you!" 
Born a Provencal, he easily familiarized himself with the dialect of the south. He said, "En be! moussu, ses sage?" as in lower Languedoc; "Onte anaras passa?" as in the Basses-Alpes; "Puerte un bouen moutu embe un bouen fromage grase," as in upper Dauphine. This pleased the people extremely, and contributed not a little to win him access to all spirits. He was perfectly at home in the thatched cottage and in the mountains. He understood how to say the grandest things in the most vulgar of idioms. As he spoke all tongues, he entered into all hearts. 
Moreover, he was the same towards people of the world and towards the lower classes. He condemned nothing in haste and without taking circumstances into account. He said, "Examine the road over which the fault has passed." 
Being, as he described himself with a smile, an ex-sinner, he had none of the asperities of austerity, and he professed, with a good deal of distinctness, and without the frown of the ferociously virtuous, a doctrine which may be summed up as follows:-- 
"Man has upon him his flesh, which is at once his burden and his temptation. He drags it with him and yields to it. He must watch it, cheek it, repress it, and obey it only at the last extremity. There may be some fault even in this obedience; but the fault thus committed is venial; it is a fall, but a fall on the knees which may terminate in prayer. 
"To be a saint is the exception; to be an upright man is the rule. Err, fall, sin if you will, but be upright. 
"The least possible sin is the law of man. No sin at all is the dream of the angel. All which is terrestrial is subject to sin. Sin is a gravitation." 
When he saw everyone exclaiming very loudly, and growing angry very quickly, "Oh! oh!" he said, with a smile; "to all appearance, this is a great crime which all the world commits. These are hypocrisies which have taken fright, and are in haste to make protest and to put themselves under shelter." 
He was indulgent towards women and poor people, on whom the burden of human society rest. He said, "The faults of women, of children, of the feeble, the indigent, and the ignorant, are the fault of the husbands, the fathers, the masters, the strong, the rich, and the wise." 
He said, moreover, "Teach those who are ignorant as many things as possible; society is culpable, in that it does not afford instruction gratis; it is responsible for the night which it produces. This soul is full of shadow; sin is therein committed. The guilty one is not the person who has committed the sin, but the person who has created the shadow." 
It will be perceived that he had a peculiar manner of his own of judging things: I suspect that he obtained it from the Gospel. 
One day he heard a criminal case, which was in preparation and on the point of trial, discussed in a drawing-room. A wretched man, being at the end of his resources, had coined counterfeit money, out of love for a woman, and for the child which he had had by her. Counterfeiting was still punishable with death at that epoch. The woman had been arrested in the act of passing the first false piece made by the man. She was held, but there were no proofs except against her. She alone could accuse her lover, and destroy him by her confession. She denied; they insisted. She persisted in her denial. Thereupon an idea occurred to the attorney for the crown. He invented an infidelity on the part of the lover, and succeeded, by means of fragments of letters cunningly presented, in persuading the unfortunate woman that she had a rival, and that the man was deceiving her. Thereupon, exasperated by jealousy, she denounced her lover, confessed all, proved all. The man was ruined. He was shortly to be tried at Aix with his accomplice. They were relating the matter, and each one was expressing enthusiasm over the cleverness of the magistrate. 
By bringing jealousy into play, he had caused the truth to burst forth in wrath, he had educed the justice of revenge. The Bishop listened to all this in silence. When they had finished, he inquired,-- 
"Where are this man and woman to be tried?" 
"At the Court of Assizes." 
He went on, "And where will the advocate of the crown be tried?" 
A tragic event occurred at D---- A man was condemned to death for murder. He was a wretched fellow, not exactly educated, not exactly ignorant, who had been a mountebank at fairs, and a writer for the public. The town took a great interest in the trial. On the eve of the day fixed for the execution of the condemned man, the chaplain of the prison fell ill. A priest was needed to attend the criminal in his last moments. They sent for the cure. It seems that he refused to come, saying, "That is no affair of mine. I have nothing to do with that unpleasant task, and with that mountebank: I, too, am ill; and besides, it is not my place." This reply was reported to the Bishop, who said, "Monsieur le Cure is right: it is not his place; it is mine." 
He went instantly to the prison, descended to the cell of the "mountebank," called him by name, took him by the hand, and spoke to him. He passed the entire day with him, forgetful of food and sleep, praying to God for the soul of the condemned man, and praying the condemned man for his own. He told him the best truths, which are also the most simple. He was father, brother, friend; he was bishop only to bless. He taught him everything, encouraged and consoled him. The man was on the point of dying in despair. Death was an abyss to him. As he stood trembling on its mournful brink, he recoiled with horror. He was not sufficiently ignorant to be absolutely indifferent. His condemnation, which had been a profound shock, had, in a manner, broken through, here and there, that wall which separates us from the mystery of things, and which we call life. He gazed incessantly beyond this world through these fatal breaches, and beheld only darkness. The Bishop made him see light. 
On the following day, when they came to fetch the unhappy wretch, the Bishop was still there. He followed him, and exhibited himself to the eyes of the crowd in his purple camail and with his episcopal cross upon his neck, side by side with the criminal bound with cords. 
He mounted the tumbril with him, he mounted the scaffold with him. The sufferer, who had been so gloomy and cast down on the preceding day, was radiant. He felt that his soul was reconciled, and he hoped in God. The Bishop embraced him, and at the moment when the knife was about to fall, he said to him: "God raises from the dead him whom man slays; he whom his brothers have rejected finds his Father once more. Pray, believe, enter into life: the Father is there." When he descended from the scaffold, there was something in his look which made the people draw aside to let him pass. They did not know which was most worthy of admiration, his pallor or his serenity. On his return to the humble dwelling, which he designated, with a smile, as his palace, he said to his sister, "I have just officiated pontifically." 
Since the most sublime things are often those which are the least understood, there were people in the town who said, when commenting on this conduct of the Bishop, "It is affectation." 
This, however, was a remark which was confined to the drawing-rooms. The populace, which perceives no jest in holy deeds, was touched, and admired him. 
As for the Bishop, it was a shock to him to have beheld the guillotine, and it was a long time before he recovered from it. 
In fact, when the scaffold is there, all erected and prepared, it has something about it which produces hallucination. One may feel a certain indifference to the death penalty, one may refrain from pronouncing upon it, from saying yes or no, so long as one has not seen a guillotine with one's own eyes: but if one encounters one of them, the shock is violent; one is forced to decide, and to take part for or against. Some admire it, like de Maistre; others execrate it, like Beccaria. The guillotine is the concretion of the law; it is called vindicte; it is not neutral, and it does not permit you to remain neutral. He who sees it shivers with the most mysterious of shivers. All social problems erect their interrogation point around this chopping-knife. The scaffold is a vision. The scaffold is not a piece of carpentry; the scaffold is not a machine; the scaffold is not an inert bit of mechanism constructed of wood, iron and cords. 
It seems as though it were a being, possessed of I know not what sombre initiative; one would say that this piece of carpenter's work saw, that this machine heard, that this mechanism understood, that this wood, this iron, and these cords were possessed of will. In the frightful meditation into which its presence casts the soul the scaffold appears in terrible guise, and as though taking part in what is going on. The scaffold is the accomplice of the executioner; it devours, it eats flesh, it drinks blood; the scaffold is a sort of monster fabricated by the judge and the carpenter, a spectre which seems to live with a horrible vitality composed of all the death which it has inflicted. 
Therefore, the impression was terrible and profound; on the day following the execution, and on many succeeding days, the Bishop appeared to be crushed. The almost violent serenity of the funereal moment had disappeared; the phantom of social justice tormented him. He, who generally returned from all his deeds with a radiant satisfaction, seemed to be reproaching himself. At times he talked to himself, and stammered lugubrious monologues in a low voice. This is one which his sister overheard one evening and preserved: "I did not think that it was so monstrous. It is wrong to become absorbed in the divine law to such a degree as not to perceive human law. Death belongs to God alone. By what right do men touch that unknown thing?" 
In course of time these impressions weakened and probably vanished. Nevertheless, it was observed that the Bishop thenceforth avoided passing the place of execution. 
M. Myriel could be summoned at any hour to the bedside of the sick and dying. He did not ignore the fact that therein lay his greatest duty and his greatest labor. Widowed and orphaned families had no need to summon him; he came of his own accord. He understood how to sit down and hold his peace for long hours beside the man who had lost the wife of his love, of the mother who had lost her child. As he knew the moment for silence he knew also the moment for speech. Oh, admirable consoler! He sought not to efface sorrow by forgetfulness, but to magnify and dignify it by hope. He said:-- 
"Have a care of the manner in which you turn towards the dead. Think not of that which perishes. Gaze steadily. You will perceive the living light of your well-beloved dead in the depths of heaven." He knew that faith is wholesome. He sought to counsel and calm the despairing man, by pointing out to him the resigned man, and to transform the grief which gazes upon a grave by showing him the grief which fixes its gaze upon a star.
他的谈话是随和而愉快的。他总要求自己适合那两个伴他过活的老妇人的知识水平。当他笑起来，那确是小学生的笑。
马格洛大娘诚心诚意地称他做“大人”。一天，他从他的围椅里站起来走向书橱，要去取一本书。那本书正在顶上的那一格。主教的身材矮小，达不到。
“马格洛大娘，”他说，“请您搬张椅子给我。本大人还‘大’不到那块木板呢。”
他的一个远亲，德·洛伯爵夫人，一有机会，总爱在他跟前数她三个儿子的所谓“希望”。她有几个年纪很老行将就木的长辈，她那几个孩子自然是他们的继承人了。三个中最年幼的一个将从一个姑祖母那里获得一笔整整十万利弗的年金，第二个承继他叔父的公爵头衔，长子应承袭他祖先的世卿爵位。主教平日常听这位做母亲的那些天真可恕的夸耀，从不开口。但有一次，当德·洛夫人又唠唠叨叨提到所有那些承继和“希望”时，他仿佛显得比平日更出神一些。她不耐烦地改变自己的话题说：“我的上帝，我的表哥！您到底在想什么？”“我在想，”主教说，“一句怪话，大概出自圣奥古斯丁：‘把你们的希望寄托在那个无可承继者的身上吧。’”
另一次，他接到本乡一个贵人的讣告，一大张纸上所铺排的，除了亡人的各种荣衔以外，还把他所有一切亲属的各种封建的和贵族的尊称全列了上去。他叫着说：“死人的脊骨多么结实！别人把一副多么显赫的头衔担子叫他轻快地背着！这些人也够聪明了，坟墓也被虚荣心所利用！”
他一有机会，总爱说一些温和的讥诮言词，但几乎每次都含着严正的意义。一次，在封斋节，有个年轻的助理主教来到迪涅，在天主堂里讲道。他颇有口才，讲题是“慈善”。他要求富人拯救穷人，以免堕入他尽力形容的那种阴森可怕的地狱，而进入据他所说非常美妙动人的天堂。在当时的听众中，有个叫惹波兰先生的歇了业的商人，这人平时爱放高利贷，在制造大布、哔叽、毛布和高呢帽时赚了五十万。惹波兰先生生平从没有救助过任何穷人。自从那次讲道以后，大家都看见他每逢星期日总拿一个苏①给天主堂大门口的那几个乞讨的老婆婆。她们六个人得去分那个苏。一天，主教撞见他在行那件善事，他笑嘻嘻向他的妹子说：“惹波兰先生又在那儿买他那一个苏的天堂了。”
谈到慈善事业时，他即使碰壁也不退缩，并还想得出一些耐人寻味的话。一次，他在城里某家客厅里为穷人募捐。在座的有一个商特西侯爵，年老，有钱，吝啬，他有方法同时做极端保王党和极端伏尔泰②派。那样的怪事是有过的。主教走到他跟前，推推他的手臂说：“侯爵先生，您得替我捐几文。”侯爵转过脸去，干脆回答说：“我的主教，我有我自己的穷人呢。” 
①苏（sou），法国辅币名，相当于二十分之一法郎，即五生丁。
②伏尔泰（Voltaire，1694?778），一生强烈反对封建制度和贵族僧侣的统治权。
“把他们交给我就是了。”主教说。
一天，在天主堂里，他这样布道：
“我极敬爱的兄弟们，我的好朋友们，在法国的农村中，有一百三十二万所房子都只有三个洞口；一百八十一万七千所有两个洞口，就是门和窗；还有二十四万六千个棚子都只有一个洞口，那就是门。这是因为那种所谓门窗税才搞到如此地步。请你们替我把一些穷人家、老太婆、小孩子塞在那些房子里吧，瞧有多少热症和疾病！咳！上帝把空气给人，法律却拿空气做买卖。我并不诋毁法律，但是我颂扬上帝。在伊泽尔省，瓦尔省，两个阿尔卑斯省，就是上下阿尔卑斯省，那些农民连小车也没有，他们用自己的背去背肥料；他们没有蜡烛，点的
是松枝和蘸着松脂的小段绳子。在多菲内省，全部山区也是那样的。他们做一次面包要吃六个月，并且是用干牛粪烘出来的。到了冬天，他们用斧子把那种面包砍开，放在水里浸上二十四个钟头才能吃。我的弟兄们，发发善心吧！看看你们四周的人多么受罪！”
他出生在南部，所以很容易掌握南方的各种方言。他学下朗格多克省的方言：“Ehbé！moussu，sèssagé？”学下阿尔卑斯省的方言：“Ontéanaraspassa？”学上多菲内省的方言：
“Puerteunbouenmoutouembeunbouenfroumageg
rase”
这样就博得了群众的欢心，大大帮助了他去接近各种各样的人。他在茅屋里或山中，正象在自己的家里，他知道用最俚俗的方言去说明最伟大的事物。他能说各种语言，也就能和一切心灵打成一片。
并且他对上层的人和人民大众都是一样的。
他在没有充分了解周围环境时从不粗率地判断一件事。
他常说：“让我们先研究研究发生这错误的经过吧。”
他原是个回头的浪子，他也常笑嘻嘻地那样形容自己。他丝毫不唱严格主义的高调；他大力宣传一种教义，但绝不象那些粗暴的卫道者那样横眉怒目，他那教义大致可以这样概括：
“人有肉体，这肉体同时就是人的负担和诱惑。人拖着它并受它的支配。
“人应当监视它，约束它，抑制它，必须是到了最后才服从它。在那样的服从里，也还可以有过失；但那样犯下的过失是可蒙赦宥的。那是一种堕落，但只落在膝头上，在祈祷中还可以自赎。
“做一个圣人，那是特殊情形；做一个正直的人，那却是为人的正轨。你们尽管在歧路徘徊，失足，犯错误，但总应当做个正直的人。
“尽量少犯错误，这是人的准则；不犯错误，那是天使的梦想。尘世的一切都免不了犯错误。错误就象一种地心吸力。”
当他看见大家吵闹并且轻易动怒时，他常笑嘻嘻地说：“看来这就是我们大家都在犯的严重罪行呢。现在只因为假面具被揭穿急于申明和掩饰罢了。”
他对于人类社会所压迫的妇女和穷人总是宽厚的。他说：“凡是妇女、孩子、仆役、没有力量的、贫困的和没有知识的人的过失，都是丈夫、父亲、主人、豪强者、有钱的和有学问的人的过失。”
他又说：“对无知识的人，你们应当尽你们所能的多多地教给他们；社会的罪在于不办义务教育；它负有制造黑暗的责任。当一个人的心中充满黑暗，罪恶便在那里滋长起来。有罪的并不是犯罪的人，而是那制造黑暗的人。”
我们看得出，他有一种奇特和独有的批判事物的态度。我怀疑他是从《福音书》中得到这一切的。
一天，他在一个客厅里听到大家谈一桩正在研究调查、不久就要交付审判的案子。有个穷苦无告的人，为了他对一个女子和所生孩子的爱，在生路断绝时铸了私钱。铸私钱在那个时代是要受极刑的。那女子拿着他所造的第一个私钱去用，被捕了。他们把她抓了起来，但是只有她本人犯罪的证据。只有她一个人能告发她的情人，送他的命。她不肯招供。他们再三追问。她仍坚决不招供。这样，检察长心生一计。他编造她的情人变了心，极巧妙地伪造许多信札的断片，来说服那个苦恼的女人，使她相信她有一个情敌，那男子有负心的行为。在妒恨悲愤之中，她终于举发她的情人，一切都招供了，一切都证实了。那男子是无法挽救了。不久他就得在艾克斯和他的同谋女犯一同受审。大家谈着那件事，每个人都称赞那官员的才干，说他能利用妒嫉之心，因愤怒而真相大白，法律的威力也因报复的心理而得以伸张。主教静悄悄地听着这一切，等到大家说完了，他问道：
“那一对男女将在什么地方受审？”
“在地方厅。”
他又问：“那么，那位检察长将在什么地方受审呢？”
迪涅发生过一件惨事。有个人因谋害人命而被判处死刑。那个不幸的人并不是什么读书人，但也不是完全无知无识的人，他曾在市集上卖技，也摆过书信摊。城里的人对那案子非常关心。在行刑的前一日，驻狱神甫忽然害了病。必须有个神甫在那受刑的人临终时帮助他。有人去找本堂神甫。他好象有意拒绝，他说：“这不关我事。这种苦差事和那耍把戏的人和我都不相干，我也正害着病，况且那地方下属我的范围。”他这答复传到主教那儿去了。主教说：“本堂神甫说得对。那不属于他的范围，而是属于我的。”
他立刻跑到监狱去，下到那“耍把戏的人”的牢房里，他叫他的名字，搀着他的手，和他谈话。他在他的身旁整整过了一天一夜，饮食睡眠全忘了，他为那囚犯的灵魂向上帝祈祷，也祈求那囚犯拯救他自己的灵魂。他和他谈着最善的、亦即最简单的真理。他直象他的父亲、兄长、朋友；如果不是在祝福祈祷，他就一点也不象个主教。他在稳定他和安慰他的同时，把一切都教给他了。那个人原是要悲痛绝望而死的。在先，死对他好象是个万丈深渊，他站在那阴惨的边缘上，一面战栗，一面又心胆俱裂地向后退却。他并没有冥顽到对死活也绝不关心的地步。他受到的判决是一种剧烈的震撼，仿佛在他四周的某些地方，把隔在万物的神秘和我们所谓生命中间的那堵墙震倒了。他从那无法补救的缺口不停地望着这世界的外面，而所见的只是一片黑暗。主教却使他见到了一线光明。
第二天，他们来提这不幸的人了，主教仍在他身旁。他跟着他走。他披上紫披肩，颈上悬着主教的十字架，和那被缚在绳索中的临难人并肩站在大众的面前。
他和他一同上囚车，一同上断头台。那个受刑的人，昨天是那样愁惨，那样垂头丧气，现在却舒展兴奋起来了。他觉得他的灵魂得了救，他期待着上帝。主教拥抱了他，当刀子将要落下时，他说：“人所杀的人，上帝使他复活；弟兄们所驱逐的人得重见天父。祈祷，信仰，到生命里去。天父就在前面。”他从断头台上下来时，他的目光里有种东西使众人肃然退立。我们不知道究竟哪一样最使人肃然起敬，是他面色的惨白呢，还是他神宇的宁静。在回到他一惯戏称为“他的宫殿”的那所破屋子里时，他对他的妹子说：“我刚刚进行了一场隆重的大典。”
最卓越的东西也常是最难被人了解的东西，因此，城里有许多人在议论主教那一举动，说那是矫揉造作。不过那是上层阶级客厅里的一种说法。对圣事活动不怀恶意的人民却感动了，并且十分钦佩主教。
至于主教，对他来说，看断头台行刑确是一种震动；过了许久，他才镇定下来。
断头台，的确，当它被架起来屹立在那里时，是具有一种使人眩惑的力量的；在我们不曾亲眼见过断头台前，我们对死刑多少还能漠然视之，不表示自己的意见，不置可否；但是，如果我们见到了一座，那种惊骇真是强烈，我们非作出决定，非表示赞同或反对不可。有些人赞叹它，如德·梅斯特尔①。有些人痛恨它，如贝卡里亚②。断头台是法律的体现，它的别名是“镇压”，它不是中立的，也不让人中立。看见它的人都产生最神秘的战栗。所有的社会问题都在那把板斧的四周举起了它们的问号。断头台是想象。断头台不是一个架子。断头台不是一种机器。断头台不是由木条、铁器和绳索所构成的无生气的机械。它好象是种生物，具有一种说不出的阴森森的主动能力。我们可以说那架子能看见，那座机器能听见，那种机械能了解，那些木条铁件和绳索都具有意识。当它的出现把我们的心灵抛入凶恶的梦想时，断头台就显得怪可怕，并和它所作所为的一切都结合在一起了。断头台是刽子手的同伙，它在吞噬东西，在吃肉，在饮血。断头台是法官和木工合造的怪物，是一种鬼怪，它以自己所制造的死亡为生命而进行活动。 
①德·梅斯特尔（deMaistre，1753?821），法国神学家。
②贝卡里亚（Beccaria，1738?794），意大利启蒙运动的著名代表人物，法学家，主张宽刑。
那次的印象也确是可怕和深刻的，行刑的第二天和许多天以后，主教还表现出惶惶不可终日的样子。送死时那种强迫的镇静已经消逝了，社会威权下的鬼魂和他纠缠不清，他平时工作回来，素来心安理得，神采奕奕，这时他却老象是在责备自己。有时，他自言自语，吞吞吐吐，低声说着一些凄惨的话。下面是他妹子在一天晚上听了记下来的一段：“我从前还不知道是那么可怕。只专心注意上帝的法则而不关心人的法律，那是错误的。死只属于上帝，人有什么权力过问那件未被认识的事呢？”
那些印象随着时间渐渐减褪或竟消失了，但是人们察觉到，从此以后，主教总避免经过那刑场。
人们可以在任何时候把主教叫到病人和临死的人的床边。他深深知道他最大的职责和最大的任务是在那些地方。寡妇和孤女的家，不用请，他自己就会去的。他知道在失去爱妻的男子和失去孩子的母亲身旁静静坐上几个钟头。他既懂得闭口的时刻，也就懂得开口的时刻。呵！可敬可佩的安慰人的人！他不以遗忘来消除苦痛，却希望去使苦痛显得伟大和光荣。他说：“要注意您对死者的想法。不要在那溃烂的东西上去想。定神去看，您就会在穹苍的极尽处看到您亲爱的死者的生命之光。”他知道信仰能护人心身。他总设法去慰藉失望的人，使他们能退一步着想，使俯视墓穴的悲痛转为仰望星光的悲痛。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 5 Monseigneur Bienvenu made his Cassocks last too long 
The private life of M. Myriel was filled with the same thoughts as his public life. The voluntary poverty in which the Bishop of D---- lived, would have been a solemn and charming sight for any one who could have viewed it close at hand. 
Like all old men, and like the majority of thinkers, he slept little. This brief slumber was profound. In the morning he meditated for an hour, then he said his mass, either at the cathedral or in his own house. His mass said, he broke his fast on rye bread dipped in the milk of his own cows. Then he set to work. 
A Bishop is a very busy man: he must every day receive the secretary of the bishopric, who is generally a canon, and nearly every day his vicars-general. He has congregations to reprove, privileges to grant, a whole ecclesiastical library to examine,-- prayer-books, diocesan catechisms, books of hours, etc.,--charges to write, sermons to authorize, cures and mayors to reconcile, a clerical correspondence, an administrative correspondence; on one side the State, on the other the Holy See; and a thousand matters of business. 
What time was left to him, after these thousand details of business, and his offices and his breviary, he bestowed first on the necessitous, the sick, and the afflicted; the time which was left to him from the afflicted, the sick, and the necessitous, he devoted to work. Sometimes he dug in his garden; again, he read or wrote. He had but one word for both these kinds of toil; he called them gardening. "The mind is a garden," said he. 
Towards mid-day, when the weather was fine, he went forth and took a stroll in the country or in town, often entering lowly dwellings. He was seen walking alone, buried in his own thoughts, his eyes cast down, supporting himself on his long cane, clad in his wadded purple garment of silk, which was very warm, wearing purple stockings inside his coarse shoes, and surmounted by a flat hat which allowed three golden tassels of large bullion to droop from its three points. 
It was a perfect festival wherever he appeared. One would have said that his presence had something warming and luminous about it. The children and the old people came out to the doorsteps for the Bishop as for the sun. He bestowed his blessing, and they blessed him. They pointed out his house to any one who was in need of anything. 
Here and there he halted, accosted the little boys and girls, and smiled upon the mothers. He visited the poor so long as he had any money; when he no longer had any, he visited the rich. 
As he made his cassocks last a long while, and did not wish to have it noticed, he never went out in the town without his wadded purple cloak. This inconvenienced him somewhat in summer. 
On his return, he dined. The dinner resembled his breakfast. 
At half-past eight in the evening he supped with his sister, Madame Magloire standing behind them and serving them at table. Nothing could be more frugal than this repast. If, however, the Bishop had one of his cures to supper, Madame Magloire took advantage of the opportunity to serve Monseigneur with some excellent fish from the lake, or with some fine game from the mountains. Every cure furnished the pretext for a good meal: the Bishop did not interfere. With that exception, his ordinary diet consisted only of vegetables boiled in water, and oil soup. Thus it was said in the town, when the Bishop does not indulge in the cheer of a cure, he indulges in the cheer of a trappist. 
After supper he conversed for half an hour with Mademoiselle Baptistine and Madame Magloire; then he retired to his own room and set to writing, sometimes on loose sheets, and again on the margin of some folio. He was a man of letters and rather learned. He left behind him five or six very curious manuscripts; among others, a dissertation on this verse in Genesis, In the beginning, the spirit of God floated upon the waters. With this verse he compares three texts: the Arabic verse which says, The winds of God blew; Flavius Josephus who says, A wind from above was precipitated upon the earth; and finally, the Chaldaic paraphrase of Onkelos, which renders it, A wind coming from God blew upon the face of the waters. In another dissertation, he examines the theological works of Hugo, Bishop of Ptolemais, great-grand-uncle to the writer of this book, and establishes the fact, that to this bishop must be attributed the divers little works published during the last century, under the pseudonym of Barleycourt. 
Sometimes, in the midst of his reading, no matter what the book might be which he had in his hand, he would suddenly fall into a profound meditation, whence he only emerged to write a few lines on the pages of the volume itself. These lines have often no connection whatever with the book which contains them. We now have under our eyes a note written by him on the margin of a quarto entitled Correspondence of Lord Germain with Generals Clinton, Cornwallis, and the Admirals on the American station. Versailles, Poincot, book-seller; and Paris, Pissot, bookseller, Quai des Augustins. 
Here is the note:-- 
"Oh, you who are! 
"Ecclesiastes calls you the All-powerful; the Maccabees call you the Creator; the Epistle to the Ephesians calls you liberty; Baruch calls you Immensity; the Psalms call you Wisdom and Truth; John calls you Light; the Books of Kings call you Lord; Exodus calls you Providence; Leviticus, Sanctity; Esdras, Justice; the creation calls you God; man calls you Father; but Solomon calls you Compassion, and that is the most beautiful of all your names." 
Toward nine o'clock in the evening the two women retired and betook themselves to their chambers on the first floor, leaving him alone until morning on the ground floor. 
It is necessary that we should, in this place, give an exact idea of the dwelling of the Bishop of D----
米里哀先生的家庭生活，正如他的社会生活那样，是受同样的思想支配的。对那些有机会就近观察的人，迪涅主教所过的那种自甘淡泊的生活，确是严肃而动人。
和所有老年人及大部分思想家一样，他睡得少，但他的短暂的睡眠却是安稳的。早晨，他静修一个钟头，再念他的弥撒经，有时在天主堂里，有时在自己的经堂里。弥撒经念过以后，作为早餐，他吃一块黑麦面包，蘸着自家的牛的乳汁。随后，他开始工作。
主教总是相当忙的，他得每天接见主教区的秘书棗通常是一个司祭神甫，并且几乎每天都得接见他的那些助理主教。他有许多会议要主持，整个宗教图书室要检查，还要诵弥撒经、教理问答、日课经等等；还有许多训示要写，许多讲稿要批示，还要和解教士与地方官之间的争执，还要办教务方面的信件、行政方面的信件，一方是政府，一方是宗教，总有作不完的事。
那些无穷尽的事务和他的日课以及祈祷所余下的时间，他首先用在贫病和痛苦的人身上；在痛苦和贫病的人之后留下的时间，他用在劳动上。他有时在园里铲土，有时阅读和写作。他对那两种工作只有一种叫法，他管这叫“种地”，他说：
“精神是一种园地。”
日中，他用午餐。午餐正和他的早餐一样。
将近两点时，如果天气好，他去乡间或城里散步，时常走进那些破烂的人家。人们看见他独自走着，低着眼睛，扶着一根长拐杖，穿着他那件相当温暖的紫棉袍，脚上穿着紫袜和粗笨的鞋子，头上戴着他的平顶帽，三束金流苏从帽顶的三只角里坠下来。
他经过的地方就象过节似的。我们可以说他一路走过，就一路在散布温暖和光明。孩子和老人都为主教而走到大门口来，有如迎接阳光。他祝福大家，大家也为他祝福。人们总把他的住所指给任何有所需求的人们看。
他随处停下来，和小男孩小女孩们谈话，也向着母亲们微笑。他只要有钱，总去找穷人；钱完了，便去找有钱人。
由于他的道袍穿得太久了，却又不愿被别人察觉，因此他进城就不得不套上那件紫棉袍。在夏季，那是会有点使他不好受的。
晚上八点半，他和他的妹子进晚餐，马格洛大娘立在他们的后面照应。再没有比那种晚餐更简单的了。但是如果主教留他的一位神甫晚餐，马格洛大娘就借此机会为主教做些鲜美的湖鱼或名贵的野味。所有的神甫都成了预备盛餐的借口，主教也让人摆布。此外，他日常的伙食总不外水煮蔬菜和素油汤。城里的人都说：“主教不吃神甫菜的时候，就吃苦修会的修士菜。”
晚餐过后，他和巴狄斯丁姑娘与马格洛大娘闲谈半小时，再回到自己的房间从事写作，有时写在单页纸上，有时写在对开本书本的空白边上。他是个文人，知识颇为渊博，他留下了五种或六种相当奇特的手稿，其中一种是关于《创世记》中“上帝的灵运行在水面上”①那一节的研究。他拿三种经文来作比较：阿拉伯译文作“上帝的风吹着”；弗拉菲于斯·约瑟夫②作“上界的风骤临下土”；最后翁格洛斯的迦勒底③文的注释性翻译则作“来自上帝的一阵风吹在水面上”。在另外一篇论文里，他研究了雨果关于神学的著作棗雨果是普托利迈伊斯的主教，本书作者的叔曾祖；他还证明在前世纪以笔名巴勒古尔发表的各种小册子都应是那位主教的。 
①这一句话原文见《创世记》第一章第二节。
②弗拉菲于斯·约瑟夫（FlaviusJosephe），一世纪末的犹太历史家。
③迦勒底（Chaldée），巴比伦一带地方的古称。
有时，他正在阅读，不问在他手里的是什么书，他会忽然堕入深远的思考，想完以后，立即在原书中写上几行。那样的几行字时常是和他手中的书毫无关系的。目下我们有他在一本四开本书的边上所写的注，书名是《贵人日耳曼和克林东、柯恩华立斯两将军以及美洲海域海军上将们的往来信札》，凡尔赛盘索书店及巴黎奥古斯丁河沿毕索书店印行。
注是这样的：
“呵！存在着的你！
“《传道书》称你为全能，马加比人称你为创造主，《以弗所书》称你为自由，巴录称你为广大，《诗篇》称你为智慧与真理，约翰称你为光明，《列王纪》称你为天主，《出埃及记》呼汝为主宰，《利未记》呼汝为神圣，以斯拉呼汝为公正，《创世记》称你为上帝，人称你为天父，但是所罗门称你为慈悲，这才是你名称中最美的一个。”
近九点钟时，两位妇女退到楼上自己的房间去，让他独自留在楼下，直到天明。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 6 Who guarded his House for him
The house in which he lived consisted, as we have said, of a ground floor, and one story above; three rooms on the ground floor, three chambers on the first, and an attic above. Behind the house was a garden, a quarter of an acre in extent. The two women occupied the first floor; the Bishop was lodged below. The first room, opening on the street, served him as dining-room, the second was his bedroom, and the third his oratory. There was no exit possible from this oratory, except by passing through the bedroom, nor from the bedroom, without passing through the dining-room. At the end of the suite, in the oratory, there was a detached alcove with a bed, for use in cases of hospitality. The Bishop offered this bed to country curates whom business or the requirements of their parishes brought to D---- 
The pharmacy of the hospital, a small building which had been added to the house, and abutted on the garden, had been transformed into a kitchen and cellar. In addition to this, there was in the garden a stable, which had formerly been the kitchen of the hospital, and in which the Bishop kept two cows. No matter what the quantity of milk they gave, he invariably sent half of it every morning to the sick people in the hospital. "I am paying my tithes," he said. 
His bedroom was tolerably large, and rather difficult to warm in bad weather. As wood is extremely dear at D----, he hit upon the idea of having a compartment of boards constructed in the cow-shed. Here he passed his evenings during seasons of severe cold: he called it his winter salon. 
In this winter salon, as in the dining-room, there was no other furniture than a square table in white wood, and four straw-seated chairs. In addition to this the dining-room was ornamented with an antique sideboard, painted pink, in water colors. Out of a similar sideboard, properly draped with white napery and imitation lace, the Bishop had constructed the altar which decorated his oratory. 
His wealthy penitents and the sainted women of D---- had more than once assessed themselves to raise the money for a new altar for Monseigneur's oratory; on each occasion he had taken the money and had given it to the poor. "The most beautiful of altars," he said, "is the soul of an unhappy creature consoled and thanking God." 
In his oratory there were two straw prie-Dieu, and there was an arm-chair, also in straw, in his bedroom. When, by chance, he received seven or eight persons at one time, the prefect, or the general, or the staff of the regiment in garrison, or several pupils from the little seminary, the chairs had to be fetched from the winter salon in the stable, the prie-Dieu from the oratory, and the arm-chair from the bedroom: in this way as many as eleven chairs could be collected for the visitors. A room was dismantled for each new guest. 
It sometimes happened that there were twelve in the party; the Bishop then relieved the embarrassment of the situation by standing in front of the chimney if it was winter, or by strolling in the garden if it was summer. 
There was still another chair in the detached alcove, but the straw was half gone from it, and it had but three legs, so that it was of service only when propped against the wall. Mademoiselle Baptistine had also in her own room a very large easy-chair of wood, which had formerly been gilded, and which was covered with flowered pekin; but they had been obliged to hoist this bergere up to the first story through the window, as the staircase was too narrow; it could not, therefore, be reckoned among the possibilities in the way of furniture. 
Mademoiselle Baptistine's ambition had been to be able to purchase a set of drawing-room furniture in yellow Utrecht velvet, stamped with a rose pattern, and with mahogany in swan's neck style, with a sofa. But this would have cost five hundred francs at least, and in view of the fact that she had only been able to lay by forty-two francs and ten sous for this purpose in the course of five years, she had ended by renouncing the idea. However, who is there who has attained his ideal? 
Nothing is more easy to present to the imagination than the Bishop's bedchamber. A glazed door opened on the garden; opposite this was the bed,--a hospital bed of iron, with a canopy of green serge; in the shadow of the bed, behind a curtain, were the utensils of the toilet, which still betrayed the elegant habits of the man of the world: there were two doors, one near the chimney, opening into the oratory; the other near the bookcase, opening into the dining-room. The bookcase was a large cupboard with glass doors filled with books; the chimney was of wood painted to represent marble, and habitually without fire. In the chimney stood a pair of firedogs of iron, ornamented above with two garlanded vases, and flutings which had formerly been silvered with silver leaf, which was a sort of episcopal luxury; above the chimney-piece hung a crucifix of copper, with the silver worn off, fixed on a background of threadbare velvet in a wooden frame from which the gilding had fallen; near the glass door a large table with an inkstand, loaded with a confusion of papers and with huge volumes; before the table an arm-chair of straw; in front of the bed a prie-Dieu, borrowed from the oratory. 
Two portraits in oval frames were fastened to the wall on each side of the bed. Small gilt inscriptions on the plain surface of the cloth at the side of these figures indicated that the portraits represented, one the Abbe of Chaliot, bishop of Saint Claude; the other, the Abbe Tourteau, vicar-general of Agde, abbe of Grand-Champ, order of Citeaux, diocese of Chartres. When the Bishop succeeded to this apartment, after the hospital patients, he had found these portraits there, and had left them. They were priests, and probably donors--two reasons for respecting them. All that he knew about these two persons was, that they had been appointed by the king, the one to his bishopric, the other to his benefice, on the same day, the 27th of April, 1785. Madame Magloire having taken the pictures down to dust, the Bishop had discovered these particulars written in whitish ink on a little square of paper, yellowed by time, and attached to the back of the portrait of the Abbe of Grand-Champ with four wafers. 
At his window he had an antique curtain of a coarse woollen stuff, which finally became so old, that, in order to avoid the expense of a new one, Madame Magloire was forced to take a large seam in the very middle of it. This seam took the form of a cross. The Bishop often called attention to it: "How delightful that is!"he said. 
All the rooms in the house, without exception, those on the ground floor as well as those on the first floor, were white-washed, which is a fashion in barracks and hospitals. 
However, in their latter years, Madame Magloire discovered beneath the paper which had been washed over, paintings, ornamenting the apartment of Mademoiselle Baptistine, as we shall see further on. Before becoming a hospital, this house had been the ancient parliament house of the Bourgeois. Hence this decoration. The chambers were paved in red bricks, which were washed every week, with straw mats in front of all the beds. Altogether, this dwelling, which was attended to by the two women, was exquisitely clean from top to bottom. This was the sole luxury which the Bishop permitted. He said, "That takes nothing from the poor." 
It must be confessed, however, that he still retained from his former possessions six silver knives and forks and a soup-ladle, which Madame Magloire contemplated every day with delight, as they glistened splendidly upon the coarse linen cloth. And since we are now painting the Bishop of D---- as he was in reality, we must add that he had said more than once, "I find it difficult to renounce eating from silver dishes." 
To this silverware must be added two large candlesticks of massive silver, which he had inherited from a great-aunt. These candlesticks held two wax candles, and usually figured on the Bishop's chimney-piece. When he had any one to dinner, Madame Magloire lighted the two candles and set the candlesticks on the table. 
In the Bishop's own chamber, at the head of his bed, there was a small cupboard, in which Madame Magloire locked up the six silver knives and forks and the big spoon every night. But it is necessary to add, that the key was never removed. 
The garden, which had been rather spoiled by the ugly buildings which we have mentioned, was composed of four alleys in cross-form, radiating from a tank. Another walk made the circuit of the garden, and skirted the white wall which enclosed it. These alleys left behind them four square plots rimmed with box. In three of these, Madame Magloire cultivated vegetables; in the fourth, the Bishop had planted some flowers; here and there stood a few fruit-trees. Madame Magloire had once remarked, with a sort of gentle malice: "Monseigneur, you who turn everything to account, have, nevertheless, one useless plot. It would be better to grow salads there than bouquets." "Madame Magloire," retorted the Bishop, "you are mistaken. The beautiful is as useful as the useful." He added after a pause, "More so, perhaps." 
This plot, consisting of three or four beds, occupied the Bishop almost as much as did his books. He liked to pass an hour or two there, trimming, hoeing, and making holes here and there in the earth, into which he dropped seeds. He was not as hostile to insects as a gardener could have wished to see him. Moreover, he made no pretensions to botany; he ignored groups and consistency; he made not the slightest effort to decide between Tournefort and the natural method; he took part neither with the buds against the cotyledons, nor with Jussieu against Linnaeus. He did not study plants; he loved flowers. He respected learned men greatly; he respected the ignorant still more; and, without ever failing in these two respects, he watered his flower-beds every summer evening with a tin watering-pot painted green. 
The house had not a single door which could be locked. The door of the dining-room, which, as we have said, opened directly on the cathedral square, had formerly been ornamented with locks and bolts like the door of a prison. The Bishop had had all this ironwork removed, and this door was never fastened, either by night or by day, with anything except the latch. All that the first passerby had to do at any hour, was to give it a push. At first, the two women had been very much tried by this door, which was never fastened, but Monsieur de D---- had said to them, "Have bolts put on your rooms, if that will please you." They had ended by sharing his confidence, or by at least acting as though they shared it. Madame Magloire alone had frights from time to time. As for the Bishop, his thought can be found explained, or at least indicated, in the three lines which he wrote on the margin of a Bible, "This is the shade of difference: the door of the physician should never be shut, the door of the priest should always be open." 
On another book, entitled Philosophy of the Medical Science, he had written this other note: "Am not I a physician like them? I also have my patients, and then, too, I have some whom I call my unfortunates." 
Again he wrote: "Do not inquire the name of him who asks a shelter of you. The very man who is embarrassed by his name is the one who needs shelter." 
It chanced that a worthy cure, I know not whether it was the cure of Couloubroux or the cure of Pompierry, took it into his head to ask him one day, probably at the instigation of Madame Magloire, whether Monsieur was sure that he was not committing an indiscretion, to a certain extent, in leaving his door unfastened day and night, at the mercy of any one who should choose to enter, and whether, in short, he did not fear lest some misfortune might occur in a house so little guarded. The Bishop touched his shoulder, with gentle gravity, and said to him, "Nisi Dominus custodierit domum, in vanum vigilant qui custodiunt eam," Unless the Lord guard the house, in vain do they watch who guard it. 
Then he spoke of something else. 
He was fond of saying, "There is a bravery of the priest as well as the bravery of a colonel of dragoons,--only," he added, "ours must be tranquil."
他住的房子，我们已经说过，是一所只有一层楼的楼房，楼下三间，楼上三间，顶上一间气楼，后面有一个四分之一亩大的园子。两位妇女住在楼上，主教住在楼下。临街的第一间是他的餐室，第二间是卧室。第三间是经堂。从经堂出来，必须经过卧室；从卧室出来，又必须经过餐室。经堂底里，有半间小暖房，仅容一张留备客人寄宿的床。主教常把那床让给那些因管辖区的事务或需要来到迪涅的乡村神甫们住宿。
原来医院的药房是间小房子，通正屋，盖在园子里，现在已改为厨房和贮藏食物的地方了。
此外，园里还有一个牲口棚，最初是救济院的厨房，现在主教在那里养着两头母牛。无论那两头牛供给多少奶，他每天早晨总分一半给医院里的病人。“这是我付的什一税。”他说。
他的房间相当大，在恶劣的季节里相当难于保暖。由于木柴在迪涅非常贵，他便设法在牛棚里用板壁隔出了一小间。严寒季节便成了他夜间生活的地方。他叫那做“冬斋”。
在冬斋里，和在餐室里一样，除了一张白木方桌和四张麦秸心椅子外，再也没有旁的家具。餐室里却还陈设着一个涂了淡红胶的旧碗橱。主教还把一张同样的碗橱，适当地罩上白布帷和假花边，作为祭坛，点缀着他的经堂。
迪涅的那些有钱的女忏悔者和虔诚的妇女，多次凑了些钱，要为主教的经堂修一座美观的新祭坛，他每次把钱收下，却都送给了穷人。
“最美丽的祭坛，”他说，“是一个因得到安慰而感谢上帝的受苦人的灵魂。”
他有两张麦秸心的祈祷椅在他的经堂里，卧室里还有一张有扶手的围椅，也是麦秸心的。万一他同时接见七八个人，省长、将军或是驻军的参谋，或是教士培养所的几个学生，他们就得到牛棚里去找冬斋的椅子，经堂里去找祈祷椅，卧室里去找围椅。这样，他们可以收集到十一张待客的坐具。每次有人来访，总得搬空一间屋子。
有时来了十二个人，主教为了遮掩那种窘境，如果是在冬天，他便自己立在壁炉边，如果是在夏天，他就建议到园里去兜个圈子。
在那小暖房里，的确还有一张椅子，但是椅上的麦秸已经脱了一半，并且只有三只脚，只是靠在墙上才能用。巴狄斯丁姑娘也还有一张很大的木靠椅，从前是漆过金的，并有锦缎的椅套，但是那靠椅由于楼梯太窄，已从窗口吊上楼了，因而它不能作为机动的家具。
巴狄斯丁姑娘的奢望是想买一套客厅里用的荷兰黄底团花丝绒的天鹅颈式紫檀座架的家具，再配上长沙发。但是这至少得花五百法郎。她为那样一套东西省吃节用，五年当中，只省下四十二个法郎和十个苏，于是也就不再作此打算。而且谁又能实现自己的理想呢？
去想象一下主教的卧室，再简单也没有了。一扇窗门朝着园子，对面是床棗一张医院用的病床，铁的，带着绿哔叽帷子。在床里的阴暗处，帷的后面，还摆着梳妆用具，残留着他旧时在繁华社会中做人的那些漂亮习气；两扇门，一扇靠近壁炉，通经堂，一扇靠近书橱，通餐室；那书橱是一个大玻璃橱，装满了书；壁炉的木框，描上了仿大理石的花纹，炉里通常是没有火的；壁炉里有一对铁炉篦，篦的两端装饰着两个瓶，瓶上绕着花串和槽形直条花纹，并贴过银箔，那是主教等级的一种奢侈品；上面，在通常挂镜子的地方，有一个银色已褪的铜十字架，钉在一块破旧的黑线上，装在一个金色暗敝的木框里。窗门旁边，有一张大桌子，摆了一个墨水瓶，桌上堆着零乱的纸张和大本的书籍。桌子前面，一张麦秸椅。床的前面，一张从经堂里搬来的祈祷椅。椭圆框里的两幅半身油画像挂在他床两旁的墙上。在画幅的素净的背景上有几个小金字写在像的旁边，标明一幅是圣克鲁的主教查里奥教士的像，一幅是夏尔特尔教区西多会大田修院院长阿格德的副主教杜尔多教士的像。主教在继医院病人之后住进那间房时，就已看见有这两幅画像，也就让它挂在原处。他们是神甫，也许是施主，这就是使他尊敬他们的两个理由。他所知道关于那两个人物的，只是他们在同一天，一七八五年四月二十七日，由王命，一个授以教区，一个授以采地。马格洛大娘曾把那两幅画取下来掸灰尘，主教才在大田修院院长的像的后面，看见在一张用四片胶纸粘着四角、年久发黄的小方纸上，用淡墨汁注出的这两位人物的出身。
窗门上，有一条古老的粗毛呢窗帷，已经破旧不堪，为了节省新买一条的费用，马格洛大娘只得在正中大大地缝补一番，缝补的纹恰成一个十字形。主教常常叫人看。
“这缝得多好！”他说。
那房子里所有的房间，无论楼下楼上，没有一间不是用灰浆刷的，营房和医院照例如此。
但是，后来的几年中，马格洛大娘在巴狄斯丁姑娘房间的裱墙纸下面（我们在下面还会谈到），发现了一些壁画。这所房子，在成为医院以前，曾是一些士绅们的聚会场所。所以会有那种装饰。每间屋子的地上都铺了红砖，每星期洗一次，床的前面都铺着麦秸席。总之，这住宅，经那两位妇女的照料，从上到下，都变得异常清洁。那是主教所许可的唯一的奢华。他说：
“这并不损害穷人的利益。”
但是我们得说清楚，在他从前有过的东西里，还留下六套银餐具和一只银的大汤勺，马格洛大娘每天都喜洋洋地望着那些银器在白粗布台毯上放射着灿烂夺目的光。我们既然要把迪涅的这位主教据实地写出来，就应当提到他曾几次这样说过：“叫我不用银器盛东西吃，我想是不容易做到的。”
在那些银器以外，还有两个粗重的银烛台，是从他一个姑祖母的遗产中得来的。那对烛台上插着两支烛，经常陈设在主教的壁炉上。每逢他留客进餐，马格洛大娘总点上那两支烛，连着蜡台放在餐桌上。
在主教的卧室里，床头边，有一张壁橱，每天晚上，马格洛大娘把那六套银器和大汤勺塞在橱里，橱门上的钥匙是从来不拿走的。
那个园子，在我们说过的那些相当丑陋的建筑物的陪衬下，也显得有些减色。园子里有四条小道，交叉成十字形，交叉处有一个水槽；另一条小道沿着白围墙绕园一周。小道与小道之间，形成四块方地，边沿上种了黄杨。马格洛大娘在三块方地上种着蔬菜，在第四块上，主教种了些花卉。几株果树散布在各处。
一次，马格洛大娘和蔼地打趣他说：“您处处都盘算，这儿却有一块方地没有用上。种上些生菜，不比花好吗？”“马格洛大娘，”主教回答说，“您弄错了。美和适用是一样有用的。”停了一会，他又加上一句：“也许更有用些。”
那块方地又分作三四畦，主教在那地上所费的劳力和他在书本里所费的劳力是一样的。他乐意在这里花上一两个钟头，修枝，除草，这儿那儿，在土里搠一些窟窿，摆下种子。他并不象园艺工作者那样仇视昆虫。对植物学他没有任何幻想；他不知道分科，也不懂骨肉发病说；他绝不研究在杜纳福尔①和自然操作法之间应当有何取舍，既不替胞囊反对子叶，也不替舒习尔②反对林内③。他不研究植物，而赞赏花卉。他非常敬重科学家，更敬重无知识的人，在双方并重之下，每当夏季黄昏，他总提着一把绿漆白铁喷壶去浇他的花畦。 
①杜纳福尔（Tournefort），法国十世纪的植物学家。
②舒习尔（Jussieu），法国十八世纪植物学家。
③林内（Linné），瑞典十八世纪生物学家，是植物和动物分类学的鼻祖。
那所房子没有一扇门是锁得上的。餐室的门，我们已经说过，开出去便是天主堂前面的广场，从前是装了锁和铁闩的，正象一扇牢门。主教早已叫人把那些铁件取去了，因而那扇门，无论昼夜，都只用一个活梢扣着。任何过路的人，在任何时刻，都可以摇开。起初，那两位妇女为了那扇从来不关的门非常发愁，但是迪涅主教对她们说：“假如你们喜欢，不妨在你们的房门上装上铁闩。”到后来，她们看见他既然放心，也就放了心，或者说，至少她们装出放心的样子。马格洛大娘有时仍不免提心吊胆。主教的想法，已经在他在《圣经》边上所写的这三行字里说明了，至少是提出了：“这里只有最微小的一点区别：
医生的门，永不应关，教士的门，应常开着。”
在一本叫做《医学的哲学》的书上，他写了这样一段话：“难道我们不和他们一样是医生吗？我一样有我的病人。首先我有他们称为病人的病人，其次我还有我称为不幸的人的病人。”
在另一处，他还写道：“对向你求宿的人，不可问名问姓，不便把自己姓名告人的人也往往是最需要找地方住的人。”
有一天，忽然来了个大名鼎鼎的教士，我已经记不清是古娄布鲁教士，还是彭弼力教士，想起要问主教先生（那也许是受了马格洛大娘的指使），让大门日夜开着，人人都可以进来，主教是否十分有把握不至于发生某种意外，是否不怕在那防范如此松懈的家里，发生什么不幸的事。主教严肃而温和地在他肩上点了一下，对他说：“除非上帝要保护这家人，否则看守也徒然。”①他接着就谈旁的事。 
①这两句话原文为拉丁文，即DisiDominuscustodieritdomum，invanumvigilantquicustodiunteam。
他常爱说：“教士有教士的勇敢，正如龙骑队长有龙骑队长的勇敢。”不过，他又加上一句：“我们的勇敢应当是宁静的。”
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 7 Cravatte
It is here that a fact falls naturally into place, which we must not omit, because it is one of the sort which show us best what sort of a man the Bishop of D---- was. 
After the destruction of the band of Gaspard Bes, who had infested the gorges of Ollioules, one of his lieutenants, Cravatte, took refuge in the mountains. He concealed himself for some time with his bandits, the remnant of Gaspard Bes's troop, in the county of Nice; then he made his way to Piedmont, and suddenly reappeared in France, in the vicinity of Barcelonette. He was first seen at Jauziers, then at Tuiles. He hid himself in the caverns of the Joug-de-l'Aigle, and thence he descended towards the hamlets and villages through the ravines of Ubaye and Ubayette. 
He even pushed as far as Embrun, entered the cathedral one night, and despoiled the sacristy. His highway robberies laid waste the country-side. The gendarmes were set on his track, but in vain. He always escaped; sometimes he resisted by main force. He was a bold wretch. In the midst of all this terror the Bishop arrived. He was making his circuit to Chastelar. The mayor came to meet him, and urged him to retrace his steps. Cravatte was in possession of the mountains as far as Arche, and beyond; there was danger even with an escort; it merely exposed three or four unfortunate gendarmes to no purpose. 
"Therefore," said the Bishop, "I intend to go without escort." 
"You do not really mean that, Monseigneur!" exclaimed the mayor. 
"I do mean it so thoroughly that I absolutely refuse any gendarmes, and shall set out in an hour." 
"Set out?" 
"Set out." 
"Alone?" 
"Alone." 
"Monseigneur, you will not do that!" 
"There exists yonder in the mountains," said the Bishop, a tiny community no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years. They are my good friends, those gentle and honest shepherds. They own one goat out of every thirty that they tend. They make very pretty woollen cords of various colors, and they play the mountain airs on little flutes with six holes. They need to be told of the good God now and then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid? What would they say if I did not go?" 
"But the brigands, Monseigneur?" 
"Hold," said the Bishop, "I must think of that. You are right. I may meet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God." 
"But, Monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!" 
"Monsieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock of wolves that Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?" 
"They will rob you, Monseigneur." 
"I have nothing." 
"They will kill you." 
"An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayers? Bah! To what purpose?" 
"Oh, mon Dieu! what if you should meet them!" 
"I should beg alms of them for my poor." 
"Do not go, Monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! You are risking your life!" 
"Monsieur le maire," said the Bishop, "is that really all? 
I am not in the world to guard my own life, but to guard souls." 
They had to allow him to do as he pleased. He set out, accompanied only by a child who offered to serve as a guide. His obstinacy was bruited about the country-side, and caused great consternation. 
He would take neither his sister nor Madame Magloire. He traversed the mountain on mule-back, encountered no one, and arrived safe and sound at the residence of his "good friends," the shepherds. He remained there for a fortnight, preaching, administering the sacrament, teaching, exhorting. When the time of his departure approached, he resolved to chant a Te Deum pontifically. He mentioned it to the cure. But what was to be done? There were no episcopal ornaments. They could only place at his disposal a wretched village sacristy, with a few ancient chasubles of threadbare damask adorned with imitation lace. 
"Bah!" said the Bishop. "Let us announce our Te Deum from the pulpit, nevertheless, Monsieur le Cure. Things will arrange themselves." 
They instituted a search in the churches of the neighborhood. All the magnificence of these humble parishes combined would not have sufficed to clothe the chorister of a cathedral properly. 
While they were thus embarrassed, a large chest was brought and deposited in the presbytery for the Bishop, by two unknown horsemen, who departed on the instant. The chest was opened; it contained a cope of cloth of gold, a mitre ornamented with diamonds, an archbishop's cross, a magnificent crosier,--all the pontifical vestments which had been stolen a month previously from the treasury of Notre Dame d'Embrun. In the chest was a paper, on which these words were written, "From Cravatte to Monseigneur Bienvenu." 
"Did not I say that things would come right of themselves?" said the Bishop. Then he added, with a smile, "To him who contents himself with the surplice of a curate, God sends the cope of an archbishop." 
"Monseigneur," murmured the cure, throwing back his head with a smile. "God--or the Devil." 
The Bishop looked steadily at the cure, and repeated with authority, "God!" 
When he returned to Chastelar, the people came out to stare at him as at a curiosity, all along the road. At the priest's house in Chastelar he rejoined Mademoiselle Baptistine and Madame Magloire, who were waiting for him, and he said to his sister: "Well! Was I in the right? The poor priest went to his poor mountaineers with empty hands, and he returns from them with his hands full. I set out bearing only my faith in God; I have brought back the treasure of a cathedral." 
That evening, before he went to bed, he said again: "Let us never fear robbers nor murderers. Those are dangers from without, petty dangers. Let us fear ourselves. Prejudices are the real robbers; vices are the real murderers. The great dangers lie within ourselves. What matters it what threatens our head or our purse! Let us think only of that which threatens our soul." 
Then, turning to his sister: "Sister, never a precaution on the part of the priest, against his fellow-man. That which his fellow does, God permits. Let us confine ourselves to prayer, when we think that a danger is approaching us. Let us pray, not for ourselves, but that our brother may not fall into sin on our account." 
However, such incidents were rare in his life. We relate those of which we know; but generally he passed his life in doing the same things at the same moment. One month of his year resembled one hour of his day. 
As to what became of "the treasure" of the cathedral of Embrun, we should be embarrassed by any inquiry in that direction. It consisted of very handsome things, very tempting things, and things which were very well adapted to be stolen for the benefit of the unfortunate. Stolen they had already been elsewhere. Half of the adventure was completed; it only remained to impart a new direction to the theft, and to cause it to take a short trip in the direction of the poor. However, we make no assertions on this point. Only, a rather obscure note was found among the Bishop's papers, which may bear some relation to this matter, and which is couched in these terms, "The question is, to decide whether this should be turned over to the cathedral or to the hospital."
此地自然有着一件我们不应忽略的事，因为这件事足以说明迪涅的这位主教先生是怎样一个人。
加斯帕尔·白匪帮曾一度横行在阿柳尔峡一带，在被击溃以后，有个叫克拉华特的部将却还躲在山林里。他领着他的徒众，加斯帕尔·白的残部，在尼斯伯爵领地里藏匿了一些时候，继又转到皮埃蒙特区①，忽而又在法国境内巴塞隆内特附近出现。最初，有人曾在若齐埃见过他，过后又在翟伊尔见过他。他躲在鹰轭山洞里，从那里出来，经过玉碑和小玉碑峡谷，走向村落和乡镇。他甚至敢于进逼昂布伦，黑夜侵入天主堂，卷走圣衣库中的东西。他的劫掠使那一乡的人惴惴不安。警察追击也无用。他屡次逃脱，有时还公然抵抗。他是个大胆的恶汉。正当人心惶惶时主教来了。他正在那一乡巡视。乡长赶到沙斯特拉来找他，并且劝他转回去。当时克拉华特已占据那座山，直达阿什一带，甚至还更远。即使由卫队护送，也有危险。那不过是把三四个警察白白拿去送死罢了。 
①皮埃蒙特区（Piémont），在意大利北部。
“那么，”主教说，“我打算不带卫兵去。”
“您怎么可以那样打算，主教？”那乡长说。
“我就那样打算，我绝对拒绝卫兵，并且一个钟头以内我就要走。”
“走？”
“走。”
“一个人去吗？”
“一个人。”
“主教，您不能那样做。”
“在那儿，”主教又说，“有个穷苦的小村子，才这么一点大，我三年没有见着他们了。那里的人都是我的好朋友。一些和蔼诚实的牧人。他们牧羊，每三十头母羊里有一头是属于他们自己的。他们能做各种颜色的羊毛绳，非常好看。他们用六孔小笛吹各种山歌。他们需要有人不时和他们谈谈慈悲的上帝。主教如果也害怕，他们将说什么呢？假使我不到那里去一下，他们将说些什么呢？”
“可是，主教，您对那些强盗怎么办，万一您遇见了强盗！”
“对呀，”主教说，“我想起来了。您说得有理。我可以遇见他们。他们也需要有人和他们谈谈慈悲的上帝。”
“主教，那是一伙土匪呀，是一群狼呀！”
“乡长先生，也许耶稣正要我去当那一群狼的牧人呢，谁知道主宰的旨意？”
“主教，他们会把您抢光的。”
“我没有什么可抢的。”
“他们会杀害您的。”
“杀害一个念着消食经过路的老教士？啐！那有什么好处？”
“唉！我的上帝！万一您碰见他们！”
“我就请他们捐几文给我的穷人们。”
“主教，以上天之名，不要到那儿去吧！您冒着生命危险呢。”
“乡长先生，”主教说，“就只是这点小事吗？我活在世上不是为了自己的生命，而是来保护世人的心灵的。”
只好让他走。他走了，只有一个自愿当向导的小孩伴着他。他那种蛮劲使那一乡议论纷纷，甚至个个替他捏一把汗。
他不愿带他的妹子，也没有带马格洛大娘。他骑上骡子，穿过山路，一个人也没有碰见，平平安安到了他的“好朋友”棗牧人的家里。他在那里住了两星期，传道，行圣礼，教育人，感化人。到了快离开时，他决计用主教的仪式做一场大弥撒。他和本堂神甫商量。但是怎么办呢？没有主教的服饰。他们只能把简陋的乡间圣衣库供他使用，那里只有几件破旧的、装着假金线的锦缎祭服。
“没有关系！”主教说。“神甫先生，我们不妨把要做大弥撤那件事在下次礼拜时，向大众宣告一下，会有办法的。”
在附近的几个天主堂里都寻遍了。那些穷教堂里所有的精华，凑拢来还不能适当装饰一个大天主堂里的唱诗童子。
正在大家为难时，有两个陌生人，骑着马，带了一只大箱子，送来给主教先生，箱子放在本堂神甫家里人立即走了。打开箱子一看，里面有件金线呢披氅，一顶装有金刚钻的主教法冠，一个大主教的十字架，一条华美的法杖，一个月以前，在昂布伦圣母堂的圣衣库里被抢的法衣，全部都在。箱子里有张纸，上面写着：“克拉华特呈奉卞福汝主教。”
“我早说过会有办法的！”主教说，随后他含笑补充一句，“以神甫的白衣自足的人蒙上帝赐来大主教的披氅了。”
“我的主教，”神甫点头含笑低声说，“不是上帝便是魔鬼。”
主教用眼睛盯住神甫，一本正经地说：“是上帝！”
回沙斯特拉时一路上都有人来看他，引为奇谈。他在沙斯特拉的神甫家里，又和巴狄斯丁姑娘和马格洛大娘相见了，她们也正渴望他回来。他对他的妹子说：
“怎样，我的打算没有错吧？我这穷教士，两手空空，跑到山里那些穷百姓家里去过了，现在又满载而归。我当初出发时，只带着一片信仰上帝的诚心，回来时，却把一个天主堂的宝库带回了。”
晚上，他在睡前还说：
“永远不要害怕盗贼和杀人犯。那是身外的危险。我们应当害怕自己。偏见便是盗贼，恶习便是杀人犯。重大的危险都在我们自己的心里。危害我们脑袋和钱袋的人何足介意呢？我们只须想到危害灵魂的东西就得了。”
他又转过去对他妹子说：
“妹妹，教士永远不可提防他的邻人。邻人做的事，总是上帝允许的。我们在危险临头时，只应祷告上帝。祈求他，不是为了我们自己，而是为了不要让我们的兄弟因我们而犯罪。”
总之，他生平的特殊事故不多。我们就自己所知道的谈谈。不过他在他一生中，总是在同样的时刻做同样的事。他一年的一月，就象他一日的一时。
至于昂布伦天主堂的“财宝”下落如何，我们对这问题，却有些难于回答。那都是些美丽的、令人爱不忍释的、很值得偷去救济穷人的东西。况且那些东西是早已被人偷过了的。那种冒险行为已经完成了一半，余下的工作只须改变偷窃的目的，再向穷人那边走一小段路就可以了。关于这问题，我们什么也不肯定。不过，曾经有人在主教的纸堆里发现过一张词意不明的条子，也许正是指那件事的，上面写着：“问题在于明确这东两应当归天主堂还是归医院。”
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 8 Philosophy after Drinking
The senator above mentioned was a clever man, who had made his own way, heedless of those things which present obstacles, and which are called conscience, sworn faith, justice, duty: he had marched straight to his goal, without once flinching in the line of his advancement and his interest. He was an old attorney, softened by success; not a bad man by any means, who rendered all the small services in his power to his sons, his sons-in-law, his relations, and even to his friends, having wisely seized upon, in life, good sides, good opportunities, good windfalls. Everything else seemed to him very stupid. He was intelligent, and just sufficiently educated to think himself a disciple of Epicurus; while he was, in reality, only a product of Pigault-Lebrun. He laughed willingly and pleasantly over infinite and eternal things, and at the "Crotchets of that good old fellow the Bishop." He even sometimes laughed at him with an amiable authority in the presence of M. Myriel himself, who listened to him. 
On some semi-official occasion or other, I do not recollect what, Count*** [this senator] and M. Myriel were to dine with the prefect. At dessert, the senator, who was slightly exhilarated, though still perfectly dignified, exclaimed:-- 
"Egad, Bishop, let's have a discussion. It is hard for a senator and a bishop to look at each other without winking. We are two augurs. I am going to make a confession to you. I have a philosophy of my own." 
"And you are right," replied the Bishop. "As one makes one's philosophy, so one lies on it. You are on the bed of purple, senator." 
The senator was encouraged, and went on:-- 
"Let us be good fellows." 
"Good devils even," said the Bishop. 
"I declare to you," continued the senator, "that the Marquis d'Argens, Pyrrhon, Hobbes, and M. Naigeon are no rascals. I have all the philosophers in my library gilded on the edges." 
"Like yourself, Count," interposed the Bishop. 
The senator resumed:-- 
"I hate Diderot; he is an ideologist, a declaimer, and a revolutionist, a believer in God at bottom, and more bigoted than Voltaire. Voltaire made sport of Needham, and he was wrong, for Needham's eels prove that God is useless. A drop of vinegar in a spoonful of flour paste supplies the fiat lux. Suppose the drop to be larger and the spoonful bigger; you have the world. Man is the eel. Then what is the good of the Eternal Father? The Jehovah hypothesis tires me, Bishop. It is good for nothing but to produce shallow people, whose reasoning is hollow. Down with that great All, which torments me! Hurrah for Zero which leaves me in peace! Between you and me, and in order to empty my sack, and make confession to my pastor, as it behooves me to do, I will admit to you that I have good sense. I am not enthusiastic over your Jesus, who preaches renunciation and sacrifice to the last extremity. 'Tis the counsel of an avaricious man to beggars. Renunciation; why? Sacrifice; to what end? I do not see one wolf immolating himself for the happiness of another wolf. Let us stick to nature, then. We are at the top; let us have a superior philosophy. What is the advantage of being at the top, if one sees no further than the end of other people's noses? Let us live merrily. Life is all. That man has another future elsewhere, on high, below, anywhere, I don't believe; not one single word of it. Ah! sacrifice and renunciation are recommended to me; I must take heed to everything I do; I must cudgel my brains over good and evil, over the just and the unjust, over the fas and the nefas. Why? Because I shall have to render an account of my actions. When? After death. What a fine dream! After my death it will be a very clever person who can catch me. Have a handful of dust seized by a shadow-hand, if you can. Let us tell the truth, we who are initiated, and who have raised the veil of Isis: there is no such thing as either good or evil; there is vegetation. Let us seek the real. Let us get to the bottom of it. Let us go into it thoroughly. What the deuce! let us go to the bottom of it! We must scent out the truth; dig in the earth for it, and seize it. Then it gives you exquisite joys. Then you grow strong, and you laugh. I am square on the bottom, I am. Immortality, Bishop, is a chance, a waiting for dead men's shoes. Ah! what a charming promise! trust to it, if you like! What a fine lot Adam has! We are souls, and we shall be angels, with blue wings on our shoulder-blades. Do come to my assistance: is it not Tertullian who says that the blessed shall travel from star to star? Very well. We shall be the grasshoppers of the stars. And then, besides, we shall see God. Ta, ta, ta! What twaddle all these paradises are! God is a nonsensical monster. I would not say that in the Moniteur, egad! but I may whisper it among friends. Inter pocula. To sacrifice the world to paradise is to let slip the prey for the shadow. Be the dupe of the infinite! I'm not such a fool. I am a nought. I call myself Monsieur le Comte Nought, senator. Did I exist before my birth? No. Shall I exist after death? No. What am I? A little dust collected in an organism. What am I to do on this earth? The choice rests with me: suffer or enjoy. Whither will suffering lead me? To nothingness; but I shall have suffered. Whither will enjoyment lead me? To nothingness; but I shall have enjoyed myself. My choice is made. One must eat or be eaten. I shall eat. It is better to be the tooth than the grass. Such is my wisdom. After which, go whither I push thee, the grave-digger is there; the Pantheon for some of us: all falls into the great hole. End. Finis. Total liquidation. This is the vanishing-point. Death is death, believe me. I laugh at the idea of there being any one who has anything to tell me on that subject. Fables of nurses; bugaboo for children; Jehovah for men. No; our to-morrow is the night. Beyond the tomb there is nothing but equal nothingness. You have been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent de Paul--it makes no difference. That is the truth. Then live your life, above all things. Make use of your _I_ while you have it. In truth, Bishop, I tell you that I have a philosophy of my own, and I have my philosophers. I don't let myself be taken in with that nonsense. Of course, there must be something for those who are down,--for the barefooted beggars, knife-grinders, and miserable wretches. Legends, chimeras, the soul, immortality, paradise, the stars, are provided for them to swallow. They gobble it down. They spread it on their dry bread. He who has nothing else has the good. God. That is the least he can have. I oppose no objection to that; but I reserve Monsieur Naigeon for myself. The good God is good for the populace." 
The Bishop clapped his hands. 
"That's talking!" he exclaimed. "What an excellent and really marvellous thing is this materialism! Not every one who wants it can have it. Ah! when one does have it, one is no longer a dupe, one does not stupidly allow one's self to be exiled like Cato, nor stoned like Stephen, nor burned alive like Jeanne d'Arc. Those who have succeeded in procuring this admirable materialism have the joy of feeling themselves irresponsible, and of thinking that they can devour everything without uneasiness,--places, sinecures, dignities, power, whether well or ill acquired, lucrative recantations, useful treacheries, savory capitulations of conscience,--and that they shall enter the tomb with their digestion accomplished. How agreeable that is! I do not say that with reference to you, senator. Nevertheless, it is impossible for me to refrain from congratulating you. You great lords have, so you say, a philosophy of your own, and for yourselves, which is exquisite, refined, accessible to the rich alone, good for all sauces, and which seasons the voluptuousness of life admirably. This philosophy has been extracted from the depths, and unearthed by special seekers. But you are good-natured princes, and you do not think it a bad thing that belief in the good God should constitute the philosophy of the people, very much as the goose stuffed with chestnuts is the truffled turkey of the poor."
我们曾经谈到过一个元老院元老，那是个精明果断的人，一生行事，直截了当，对于人生所能遇到的难题，如良心、信誓、公道、天职之类从不介怀；他一往直前地向着他的目标走去，在他个人发达和利益的道路上，他从不曾动摇过一次。他从前当过检察官，因处境顺利，为人也渐趋温和了，他绝不是个有坏心眼的人。他在生活中审慎地抓住那些好的地方、好的机会和好的财源之后，对儿子、女婿、亲戚甚至朋友，也尽力帮些小忙。其余的事，在他看来，好象全是傻事。他善诙谐，通文墨，因而自以为是伊壁鸠鲁①的信徒，实际上也许只是比戈·勒白朗②之流亚。对无边的宇宙和永恒的事业以及“主教老头儿的种种无稽之谈”，他常喜欢用解颐的妙语来加以述说。有时，他会带着和蔼的高傲气派当面嘲笑米里哀先生，米里哀先生总由他嘲笑。 
①伊壁鸠鲁（Epicure，公元前341?70），希腊唯物主义哲学家，主张享乐，他的所谓享乐是精神恬静愉快，不动心。
②比戈·勒白朗（PigaultLebrun），十八世纪法国色情小说家。
不知是在举行什么半官式典礼时，那位伯爵（就是那位元老）和米里哀先生都应在省长公馆里参加宴会。到了用甜品时，这位元老已经略带酒意，不过态度仍旧庄重，他大声说：“主教先生，我们来扯扯。一个元老和一个主教见了面，就难免要彼此挤眉弄眼。一狼一狈，心照不宣。我要和您谈句知心话。我有我自己一套哲学。”
“您说得对，”主教回答，“人总是睡下来搞他的哲学的，何况您是睡在金屋玉堂中的，元老先生。”
元老兴致勃发，接着说：
“让我们做好孩子。”
“就做顽皮鬼也不打紧。”主教说。
“我告诉您，”元老说，“阿尔让斯侯爵、皮隆、霍布斯、内戎①先生这些人都不是等闲之辈。在我的图书室里的这些哲学家的书边上都是烫了金的。”
“和您自己一样，元老先生。”主教抢着说。
元老接着说：
“我恨狄德罗②，他是个空想家，大言不惭，还搞革命，实际上却信仰上帝，比伏尔泰更着迷。伏尔泰嘲笑过尼登，他不应当那么做，因为尼登的鳝鱼已经证明上帝的无用了。一匙面糊加一滴酸醋，便可以代替圣灵。假设那一滴再大一点，那一匙也再大一点，便是这世界了。人就是鳝鱼。又何必要永生之父呢？主教先生，关于耶和华的那种假设叫我头痛。它只对那些外弱中干的人有些用处。打倒那个惹人厌烦的万物之主！虚空万岁！虚空才能叫人安心。说句知心话，并且我要说个痛快，好好向我的牧师交代一番，我告诉您，我观点明确。您那位东劝人谦让、西劝人牺牲的耶稣瞒不过我的眼睛。那种说法是吝啬鬼对穷鬼的劝告。谦让！为什么？牺牲！为什么？我从来没有见过一只狼为另一只狼的幸福而牺牲它自己。我们还是游戏人间的好。人为万物之灵。我们应当有高明的哲学。假使目光如鼠，又何必生为万物之灵？让我们嘻嘻哈哈过这一世吧。人生，就是一切。说人在旁的地方，天上、地下，某处，有另外一个来生，我绝不信那些鬼话。哼！有人要我谦让，要我牺牲，那么，一举一动，我都得谨慎小心，我得为善恶、曲直、从违等问题来伤脑筋。为什么？据说对自己的行为我将来得做个交代。什么时候？死后。多么好的梦！在我死了以后，有人捉得住我那才妙呢。您去叫一只鬼手抓把灰给我看看。我们都是过来人，都是揭过英蓉仙子的亵衣的人，让我们说老实话吧，这世上只有生物，既无所谓善，也无所谓恶。我们应当追求实际，一直深入下去，穷其究竟，有什么大不了的！我们应当嗅出真理，根究到底，把真理掌握在自己的手里。那样它才会给你一种无上的快乐。那样你才会充满信心，仰天大笑。我一点不含糊，我。主教先生，永生之说只能哄哄小孩。哈！多么中听的诺言！您去信您的吧！骗鬼的空头支票。人是灵魂，人可以成为天使，人可以在肩胛骨上生出一对蓝翅膀。有福气的人可以从这一个星球游到那一个星球，这句话是不是德尔图良③说的，请您告诉我。就算是的。我们会变成星际间的蝗虫。还会看见上帝，等等，等等。什么天堂，妄谈而已。上帝是种荒谬透顶的胡说。我当然不会在政府公报里说这种话。朋友之间，却不妨悄悄地谈谈。酒后之言嘛。为了天堂牺牲人世，等于捕雀而捉影。为永生之说所愚弄！还不至于那么蠢。我是一无所有的。我叫做一无所有伯爵。元老院元老。在我生前，有我吗？没有。在我死后，有我吗？没有。我是什么呢？我不过是一粒和有机体组合起来的尘土。在这世界上，我有什么事要做？我可以选择，受苦或享乐。受苦，那会把我引到什么地方去呢？引到一无所有。而我得受一辈子的苦。享乐又会把我引到什么地方去呢？也是引到一无所有。而我可以享一辈子的乐。我已经选定了。不吃就得被吃。做牙齿总比做草料好些。那正是我聪明的地方。过后，听其自然，掘坟坑的人会来的，坟坑便是我们这种人的先贤祠，一切都落在那大洞里。完事大吉。一切皆空。全部清算完毕。那正是一切化为乌有的下场。连死的份儿也不会再有了，请相信我。说什么还有一个人在等着我去谈话，我想来就要发笑。奶妈的创作。奶妈发明了妖怪来吓唬小孩，也发明了耶和华来吓唬大人。不，我们的明天是一片黑。在坟墓的后面，一无所有，这对任何人来说也都一样。即使你做过萨尔达尼拔④，即使你做过味增爵⑤，结果都一样归于乌有。这是真话。因此，享乐高于一切。当你还有你的时候，就应当利用这个你。老实说，我告诉您，主教先生，我有我的一套哲学，也有我的同道。我不让那些无稽之谈牵着我的鼻子走。可是，对于那些下等人，那些赤脚鬼、穷光蛋、无赖汉，却应当有一种东西。我们不妨享以种种传说、幻想、灵魂、永生、天堂、星宿。让他们大嚼特嚼，让他们拿去涂在他们的干面包上。两手空空的人总算也还捧着一位慈悲的上帝。那并不过分。我也一点不反对，但为我自己，我还是要留下我的内戎先生。慈悲的上帝对平民来说，还是必要的。” 
①皮隆（Pyrrhon），四世纪希腊怀疑派哲学家。霍布斯（Hobbes，1588?679），英国唯物主义哲学家。内戎（Naigeon，1738?810），法国文人，唯物主义者。
②狄德罗（Diderot，1713?784），杰出的法国哲学家，机械唯物主义的代表人物，无神论者，法国资产阶级革命的思想家之一，启蒙运动者，百科全书派领袖，一七四九年因自己的著作而被监禁。
③德尔图良（Tertullien，约150?22），基督教反动神学家。
④萨尔达尼拔（Sardanapale），又译亚述巴尼拔（Assurbanipal，前668椩记?26），亚述国王。
⑤味增爵（VincentdePaul，1581?660），法国天主教遣使会和仁爱会的创始人。
主教鼓掌大声说：
“妙论，妙论！这个唯物主义，确是一种至美绝妙的东西。要找也找不到的。哈！一旦掌握了它，谁也就不上当了，谁也就不会再傻头傻脑，象卡托①那样任人放逐，象艾蒂安①那样任人用石头打死，象贞德③那样任人活活烧死了。获得了这种宝贵的唯物主义的人，也就可以有那种觉得自己不用负责的快感，并认为自己可以心安理得地霸占一切，地盘、恩俸、荣誉、正当得来或暖昧得来的权力，可以为金钱背弃信义，为功利出卖朋友，昧尽天良也还可以自鸣得意。等到酒肉消化完了，便往坟墓里一钻了事。那多么舒服。我这些话并不是为您说的，元老先生。可是我不能不庆贺您。你们那些贵人，正如您说的，有一套自己的、为你们自己服务的哲学，一套巧妙、高明、仅仅适用于有钱人、可以调和各种口味、增加人生乐趣、美不胜收的哲学。那种哲学是由特殊钻探家从地下深处发掘得来的。一般平民以信仰上帝作为他们的哲学，正如穷人以栗子烧鹅肉当作蘑菇煨火鸡，而您并不认为那是件坏事，您确是一位忠厚长者。” 
①卡托（Caton，前234?49），罗马政治家和作家，贵族特权的拥护者，为监察官时极为严格。
②艾蒂安（Etienne），基督教的一个殉教者，死在耶路撒冷。
③贞德（JeannedAArc），百年战争期间法国的民族女英雄，一四三一年被俘，焚死。 
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 9 The Brother as depicted by the Sister 
In order to furnish an idea of the private establishment of the Bishop of D----, and of the manner in which those two sainted women subordinated their actions, their thoughts, their feminine instincts even, which are easily alarmed, to the habits and purposes of the Bishop, without his even taking the trouble of speaking in order to explain them, we cannot do better than transcribe in this place a letter from Mademoiselle Baptistine to Madame the Vicomtess de Boischevron, the friend of her childhood. This letter is in our possession. 
D----, Dec. 16, 18--. 
MY GOOD MADAM: Not a day passes without our speaking of you. It is our established custom; but there is another reason besides. Just imagine, while washing and dusting the ceilings and walls, Madam Magloire has made some discoveries; now our two chambers hung with antique paper whitewashed over, would not discredit a chateau in the style of yours. Madam Magloire has pulled off all the paper. There were things beneath. My drawing-room, which contains no furniture, and which we use for spreading out the linen after washing, is fifteen feet in height, eighteen square, with a ceiling which was formerly painted and gilded, and with beams, as in yours. This was covered with a cloth while this was the hospital. And the woodwork was of the era of our grandmothers. But my room is the one you ought to see. Madam Magloire has discovered, under at least ten thicknesses of paper pasted on top, some paintings, which without being good are very tolerable. The subject is Telemachus being knighted by Minerva in some gardens, the name of which escapes me. In short, where the Roman ladies repaired on one single night. What shall I say to you? I have Romans, and Roman ladies [here occurs an illegible word], and the whole train. Madam Magloire has cleaned it all off; this summer she is going to have some small injuries repaired, and the whole revarnished, and my chamber will be a regular museum. She has also found in a corner of the attic two wooden pier-tables of ancient fashion. They asked us two crowns of six francs each to regild them, but it is much better to give the money to the poor; and they are very ugly besides, and I should much prefer a round table of mahogany. 
I am always very happy. My brother is so good. He gives all he has to the poor and sick. We are very much cramped. The country is trying in the winter, and we really must do something for those who are in need. We are almost comfortably lighted and warmed. You see that these are great treats. 
My brother has ways of his own. When he talks, he says that a bishop ought to be so. Just imagine! the door of our house is never fastened. Whoever chooses to enter finds himself at once in my brother's room. He fears nothing, even at night. That is his sort of bravery, he says. 
He does not wish me or Madame Magloire feel any fear for him. He exposes himself to all sorts of dangers, and he does not like to have us even seem to notice it. One must know how to understand him. 
He goes out in the rain, he walks in the water, he travels in winter. He fears neither suspicious roads nor dangerous encounters, nor night. 
Last year he went quite alone into a country of robbers. He would not take us. He was absent for a fortnight. On his return nothing had happened to him; he was thought to be dead, but was perfectly well, and said, "This is the way I have been robbed!" And then he opened a trunk full of jewels, all the jewels of the cathedral of Embrun, which the thieves had given him. 
When he returned on that occasion, I could not refrain from scolding him a little, taking care, however, not to speak except when the carriage was making a noise, so that no one might hear me. 
At first I used to say to myself, "There are no dangers which will stop him; he is terrible." Now I have ended by getting used to it. I make a sign to Madam Magloire that she is not to oppose him. He risks himself as he sees fit. I carry off Madam Magloire, I enter my chamber, I pray for him and fall asleep. I am at ease, because I know that if anything were to happen to him, it would be the end of me. I should go to the good God with my brother and my bishop. It has cost Madam Magloire more trouble than it did me to accustom herself to what she terms his imprudences. But now the habit has been acquired. We pray together, we tremble together, and we fall asleep. If the devil were to enter this house, he would be allowed to do so. After all, what is there for us to fear in this house? There is always some one with us who is stronger than we. The devil may pass through it, but the good God dwells here. 
This suffices me. My brother has no longer any need of saying a word to me. I understand him without his speaking, and we abandon ourselves to the care of Providence. That is the way one has to do with a man who possesses grandeur of soul. 
I have interrogated my brother with regard to the information which you desire on the subject of the Faux family. You are aware that he knows everything, and that he has memories, because he is still a very good royalist. They really are a very ancient Norman family of the generalship of Caen. Five hundred years ago there was a Raoul de Faux, a Jean de Faux, and a Thomas de Faux, who were gentlemen, and one of whom was a seigneur de Rochefort. The last was Guy-Etienne-Alexandre, and was commander of a regiment, and something in the light horse of Bretagne. His daughter, Marie-Louise, married Adrien-Charles de Gramont, son of the Duke Louis de Gramont, peer of France, colonel of the French guards, and lieutenant-general of the army. It is written Faux, Fauq, and Faoucq. 
Good Madame, recommend us to the prayers of your sainted relative, Monsieur the Cardinal. As for your dear Sylvanie, she has done well in not wasting the few moments which she passes with you in writing to me. She is well, works as you would wish, and loves me. 
That is all that I desire. The souvenir which she sent through you reached me safely, and it makes me very happy. My health is not so very bad, and yet I grow thinner every day. Farewell; my paper is at an end, and this forces me to leave you. A thousand good wishes. BAPTISTINE. 
P.S. Your grand nephew is charming. Do you know that he will soon be five years old? Yesterday he saw some one riding by on horseback who had on knee-caps, and he said, "What has he got on his knees?" He is a charming child! His little brother is dragging an old broom about the room, like a carriage, and saying, "Hu!" 
As will be perceived from this letter, these two women understood how to mould themselves to the Bishop's ways with that special feminine genius which comprehends the man better than he comprehends himself. The Bishop of D----, in spite of the gentle and candid air which never deserted him, sometimes did things that were grand, bold, and magnificent, without seeming to have even a suspicion of the fact. They trembled, but they let him alone. Sometimes Madame Magloire essayed a remonstrance in advance, but never at the time, nor afterwards. They never interfered with him by so much as a word or sign,in any action once entered upon. At certain moments, without his having occasion to mention it, when he was not even conscious of it himself in all probability, so perfect was his simplicity, they vaguely felt that he was acting as a bishop; then they were nothing more than two shadows in the house. They served him passively; and if obedience consisted in disappearing, they disappeared. They understood, with an admirable delicacy of instinct, that certain cares may be put under constraint. Thus, even when believing him to be in peril, they understood, I will not say his thought, but his nature, to such a degree that they no longer watched over him. They confided him to God. 
Moreover, Baptistine said, as we have just read, that her brother's end would prove her own. Madame Magloire did not say this, but she knew it.
为了说明迪涅主教先生的家庭概况，为了说明那两位圣女怎样用她们的行动、思想、甚至女性的那种易受惊恐的本能去屈从主教的习惯和意愿，使他连开口吩咐的麻烦都没有，我们最好是在此地把巴狄斯丁姑娘写给她幼年时的朋友，波瓦舍佛隆子爵夫人的一封信转录下来。那封信在我们的手里。
我仁慈的夫人，我们没有一天不谈到您。那固然是我们的习惯，也还有另外一个理由。您没有想到，马格洛大娘居然在洗刷天花板和墙壁时，发现了许多东西。现在我们这两间原来裱着旧纸、刷过灰浆的房间，和您那子爵府第相比，也不至于再有逊色。马格洛大娘撕去了全部的纸。那下面有些东西。我们用来晾衣服，没有家具的那间客厅，有十五尺高，十八尺见方，天花板和梁上都画了仿古金花，正和府上一样。从前当作医院时，它是用块布遮住了的。还有我们祖母时代的板壁。不过应当看看的是我的房间。马格洛大娘在那至少有十层的裱墙纸下发现了一些油画，虽然不好，却还过得去。画的是密涅瓦①封忒勒玛科斯②为骑士。另一幅园景里也有他。那花园的名字我一时想不起了。总之是罗马贵妇们在某一夜到过的地方。我还要说什么？那上面有罗马（这儿有个字，字迹不明）男子和妇女以及他们的全部侍从。马格洛大娘把一切都擦拭干净，今年夏天，她还要修整几处小小的破损，全部重行油漆，我的屋子就会变成一间真正的油画陈列馆了。她还在顶楼角落里找出两只古式壁儿。可是重上一次金漆就得花去两枚值六利弗的银币，还不如留给穷人们使用好些；并且式样也相当丑陋，我觉得如果能有一张紫檀木圆桌，我还更合意些。 
①密涅瓦（Minerva），艺术和智慧之神。
②忒勒玛科斯（Télémaque），智勇之神。
我总是过得很快乐。我哥是那么仁厚，他把他所有的一切都施给穷人和病人。我们手边非常拮据。到了冬天这地方就很苦。帮助穷人总是应当的。我们还算有火有灯。您瞧，这样已经很温暖了。
我哥有他独特的习惯。他在聊天时，老说一个主教应当这样。您想想，我们家里的大门总是不关的。任何人都可以闯进来，并且开了门就是我哥的屋子。他什么都不怕，连黑夜也不怕。照他说来，那是他特有的果敢。
他不要我替他担忧，也不要马格洛大娘替他担忧。他冒着各种危险，还不许我们有感到危险的神情。我们应当知道怎样去领会他。
他常在下雨时出门，在水里行走，在严冬旅行。他不怕黑夜，不怕可疑的道路和遭遇。
去年，他独自一人走到匪窟里去了。他不肯带我们去。他去了两星期。一直到回来，他什么危险也没碰着。我们以为他死了，而他却健康得很。他还说你们看我被劫了没有。他打开一只大箱子，里面装满了昂布伦天主堂的珍宝，是那些土匪送给他的。那一次，在他回来时，我和他的几位朋友，到两里路远的地方去迎接他。我实在不得不稍微责备他几句，但是我很小心，只在车轮响时才说话，免得旁人听见。
起初，我常对自己说：“没有什么危险能阻拦他，他真够叫人焦急的了。”到现在，我也习惯了。我常向马格洛大娘使眼色叫她不要惹他。他要冒险，让他去。我引着马格洛大娘回我的房间。我为他祷告。我睡我的觉。我安心，因为我知道，万一他遇到不幸，我也决不再活了。我要随着我的哥兼我的主教一同归天。马格洛大娘对她所谓的“他的粗心大意”却看不惯，但是到现在，习惯已成自然。我们俩一同害怕，一同祈祷，也就一同睡去了。魔鬼可以走进那些可以让它放肆的人家，但在我们家里，有什么可怕的呢？最强的那位时常是和我们同在一道的，魔鬼可以经过此地，但是慈悲的上帝常住在我们家里。
这样我已经满足了。我的哥，现在用不着再吩咐我什么，他不开口，我也能领会他的意思。我们把自己交给了天主。
这就是我们和一个胸襟开阔的人相处之道。
您问我关于傅家的历史，这事我已向我哥问明了。您知道，他知道得多么清楚，记得多么详细呵。因为他始终是一个非常忠实的保王党。那的确是卡昂税区一家很老的诺曼底世家。五百年来，有一个拉乌尔·德·傅，一个让·德·傅和一个托马·德·傅，都是贵人，其中一个是罗什福尔采地的领主。最末的一个是居伊·艾蒂安·亚历山大，·路易丝嫁给了法兰西世卿，法兰西警卫军大佐和陆军中将路易·德·格勒蒙的儿子阿德利安·查理·德·格勒蒙。他们的姓，傅，有三种写法：Faux，Fauq，Faoucq。仁慈的夫人，请您代求贵戚红衣主教先生为我们祷告。至于您亲爱的西尔华尼，她没有浪费她亲近您的短暂时间来和我写信，那是对的。她既然身体好，也能依照尊意工作，并且仍旧爱我，那已是我所希望的一切了。我从尊处得到她的问候，我感到幸福。我的身体并不太坏，可是一天比一天消瘦下去了。再谈，纸已写满了，我只得停笔。一切安好。
巴狄斯丁
一八……年，十二月十六日，于迪涅。
再者：令嫂仍和她令郎的家眷住在此地。您的侄孙真可爱。您知道，他快五岁了！昨天他看见一匹马走过，腿上裹了护膝，他说：“它膝头上是什么？”那孩子，他是那样惹人爱。他的小兄弟在屋子里拖着一把破扫帚当车子，嘴里还喊着：“走！”
从这封信里我们可以看出，那两位妇人知道用女性所特有的那种比男子更了解男子的天才，去曲承主教的生活方式。迪涅那位主教有着那种始终不渝、温和敦厚的神情风度，有时作出一些伟大、果敢、辉煌的行动，仿佛连他自己也不觉得。她们为那些事提心吊胆，但是让他去做。马格洛大娘有时试着在事先劝劝，但从不在事情进行时或事后多话。当行动已经开始，她们就从不阻拦他，连一点颜色也不表露。某些时候，她们只似懂非懂地觉得他是在尽主教的职责；他自己并不说出，甚至连他自己也不一定有那种感觉，因为他的那种赤子之心是那样淳朴，因此，她们在家里只是两个黑影。她们被动地服侍着他，如果为了服从，应当退避，她们便退避。由于一种可喜的、体贴入微的本能，她们知道，某种关切反而会使他为难。我不说她们能了解他的思想，但是她们了解他的性格，因而即使知道他是在危险中，也只好不过问。她们把他托付给了上帝。
而且巴狄斯丁还常说，正如我们刚才念过的，她哥的不幸也就是她自己的末日。马格洛大娘没有那样说，但是她心里有数。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 10 The Bishop in the Presence of an Unknown Light
At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bandits. In the country near D---- a man lived quite alone. This man, we will state at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G---- 
Member of the Convention, G---- was mentioned with a sort of horror in the little world of D---- A member of the Convention--can you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other thou, and when they said "citizen." This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before a provost's court, on the return of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you please; clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for life. An example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture. 
Was G---- a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by the element of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France. 
He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman. 
Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the former member of the Convention, and he said, "There is a soul yonder which is lonely." 
And he added, deep in his own mind, "I owe him a visit." 
But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appeared to him after a moment's reflection, as strange, impossible, and almost repulsive. For, at bottom, he shared the general impression, and the old member of the Convention inspired him, without his being clearly conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment which borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement. 
Still, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No. But what a sheep! 
The good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction; then he returned. 
Finally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young shepherd, who served the member of the Convention in his hovel, had come in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying, that paralysis was gaining on him, and that he would not live over night.--"Thank God!" some added. 
The Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too threadbare cassock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening breeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out. 
The sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart, he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch, leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind lofty brambles, he caught sight of the cavern. 
It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against the outside. 
Near the door, in an old wheel-chair, the arm-chair of the peasants, there was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun. 
Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering the old man a jar of milk. 
While the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke: "Thank you," he said, "I need nothing." And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the child. 
The Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise which a man can still feel after a long life. 
"This is the first time since I have been here," said he, "that any one has entered here. Who are you, sir?" 
The Bishop answered:-- 
"My name is Bienvenu Myriel." 
"Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monseigneur Welcome?" 
"I am." The old man resumed with a half-smile. "In that case, you are my bishop?" 
"Something of that sort." "Enter, sir." 
The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark:-- 
"I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not seem to me to be ill." 
"Monsieur," replied the old man, "I am going to recover." 
He paused, and then said:-- 
"I shall die three hours hence." 
Then he continued:-- 
"I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended to my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me; it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one's caprices; I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight." 
The old man turned to the shepherd lad:-- 
"Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired." 
The child entered the hut. 
The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to himself:-- 
"I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors." 
The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not think he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the whole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest: he, who on occasion, was so fond of laughing at "His Grace," was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost tempted to retort "citizen." He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth; for the first time in his life, probably, the Bishop felt in a mood to be severe. 
Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a modest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust. 
The Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained his curiosity, which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not refrain from examining the member of the Convention with an attention which, as it did not have its course in sympathy, would have served his conscience as a matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A member of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being outside the pale of the law, even of the law of charity. G----, calm, his body almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogenarians who form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The Revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the Mohammedan angel of the sepulchre, would have turned back, and thought that he had mistaken the door. G---- seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless. It was there that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and dead, but his head survived with all the power of life, and seemed full of light. G----, at this solemn moment, resembled the king in that tale of the Orient who was flesh above and marble below. 
There was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exordium was abrupt. 
"I congratulate you," said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand. "You did not vote for the death of the king, after all." 
The old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter meaning underlying the words "after all." He replied. The smile had quite disappeared from his face. 
"Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the tyrant." 
It was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity. 
"What do you mean to say?" resumed the Bishop. 
"I mean to say that man has a tyrant,--ignorance. I voted for the death of that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority falsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man should be governed only by science." 
"And conscience," added the Bishop. 
"It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which we have within us." 
Monseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language, which was very new to him. 
The member of the Convention resumed:-- 
"So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said `no.' I did not think that I had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate evil. I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child. In voting for the Republic, I voted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors. The crumbling away of prejudices and errors causes light. We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vase of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy." 
"Mixed joy," said the Bishop. 
"You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas! The work was incomplete, I admit: we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer; the wind is still there." 
"You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath." 
"Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of progress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ. Incomplete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown social quantities; it softened spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth. It was a good thing. The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity." 
The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring:-- 
"Yes? '93!" 
The member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with an almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of exclamation:-- 
"Ah, there you go; '93! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been forming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen hundred years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial." 
The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a good face on the matter. He replied:-- 
"The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no error." And he added, regarding the member of the Convention steadily the while, "Louis XVII.?" 
The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop's arm. 
"Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent child? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Greve, until death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of Cartouche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV." 
"Monsieur," said the Bishop, "I like not this conjunction of names." 
"Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?" 
A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken. 
The conventionary resumed:-- 
"Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, `Sinite parvulos,' he made no distinction between the little children. It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys." 
"That is true," said the Bishop in a low voice. 
"I persist," continued the conventionary G---- "You have mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than '93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people." 
"I weep for all," said the Bishop. 
"Equally!" exclaimed conventionary G----; "and if the balance must incline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been suffering longer." 
Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges, and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death agony. It was almost an explosion. 
"Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And hold! that is not all, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about Louis XVII.? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit; but that signifies nothing: clever men have so many ways of imposing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fork of the roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you. You have told me that you are the Bishop; but that affords me no information as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you? You are a bishop; that is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and revenues, who have vast prebends,--the bishopric of D---- fifteen thousand francs settled income, ten thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five thousand francs,-- who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot! You are a prelate,--revenues, palace, horses, servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but this says either too much or too little; this does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak? Who are you?" 
The Bishop hung his head and replied, "Vermis sum--I am a worm." 
"A worm of the earth in a carriage?" growled the conventionary. 
It was the conventionary's turn to be arrogant, and the Bishop's to be humble. 
The Bishop resumed mildly:-- 
"So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces off behind the trees yonder, how my good table and the moor-hens which I eat on Friday, how my twenty-five thousand francs income, how my palace and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty, and that '93 was not inexorable. 
The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep away a cloud. 
"Before replying to you," he said, "I beseech you to pardon me. I have just committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are my guest, I owe you courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in the debate; but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future." 
"I thank you," said the Bishop. 
G---- resumed. 
"Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? What were you saying to me? That '93 was inexorable?" "Inexorable; yes," said the Bishop. "What think you of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine?" 
"What think you of Bossuet chanting the Te Deum over the dragonnades?" The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the directness of a point of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply occurred to him; but he was offended by this mode of alluding to Bossuet. The best of minds will have their fetiches, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of logic. 
The conventionary began to pant; the asthma of the agony which is mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice; still, there was a perfect lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on:-- "Let me say a few words more in this and that direction; I am willing. Apart from the Revolution, which, taken as a whole, is an immense human affirmation, '93 is, alas! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir; but what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name do you give to Montrevel? Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal; but what is your opinion as to Lamoignon-Baville? Maillard is terrible; but Saulx-Tavannes, if you please? Duchene senior is ferocious; but what epithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-Tete is a monster; but not so great a one as M. the Marquis de Louvois. Sir, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen; but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman, who, in 1685, under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nursing infant, was bound, naked to the waist, to a stake, and the child kept at a distance; her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish; the little one, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried and agonized; the executioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse, `Abjure!' giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you to that torture of Tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind sir: the French Revolution had its reasons for existence; its wrath will be absolved by the future; its result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows there comes forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the advantage; moreover, I am dying." 
And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary concluded his thoughts in these tranquil words:-- 
"Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over, this fact is recognized,--that the human race has been treated harshly, but that it has progressed." 
The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remained, however, and from this intrenchment, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu's resistance, came forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the beginning:-- 
"Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor. He who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race." 
The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a tear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his livid cheek, and he said, almost in a stammer, quite low, and to himself, while his eyes were plunged in the depths:-- 
"O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest!" 
The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock. 
After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said:-- 
"The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would be without limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it would not exist. There is, then, an _I_. That _I_ of the infinite is God." 
The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice, and with the shiver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some one. When he had spoken, his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him. That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in death. The supreme moment was approaching. 
The Bishop understood this; time pressed; it was as a priest that he had come: from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion; he gazed at those closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and ice-cold hand in his, and bent over the dying man. 
"This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be regrettable if we had met in vain?" 
The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was imprinted on his countenance. 
"Bishop," said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength, "I have passed my life in meditation, study, and contemplation. I was sixty years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them; tyrannies existed, I destroyed them; rights and principles existed, I proclaimed and confessed them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it; France was menaced, I offered my breast. I was not rich; I am poor. I have been one of the masters of the state; the vaults of the treasury were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls, which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver; I dined in Dead Tree Street, at twenty-two sous. I have succored the oppressed, I have comforted the suffering. I tore the cloth from the altar, it is true; but it was to bind up the wounds of my country. I have always upheld the march forward of the human race, forward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of your profession. And there is at Peteghem, in Flanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according to my powers, and all the good that I was able. After which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, jeered at, scorned, cursed, proscribed. For many years past, I with my white hair have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise me; to the poor ignorant masses I present the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolation of hatred, without hating any one myself. Now I am eighty-six years old; I am on the point of death. What is it that you have come to ask of me?" 
"Your blessing," said the Bishop. 
And he knelt down. 
When the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary had become august. He had just expired. 
The Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of the Convention G----; he contented himself with pointing heavenward. 
From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards all children and sufferers. 
Any allusion to "that old wretch of a G----" caused him to fall into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did not count for something in his approach to perfection. 
This "pastoral visit" naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of comment in all the little local coteries. 
"Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a bishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those revolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be seen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried off by the devil." 
One day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself spiritual, addressed this sally to him, "Monseigneur, people are inquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red cap!"--"Oh! oh! that's a coarse color," replied the Bishop. "It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat."
我们在前面几页提过一封信，在那信上所载日期过后不久的一个时期里，他又做了一件事，这一件事，在全城的人的心目中，是比上次他在那强人出没的山中旅行，更加来得冒失。
在迪涅附近的一个乡村里住着一个与世隔绝的人。那人曾经当过……让我们立即说出他那不中听的名称：国民公会①代表。他姓G．。 
①国民公会成立于一七九二年九月二十一日，是由人民大众选举产生的。会议宣布法兰西共和国的成立，判处国王路易十六和王后玛丽·安东尼特死刑。
在迪涅那种小天地里，大家一谈到国民公会的那位G．代表，便有谈虎色变之感。一个国民公会代表，那还了得！那种东西是大家在以“你”和“公民”①相称的年代里存在过的。那个人就差不多是魔怪。他虽然没有投票判处国王死刑，但是已相去不远。那是个类似弑君的人。他是横暴骇人的。正统的王爷们回国②后，怎么会没有人把他告到特别法庭里去呢？不砍掉他的脑袋，也未尝不可，我们应当宽大，对的；但是好好地来他一个终身放逐，总是应当的吧？真是怪事！诸如此类的话。他并且和那些人一样，是个无神论者棗这些全是鹅群诋毁雄鹰的妄谈。 
①革命期间，人民语言中称“你”不称“您”。称“某某公民”而不称“某某先生”。
②一八一四年，拿破仑帝国被颠覆，王室复辟，路易十六之弟路易十八回国称王。
G．究竟是不是雄鹰呢？如果我们从他那孤独生活中所特有的蛮性上着眼，他确是。由于他没有投票赞成处决国王，所以屡次的放逐令上都没有他的名字，他也就能留在法国。
他的住处离城有三刻钟的路程，远离一切村落，远离一切道路，不知是在哪个荒山野谷、人迹不到的角落里。据说他在那里有一块地、一个土洞，一个窝巢。没有邻居，甚至没有过路的人。那条通到他那里去的小路，自从他住在那山谷里以后，也就消失在荒草中了。大家提起他那住处，就好象谈到刽子手的家。
可是主教不能忘怀，他不时朝着这位老代表的住处，有一丛树木标志着的山谷，远远望去，他还说：“那儿有个孤独的灵魂。”
在他思想深处，他还要说：“我迟早得去看他一遭。”
但是，老实说，那个念头在起初虽然显得自然，经过一番思考之后，他却又好象觉得它奇怪，觉得这是做不到的，几乎是不能容忍的。因为实际上他也具有一般人的看法，那位国民公会代表使他莫名其妙地产生一种近似仇恨的恶感，也就是“格格不入”这四个字最能表达的那种恶感。
可是羔羊的癣疥应当使牧人却步吗？不应当。况且那又是怎样的一头羔羊！
那位慈祥的主教为之犹豫不决。有时，他朝那方向走去，随即又转回来。
一天，有个在那窑洞里伺候那位G．代表的少年牧人来到城里找医生，说那老贼已经病到垂危，他得了瘫痪症，过不了夜。这话在城里传开了，许多人说：“谢天谢地。”
主教立即拿起他的拐杖，披上他的外衣（因为，正如我们说过的，他的道袍太旧了，也因为将有晚风），一径走了。
当他走到那无人齿及的地方，太阳正往西沉，几乎到了地平线。他的心怦怦跳动，他知道距那兽穴已经不远。他跨过一条沟，越过一道篱，打开栅门，走进一个荒芜的菜圃，相当大胆地赶上几步，到了那荒地的尽头，一大丛荆棘的后面，他发现了那窝巢。
那是一所极其低陋狭窄而整洁的木屋，前面墙上钉着一列葡萄架。
门前，一个白发老人坐在一张有小轮子的旧椅子（农民的围椅）里，对着太阳微笑。
在那坐着的老人身旁，立着个少年，就是那牧童。他正递一罐牛奶给那老人。
主教正张望，那老人提高嗓子说：
“谢谢，我不再需要什么了。”
同时，他把笑脸从太阳移向那孩子。
主教往前走。那坐着的老人，听见他的脚步声转过头来，如闻空谷足音，脸上露出极端惊讶的颜色。
“自从我住到这里以来，”他说，“这还是第一次有人上我的门。先生，您是谁？”
主教回答：
“我叫卞福汝·米里哀。”
“卞福汝·米里哀！我听人说过这名字。老乡们称为卞福汝主教的，难道就是您吗？”
“就是我。”
那老人面露微笑，接着说：
“那么，您是我的主教了？”
“有点儿象。”
“请进，先生。”
那位国民公会代表把手伸给主教，但是主教没有和他握手，只说道：
“我很高兴上了人家的当。看您的样子，您一点也没有病。”
“先生，”那老人回答，“我会好的。”
他停了一会，又说：
“我过不了三个钟头，就要死了。”
随后他又说：
“我稍稍懂一点医道，我知道临终的情形是怎样的。昨天我还只是脚冷；今天，冷到膝头了；现在我觉得冷齐了腰，等到冷到心头，我就停摆了。夕阳无限好，不是吗？我叫人把我推到外面来，为的是要对这一切景物，作最后一次展望。您可以和我谈话，一点也不会累我的。您赶来看一个快死的人，这是好的。这种时刻，能有一两个人在场，确是难得。妄想人人都有，我希望能拖到黎明。但是我知道，我只有不到三个钟头的时间了。到那时，天已经黑了。其实，有什么关系！死是一件简单的事。并不一定要在早晨。就这样吧。我将披星戴月而去。”
老人转向那牧童说：
“你，你去睡吧。你昨晚已经守了一夜。你累了。”
那孩子回到木屋里去了。
老人用眼睛送着他，仿佛对自己说：
“他入睡，我长眠。同是梦中人，正好相依相伴。”
主教似乎会受到感动，其实不然。他不认为这样死去的人可以悟到上帝。让我们彻底谈清楚，因为宽大的胸怀中所含的细微的矛盾也一样是应当指出来的。平时，遇到这种事，如果有人称他为“主教大人”，他认为不值一笑，可是现在没有人称他为“我的主教”，却又觉得有些唐突，并且几乎想反过来称这位老人为“公民”了。他在反感中突然起了一种想对人亲切的心情，那种心情在医生和神甫中是常见的，在他说来却是绝无仅有的。无论如何，这个人，这个国民公会代表，这位人民喉舌，总当过一时的人中怪杰，主教觉得自己的心情忽然严峻起来，这在他一生中也许还是第一次。
那位国民公会代表却用一种谦虚诚挚的态度觑着他，从这里我们可以看出其中含有那种行将物化的人的卑怯神情。
在主教方面，他平素虽然约束自己，不起窥测旁人隐情的心思，因为在他看来，蓄意窥测旁人隐情，即类似对人存心侵犯，可是对这位国民公会代表，却不能不细心研究；这种不是由同情心出发的动机，如果去对待另一个人，他也许会受到自己良心的责备。但是一个国民公会代表，在他的思想上多少有些法外人的意味，甚至连慈悲的法律也是不予保护的。G．，这位八十岁的魁梧老叟，态度镇定，躯干几乎挺直，声音宏亮，足以使生理学家惊叹折服。革命时期有过许多那样的人，都和那时代相称。从这个老人身上，我们可以想见那种经历过千锤百炼的人。离死已经那样近了，他还完全保有健康的状态。他那明炯的目光、坚定的语气、两肩强健的动作，都足以使死神望而生畏。伊斯兰教中的接引天使阿兹拉伊尔①也会望而却步，以为走错了门呢。G．的样子好象即将死去，那只是因为他自己愿意那样的缘故罢了。他在临终时却仍能自主，只是两条腿僵了，他只是在那一部分被幽魂扼制住了。两只脚死了，也冷了，头脑却还活着，还保持着生命的全部活力，并且似乎还处在精神焕发的时期。G．在这一严重的时刻，正和东方神话中的那个国王相似，上半是肉身，下半是石体。 
①阿兹拉伊尔（AzeBral），伊斯兰教四大天使之一，专司死亡事宜，人死时由其取命。
他旁边有块石头。主教便在那上面坐下。他们突然开始对话。
“我祝贺您，”他用谴责的语气说，“您总算没有投票赞成判处国王死刑。”
国民公会代表好象没有注意到“总算”那两个字所含的尖刻意味。他开始回答，脸上的笑容全消灭了：
“不要祝贺得太甚了，先生。我曾投票表决过暴君的末日。”
那种刚强的语气是针对着严肃的口吻而发的。
“您这话怎讲？”
“我的意思是说，人类有一个暴君，那就是蒙昧。我表决了这个暴君的末日。王权就是从那暴君产生的，王权是一种伪造的权力，只有知识才是真正的权力。人类只应受知识的统治。”
“那么，良心呢？”主教接着说。
“那是同一回事。良心，是存在于我们心中与生俱有的那么一点知识。”
那种论调对卞福汝主教是非常新奇的，他听了，不免有些诧异。
国民公会代表继续说：
“关于路易十六的事，我没有赞同。我不认为我有处死一个人的权利；但是我觉得我有消灭那种恶势力的义务。我表决了那暴君的末日，这就是说，替妇女消除了卖身制度，替男子消除了奴役制度，替幼童消除了不幸生活。我在投票赞成共和制度时也就赞助了那一切。我赞助了博爱、协和、曙光！我出力打破了邪说和谬见。邪说和谬见的崩溃造成了光明。我们这些人推翻了旧世界，旧世界就好象一个苦难的瓶，一旦翻倒在人类的头上，就成了一把欢乐的壶。”
“光怪陆离的欢乐。”主教说。
“您不妨说多灾多难的欢乐，如今，目从那次倒霉的所谓一八一四年的倒退以后，也就可以说是昙花一现的欢乐了。可惜！那次的事业是不全面的，我承认；我们在实际事物中摧毁了旧的制度，在思想领域中却没能把它完全铲除掉。消灭恶习是不够的，还必须转移风气。风车已经不存在了，风却还存在。”
“您做了摧毁工作。摧毁可能是有好处的。可是对夹有怒气的摧毁行为，我就不敢恭维。”
“正义是有愤怒的，主教先生，并且正义的愤怒是一种进步的因素。没关系，无论世人怎样说，法兰西革命是自从基督出世以来人类向前走得最得力的一步。不全面，当然是的，但是多么卓绝。它揭穿了社会上的一切黑幕。它涤荡了人们的习气，它起了安定、镇静、开化的作用，它曾使文化的洪流广被世界。它是仁慈的。法兰西革命是人类无上的光荣。”
主教不禁嗫嚅：
“是吗？九三①！” 
①一七九三年的简称，那是革命进入高潮、处死国王路易十六的一年。
国民公会代表直从他的椅子上竖立起来，容貌严峻，几乎是悲壮的，尽他瞑目以前的周身气力，大声喊着说：
“呀！对！九三！这个字我等了许久了。满天乌云密布了一千五百年。过了十五个世纪之后，乌云散了，而您却要加罪于雷霆。”
那位主教，嘴里虽未必肯承认，却感到心里有什么东西被他击中了。不过他仍然不动声色。他回答：
“法官说话为法律，神甫说话为慈悲，慈悲也不过是一种比较高级的法律而已。雷霆的一击总不应搞错目标吧。”
他又聚精会神觑着那国民公会代表，加上一句：
“路易十七①呢？”
国民公会代表伸出手来，把住主教的胳膊：
“路易十七！哈。您在替谁流泪？替那无辜的孩子吗？那么，好吧。我愿和您同声一哭。替那年幼的王子吗？我却还得考虑考虑。在我看来，路易十五的孙子②是个无辜的孩子，他唯一的罪名是做了路易十五的孙子，以致殉难于大庙；卡图什③的兄弟也是一个无辜的孩子，他唯一的罪名是做了卡图什的兄弟，以致被人捆住胸脯，吊在格雷沃广场，直到气绝，那孩子难道就死得不惨？” 
①路易十七是路易十六的儿子，十岁上（1795）死在狱中。
②指路易十七。
③卡图什（Cartouche，1693?721），人民武装起义领袖，一七二一年被捕，被处死刑。
“先生，”主教说，“我不喜欢把这两个名字联在一起。”
“卡图什吗？路易十五吗？您究竟替这两个中的哪一个叫屈呢？”
一时相对无言。主教几乎后悔多此一行，但是他觉得自己隐隐地、异样地被他动摇了。
国民公会代表又说：
“咳！主教先生，您不爱真理的辛辣味儿。从前基督却不象您这样。他拿条拐杖，清除了圣殿。他那条电光四射的鞭子简直是真理的一个无所顾忌的代言人。当他喊道‘让小孩子到我这里来！’①时，他对于那些孩子，并没有厚此薄彼的意思。他对巴拉巴②的长子和希律③的储君能同眼看待而无动于衷。先生，天真本身就是王冕。天真不必有所作为也一样是高尚的。它无论是穿着破衣烂衫或贵为公子王孙，总是同样尊贵的。” 
①“让小孩子到我这里来”，这是耶稣对那些不许孩子听道的门徒说的话。原文是拉丁文Siniteparvulos（见《圣经·马太福音》第十九章）
②巴拉巴（Barabbas），和耶稣同时判罪的罪犯。
③希律（Hérode），纪元前犹太国王。
“那是真话。”主教轻轻地说。
“我要坚持下去，”国民公会代表G．继续说，“您对我提到过路易十七。让我们在这上面取得一致的看法。我们是不是为一切在上层和在下层的无辜受害者、殉难者、孩子们同声一哭呢？我会和您一道哭的。不过，我已对您说过，我们必须追溯到九三年以前。我们的眼泪应当从九三年以前流起。我一定和您同哭王室的孩子，如果您也和我同哭平民的幼童。”
“我为他们全体哭。”主教说。
“同等分量吗？”G．大声说，“这天平如果倾斜，也还应当偏向平民一面吧。平民受苦的年代比较长些。”
又是一阵沉寂。突破沉寂的仍是那国民公会代表。他抬起身子，倚在一只肘上，用他的拇指和曲着的食指捏着一点腮，正如我们在盘问和审讯时无意中作出的那种样子，他向主教提出质问，目光中充满了临终时的全部气力。那几乎是一阵爆炸。
“是呀，先生，平民受苦的日子够长了。不但如此，您走来找我，问这问那，和我谈到路易十七，目的何在？我并不认识您呀。自从我住在这地方，孤零零的我在这围墙里过活，两只脚从不出门，除了那个帮我的小厮以外谁也不见面。的确，我的耳朵也偶尔刮到过您的名字，我还应当说，您的名气并不太坏，但是那并不说明什么问题，聪明人自有层出不穷的办法来欺哄一个忠厚老实的平民。说也奇怪，我刚才没有听到您车子的声音，也许您把它留在岔路口那面的树丛后面了吧。我并不认识您，您听见了吧。您刚才说您是主教，但是这话一点也不能对我说明您的人格究竟怎样。我只得重复我的问题。您是谁？您是一个主教，那就是说一个教门里的王爷，那些装了金，穿着铠甲，吃利息，坐享大宗教款的人中的一个——迪涅的主教，一万五千法郎的正式年俸，一万法郎的特别费，合计二万五千法郎——，有厨子，有随从，有佳肴美酒，星期五吃火鸡，仆役在前，仆役在后，高视阔步，坐华贵的轿式马车，住的是高楼大厦，捧着跣足徒步的耶稣基督做幌子，高车驷马，招摇过市，主教便是这一类人中的一个。您是一位高级教主，年俸、宫室、骏马、侍从、筵席、人生的享乐，应有尽有，您和那些人一样，也有这些东西，您也和他们一样，享乐受用，很好，不过事情已够明显了，但也可能还不够明显；您来到此地，也许发了宏愿，想用圣教来开导我，但是您并没有教我认清您自身的真正品质。我究竟是在和什么人谈话？您是谁？”
主教低下头，回答：“我是一条蛆。”①
“好一条坐轿车的蛆！”国民公会代表咬着牙说。
这一下，轮到国民公会代表逞强，主教低声下气了。
主教和颜悦色，接着说：
“先生，就算是吧。但是请您替我解释解释：我那辆停在树丛后面不远的轿车，我的筵席和我在星期五吃的火鸡，我的二万五千法郎的年俸，我的宫室和我的侍从，那些东西究竟怎样才能证明慈悲不是一种美德，宽厚不是一种为人应尽之道，九三年不是伤天害理的呢？”
国民公会代表把一只手举上额头，好象要拨开一阵云雾。
“在回答您的话以前，”他说，“我要请您原谅。我刚才失礼了，先生。您是在我家里，您是我的客人。我应当以礼相待。您讨论到我的思想，我只应当批判您的论点就可以了。您的富贵和您的享乐，在辩论当中，我固然可以用来作为反击您的利器，但究竟有伤忠厚，不如不用。我一定不再提那些事了。”
“我对您很感谢。”主教说。
G．接着说：
“让我们回到您刚才向我要求解释的方面去吧。我们刚才谈到什么地方了？您刚才说的是……您说九三年伤天害理吗？”
“伤天害理，是的，”主教说，“您对马拉②朝着断头台鼓掌有怎样一种看法？” 
①这一句原文为拉丁文“Vermissum”。
②马拉（Marat，1743?793），法国政论家，雅各宾派领袖之一，罗伯斯庇尔的忠实战友，群众称他为“人民之友”。
“您对博须埃①在残害新教徒时高唱圣诗，又是怎样想的呢？”
那种回答是坚劲的，直指目标，锐如利剑。主教为之一惊，他绝想不出一句回驳的话，但是那样提到博须埃，使他感到大不痛快。极高明的人也有他们的偶像，有时还会由于别人不尊重逻辑而隐痛在心。
国民公会代表开始喘气了，他本来已经气力不济，加以临终时呼吸阻塞，说话的声音便成了若断若续的了，可是他的眼睛表现出他的神志还是完全清醒的。
他继续说：
“让我们再胡乱谈几句，我很乐意。那次的革命，总的说来，是获得了人类的广泛赞扬的，只可惜九三年成了一种口实。您认为那是伤天害理的一年，但就整个专制政体来说呢，先生？卡里埃②是个匪徒；但是您又怎样称呼蒙特维尔③呢？富基埃－泰维尔④是个无赖；但是您对拉莫瓦尼翁－巴维尔⑤有什么见解呢？马亚尔⑥罪大恶极，但请问索尔－达瓦纳⑦呢，杜善伯伯⑧横蛮凶狠，但对勒泰利埃神甫⑨，您又加上怎样的评语呢？茹尔丹屠夫⑩是个魔怪，但是还比不上卢夫瓦⑾侯爷。先生呀，先生，我为大公主和王后玛丽·安东尼特叫屈，但是我也为那个信仰新教的穷妇人叫屈，那穷妇人在一六八五年大路易当国的时候，先生呀，正在给她孩子喂奶，却被人家捆在一个木桩上，上身一丝不挂，孩子被放在一旁；她乳中充满乳汁，心中充满怆痛；那孩子，饥饿不堪，脸色惨白，瞧着母亲的乳，有气无力地哭个不停；刽子手却对那做母亲和乳娘的妇人说：‘改邪归正！’要她在她孩子的死亡和她信心的死亡中任择一种。教一个做母亲的人受那种眼睁睁的生离死别的苦痛，您觉得有什么可说的吗？先生，请记住这一点，法国革命自有它的理论根据。它的愤怒在未来的岁月中会被人谅解的。它的成果便是一个改进了的世界。从它的极猛烈的鞭挞中产生出一种对人类的爱抚。我得少说话，我不再开口了，我的理由太充足。况且我快断气了。” 
①博须埃（Bossuet，1627?704），法国天主教的护卫者，是最有声望的主教之一。
②卡里埃（Carrier，1756?794），国民公会代表，一七九四年上断头台。
③蒙特维尔（Montrevel），十七世纪末法国朗格多克地区新教徒的迫害者。
④富基埃－泰维尔（ForguierCTinville），法国十八世纪末革命法庭的起诉人，恐怖时期尤为有名，后被处死。
⑤拉莫瓦尼翁－巴维尔（LamoignonCBaville，1648?724），法国朗格多克地区总督，一六八五年无情镇压新教徒。
⑥马亚尔（StanislasMaillard），以执行一七九二年九月的大屠杀而闻名于世。
⑦索尔－达瓦纳（SaulxCTavannes），达瓦纳的贵族，一五七二年巴托罗缪屠杀案的唆使者之一。
⑧杜善伯伯（lepèreDuchène），原是笑剧中一个普通人的形象，后来成了平民的通称。
⑨勒泰利埃神甫（lepèreLetellier，1643?719），耶稣会教士，路易十四的忏悔神甫，曾使路易十四毁坏王家港。
⑩马蒂厄·儒弗（MathieuJouve，1749?794），一七九一年法国阿维尼翁大屠杀的组织者，后获得屠夫茹尔丹的称号。
⑾卢夫瓦（Louvois，1641?691），路易十四的军事大臣，曾劫掠巴拉丁那（今西德法尔茨）。
随后这位国民公会代表的眼睛不再望着主教，他只用这样的几句话来结束他的思想：
“是呀，进步的暴力便叫做革命。暴力过去以后，人们就认识到这一点：人类受到了呵斥，但是前进了。
国民公会代表未尝不知道他刚才已把主教心中的壁垒接二连三地夺过来了，可是还留下一处，那一处是卞福汝主教防卫力量的最后源泉，卞福汝主教说了这样一句话，几乎把舌战开始时的激烈态度又全流露出来了：
“进步应当信仰上帝。善不能由背弃宗教的人来体现，无神论者是人类的恶劣的带路人。”
那个年迈的人民代表没有回答。他发了一阵抖，望着天，眼睛里慢慢泌出一眶眼泪，眶满以后，那眼泪便沿着他青灰的面颊流了下来，他低微地对自己说，几乎语不成声，目光迷失在穹苍里：
“呵你！呵理想的境界！惟有你是存在的！”
主教受到一种无可言喻的感动。
一阵沉寂过后，那老人翘起一个指头，指着天说：
“无极是存在的。它就在那里。如果无极之中没有我，我就是它的止境；它也不成其为无极了；换句话说，它就是不存在的了。因此它必然有一个我。无极中的这个我，便是上帝。”
那垂死的人说了最后几句话，声音爽朗，还带着灵魂离开肉体时那种至乐的颤动，好象他望见了一个什么人似的。语声歇了过后，他的眼睛也合上了。一时的兴奋已使他精力涸竭。他剩下的几个钟头，显然已在顷刻之中耗尽了。他刚才说的那几句话已使他接近了那位生死的主宰。最紧要的时刻到了。
主教懂得，时间紧迫，他原是以神甫身份来到此地的，他从极端的冷淡一步步地进入了极端的冲动，他望着那双闭了的眼睛，他抓住那只枯皱冰冷的手，弯下腰去向那临终的人说：
“这个时刻是上帝的时刻了。如果我们只这样白白地聚首一场，您不觉得遗憾吗？”
国民公会代表重又张开眼睛。眉宇间呈现出一种严肃而阴郁的神情。
“主教先生，”他说，说得很慢，那不单是由于气力不济，还多半由于他心灵的高傲，“我在深思力学和观察当中度过了这一生。我六十岁的时候祖国号召我去管理国家事务。我服从了。当时有许多积弊，我进行了斗争；有暴政，我消除了暴政；有人权和法则，我都公布了，也进行了宣传。国土被侵犯，我保卫了国土：法兰西受到威胁，我献出我的热血。我从前并不阔气，现在也没有钱。我曾是政府领导人之一，当时在国库的地窖里堆满了现金，墙头受不住金银的压力，随时可以坍塌，以致非用支柱撑住不可，我却在枯树街吃二十二个苏一顿的饭。我帮助了受压迫的人，医治了人们的痛苦。我撕毁了祭坛上的布毯，那是真的，不过是为了裹祖国的创伤。我始终维护人类走向光明的步伐，有时也反抗过那种无情的进步。有机会，我也保护过我自己的对手，就是说，你们这些人。在佛兰德的比特罕地方，正在墨洛温王朝①夏宫的旧址上，有一座乌尔班派的寺院，就是波里尔的圣克雷修道院，那是我在一七九三年救出来的。我尽过我力所能及的职责，我行过我所能行的善事。此后我却被人驱逐，搜捕，通缉，迫害，诬蔑，讥诮，侮辱，诅骂，剥夺了公民权。多年以来，我白发苍苍，只觉得有许多人自以为有权轻视我，那些愚昧可怜的群众认为我面目可憎。我并不恨人，却乐于避开别人的恨。现在，我八十六岁了，快死了。您还来问我什么呢？”
“我来为您祝福。”主教说。 
①墨洛温（Mérovée），法国第一个王朝，从五世纪中叶到八世纪中叶。
他跪了下来。
等到主教抬起头来，那个国民公会代表已经神色森严，气绝了。
主教回到家中，深深沉浸在一种无可言喻的思绪里。他整整祈祷了一夜。第二天，几个胆大好奇的人，想方设法，要引他谈论那个G．代表，他却只指指天。从此，他对小孩和有痛苦的人倍加仁慈亲切。
任何言词，只要影射到“G．老贼”，他就必然会陷入一种异样不安的状态中。谁也不能说，那样一颗心在他自己的心前的昭示，那伟大的良心在他的意识上所起的反应，对他日趋完善的精神会毫无影响。
那次的“乡村访问”当然要替本地的那些小集团提供饶舌的机会：
“那种死人的病榻前也能成为主教涉足的地方吗？明明没有什么感化可以指望。那些革命党人全是屡背圣教的。那，又何必到那里去呢？那里有什么可看的呢？真是好奇，魔鬼接收灵魂，他也要去看看。”
一天，有个阔寡妇，也就是那些自作聪明的冒失鬼中的一个，问了他这样一句俏皮话：“我的主教，有人要打听，大人您在什么时候能得到一顶红帽子①。”
“呵！呵！多么高贵的颜色，”主教回答，“幸而鄙视红帽子的人也还崇拜红法冠呢。” 
①戴红帽子，即参加革命的意思。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 11 A Restriction
We should incur a great risk of deceiving ourselves, were we to conclude from this that Monseigneur Welcome was "a philosophical bishop," or a "patriotic cure." His meeting, which may almost be designated as his union, with conventionary G----, left behind it in his mind a sort of astonishment, which rendered him still more gentle. That is all.
Although Monseigneur Bienvenu was far from being a politician, this is, perhaps, the place to indicate very briefly what his attitude was in the events of that epoch, supposing that Monseigneur Bienvenu ever dreamed of having an attitude.
Let us, then, go back a few years.
Some time after the elevation of M. Myriel to the episcopate, the Emperor had made him a baron of the Empire, in company with many other bishops. The arrest of the Pope took place, as every one knows, on the night of the 5th to the 6th of July, 1809; on this occasion, M. Myriel was summoned by Napoleon to the synod of the bishops of France and Italy convened at Paris. This synod was held at Notre-Dame, and assembled for the first time on the 15th of June, 1811, under the presidency of Cardinal Fesch. M. Myriel was one of the ninety-five bishops who attended it. But he was present only at one sitting and at three or four private conferences. Bishopof a mountain diocese, living so very close to nature, in rusticity and deprivation, it appeared that he imported among these eminent personages, ideas which altered the temperature of the assembly. He very soon returned to D---- He was interrogated as to this speedy return, and he replied: "I embarrassed them. The outside air penetrated to them through me. I produced on them the effect of an open door."
On another occasion he said, "What would you have? Those gentlemen are princes. I am only a poor peasant bishop."
The fact is that he displeased them. Among other strange things, it is said that he chanced to remark one evening, when he found himself at the house of one of his most notable colleagues: "What beautiful clocks! What beautiful carpets! What beautiful liveries! They must be a great trouble. I would not have all those superfluities, crying incessantly in my ears: `There are people who are hungry! There are people who are cold! There are poor people! There are poor people!'"
Let us remark, by the way, that the hatred of luxury is not an intelligent hatred. This hatred would involve the hatred of the arts. Nevertheless, in churchmen, luxury is wrong, except in connection with representations and ceremonies. It seems to reveal habits which have very little that is charitable about them. An opulent priest is a contradiction. The priest must keepclose to the poor. Now, can one come in contact incessantly night and day with all this distress, all these misfortunes, and this poverty, without having about one's own person a little of that misery, like the dust of labor? Is it possible to imagine a man near a brazier who is not warm? Can one imagine a workman who is working near a furnace, and who has neither a singed hair, nor blackened nails, nor a dropof sweat, nor a speck of ashes on his face? The first proof of charity in the priest, in the bishopespecially, is poverty.
This is, no doubt, what the Bishopof D---- thought.
It must not be supposed, however, that he shared what we call the "ideas of the century" on certain delicate points. He took very little part in the theological quarrels of the moment, and maintained silence on questions in which Church and State were implicated; but if he had been strongly pressed, it seems that he would have been found to be an ultramontane rather than a gallican. Since we are making a portrait, and since we do not wish to conceal anything, we are forced to add that he was glacial towards Napoleon in his decline. Beginning with 1813, he gave in his adherence to or applauded all hostile manifestations. He refused to see him, as he passed through on his return from the island of Elba, and he abstained from ordering public prayers for the Emperor in his diocese during the Hundred Days.
Besides his sister, Mademoiselle Baptistine, he had two brothers, one a general, the other a prefect. He wrote to both with tolerable frequency. He was harsh for a time towards the former, because, holding a command in Provence at the epoch of the disembarkation at Cannes, the general had put himself at the head of twelve hundred men and had pursued the Emperor as though the latter had been a person whom one is desirous of allowing to escape. His correspondence with the other brother, the ex-prefect, a fine, worthy man who lived in retirement at Paris, Rue Cassette, remained more affectionate.
Thus Monseigneur Bienvenu also had his hour of party spirit, his hour of bitterness, his cloud. The shadow of the passions of the moment traversed this grand and gentle spirit occupied with eternal things. Certainly, such a man would have done well not to entertain any political opinions. Let there be no mistake as to our meaning: we are not confounding what is called "political opinions" with the grand aspiration for progress, with the sublime faith, patriotic, democratic, humane, which in our day should be the very foundation of every generous intellect. Without going deeply into questions which are only indirectly connected with the subject of this book, we will simply say this: It would have been well if Monseigneur Bienvenu had not been a Royalist, and if his glance had never been, for a single instant, turned away from that serene contemplation in which is distinctly discernible, above the fictions and the hatreds of this world, above the stormy vicissitudes of human things, the beaming of those three pure radiances, truth, justice, and charity.
While admitting that it was not for a political office that God created Monseigneur Welcome, we should have understood and admired his protest in the name of right and liberty, his proud opposition, his just but perilous resistance to the all-powerful Napoleon. But that which pleases us in people who are rising pleases us less in the case of people who are falling. We only love the fray so long as there is danger, and in any case, the combatants of the first hour have alone the right to be the exterminators of the last. He who has not been a stubborn accuser in prosperity should hold his peace in the face of ruin. The denunciator of success is the only legitimate executioner of the fall. As for us, when Providence intervenes and strikes, we let it work. 1812 commenced to disarm us. In 1813 the cowardly breach of silence of that taciturn legislative body, emboldened by catastrophe, possessed only traits which aroused indignation. And it was a crime to applaud, in 1814, in the presence of those marshals who betrayed; in the presence of that senate which passed from one dunghill to another, insulting after having deified; in the presence of that idolatry which was loosing its footing and spitting on its idol,-- it was a duty to turn aside the head. In 1815, when the supreme disasters filled the air, when France was seized with a shiver at their sinister approach, when Waterloo could be dimly discerned opening before Napoleon, the mournful acclamation of the army and the people to the condemned of destiny had nothing laughable in it, and, after making all allowance for the despot, a heart like that of the Bishopof D----, ought not perhaps to have failed to recognize the august and touching features presented by the embrace of a great nation and a great man on the brink of the abyss.
With this exception, he was in all things just, true, equitable, intelligent, humble and dignified, beneficent and kindly, which is only another sort of benevolence. He was a priest, a sage, and a man. It must be admitted, that even in the political views with which we have just reproached him, and which we are disposed to judge almost with severity, he was tolerant and easy, more so, perhaps, than we who are speaking here. The porter of the town-hall had been placed there by the Emperor. He was an old non-commissioned officer of the old guard, a member of the Legion of Honor at Austerlitz, as much of a Bonapartist as the eagle. This poor fellow occasionally let slipinconsiderate remarks, which the law then stigmatized as seditious speeches. After the imperial profile disappeared from the Legion of Honor, he never dressed himself in his regimentals, as he said, so that he should not be obliged to wear his cross. He had himself devoutly removed the imperial effigy from the cross which Napoleon had given him; this made a hole, and he would not put anything in its place. "I will die," he said, "rather than wear the three frogs upon my heart!" He liked to scoff aloud at Louis XVIII. "The gouty old creature in English gaiters!" he said; "let him take himself off to Prussia with that queue of his." He was happy to combine in the same imprecation the two things which he most detested, Prussia and England. He did it so often that he lost his place. There he was, turned out of the house, with his wife and children, and without bread. The Bishopsent for him, reproved him gently, and appointed him beadle in the cathedral.
In the course of nine years Monseigneur Bienvenu had, by dint of holy deeds and gentle manners, filled the town of D---- with a sort of tender and filial reverence. Even his conduct towards Napoleon had been accepted and tacitly pardoned, as it were, by the people, the good and weakly flock who adored their emperor, but loved their bishop.
如果我们就凭以上所述作出结论，认为卞福汝主教是个“有哲学头脑的主教”或是个“爱国的神甫”，我们就很可能发生错误。他和那国民公会G．代表的邂逅棗几乎可以说是他们的结合，只不过给他留下了一种使他变得更加温良的惊叹的回忆。如是而已。
卞福汝主教虽然是个政治中人，我们或许也还应当在这里极简略地谈谈他对当代的国家大事所抱的态度，假定卞福汝主教也曾想过要采取一种态度的话。
我们不妨把几年前的一些事回顾一下。
米里哀先生升任主教不久，皇上便封了他为帝国的男爵，同时也封了好几个旁的主教。我们知道，教皇是在一八○九年七月五日至六日的夜晚被拘禁的，为了这件事，米里哀先生被拿破仑召到巴黎去参加法兰西和意大利的主教会议。那次会议是在圣母院举行的，一八一一年六月十五日，在红衣主教斐许主持下，召开了第一次会议。九十五个主教参加了会议，米里哀先生是其中之一。但是他只参加过一次大会和三四次特别会。他是一个山区的主教，平时过着僻陋贫困的生活，和自然环境接近惯了，他觉得他替那些达官贵人带来了一种改变会场气氛的见解。他匆匆忙忙地回到迪涅去了。有人问他为什么回去得那样匆促，他回答：
“他们见了我不顺眼。外面的空气老跟着我钻到他们那里去。我在他们的眼里好象是一扇带不上的门。”
另外一次，他还说：
“有什么办法？那些先生们全是王子王孙。而我呢，只是一个干瘪瘪的乡下主教。”
他确是惹人嫌，不时作怪。有一晚，他在一个最有地位的同道家里，说出了这样的话，也许是脱口而出的：
“这许多漂亮的挂钟！这许多漂亮的地毯！这许多漂亮的服装！这些东西好不麻烦！我真不愿意听这些累赘的东西时常在我的耳边喊‘许多人在挨饿呢！许多人在挨冻呢！穷人多着呢！穷人多着呢！’”
我们顺便谈谈，对华贵物品的仇恨也许是不聪明的，因为这种仇恨隐藏着对艺术的敌意。不过，就教会中人来说，除了表示身份和举行仪式而外，使用华贵物品是错误的。那些东西仿佛可以揭露那种并非真心真意解囊济困的作风。教士养尊处优，就是离经叛道。教士应当接近穷人。一个人既然日日夜夜和一切灾难、苦痛、贫困相接触，难道在他自己身上竟能不象在劳动中沾上一些尘土那样，一点也不带那种圣洁的清寒味吗？我们能想象一个人站在烈火旁而不感到热吗？我们能想象一个工人经常在溶炉旁工作，而能没有一根头发被烧掉，没有一个手指被熏黑，脸上没有一滴汗珠，也没有一点灰屑吗？教士，尤其是主教，他的仁慈的最起码的保证，便是清苦。
这一定就是迪涅主教先生的见解了。
我们还不应当认为他在某些棘手问题上肯迎合那种所谓的“时代的思潮”。他很少参加当时的神学争辩，对政教的纠纷问题，他也不表示意见；但是，如果有人向他紧紧追问，他就仿佛是偏向罗马派方面而并不属于法国派①。我们既然是在描写一个人，并且不愿有所隐讳，我们就必须补充说明他对那位气焰渐衰的拿破仑，可以说是冷若冰霜的。一八一三年②以后，他曾经参与，或鼓掌赞同过各种反抗活动。拿破仑从厄尔巴岛③回来时，他拒绝到路旁去欢迎他，在“百日帝政”④期间，也不曾替皇上布置公祭。除了他的妹子巴狄斯丁姑娘以外，他还有两个亲兄弟，一个当过将军，一个当过省长。他和他们通信，相当频繁。有个时期，他对第一个兄弟颇为冷淡，因为那个兄弟原来镇守普罗旺斯⑤。戛纳登陆时那位将军统率一千二百人去截击皇上，却又有意放他走过。另外那个兄弟，当过省长，为人忠厚自持，隐居在巴黎卡塞特街，他给这个兄弟的信就比较富于手足之情。 
①从一六八二年起，法国天主教以国内教士代表会议为处理宗教事务的最高权力机关，不完全接受罗马教皇的命令，是为法国派（gallican），主张完全依附教皇的称罗马派（ultramontain）。直到一八七○年，法国天主教始完全依附于罗马教皇。
②一八一三年，拿破仑政权已濒于危殆，英、俄等七国联军节节进逼，国内工商业发生危机，由于缺乏劳动力，又因增加税收，大量征兵，资产阶级开始离贰，人民纷纷逃避兵役，老贵族也乘机阴谋恢复旧王朝。③拿破仑在一八一四年四月六日被迫逊位后，即被送往厄尔巴岛。王朝复辟，执行反动政策，人民普遍不满。拿破仑乘机于一八一五年三月一日在南方港口茹安（在戛纳附近）登陆，重返巴黎。
④拿破仑三月一日在茹安登陆，六月二十二日第二次逊位，那一时期叫“百日帝政”。
⑤普罗旺斯（Provence），法国南部一省。
足见卞福汝主教也偶尔有过他的政见、他的苦闷、他的隐情。当年的爱憎的暗影也曾穿过他那颗温和宽厚、追求永恒事物的心。当然，象他那样的人最好是没有政治见解。请不要把我们的意思歪曲了，我们所说的“政治见解”并不是指那种对进步所抱的热望，也不是指我们今天构成各方面真诚团结的内在力量的那种卓越的爱国主义、民主主义和人道主义思想，彼此不可相混。我们不必深究那些只间接涉及本书内容的问题，我们只简单地说，假使卞福汝不是保王党，假使他的目光从来一刻也不曾离开过他那种宁静的景仰，并且能超然于人世的风云变幻之外，能在景仰中看清真理、公正、慈善等三道纯洁光辉的放射，那就更美满了。
我们尽管承认上帝之所以创造卞福汝主教，绝不是为了一种政治作用，也仍然可以了解和钦佩他为人权和自由所提出的抗议，也就是他对那位不可一世的拿破仑所抱的高傲的对立态度和公正而危险的抗拒行为。但是藐视一个失势的人究竟不如藐视一个得势的人那样足快人意。我们只爱具有危险的斗争，在任何情况下，只有最初参加斗争的战士才有最后歼灭敌人的权利。谁没有在全盛时期提出过顽强的抗议，等到垮台时，谁就不该有发言权。只有控诉过胜利的人才有权裁判失败。至于我们，在上天不佑、降以大祸时，我们只能听其自然。一八一二年开始解除我们的武装。一八一三年，那个素来默不作声的立法机构，在国难临头时居然勇气百倍，大放厥词，这样只能令人齿冷，何足鼓掌称快？一八一四年，元帅们出卖祖国，上院从一个污池进入另一污池，始则尊为神人，继乃横加侮渎，从来崇拜偶像，忽又中途变节，反唾其面，这些事理应引起我们的反感；一八一五年，最后的灾难步步进逼了，法兰西因大祸临头而危险了，滑铁卢好象也展开在拿破仑跟前隐约可辨了；那时，军士和人民对那个祚运已尽的人的壮烈欢呼绝没有什么令人发叹的，并且，先不论那个专制魔王是个怎样的人，当此千钧一发之际，这伟大的民族和这伟大的人杰间的紧密团结总是庄严动人的，象迪涅主教那样一个人的心，似乎不应当熟视无睹。
除此以外，无论对什么事，他从来总是正直、诚实、公平、聪明、谦虚、持重的，好行善事，关心别人，这也是一种品德。他是一个神甫，一个贤达之士，也是一个大丈夫。他的政治见解，我们刚才已经批评过了，我们也几乎还可以严厉地指责他，可是应当指出，他尽管抱有那种见解，和我们这些现在在此地谈话的人比较起来，也许还更加厚道，更加平易近人一些。市政府的那个门房，当初是皇上安插在那里的。他原是旧羽林军里的一名下级军官，奥斯特里茨①战役勋章的获得者，一个象鹰那样精悍的拿破仑信徒。那个倒霉鬼会时常于无意中吐出一些牢骚话，那是被当时法律认为“叛逆言论”的。自从勋章上的皇帝侧面像被取消以后，为了避免佩带他那十字勋章，他的衣着就从来不再“遵照规定”（照他的说法）。他亲自把皇上的御影从拿破仑给他的那个十字勋章上虔诚地摘下来，那样就留下了一个窟窿，他却绝不愿代以其他的饰物。他常说：“我宁死也不愿在我的胸前挂上三个癞虾蟆！”他故意大声挖苦路易十八②。他又常说：“扎英国绑腿的烂脚鬼！快带着他的辫子到普鲁士去吧！”他以能那样把他最恨的两件东西，普鲁士和英格兰，连缀在一句骂人的话里而感到得意。他骂得太起劲了，以致丢了差事。他带着妻子儿女，无衣无食，流浪街头。主教却把他招来，轻轻责备了几句，派他去充当天主堂里的持戟士。 
①奥斯特里茨（Austerlitz），在捷克境内，一八○五年，拿破仑在此战胜奥俄联军。
②路易十八是路易十六的兄弟，拿破仑失败后，他在英普联军护送下回到巴黎，恢复了波旁王室的统治。
米里哀先生在他的教区里是一个名副其实的神甫，是大众的朋友。
九年以来，由于他行为圣洁，作风和蔼，卞福汝主教使迪涅城里充满一种柔顺的推崇。连他对拿破仑的态度也被人民接受，默宥了，人民原是一群善良柔弱的牛羊，他们崇拜他们的皇上，也爱戴他们的主教。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 12 The Solitude of Monseigneur Welcome 
A bishop is almost always surrounded by a full squadron of little abbes, just as a general is by a covey of young officers. This is what that charming Saint Francois de Sales calls somewhere "les pretres blancs-becs," callow priests. Every career has its aspirants, who form a train for those who have attained eminence in it. There is no power which has not its dependents. There is no fortune which has not its court. The seekers of the future eddy around the splendid present. Every metropolis has its staff of officials. Every bishop who possesses the least influence has about him his patrol of cherubim from the seminary, which goes the round, and maintains good order in the episcopal palace, and mounts guard over monseigneur's smile. To please a bishop is equivalent to getting one's foot in the stirrup for a sub-diaconate. It is necessary to walk one's path discreetly; the apostleship does not disdain the canonship.
Just as there are bigwigs elsewhere, there are big mitres in the Church. These are the bishops who stand well at Court, who are rich, well endowed, skilful, accepted by the world, who know how to pray, no doubt, but who know also how to beg, who feel little scruple at making a whole diocese dance attendance in their person, who are connecting links between the sacristy and diplomacy, who are abbes rather than priests, prelates rather than bishops. Happy those who approach them! Being persons of influence, they create a shower about them, upon the assiduous and the favored, and upon all the young men who understand the art of pleasing, of large parishes, prebends, archidiaconates, chaplaincies, and cathedral posts, while awaiting episcopal honors. As they advance themselves, they cause their satellites to progress also; it is a whole solar system on the march. Their radiance casts a gleam of purple over their suite. Their prosperity is crumbled up behind the scenes, into nice little promotions. The larger the diocese of the patron, the fatter the curacy for the favorite. And then, there is Rome. A bishop who understands how to become an archbishop, an archbishop who knows how to become a cardinal, carries you with him as conclavist; you enter a court of papal jurisdiction, you receive the pallium, and behold! you are an auditor, then a papal chamberlain, then monsignor, and from a Grace to an Eminence is only a step, and between the Eminence and the Holiness there is but the smoke of a ballot. Every skull-cap may dream of the tiara. The priest is nowadays the only man who can become a king in a regular manner; and what a king! the supreme king. Then what a nursery of aspirations is a seminary! How many blushing choristers, how many youthful abbes bear on their heads Perrette's pot of milk! Who knows how easy it is for ambition to call itself vocation? in good faith, perchance, and deceiving itself, devotee that it is.
Monseigneur Bienvenu, poor, humble, retiring, was not accounted among the big mitres. This was plain from the complete absence of young priests about him. We have seen that he "did not take" in Paris. Not a single future dreamed of engrafting itself on this solitary old man. Not a single sprouting ambition committed the folly of putting forth its foliage in his shadow. His canons and grand-vicars were good old men, rather vulgar like himself, walled up like him in this diocese, without exit to a cardinalship, and who resembled their bishop, with this difference, that they were finished and he was completed. The impossibility of growing great under Monseigneur Bienvenu was so well understood, that no sooner had the young men whom he ordained left the seminary than they got themselves recommended to the archbishops of Aix or of Auch, and went off in a great hurry. For, in short, we repeat it, men wish to be pushed. A saint who dwells in a paroxysm of abnegation is a dangerous neighbor; he might communicate to you, by contagion, an incurable poverty, an anchylosis of the joints, which are useful in advancement, and in short, more renunciation than you desire; and this infectious virtue is avoided. Hence the isolation of Monseigneur Bienvenu. We live in the midst of a gloomy society. Success; that is the lesson which falls drop by drop from the slope of corruption.
Be it said in passing, that success is a very hideous thing. Its false resemblance to merit deceives men. For the masses, success has almost the same profile as supremacy. Success, that Menaechmus of talent, has one dupe,--history. Juvenal and Tacitus alone grumble at it. In our day, a philosophy which is almost official has entered into its service, wears the livery of success, and performs the service of its antechamber. Succeed: theory. Prosperity argues capacity. Win in the lottery, and behold! you are a clever man. He who triumphs is venerated. Be born with a silver spoon in your mouth! everything lies in that. Be lucky, and you will have all the rest; be happy, and people will think you great. Outside of five or six immense exceptions, which compose the splendor of a century, contemporary admiration is nothing but short-sightedness. Gilding is gold. It does no harm to be the first arrival by pure chance, so long as you do arrive. The common herd is an old Narcissus who adores himself, and who applauds the vulgar herd. That enormous ability by virtue of which one is Moses, Aeschylus, Dante, Michael Angelo, or Napoleon, the multitude awards on the spot, and by acclamation, to whomsoever attains his object, in whatsoever it may consist. Let a notary transfigure himself into a deputy: let a false Corneille compose Tiridate; let a eunuch come to possess a harem; let a military Prudhomme accidentally win the decisive battle of an epoch; let an apothecary invent cardboard shoe-soles for the army of the Sambre-and-Meuse, and construct for himself, out of this cardboard, sold as leather, four hundred thousand francs of income; let a pork-packer espouse usury, and cause it to bring forth seven or eight millions, of which he is the father and of which it is the mother; let a preacher become a bishop by force of his nasal drawl; let the steward of a fine family be so rich on retiring from service that he is made minister of finances,--and men call that Genius, just as they call the face of Mousqueton Beauty, and the mien of Claude Majesty. With the constellations of space they confound the stars of the abyss which are made in the soft mire of the puddle by the feet of ducks.
在将军的周围，常有成群的青年军官，在主教的周围，几乎也常有成批的小教士。这种人正是可爱的圣方济各·撒肋①在某处所说的那些“白口教士”。任何事业都有追求的人，追随着此中的成功者。世间没有一种无喽罗的势力，也没有一种无臣仆的尊荣。指望前程远大的人都围绕着目前的显贵奔走钻营。每个主教衙门都有它的幕僚。每个稍有势力的主教都有他那群天使般的小修士在主教院里巡逻，照顾，守卫，以图博取主教大人的欢心。获得主教的赏识，也就等于福星高照，有充当五品修士的希望了。求上进是人情之常，上帝的宗徒是不会亏待他的下属的。 
①方济各·撒肋（FrancoisdeSales，1567?622），日内瓦主教，能文，重振天主教势力。
在别处有高大的帽子，教堂里也同样有嵬峨的法冠。这种人也就是那些主教，他们有势，有钱，坐收年息，手腕灵活，受到上层社会宠信，善于求人，当然也善于使人，他们指使整个主教区的教民亲自登门拜谒，他们充当教会与外交界之间的桥梁，他们足为教士而不足为神甫，足为教廷执事而不足为主教。接近他们的人都皆大欢喜！那些地位优越的人，他们把肥的教区、在家修行人的赡养费、教区督察官职位、随军教士职位、天主堂里的差事，雨一般的撒在他们周围的那些殷勤献媚，博得他们欢心，长于讨好他们的青年们的头上，以待将来再加上主教的尊贵。他们自己高升，同时也带着卫星前进；那是在行进中的整个太阳系。他们的光辉把追随着他们的人都照得发紫。他们一人得志，众人都荫余福高升。老板的教区越广，宠幸的地盘也越大，并且还有罗马在。由主教而总主教而红衣主教的人可以提拔你为红衣主教的随员，你进入宗教裁判所，你会得到绣黑十字的白呢飘带，你就做起陪审官来了，再进而为内廷机要秘书，再进而为主教，并且只须再走一步就由主教升为红衣主教了，红衣主教与教皇之间也不过只有一番选举的虚文。凡是头戴教士小帽的人都可以梦想教皇的三重冕。神甫是今天唯一能按部就班升上王位的人，并且那是何等的王位！至高无上的王位。同时，教士培养所又是怎样一种培植野心的温床！多少腼腆的唱诗童子，多少年轻的教士都顶上了贝莱特①的奶罐！包藏野心的人自吹能虔诚奉教，自以为那是轻而易举的事，也许他确有那样一片诚心，谁知道？沉迷久了，自己也就有些莫名其妙。 
①拉封丹（LaFontaine）的寓言谈到一个送奶的姑娘，叫贝莱特，她头上顶一罐奶进城，一路梦想把奶卖了，可以买一百个鸡蛋，孵出小鸡养大，卖了买猪，猪卖了又买牛，牛生了小牛，她看见小牛在草地上跳，乐到自己也跳起来，把奶罐翻在地上，结果是一场空。
卞福汝主教谦卑、清寒、淡泊，没有被人列入那些高贵的主教里面。那可以从在他左右完全没有青年教士这一点上看出来。我们已经知道，他在巴黎“毫无成就”。没有一个后生愿把自己的前程托付给那样一个孤独老人。没有一株有野心的嫩苗起过想在他的庇荫了发绿的傻念头。他的那些教士和助理主教全是一些安分守己的老头儿，和他一样的一些老百姓，和他一同株守在那个没有福气产生红衣主教的教区里，他们就象他们的那位主教，不同的地方只是：他们是完了事的，而他是成了事的。大家都觉得在卞福汝主教跟前没有发迹的可能，以致那些刚从教士培养所里出来的青年人，经他任为神甫之后，便都转向艾克斯总主教或欧什总主教那里去活动，赶忙离开了他。因为，我们再说一次，凡人都愿意有人提拔。一个过于克己的圣人便是一个可以误事的伙伴，他可以连累你陷入一条无可救药的绝路，害你关节僵硬，行动不得，总之，他会要你躬行实践你不愿接受的那种谦让之道。因此大家都逃避那种癞疥似的德行。这也就是卞福汝主教门庭冷落的原因。我们生活在阴暗的社会里，向上爬，正是一种由上而下的慢性腐蚀教育。
顺便谈一句，成功是一件相当丑恶的事。它貌似真才实学，而实际是以伪乱真。一般人常以为成功和优越性几乎是同一回事。成功是才能的假相，受它愚弄的是历史。只有尤维纳利斯①和塔西佗②在这方面表示过愤慨。在我们这时代有种几乎被人公认为哲学正宗的理论，它成了成功的仆从，它标榜成功，并不惜为成功操贱役。你设法成功吧，这就是原理。富贵就等于才能。中得头彩，你便是一个出色的人才。谁得势，谁就受人尊崇。只要你的八字好，一切都大有可为。只要你有好运气，其余的东西也就全在你的掌握中了。只要你能事事如意，大家便认为你伟大。除了五六个震动整个世纪的突出的例外以外，我们这时代的推崇全是近视的。金漆就是真金。阿猫阿狗，全无关系，关键只在成功。世间俗物，就象那顾影自怜的老水仙③一样，很能赞赏俗物。任何人在任何方面，只要达到目的，众人便齐声喝彩，夸为奇才异能，说他比得上摩西、埃斯库罗斯④、但丁、米开朗琪罗或拿破仑。无论是一个书吏当了议员，一个假高乃依⑤写了一本《第利达特》⑥，一个太监乱了宫闱，一个披着军服的纸老虎侥幸地打了一次划时代的胜仗，一个药剂师发明了纸鞋底冒充皮革，供给桑布尔和默兹军区而获得四十万利弗的年息，一个百货贩子盘剥厚利，攒聚了七八百万不义之财，一个宣道士因说话带浓重鼻音而当上了主教，一个望族的管家在告退时成了巨富，因而被擢用为财政大臣，凡此种种，人们都称为天才，正如他们以穆司克东⑦的嘴脸为美，以克劳狄乌斯⑧的派头为仪表一样。他们把穹苍中的星光和鸭掌在烂泥里踏出的迹印混为一谈。 
①尤维纳利斯（Juvénal），一世纪罗马诗人。
②塔西佗（Tacite），一世纪罗马历史学家。
③据神话，水仙在水边望见自己的影子，一往情深，投入水中，化为水仙花。
④埃斯库罗斯（Eschyle），古希腊悲剧家。
⑤高乃依（Corneille），法国十七世纪古典悲剧作家。
⑥第利达特（Tiridate），一世纪亚美尼亚国王。
⑦穆司克东（Mousqueton），大仲马小说《二十年后》中人物，是个贪吃懒动，红光满面的仆人。
⑧克劳狄乌斯（Claude），罗马政治活动家，恺撒的拥护者，前五八年为人民护民官。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 13 What he believed 
We are not obliged to sound the Bishop of D---- on the score of orthodoxy. In the presence of such a soul we feel ourselves in no mood but respect. The conscience of the just man should be accepted on his word. Moreover, certain natures being given, we admit the possible development of all beauties of human virtue in a belief that differs from our own. 
What did he think of this dogma, or of that mystery? These secrets of the inner tribunal of the conscience are known only to the tomb, where souls enter naked. The point on which we are certain is, that the difficulties of faith never resolved themselves into hypocrisy in his case. No decay is possible to the diamond. He believed to the extent of his powers. "Credo in Patrem," he often exclaimed. Moreover, he drew from good works that amount of satisfaction which suffices to the conscience, and which whispers to a man, "Thou art with God!" 
The point which we consider it our duty to note is, that outside of and beyond his faith, as it were, the Bishop possessed an excess of love. In was in that quarter, quia multum amavit,--because he loved much--that he was regarded as vulnerable by "serious men," "grave persons" and "reasonable people"; favorite locutions of our sad world where egotism takes its word of command from pedantry. What was this excess of love? It was a serene benevolence which overflowed men, as we have already pointed out, and which, on occasion, extended even to things. He lived without disdain. He was indulgent towards God's creation. Every man, even the best, has within him a thoughtless harshness which he reserves for animals. The Bishop of D---- had none of that harshness, which is peculiar to many priests, nevertheless. He did not go as far as the Brahmin, but he seemed to have weighed this saying of Ecclesiastes: "Who knoweth whither the soul of the animal goeth?" Hideousness of aspect, deformity of instinct, troubled him not, and did not arouse his indignation. He was touched, almost softened by them. It seemed as though he went thoughtfully away to seek beyond the bounds of life which is apparent, the cause, the explanation, or the excuse for them. He seemed at times to be asking God to commute these penalties. He examined without wrath, and with the eye of a linguist who is deciphering a palimpsest, that portion of chaos which still exists in nature. This revery sometimes caused him to utter odd sayings. One morning he was in his garden, and thought himself alone, but his sister was walking behind him, unseen by him: suddenly he paused and gazed at something on the ground; it was a large, black, hairy, frightful spider. His sister heard him say:-- 
"Poor beast! It is not its fault!" 
Why not mention these almost divinely childish sayings of kindness? Puerile they may be; but these sublime puerilities were peculiar to Saint Francis d'Assisi and of Marcus Aurelius. One day he sprained his ankle in his effort to avoid stepping on an ant. Thus lived this just man. Sometimes he fell asleep in his garden, and then there was nothing more venerable possible. 
Monseigneur Bienvenu had formerly been, if the stories anent his youth, and even in regard to his manhood, were to be believed, a passionate, and, possibly, a violent man. His universal suavity was less an instinct of nature than the result of a grand conviction which had filtered into his heart through the medium of life, and had trickled there slowly, thought by thought; for, in a character, as in a rock, there may exist apertures made by drops of water. These hollows are uneffaceable; these formations are indestructible. 
In 1815, as we think we have already said, he reached his seventy-fifth birthday, but he did not appear to be more than sixty. He was not tall; he was rather plump; and, in order to combat this tendency, he was fond of taking long strolls on foot; his step was firm, and his form was but slightly bent, a detail from which we do not pretend to draw any conclusion. Gregory XVI., at the age of eighty, held himself erect and smiling, which did not prevent him from being a bad bishop. Monseigneur Welcome had what the people term a "fine head," but so amiable was he that they forgot that it was fine. 
When he conversed with that infantile gayety which was one of his charms, and of which we have already spoken, people felt at their ease with him, and joy seemed to radiate from his whole person. His fresh and ruddy complexion, his very white teeth, all of which he had preserved, and which were displayed by his smile, gave him that open and easy air which cause the remark to be made of a man, "He's a good fellow"; and of an old man, "He is a fine man." That, it will be recalled, was the effect which he produced upon Napoleon. On the first encounter, and to one who saw him for the first time, he was nothing, in fact, but a fine man. But if one remained near him for a few hours, and beheld him in the least degree pensive, the fine man became gradually transfigured, and took on some imposing quality, I know not what; his broad and serious brow, rendered august by his white locks, became august also by virtue of meditation; majesty radiated from his goodness, though his goodness ceased not to be radiant; one experienced something of the emotion which one would feel on beholding a smiling angel slowly unfold his wings, without ceasing to smile. Respect, an unutterable respect, penetrated you by degrees and mounted to your heart, and one felt that one had before him one of those strong, thoroughly tried, and indulgent souls where thought is so grand that it can no longer be anything but gentle. 
As we have seen, prayer, the celebration of the offices of religion, alms-giving, the consolation of the afflicted, the cultivation of a bit of land, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, renunciation, confidence, study, work, filled every day of his life. Filled is exactly the word; certainly the Bishop's day was quite full to the brim, of good words and good deeds. Nevertheless, it was not complete if cold or rainy weather prevented his passing an hour or two in his garden before going to bed, and after the two women had retired. It seemed to be a sort of rite with him, to prepare himself for slumber by meditation in the presence of the grand spectacles of the nocturnal heavens. Sometimes, if the two old women were not asleep, they heard him pacing slowly along the walks at a very advanced hour of the night. He was there alone, communing with himself, peaceful, adoring, comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the ether, moved amid the darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the invisible splendor of God, opening his heart to the thoughts which fall from the Unknown. At such moments, while he offered his heart at the hour when nocturnal flowers offer their perfume, illuminated like a lamp amid the starry night, as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the midst of the universal radiance of creation, he could not have told himself, probably, what was passing in his spirit; he felt something take its flight from him, and something descend into him. Mysterious exchange of the abysses of the soul with the abysses of the universe! 
He thought of the grandeur and presence of God; of the future eternity, that strange mystery; of the eternity past, a mystery still more strange; of all the infinities, which pierced their way into all his senses, beneath his eyes; and, without seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible, he gazed upon it. He did not study God; he was dazzled by him. He considered those magnificent conjunctions of atoms, which communicate aspects to matter, reveal forces by verifying them, create individualities in unity, proportions in extent, the innumerable in the infinite, and, through light, produce beauty. These conjunctions are formed and dissolved incessantly; hence life and death. 
He seated himself on a wooden bench, with his back against a decrepit vine; he gazed at the stars, past the puny and stunted silhouettes of his fruit-trees. This quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, so encumbered with mean buildings and sheds, was dear to him, and satisfied his wants. 
What more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure of his life, where there was so little leisure, between gardening in the daytime and contemplation at night? Was not this narrow enclosure, with the heavens for a ceiling, sufficient to enable him to adore God in his most divine works, in turn? Does not this comprehend all, in fact? and what is there left to desire beyond it? A little garden in which to walk, and immensity in which to dream. At one's feet that which can be cultivated and plucked; over head that which one can study and meditate upon: some flowers on earth, and all the stars in the sky.
在宗教的真谛问题上，我们对迪涅的主教先生不能作任何窥测。面对着象他那样一颗心，我们只能有敬佩的心情。我们应当完全信服一个心地正直的人。并且，我们认为，在具备了某些品质的情况下，人的品德的各种美都是可以在和我们不同的信仰中得到发展的。
他对这样一种教义或那样一种神秘究竟作何理解呢？那些隐在心灵深处的秘密，只有那迎接赤裸裸的灵魂的坟墓才能知道。不过有一点我们可以肯定，那就是，在解决信仰方面的困难问题时，他从来不采取口是心非的虚伪态度。金刚石是决不至于腐烂的。他尽他力所能及，竭诚信仰。“信天父。”①他常说。此外，他还在行善中希求一定程度的、无愧于良心也无愧于上帝的满足。
我们认为应当指出的是，主教在他的信心之外（不妨这样说）和这信心之上，还存在着一种过分的仁爱。正是在那上面，“由于多爱”②，他才被那些“端庄”、“严肃”和“通达”的人认为是有缺点的；“端庄”、“严肃”、“通达”这些字眼也正是我们这个凄惨世界里那些全凭贬抑别人来夸耀自己的人所喜闻乐见的。他那种过分的仁爱是什么？是一种冷静的对人关切的心，他关心众人，正如我们指出过的已经无微不至，有时还关心到其他的生物。他一生不曾有过奚落人的心。他对上帝的创造从不苛求。任何人，即使是最善良的人，对待动物，无意中总还保留一种暴戾之气。许多神甫都具有这种暴戾之气，而迪涅的这位主教却一点也没有。他虽然还没有达到婆罗门教的境界，但对圣书中“谁知道动物的灵魂归宿何处？”这一句话，似乎作过深长的思索。外形的丑陋和本性的怪异都不能惊动他，触犯他。他却反而会受到感动，几乎起爱怜的心。他聚精会神，仿佛要在生命的表相之外追究出其所以然的根源、理由或苦衷。有时他好象还恳求上帝加以改造。他用语言学家考证古人遗墨的眼光，平心静气地观察自然界中迄今还存在着的多种多样的混乱现象。那种遐想有时会使他说出一些怪话。一天早晨，他正在园里，他以为身边没有人，其实他的妹子在他后面跟着走，他没有瞧见，忽然，他停下来，望着地上的一件东西，一只黑色、毛茸茸、怪可怕的大蜘蛛。他妹子听见他说：
“可怜虫！这不是它的过错。” 
①“信天父”，原文为拉丁文CredoinPatrem。
②“由于多爱”，原文为拉丁文quiamultumamavit。
那种出自菩萨心肠的孩儿话，为什么不可以说呢？当然那是一种稚气，但是这种绝妙的稚气也正是阿西西的圣方济各①和马可·奥里略②有过的。一天，他为了不肯踏死一只蚂蚁，竟扭伤了筋骨。 
①圣方济各（FrancoisdAAssise，1181?226），一译“法兰西斯”，方济各会创始人，生于意大利阿西西。一二○九年成立“方济各托钵修会”，修士自称“小兄弟”，故又名“小兄弟会”。
②马可·奥里略（MarcAurèle，121?80），罗马皇帝，斯多葛派哲学家。
这个正直的人便是这样过活的。有时他睡在自己的园里，那真是一种最能令人向往的事。
据传说，卞福汝主教从前在青年时期，甚至在壮年时期，都曾是一个热情的人，也许还是一个粗暴的人。他后来的那种溥及一切的仁慈，与其说是天赋的本性，不如说是他在生活过程中一步步逐渐达到大彻大悟的结果，因为，人心和岩石一样，也可以有被水滴穿的孔。那些空隙是不会消失的，那些成绩是毁灭不了的。
在一八一五年，我们好象已经说过，他已到了七十五岁，但是看去好象还没有过六十。他的身材是矮矮胖胖的，为了避免肥满，他常喜欢作长距离的步行；他腿力仍健，背稍微伛一点，这些全是不重要的事，我们不打算在这上面作什么结论。格列高利十六①到了八十岁还是身躯挺直、笑容满面的，但他仍是一个坏主教。卞福汝主教的相貌正象老乡们所说的那种“美男子”，但他的和蔼性格已使人忘了他面貌的美。 
①格列高利十六（GrégoireXVI，1765?846），一八三一年至一八四六年为罗马教皇。
他在谈话中不时嬉笑，有些孩子气，那也是他的风采之一。这我们已经说过了，我们和他接近就会感到身心怡畅，好象他的谈笑会带来满座春风。他的肤色红润，他保全了一嘴洁白的牙齿，笑时露出来，给他添上一种坦率和平易近人的神气，那种神气可以使一个壮年人被人称为“好孩子”，也可以使一个老年人被人称为“好汉子”。我们记得，他当年给拿破仑的印象正是这样的。乍一看来，他在初次和他见面的人的心目中，确也只不过是一个好汉子。但是如果我们和他接触了几小时，只须稍稍望见他运用心思，那个好汉子便慢慢变了样，会令人莫名其妙地肃然生畏；他那广而庄重、原就在白发下显得尊严的前额，也因潜心思考而倍加尊严了；威神出自慈祥，而慈祥之气仍不停散布；我们受到的感动，正如看见一个笑容可掬的天使在缓缓展开他的翅膀，一面仍不停地露着笑容。一种敬意，一种无可言喻的敬意会油然而生，直入你的胸臆，于是我们感到在我们面前的确是一位坚定、饱经世故的仁厚长者，他的胸襟既那么开朗，那他的思想也就必然温柔敦厚的了。
我们已经见过，他一生中每一天的时刻都是被祈祷、上祭、布施、安慰伤心人、种一小块园地、实行仁爱、节食、招待过路客人、克己、信人、学习、劳动这些事充满了的。“充满”这两个字是恰当的，并且主教过的这种日子又一定洋溢着善良的思想、善良的言语和善良的行为，直到完善的境界。但是，到了晚上，当那两个妇女已经退去休息时，如果天冷，或是下雨，使他不能到园里去待上一两个钟点再去就寝的话，他那一天也还是过得不满足的。面对着太虚中寥廓的夜景，缪然默念，以待瞌睡，在他，这好象已是一种仪轨了。有时，夜深人静以后，那两个老妇人如果还没有睡着，她们常听见他在那几条小道上缓步徘徊。他在那里，独自一人，虔诚，恬静，爱慕一切，拿自己心中的谧静去比拟太空的谧静，从黑暗中去感受星斗的有形的美和上帝的无形的美。那时，夜花正献出它们的香气，他也献出了他的心，他的心正象一盏明灯，点在繁星闪闪的中央，景仰赞叹，飘游在造物的无边无际的光辉里。他自己也许说不出萦绕在他心中的究竟是什么，他只感到有东西从他体中飞散出去，也有东西降落回来。心灵的幽奥和宇宙的幽奥的神秘的交往！
他想到上帝的伟大，也想到上帝和他同在；想到绵绵无尽的将来是一种深不可测的神秘，无可穷竟的往古，更是神秘渺茫；想到宇宙在他的眼底朝着各个方面无止境地扩展延伸；他不强求了解这种无法了解的现象，但是他凝神注视着一切。他不研究上帝，他为之心旷神怡。他涉想到原子的奇妙结合能使物质具有形象，能在组合时发生力量，在整体中创造出个体，在空间创造出广度和长度，在无极中创造出无量数，并能通过光线显示美。那样的结合，生生灭灭，了无尽期，因而有生死。
他坐在一条木凳上，靠着一个朽了的葡萄架，穿过那些果树的瘦弱蜷屈的暗影，仰望群星。在那四分之一亩的地方，树木既种得那样少，残棚破屋又那么挤，但是他留恋它，心里也知足。
这个老人一生的空闲时间既那么少，那一点空闲时间在白天又已被园艺占去，在晚上也已用在沉思冥想，他还有什么希求呢？那一小块园地，上有天空，不是已足供他用来反复景仰上帝的最美妙的工作和最卓绝的工作吗？的确，难道那样不已经十全十美，还有什么可奢求的呢？一院小小的园地供他盘桓，一片浩阔的天空供他神游。脚下有东西供他培植收获，头上有东西供他探讨思索，地下的是几朵花，天上的是万点星。
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 14 What he thought
One last word.
Since this sort of details might, particularly at the present moment, and to use an expression now in fashion, give to the Bishop of D---- a certain "pantheistical" physiognomy, and induce the belief, either to his credit or discredit, that he entertained one of those personal philosophies which are peculiar to our century, which sometimes spring up in solitary spirits, and there take on a form and grow until they usurp the place of religion, we insist upon it, that not one of those persons who knew Monseigneur Welcome would have thought himself authorized to think anything of the sort. That which enlightened this man was his heart. His wisdom was made of the light which comes from there.
No systems; many works. Abstruse speculations contain vertigo; no, there is nothing to indicate that he risked his mind in apocalypses. The apostle may be daring, but the bishop must be timid. He would probably have felt a scruple at sounding too far in advance certain problems which are, in a manner, reserved for terrible great minds. There is a sacred horror beneath the porches of the enigma; those gloomy openings stand yawning there, but something tells you, you, a passer-by in life, that you must not enter. Woe to him who penetrates thither!
Geniuses in the impenetrable depths of abstraction and pure speculation, situated, so to speak, above all dogmas, propose their ideas to God. Their prayer audaciously offers discussion. Their adoration interrogates. This is direct religion, which is full of anxiety and responsibility for him who attempts its steep cliffs.
Human meditation has no limits. At his own risk and peril, it analyzes and digs deep into its own bedazzlement. One might almost say, that by a sort of splendid reaction, it with it dazzles nature; the mysterious world which surrounds us renders back what it has received; it is probable that the contemplators are contemplated.
However that may be, there are on earth men who--are they men?-- perceive distinctly at the verge of the horizons of revery the heights of the absolute, and who have the terrible vision of the infinite mountain. Monseigneur Welcome was one of these men; Monseigneur Welcome was not a genius. He would have feared those sublimities whence some very great men even, like Swedenborg and Pascal, have slipped into insanity. Certainly, these powerful reveries have their moral utility, and by these arduous paths one approaches to ideal perfection. As for him, he took the path which shortens,-- the Gospel's.
He did not attempt to impart to his chasuble the folds of Elijah's mantle; he projected no ray of future upon the dark groundswell of events; he did not see to condense in flame the light of things; he had nothing of the prophet and nothing of the magician about him. This humble soul loved, and that was all.
That he carried prayer to the pitch of a superhuman aspiration is probable: but one can no more pray too much than one can love too much; and if it is a heresy to pray beyond the texts, Saint Theresa and Saint Jerome would be heretics.
He inclined towards all that groans and all that expiates. The universe appeared to him like an immense malady; everywhere he felt fever, everywhere he heard the sound of suffering, and, without seeking to solve the enigma, he strove to dress the wound. The terrible spectacle of created things developed tenderness in him; he was occupied only in finding for himself, and in inspiring others with the best way to compassionate and relieve. That which exists was for this good and rare priest a permanent subject of sadness which sought consolation.
There are men who toil at extracting gold; he toiled at the extraction of pity. Universal misery was his mine. The sadness which reigned everywhere was but an excuse for unfailing kindness. Love each other; he declared this to be complete, desired nothing further, and that was the whole of his doctrine. One day, that man who believed himself to be a "philosopher," the senator who has already been alluded to, said to the Bishop: "Just survey the spectacle of the world: all war against all; the strongest has the most wit. Your love each other is nonsense."--"Well," replied Monseigneur Welcome, without contesting the point, "if it is nonsense, the soul should shut itself up in it, as the pearl in the oyster." Thus he shut himself up, he lived there, he was absolutely satisfied with it, leaving on one side the prodigious questions which attract and terrify, the fathomless perspectives of abstraction, the precipices of metaphysics--all those profundities which converge, for the apostle in God, for the atheist in nothingness; destiny, good and evil, the way of being against being, the conscience of man, the thoughtful somnambulism of the animal, the transformation in death, the recapitulation of existences which the tomb contains, the incomprehensible grafting of successive loves on the persistent _I_, the essence, the substance, the Nile, and the Ens, the soul, nature, liberty, necessity; perpendicular problems, sinister obscurities, where lean the gigantic archangels of the human mind; formidable abysses, which Lucretius, Manou, Saint Paul, Dante, contemplate with eyes flashing lightning, which seems by its steady gaze on the infinite to cause stars to blaze forth there.
Monseigneur Bienvenu was simply a man who took note of the exterior of mysterious questions without scrutinizing them, and without troubling his own mind with them, and who cherished in his own soul a grave respect for darkness.
最后几句话。
由于这种详细的叙述，特别是在我们这时代，很可能赋予迪涅的这位主教一副泛神论者（暂用一个目下正流行的名词）的面貌，加以我们这世纪中的哲学流派多，那些纷纭的思想有时会在生活孤寂的人的精神上发芽成长，扩大影响，直到取宗教思想的地位而代之，我们的叙述，又还可以使人认为他也有他一套独特的人生观，无论这对他是指责还是赞扬，我们都应当着重指出，凡是认识卞福汝主教的人，没有一个敢有那样的想法。他之所以光明磊落，是由于他的心，他的智慧正是由那里发出的光构成的。
他不守成规，又勇于任事。探赜索隐，每每使他神志昏瞀；他是否窥探过玄学，毫无迹象可寻。使徒行事，可以大刀阔斧，主教却应当谨小慎微。他也许认为某些问题是应当留待大智大慧的人去探讨的，他自己如果推究太深，于心反而不安。玄学的门，神圣骇人，那些幽暗的洞口，一一向人大开，但是有一种声音向你这生命中的过客说“进去不得”。进去的人都将不幸！而那些天才，置身于教律之上（不妨这样说），从抽象观念和唯理学说的无尽深渊中，向上帝提出他们的意见。他们的祷告发出了大胆的争论。他们的颂赞带着疑难。这是一种想直接证悟的宗教，妄图攀援绝壁的人必将烦恼重重，自食其果。
人类的遐想是没有止境的。人常在遐想中不避艰险，分析研究并深入追求他自己所赞叹的妙境。我们几乎可以这样说，由于一种奇妙的反应作用，人类的遐想可以使宇宙惊奇，围绕着我们的这个神秘世界能吐其所纳，瞻望的人们也就很有被瞻望的可能。无论怎样，这世上确有一些人（如果他们仅仅是人），能在梦想的视野深处清清楚楚地望见绝对真理的高度和无极山峰的惊心触目的景象。卞福汝主教完全不是这种人，卞福汝主教不是天才。他也许害怕那种绝顶的聪明，有几个人，并且是才气磅礴的人，例如斯维登堡①和帕斯卡尔②，就是因为聪明绝顶而堕入精神失常的状态的。固然，那种强烈的梦想，对人的身心自有它的用处，并且通过那条险阻的道路，我们可以达到理想中的至善境界。可是他，他采择了一条捷径棗《福音书》。
他绝不想使他的祭服具有以利亚③的法衣的皱褶，他对这黑暗世界中人事的兴衰起伏，不怀任何希冀；他不希望能使一事一物的微光集成烈火，他丝毫没有那些先知和方士们的臭味。他那颗质朴的心只知道爱，如是而已。 
①斯维登堡（Swedenborg，1688?772），瑞典通灵论者。
②帕斯卡尔（Pascal，1623?662），法国数学家，物理学家，哲学家。
③以利亚（Elie），犹太先知（《圣经·列王记》）。
他的祈祷具有一种不同于一般人的憧憬，那是极可能的，但是必须先有极其殷切的爱，才能作出极其殷切的祈祷，如果祈祷的内容越出了经文的规范，便被认为异端，那么，圣泰莉莎和圣热罗姆岂不都成了异端了？
他常照顾那些呻吟床褥和奄奄垂毙的人。这世界在他看来好象是一种漫无边际的病苦，他觉得遍地都是寒热，他四处诊察疾苦，他不想猜破谜底，只试图包扎创伤。人间事物的惨状使他具有悲天悯人的心，他一心一意想找出可以安慰人心和解除痛苦的最妥善的办法，那是为他自己也是为了影响旁人。世间存在的一切事物，对这位不可多得的慈悲神甫，都是引起恻隐之心和济世宏愿的永恒的动力。
多少人在努力发掘黄金，他却只努力发掘慈悲心肠。普天下的愁苦便是他的矿。遍地的苦痛随时为他提供行善的机会。
“你们应当彼此相爱”，他说如果能这样，便一切具足了，不必再求其他，这便是他的全部教义。一天，那个自命为“哲学家”的元老院元老（我们已经提到过他的名字）对他说：“您瞧瞧这世上的情形吧，人自为战，谁胜利，谁就有理。您的‘互爱’简直是胡说。”卞福汝主教并不和他争论，只回答：“好吧，即使是胡说，人的心总还应当隐藏在那里，如同珍珠隐在蚌壳里一样。”他自己便隐藏在那里，生活在那里，绝对心满意足，不理睬那些诱人而又骇人的重大问题，如抽象理论的无可揣摹的远景以及形而上学的探渊，所有那些针对同一问题的玄妙理论他都抛在一边，留给上帝的信徒和否定上帝的虚无论者去处理，这些玄论有命运、善恶、生物和生物间的斗争、动物的半睡眠半思想状态、死后的转化、坟墓中的生命总结、宿世的恩情对今生的“我”的那种不可理解的纠缠、元精、实质、色空、灵魂、本性、自由、必然，还有代表人类智慧的巨神们所探索的那些穷高极深的问题，还有卢克莱修①、摩奴②、圣保罗和但丁曾以炬火似的目光，凝神仰望那仿佛能使群星跃出的浩阔天空。
卞福汝主教是一个普普通通的人，他只从表面涉猎那些幽渺的问题，他不深究，也不推波助澜，免得自己的精神受到骚扰，但是在他的心灵中，对于幽冥，却怀着一种深厚的敬畏。 
①卢克莱修（Lucrèce，前98?5），罗马诗人，唯物主义者，无神论者。
②摩奴（Manou），印度神话中之人类始祖。
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 1 The Evening of a Day of Walking
Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was travelling on foot entered the little town of D---- The few inhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at the moment stared at this traveller with a sort of uneasiness. It was difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thickset and robust, in the prime of life. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned and tanned by sun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt of coarse yellow linen, fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor, permitted a view of his hairy breast: he had a cravat twisted into a string; trousers of blue drilling, worn and threadbare, white on one knee and torn on the other; an old gray, tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine; a tightly packed soldier knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new, on his back; an enormous, knotty stick in his hand; iron-shod shoes on his stockingless feet; a shaved head and a long beard.
The sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust, added I know not what sordid quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was closely cut, yet bristling, for it had begun to grow a little, and did not seem to have been cut for some time.
No one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passer-by. Whence came he? From the south; from the seashore, perhaps, for he made his entrance into D---- by the same street which, seven months previously, had witnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from Cannes to Paris. This man must have been walking all day. He seemed very much fatigued. Some women of the ancient market town which is situated below the city had seen him pause beneath the trees of the boulevard Gassendi, and drink at the fountain which stands at the end of the promenade. He must have been very thirsty: for the children who followed him saw him stop again for a drink, two hundred paces further on, at the fountain in the market-place.
On arriving at the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turned to the left, and directed his steps toward the town-hall. He entered, then came out a quarter of an hour later. A gendarme was seated near the door, on the stone bench which General Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to read to the frightened throng of the inhabitants of D---- the proclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly saluted the gendarme.
The gendarme, without replying to his salute, stared attentively at him, followed him for a while with his eyes, and then entered the town-hall.
There then existed at D---- a fine inn at the sign of the Cross of Colbas. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquin Labarre, a man of consideration in the town on account of his relationship to another Labarre, who kept the inn of the Three Dauphins in Grenoble, and had served in the Guides. At the time of the Emperor's landing, many rumors had circulated throughout the country with regard to this inn of the Three Dauphins. It was said that General Bertrand, disguised as a carter, had made frequent trips thither in the month of January, and that he had distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers and handfuls of gold to the citizens. The truth is, that when the Emperor entered Grenoble he had refused to install himself at the hotel of the prefecture; he had thanked the mayor, saying, "I am going to the house of a brave man of my acquaintance"; and he had betaken himself to the Three Dauphins. This glory of the Labarre of the Three Dauphins was reflected upon the Labarre of the Cross of Colbas, at a distance of five and twenty leagues. It was said of him in the town, "That is the cousin of the man of Grenoble."
The man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the country-side. He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with the street. All the stoves were lighted; a huge fire blazed gayly in the fireplace. The host, who was also the chief cook, was going from one stew-pan to another, very busily superintending an excellent dinner designed for the wagoners, whose loud talking, conversation, and laughter were audible from an adjoining apartment. Any one who has travelled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer than wagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and heather-cocks, was turning on a long spit before the fire; on the stove, two huge carps from Lake Lauzet and a trout from Lake Alloz were cooking.
The host, hearing the door open and seeing a newcomer enter, said, without raising his eyes from his stoves:--
"What do you wish, sir?"
"Food and lodging," said the man.
"Nothing easier," replied the host. At that moment he turned his head, took in the traveller's appearance with a single glance, and added, "By paying for it."
The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse,and answered, "I have money."
"In that case, we are at your service," said the host.
The man put his purse back in his pocket, removed his knapsack from his back, put it on the ground near the door, retained his stick in his hand, and seated himself on a low stool close to the fire. D---- is in the mountains. The evenings are cold there in October.
But as the host went back and forth, he scrutinized the traveller.
"Will dinner be ready soon?" said the man.
"Immediately," replied the landlord.
While the newcomer was warming himself before the fire, with his back turned, the worthy host, Jacquin Labarre, drew a pencil from his pocket, then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lying on a small table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and lackey. The landlord whispered a word in the scullion's ear, and the child set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall.
The traveller saw nothing of all this.
Once more he inquired, "Will dinner be ready soon?"
"Immediately," responded the host.
The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it eagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read it attentively, then tossed his head, and remained thoughtful for a moment. Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene.
"I cannot receive you, sir," said he.
The man half rose.
"What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you want me to pay you in advance? I have money, I tell you."
"It is not that."
"What then?"
"You have money--"
"Yes," said the man.
"And I," said the host, "have no room."
The man resumed tranquilly, "Put me in the stable."
"I cannot."
"Why?"
"The horses take up all the space."
"Very well!" retorted the man; "a corner of the loft then, a truss of straw. We will see about that after dinner."
"I cannot give you any dinner."
This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger as grave. He rose.
"Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise. I have travelled twelve leagues. I pay. I wish to eat."
"I have nothing," said the landlord.
The man burst out laughing, and turned towards the fireplace and the stoves: "Nothing! and all that?"
"All that is engaged."
"By whom?"
"By messieurs the wagoners."
"How many are there of them?"
"Twelve."
"There is enough food there for twenty."
"They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance."
The man seated himself again, and said, without raising his voice, "I am at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain."
Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him start, "Go away!"
At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting some brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turned quickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed steadily at him and added, still in a low voice: "Stop! there's enough of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name is Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw you come in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this was the reply that was sent to me. Can you read?"
So saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper which had just travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the town-hall to the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord resumed after a pause.
"I am in the habit of being polite to every one. Go away!"
The man dropped his head, picked up the knapsack which he had deposited on the ground, and took his departure.
He chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a venture, keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not turn round a single time. Had he done so, he would have seen the host of the Cross of Colbas standing on his threshold, surrounded by all the guests of his inn, and all the passers-by in the street, talking vivaciously, and pointing him out with his finger; and, from the glances of terror and distrust cast by the group, he might have divined that his arrival would speedily become an event for the whole town.
He saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behind them. They know but too well the evil fate which follows them.
Thus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasing, traversing at random streets of which he knew nothing, forgetful of his fatigue, as is often the case when a man is sad. All at once he felt the pangs of hunger sharply. Night was drawing near. He glanced about him, to see whether he could not discover some shelter.
The fine hostelry was closed to him; he was seeking some very humble public house, some hovel, however lowly.
Just then a light flashed up at the end of the streets; a pine branch suspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against the white sky of the twilight. He proceeded thither.
It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is in the Rue de Chaffaut.
The wayfarer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into the interior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated by a small lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men were engaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself. An iron pot, suspended from a crane, bubbled over the flame.
The entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an inn, is by two doors. One opens on the street, the other upon a small yard filled with manure. The traveller dare not enter by the street door. He slipped into the yard, halted again, then raised the latch timidly and opened the door.
"Who goes there?" said the master.
"Some one who wants supper and bed."
"Good. We furnish supper and bed here."
He entered. All the men who were drinking turned round. The lamp illuminated him on one side, the firelight on the other. They examined him for some time while he was taking off his knapsack.
The host said to him, "There is the fire. The supper is cooking in the pot. Come and warm yourself, comrade."
He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out his feet, which were exhausted with fatigue, to the fire; a fine odor was emitted by the pot. All that could be distinguished of his face, beneath his cap, which was well pulled down, assumed a vague appearance of comfort, mingled with that other poignant aspect which habitual suffering bestows.
It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. This physiognomy was strangely composed; it began by seeming humble, and ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a fire beneath brushwood.
One of the men seated at the table, however, was a fishmonger who, before entering the public house of the Rue de Chaffaut, had been to stable his horse at Labarre's. It chanced that he had that very morning encountered this unprepossessing stranger on the road between Bras d'Asse and--I have forgotten the name. I think it was Escoublon. Now, when he met him, the man, who then seemed already extremely weary, had requested him to take him on his crupper; to which the fishmonger had made no reply except by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a member half an hour previously of the group which surrounded Jacquin Labarre, and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of the morning to the people at the Cross of Colbas. From where he sat he made an imperceptible sign to the tavern-keeper. The tavern-keeper went to him. They exchanged a few words in a low tone. The man had again become absorbed in his reflections.
The tavern-keeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly on the shoulder of the man, and said to him:--
"You are going to get out of here."
The stranger turned round and replied gently, "Ah! You know?--"
"Yes."
"I was sent away from the other inn."
"And you are to be turned out of this one."
"Where would you have me go?"
"Elsewhere."
The man took his stick and his knapsack and departed.
As he went out, some children who had followed him from the Cross of Colbas, and who seemed to be lying in wait for him, threw stones at him. He retraced his steps in anger, and threatened them with his stick: the children dispersed like a flock of birds.
He passed before the prison. At the door hung an iron chain attached to a bell. He rang.
The wicket opened.
"Turnkey," said he, removing his cap politely, "will you have the kindness to admit me, and give me a lodging for the night?"
A voice replied:--
"The prison is not an inn. Get yourself arrested, and you will be admitted."
The wicket closed again.
He entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some of them are enclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to the street. In the midst of these gardens and hedges he caught sight of a small house of a single story, the window of which was lighted up. He peered through the pane as he had done at the public house. Within was a large whitewashed room, with a bed draped in printed cotton stuff, and a cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a double-barrelled gun hanging on the wall. A table was spread in the centre of the room. A copper lamp illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linen, the pewter jug shining like silver, and filled with wine, and the brown, smoking soup-tureen. At this table sat a man of about forty, with a merry and open countenance, who was dandling a little child on his knees. Close by a very young woman was nursing another child. The father was laughing, the child was laughing, the mother was smiling.
The stranger paused a moment in revery before this tender and calming spectacle. What was taking place within him? He alone could have told. It is probable that he thought that this joyous house would be hospitable, and that, in a place where he beheld so much happiness, he would find perhaps a little pity.
He tapped on the pane with a very small and feeble knock.
They did not hear him.
He tapped again.
He heard the woman say, "It seems to me, husband, that some one is knocking."
"No," replied the husband.
He tapped a third time.
The husband rose, took the lamp, and went to the door, which he opened.
He was a man of lofty stature, half peasant, half artisan. He wore a huge leather apron, which reached to his left shoulder, and which a hammer, a red handkerchief, a powder-horn, and all sorts of objects which were upheld by the girdle, as in a pocket, caused to bulge out. He carried his head thrown backwards; his shirt, widely opened and turned back, displayed his bull neck, white and bare. He had thick eyelashes, enormous black whiskers, prominent eyes, the lower part of his face like a snout; and besides all this, that air of being on his own ground, which is indescribable.
"Pardon me, sir," said the wayfarer, "Could you, in consideration of payment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in the garden, in which to sleep? Tell me; can you? For money?"
"Who are you?" demanded the master of the house.
The man replied: "I have just come from Puy-Moisson. I have walked all day long. I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you?-- if I pay?"
"I would not refuse," said the peasant, "to lodge any respectable man who would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn?"
"There is no room."
"Bah! Impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you been to Labarre?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
The traveller replied with embarrassment: "I do not know. He did not receive me."
"Have you been to What's-his-name's, in the Rue Chaffaut?"
The stranger's embarrassment increased; he stammered, "He did not receive me either."
The peasant's countenance assumed an expression of distrust; he surveyed the newcomer from head to feet, and suddenly exclaimed, with a sort of shudder:--
"Are you the man?--"
He cast a fresh glance upon the stranger, took three steps backwards, placed the lamp on the table, and took his gun down from the wall.
Meanwhile, at the words, Are you the man? the woman had risen, had clasped her two children in her arms, and had taken refuge precipitately behind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger, with her bosom uncovered, and with frightened eyes, as she murmured in a low tone, "Tso-maraude."[1]
[1] Patois of the French Alps: chat de maraude, rascally marauder.
All this took place in less time than it requires to picture it to one's self. After having scrutinized the man for several moments, as one scrutinizes a viper, the master of the house returned to the door and said:--
"Clear out!"
"For pity's sake, a glass of water," said the man.
"A shot from my gun!" said the peasant.
Then he closed the door violently, and the man heard him shoot two large bolts. A moment later, the window-shutter was closed, and the sound of a bar of iron which was placed against it was audible outside.
Night continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing. By the light of the expiring day the stranger perceived, in one of the gardens which bordered the street, a sort of hut, which seemed to him to be built of sods. He climbed over the wooden fence resolutely, and found himself in the garden. He approached the hut; its door consisted of a very low and narrow aperture, and it resembled those buildings which road-laborers construct for themselves along the roads. He thought without doubt, that it was, in fact, the dwelling of a road-laborer; he was suffering from cold and hunger, but this was, at least, a shelter from the cold. This sort of dwelling is not usually occupied at night. He threw himself flat on his face, and crawled into the hut. It was warm there, and he found a tolerably good bed of straw. He lay, for a moment, stretched out on this bed, without the power to make a movement, so fatigued was he. Then, as the knapsack on his back was in his way, and as it furnished, moreover, a pillow ready to his hand, he set about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment, a ferocious growl became audible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog was outlined in the darkness at the entrance of the hut.
It was a dog's kennel.
He was himself vigorous and formidable; he armed himself with his staff, made a shield of his knapsack, and made his way out of the kennel in the best way he could, not without enlarging the rents in his rags.
He left the garden in the same manner, but backwards, being obliged, in order to keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that manoeuvre with his stick which masters in that sort of fencing designate as la rose couverte.
When he had, not without difficulty, repassed the fence, and found himself once more in the street, alone, without refuge, without shelter, without a roof over his head, chased even from that bed of straw and from that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated himself on a stone, and it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim, "I am not even a dog!"
He soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town, hoping to find some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford him shelter.
He walked thus for some time, with his head still drooping. When he felt himself far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and gazed searchingly about him. He was in a field. Before him was one of those low hills covered with close-cut stubble, which, after the harvest, resemble shaved heads.
The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity of night; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed to rest upon the hill itself, and which were mounting and filling the whole sky. Meanwhile, as the moon was about to rise, and as there was still floating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness of twilight, these clouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort of whitish arch, whence a gleam of light fell upon the earth.
The earth was thus better lighted than the sky, which produces a particularly sinister effect, and the hill, whose contour was poor and mean, was outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon. The whole effect was hideous, petty, lugubrious, and narrow.
There was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree, which writhed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer.
This man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits of intelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious aspects of things; nevertheless, there was something in that sky, in that hill, in that plain, in that tree, which was so profoundly desolate, that after a moment of immobility and revery he turned back abruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile.
He retraced his steps; the gates of D---- were closed. D----, which had sustained sieges during the wars of religion, was still surrounded in 1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have been demolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town again.
It might have been eight o'clock in the evening. As he was not acquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random.
In this way he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary. As he passed through the Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church.
At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It is there that the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial Guard to the army, brought from the Island of Elba and dictated by Napoleon himself, were printed for the first time.
Worn out with fatigue, and no longer entertaining any hope, he lay down on a stone bench which stands at the doorway of this printing office.
At that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man stretched out in the shadow. "What are you doing there, my friend?" said she.
He answered harshly and angrily: "As you see, my good woman, I am sleeping." The good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact, was the Marquise de R----
"On this bench?" she went on.
"I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years," said the man; "to-day I have a mattress of stone."
"You have been a soldier?"
"Yes, my good woman, a soldier."
"Why do you not go to the inn?"
"Because I have no money."
"Alas!" said Madame de R----, "I have only four sous in my purse."
"Give it to me all the same."
The man took the four sous. Madame de R---- continued: "You cannot obtain lodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It is impossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, no doubt. Some one might have given you a lodging out of charity."
"I have knocked at all doors."
"Well?"
"I have been driven away everywhere."
The "good woman" touched the man's arm, and pointed out to him on the other side of the street a small, low house, which stood beside the Bishop's palace.
"You have knocked at all doors?"
"Yes."
"Have you knocked at that one?"
"No."
"Knock there."
一八一五年十月初，距日落前约一点钟，有一个步行的人走进了那小小的迪涅城。稀稀落落的居民在他们家门口或窗前，带着一种不安的心情瞧着这个行人。要碰见一个比他更褴褛的过路人是很不容易的了。他是一个中等身材的人，体格粗壮，正在盛年，可能有四十六或四十八岁。一顶皮檐便帽压齐眉心，把他那被太阳晒黑、淌着大汗的脸遮去了一部分。从他那领上扣一个小银锚的黄粗布衬衫里露出一部分毛茸茸的胸脯，他的领带扭得象根绳子，蓝棉布裤也磨损不堪，一个膝头成了白色，一个膝头有了窟窿；一件破旧褴褛的老灰布衫，左右两肘上都已用麻线缝上了一块绿呢布；他背上有只布袋，装得满满的也扣得紧紧的；手里拿根多节的粗棍，一双没有穿袜子的脚踩在两只钉鞋里，光头，长须。
汗、热、奔走和徒步旅行替那潦倒的人添上了一种说不出的狼狈神情。
他的头发原是剃光了的，但现在又茸茸满头了，因为又开始长出了一点，还好象多时没有修剪过似的。
谁也不认识他，他自然只是一个过路人。他是从什么地方来的呢？从南方来的。或是从海滨来的。因为他进迪涅城所走的路，正是七个月前拿破仑皇帝从戛纳去巴黎时所经过的路。这个人一定已走了一整天，他那神气显得异常疲乏。许多住在下城旧区里的妇人看见他在加桑第大路的树底下歇了一回脚，又在那广场尽头的水管里喝了些水。他一定渴极了，因为追着他的那些孩子还看见他在两百步外的那个小菜场的水管下停下来喝了水。
走到了巴许维街转角的地方，他向左转，朝市政厅走去。他进去，一刻钟过后又走了出来。有个警察坐在门旁的石凳上，那正是三月四日德鲁埃将军立上去向着惊骇万状的迪涅民众宣读茹安港①宣言的那条石凳。那汉子脱下他的便帽，向那警察恭恭敬敬行了一个礼。
警察没有答礼，只仔细打量了他一会，眼光送了他一程，就走到市政厅里去了。
当时，迪涅有一家华美的旅舍叫“柯耳巴十字架”。旅舍主人是雅甘·拉巴尔。城里的人都认为他是另外一个拉巴尔的亲族，另外那个拉巴尔在格勒诺布尔开着三太子旅舍，并且做过向导②。据当时传说，正月间贝特朗将军曾经乔装为车夫，在那一带地方往来过多次，把许多十字勋章分给一些士兵，把大量的拿破仑③分给一些士绅。实在的情形是这样的：皇帝进入格勒诺布尔城以后，不愿住在省长公署里，他谢了那位市长，他说：“我要到一个我认识的好汉家里去住。”他去的地方便是那三太子旅舍。三太子旅舍的那个拉巴尔所得的荣耀一直照射到二十五法里以外的这个柯耳巴十字架旅舍的拉巴尔。城里的人都说他是格勒诺布尔那位的堂兄弟。 
①茹安港（Juan）在戛纳附近，拿破仑在此登陆时曾发出宣言。
②替拿破仑当向导。
③拿破仑，金币名，值二十法郎。
那人正向着这旅舍走去，它是这地方最好的旅舍了。他走进了厨房，厨房的门临街，也和街道一般平。所有的灶都升了火，一炉大火在壁炉里熊熊地烧着。那旅舍主人，同时也就是厨师，从灶心管到锅盏，正忙着照顾，替许多车夫预备一顿丰盛的晚餐，他们可以听见车夫们在隔壁屋子里大声谈笑。凡是旅行过的人都知道再也没有什么人比那些车夫吃得更考究的了。穿在长叉上的一只肥田鼠夹在一串白竹鸡和一串雄山雉中间，在火前转动。炉子上还烹着两条乐愁湖的青鱼和一尾阿绿茨湖的鲈鱼。
那主人听见门开了，又来了一个新客人，两只眼睛仍望着炉子，也不抬头，他说：
“先生要什么？”
“吃和睡。”那人说。
“再容易也没有，”主人回答说。这时，他转过头，目光射在旅客身上，又接着说：“……要付钱的呀。”
那人从他布衫的袋里掏出一只大钱包，回答说：
“我有钱。”
“好，我就来伺候您。”主人说。
那人把钱包塞回衣袋里，取下行囊，放在门边的地上，手里仍拿着木棍，去坐在火旁边的一张矮凳上。迪涅在山区，十月的夜晚是寒冷的。
但是，旅舍主人去了又来，来了又去，总在打量这位旅客。
“马上有东西吃吗？”那人问。
“得稍微等一会儿。”旅舍主人说。
这时，新来的客人正转过背去烘火，那位象煞有介事的旅舍主人从衣袋里抽出一支铅笔，又从丢在窗台旁小桌子上的那张旧报纸上扯下一角。他在那白报纸边上写了一两行字，又把这张破纸折好，并不封，交给一个好象是他的厨役又同时是他的跑腿的小厮。旅舍主人还在那小伙计耳边说了一句话，小伙计便朝着市政厅的方向跑去了。
那旅客一点也没有看见这些经过。
他又问了一次：
“马上有东西吃吗？”
“还得等一会儿。”旅舍主人说。
那孩子回来了。他带回了那张纸。主人急忙把它打开，好象一个等候回音的人，他仿佛细心地读了一遍，随后又点头，想了想。他终于朝着那心神似乎不大安定的旅客走上一步。
“先生，”他说，“我不能接待您。”
那个人从他的坐位上半挺着身子。
“怎么！您恐怕我不付钱吗？您要不要我先会账？我有钱呢，我告诉您。”
“不是为那个。”
“那么是为什么？”
“您有钱……”
“有。”那人说。
“但是我，”主人说，“我没有房间。”
那人和颜悦色地说：“把我安顿在马房里就是了。”
“我不能。”
“为什么？”
“那些马把所有的地方都占了。”
“那么，”那人又说，“阁楼上面的一个角落也可以。一捆草就够了。我们吃了饭再看吧。”
“我不能开饭给您吃。”
那个外来人对这种有分寸而又坚硬的表示感到严重了，他站立起来。
“哈！笑话！我快饿死了，我。太阳出来，我就走起。走了十二法里①的路程。我并不是不付钱。我要吃。” 
①一法里等于现在的四公里。
“我一点东西也没有。”旅舍主人说。
那汉子放声大笑，转身朝着那炉灶。
“没有东西！那是什么？”
“那些东西全是客人定了的。”
“谁定的？”
“那些车夫先生定了的。”
“他们多少人？”
“十二个人。”
“那里有二十个人吃的东西。”
“那都是预先定好并且付了钱的。”
那个人又坐下去，用同样的口吻说：
“我已经到了这客栈里，我饿了，我不走。”
那主人弯下身子，凑到他耳边，用一种使他吃惊的口吻说：
“快走。”
这时，那旅客弯下腰去了，用他棍子的铁梢拨着火里的红炭，他蓦地转过身来，正要开口辩驳，可是那旅舍主人的眼睛盯着他，照先头一样低声说：
“我说，废话已经说够了。您要我说出您的姓名吗？您叫冉阿让。现在您要我说出您是什么人吗？您进来时，我一见心里就有些疑惑，我已派人到市政厅去过了，这是那里的回信。
您认识字吗？”
他一面那样说，一面把那张完全打开了的、从旅舍到市政厅、又从市政厅转回旅舍的纸递给那客人看。客人在纸上瞟了一眼。旅舍主人停了一会不响，接着又说：
“无论对什么人，我素来都是客客气气的，您还是走吧。”
那人低下了头，拾起他那只放在地上的布袋走了。
他沿着那条大街走去。好象一个受了侮辱、满腔委屈的人，他紧靠着墙壁，信步往前走。他的头一次也没有回转过。假使他回转头来，他就会看见那柯耳巴十字架的旅舍主人正立在他门口，旅舍里的旅客和路上的行人都围着他，在那里指手画脚，说长论短；并且从那一堆人的惊疑的目光里，他还可以猜想到他的出现不久就要搞得满城风雨。
那些经过，他完全没有瞧见。心情沮丧的人，总是不朝后面看的。他们只觉得恶运正追着他们。
他那样走了一些时候，不停地往前走，信步穿过了许多街道，都是他不认识的，忘了自身的疲乏，人在颓丧时是常有这种情况的。忽然，他感到饿得难熬。天也要黑了。他向四周望去，想发现一处可以过夜的地方。
那家华丽的旅馆既享以闭门羹，他便想找一家简陋的酒店，一所穷苦的破屋。
恰好在那条街的尽头，燃起了一盏灯，在半明半暗的暮色中，显出一根松枝，悬在一条曲铁上。他向那地方走去。
那确是一家酒店。就是沙佛街上的那家酒店。
那行人停了一会，从玻璃窗口望那酒家底层厅房的内部，看见桌上的灯正点着，壁炉里的火也正燃着。几个人在里面喝酒。老板也傍着火。一只挂在吊钩上的铁锅在火焰中烧得发响。
这家酒店，同时也是一种客栈，它有两扇门，一扇临街，另一扇通一个粪土混积的小天井。
那行人不敢由临街的门进去。他先溜进天井，待了一会，再轻轻地提起门闩，把门推开。
“来的是谁？”那老板问。
“一个想吃晚饭和过夜的人。”
“好的，这儿有饭吃，也有地方可以住。”
跟着，他进去了。那些正在喝酒的人全都转过头来。他这面有灯光照着，那面有火光照着。当他解下那口袋时，大家都打量了他好一会儿。那老板向他说：
“这儿有火，晚餐也正在锅里煮着。您来烤烤火吧，伙计。”
他走去坐在炉边，把那两只累伤了的脚伸到火前，一阵香味从锅里冲出。他的脸仍被那顶压到眉心的便帽半遮着，当时所能辨别出来的只是一种若隐若现的舒适神情，同时又搀杂着另外一种由于长期苦痛而起的愁容。
那是一副坚强有力而又忧郁的侧形。这相貌是稀有的，一眼看去象是谦卑，看到后来，却又严肃。眼睛在眉毛下炯炯发光，正象荆棘丛中的一堆火。
当时，在那些围着桌子坐下的人中有个鱼贩子。他在走进沙佛街这家酒店以前，到过拉巴尔的旅舍，把他的马寄放在马房里，当天早晨他又偶然碰见过这个面恶的外来人在阿塞湾和……（我已忘了那地名，我想是爱斯古布龙）之间走着。那外来人在遇见他时曾请求让他坐在马臀上，他当时已显得非常困顿了，那鱼贩子却一面支吾，一面加鞭走了。半点钟以前，那鱼贩子也是围着雅甘·拉巴尔那堆人中的一个，并且他亲自把当天早晨那次不愉快的遭遇告诉了柯耳巴十字架旅舍里的那些人。这时他从他座上向那酒店老板使了个眼色。酒店老板就走到他身边。彼此低声交谈了几句。那个赶路的客人却正在想他的心事。
酒店老板回到壁炉旁边，突然把手放在那人的肩上，向他说：
“你得离开此地。”
那个生客转过身来，低声下气地说：
“唉！您知道？”
“我知道。”
“他们把我从那个旅舍里撵了出来。”
“又要把你从这儿赶出去。”
“您要我到什么地方去呢？”
“到旁的地方去。”
那人提起他的棍和布袋，走了。
他走出店门，又遇到几个孩子，扔着石子打他，那起孩子是从柯耳巴十字架跟来，专在门口候他出来的。他狼狈地回转来，扬着棍子表示要打，孩子们也就象一群小鸟似的散了。
他走过监狱，监狱的大门上垂着一根拉钟的铁链。他便拉动那口钟。
墙上的一个小洞开了。
“看守先生，”他说，一面恭恭敬敬地脱下他的便帽，“您可愿意开开牢门让我住一宵？”
有个人的声音回答说：
“监牢又不是客栈。你得先叫人逮捕你。这门才会替你开。”
那小墙洞又闭上了。
他走到一条有许多花园的小街。其中的几处只用篱笆围着，那样可以使街道显得更生动。在那些花园和篱笆之间，他看见一所小平房的窗子里有灯光。他从那玻璃窗朝里看，正好象他先头望那酒店一样。那是一大间用灰浆刷白了的屋子，里面有一张床，床上铺着印花棉布的床单，屋角里有只摇篮，几张木椅，墙上挂着一枝双管枪。屋子中间有桌子，桌上正摆着食物。一盏铜灯照着那块洁白宽大的台布，一把灿烂如银的盛满了酒的锡壶和一只热气腾腾的栗黄汤钵。桌子旁边坐着一个四十岁左右喜笑颜开的男子，他用膝头颠着一个小孩，逗他跳跃。一个年纪正轻的妇人在他旁边喂另外一个婴孩的奶。父亲笑着，孩子笑着，母亲也微微地笑着。
这个异乡人在那种温柔宁静的景物前出了一会神。他心里想着什么？只有他自己才能说出来。也许他正想着那样一个快乐的家庭应当是肯待客的吧，他在眼前的那片福地上也许找得着一点恻隐之心吧。
他在玻璃窗上极轻地敲了一下。
没有人听见。
他敲第二下。
他听见那妇人说：
“当家的，好象有人敲门。”
“没有。”她丈夫回答。
他敲第三下。
那丈夫立起来，拿着灯，走去把门开了。
他是一个身材高大，半农半工模样的人。身上围着一件宽大的皮围裙，一直围到他的左肩，围裙里有一个铁锤、一条红手巾、一只火药匣、各式各样的东西，都由一根腰带兜住，在他的肚子上鼓起来。他的头朝后仰着，一件翻领衬衫大大敞开，露出了白皙光滑的牛脖子。他有浓厚的眉毛，腮帮上留着一大片黑胡须，眼睛不凹，下颏突出，在那样的面貌上，有一种说不出的怡然自得的神气。
“先生，”那过路人说，“请原谅。假使我出钱，您能给我一盆汤，让我在园里那棚子里的角上睡一宵？请您说，您可以吗，假使我出钱的话？”
“您是谁？”那房子的主人问。
那人回答说：
“我是从壁马松来的。我走了一整天，我走了十二法里。您同意吗？假使我出钱？”
“我并不拒绝留宿一个肯付钱的正派人，”那农人说，“但是您为什么不去找客栈呢？”
“客栈里没有地方了。”
“笑话！没有的事。今天又不是演杂技的日子，又不是赶集的日子。您到拉巴尔家去过没有？”
“去过了。”
“怎样呢？”
那过路人感到为难，他回答说：
“我不知道，他不肯接待我。”
“您到沙佛街上那叫做什么的家里去过没有？”
那个外来人更感困难了，他吞吞吐吐地说：
“他也不肯接待我。”
那农民的脸上立刻起了戒惧的神情，他从头到脚打量那陌生人，并且忽然用一种战栗的声音喊着说：
“难道您就是那个人吗？……”
他又对那外来人看了一眼，向后退三步，把灯放在桌上，从墙上取下了他的枪。
那妇人听见那农民说“难道您就是那个人吗？……”以后，也立了起来，抱着她的两个孩子，赶忙躲在她丈夫背后，惊慌失措地瞧着那个陌生人，敞着胸口，睁大了眼睛，她低声说：“佐马洛德。”①这些动作比我们想象的还快些。屋主把那“人”当作毒蛇观察了一番之后，又回到门前，说道：
“滚！”
“求您做做好事，”那人又说，“给我一杯水吧！”
“给你一枪！”农民说。 
①佐马洛德（tsoCmaraude），法国境内阿尔卑斯山区的方言，即野猫。棗作者原注。
随后他把门使劲关上，那人还听见他推动两条大门闩的声音。过一会儿，板窗也关上了，一阵上铁门的声音直达外面。
天越来越黑了。阿尔卑斯山中已经起了冷风。那个无家可归的人从苍茫的暮色中看见街边的一个花园里有个茅棚，望去仿佛是草墩搭起来的。他下定决心，越过一道木栅栏，便到了那园里。他朝着那茅棚走去，它的门只是一个狭而很低的洞，正象那些筑路工人替自己在道旁盖起的那种风雨棚。他当然也认为那确实是一个筑路工人歇脚的地方，现在他感到又冷又饿，实在难熬。他虽然已不再希望得到食物，但至少那还是一个避寒的地方。那种棚子照例在晚上是没有人住的。他全身躺下，爬了进去。里面相当温暖，地上还铺了一层麦秸。他在那上面躺了一会，他实在太疲倦了，一点也不能动。随后，因为他背上还压着一个口袋，使他很不舒服，再说，这正是一个现成的枕头，他便动手解开那捆口袋的皮带。正在这时，他忽然听见一阵粗暴的声音。他抬起眼睛。黑暗中瞧见在那茅棚的洞口显出一只大狗头。
原来那是一个狗窝。
他自己本是胆大力壮，猛不可当的人，他拿起他的棍子，当作武器，拿着布袋当作藤牌，慢慢地从那狗窝里爬了出来，只是他那身褴褛的衣服已变得更加破烂了。
他又走出花园，逼得朝后退出去，运用棍术教师们所谓“盖蔷薇”的那种棍法去招架那条恶狗。
他费尽力气，越过木栅栏，回到了街心，孤零零，没有栖身之所，没有避风雨的地方，连那堆麦秸和那个不堪的狗窝也不容他涉足，他就让自己落（不是坐）在一块石头上，有个过路人仿佛听见他骂道：“我连狗也不如了！”
不久，他又立起来，往前走。他出了城，希望能在田野中找到一棵树或是一个干草堆，可以靠一下。
他那样走了一段时间，老低着头。直到他感到自己已和那些人家离得远了，他才抬起眼睛，四面张望。他已到了田野中，在他前面，有一片矮丘，丘上覆着齐地割了的麦茬，那矮丘在收获之后就象推光了的头一样。
天边已全黑了，那不仅是夜间的黑暗，仿佛还有极低的云层，压在那一片矮丘上面，继又渐渐浮起，满布天空。但是，由于月亮正待上来，穹苍中也还留着一点暮色的余辉，浮云朵朵，在天空构成了一种乳白的圆顶，一线微光从那顶上反照下来。
因此地面反比天空显得稍亮一些，那是一种特别阴森的景色，那片矮丘的轮廓，荒凉枯瘦，被黑暗的天边衬托得模糊难辨，色如死灰。所有这一切都是丑恶、卑陋、黯淡、无意义的。在那片田野中和矮丘上，空无所有，只见一棵不成形的树，在和这个流浪人相距几步的地方，蜷曲着它的枝干，摇曳不定。
显然，这个人在智慧方面和精神方面都谈不上有那些细腻的习气，因而对事物的神秘现象也就无动于衷；可是当时，在那样的天空中，那样的矮丘上，那样的原野里，那样的树杪头，却有一种惊心动魄的凄凉意味，因此他在凝神伫立一阵以后，也就猛然折回头走了。有些人的本能常使他们感到自然界是含有恶意的。
他顺着原路回去。迪涅的城门都已关上了。迪涅城在宗教战争①中受过围攻，直到一八一五年，它周围还有那种加建了方形碉楼的旧城墙，日后才被拆毁。他便经过那样一个缺口回到城里。 
①指十六世纪中叶法国新旧两派宗教进行的战争。
当时应已是晚上八点钟了，因为他不认识街道，他只得信步走去。他这样走到了省长公署，过后又到了教士培养所。在经过天主堂广场时，他狠狠地对着天主堂扬起了拳头。
在那广场角上有个印刷局。从前拿破仑在厄尔巴岛上亲自口授，继又带回大陆的诏书及《羽林军告军人书》便是在这个印刷局里第一次排印的。
他已经困惫不堪，也不再希望什么，便走到那印刷局门前的石凳上躺下来。
恰巧有个老妇人从那天主堂里出来，她看见这个人躺在黑暗里，便说：
“您在这儿干什么，朋友？”
他气冲冲地、粗暴地回答说：
“您瞧见的，老太婆，我在睡觉。”
那老太婆，确也当得起这个称呼，她是R侯爵夫人。
“睡在这石凳上吗？”她又问。
“我已经睡了十九年的木板褥子，”那人说，“今天要来睡睡石板褥子了。”
“您当过兵吗？”
“是呀，老太婆。当过兵。”
“您为什么不到客栈里去？”
“因为我没有钱。”
“唉！”R夫人说，“我荷包里也只有四个苏。”
“给我就是。”
那人拿了那四个苏。R夫人继续说：
“这一点钱，不够您住客栈。不过您去试过没有？您总不能就这样过夜呀。您一定又饿又冷。也许会有人做好事，让您住一宵。”
“所有的门我都敲过了。”
“怎样呢？”
“没有一个地方不把我撵走。”
“老太婆”推着那人的胳膊，把广场对面主教院旁边的一所矮房子指给他看。
“所有的门，”她又说，“您都敲过了？”
“敲过了。”
“敲过那扇没有呢？”
“没有。”
“去敲那扇去。”
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 2 Prudence counselled to Wisdom
That evening, the Bishop of D----, after his promenade through the town, remained shut up rather late in his room. He was busy over a great work on Duties, which was never completed, unfortunately. He was carefully compiling everything that the Fathers and the doctors have said on this important subject. His book was divided into two parts: firstly, the duties of all; secondly, the duties of each individual, according to the class to which he belongs. The duties of all are the great duties. There are four of these. Saint Matthew points them out: duties towards God (Matt. vi.); duties towards one's self (Matt. v. 29, 30); duties towards one's neighbor (Matt. vii. 12); duties towards animals (Matt. vi. 20, 25). As for the other duties the Bishop found them pointed out and prescribed elsewhere: to sovereigns and subjects, in the Epistle to the Romans; to magistrates, to wives, to mothers, to young men, by Saint Peter; to husbands, fathers, children and servants, in the Epistle to the Ephesians; to the faithful, in the Epistle to the Hebrews; to virgins, in the Epistle to the Corinthians. Out of these precepts he was laboriously constructing a harmonious whole, which he desired to present to souls. 
At eight o'clock he was still at work, writing with a good deal of inconvenience upon little squares of paper, with a big book open on his knees, when Madame Magloire entered, according to her wont, to get the silver-ware from the cupboard near his bed. A moment later, the Bishop, knowing that the table was set, and that his sister was probably waiting for him, shut his book, rose from his table, and entered the dining-room. 
The dining-room was an oblong apartment, with a fireplace, which had a door opening on the street (as we have said), and a window opening on the garden. 
Madame Magloire was, in fact, just putting the last touches to the table. 
As she performed this service, she was conversing with Mademoiselle Baptistine. 
A lamp stood on the table; the table was near the fireplace. A wood fire was burning there. 
One can easily picture to one's self these two women, both of whom were over sixty years of age. Madame Magloire small, plump, vivacious; Mademoiselle Baptistine gentle, slender, frail, somewhat taller than her brother, dressed in a gown of puce-colored silk, of the fashion of 1806, which she had purchased at that date in Paris, and which had lasted ever since. To borrow vulgar phrases, which possess the merit of giving utterance in a single word to an idea which a whole page would hardly suffice to express, Madame Magloire had the air of a peasant, and Mademoiselle Baptistine that of a lady. Madame Magloire wore a white quilted cap, a gold Jeannette cross on a velvet ribbon upon her neck, the only bit of feminine jewelry that there was in the house, a very white fichu puffing out from a gown of coarse black woollen stuff, with large, short sleeves, an apron of cotton cloth in red and green checks, knotted round the waist with a green ribbon, with a stomacher of the same attached by two pins at the upper corners, coarse shoes on her feet, and yellow stockings, like the women of Marseilles. Mademoiselle Baptistine's gown was cut on the patterns of 1806, with a short waist, a narrow, sheath-like skirt, puffed sleeves, with flaps and buttons. She concealed her gray hair under a frizzed wig known as the baby wig. Madame Magloire had an intelligent, vivacious, and kindly air; the two corners of her mouth unequally raised, and her upper lip, which was larger than the lower, imparted to her a rather crabbed and imperious look. So long as Monseigneur held his peace, she talked to him resolutely with a mixture of respect and freedom; but as soon as Monseigneur began to speak, as we have seen, she obeyed passively like her mistress. Mademoiselle Baptistine did not even speak. She confined herself to obeying and pleasing him. She had never been pretty, even when she was young; she had large, blue, prominent eyes, and a long arched nose; but her whole visage, her whole person, breathed forth an ineffable goodness, as we stated in the beginning. She had always been predestined to gentleness; but faith, charity, hope, those three virtues which mildly warm the soul, had gradually elevated that gentleness to sanctity. Nature had made her a lamb, religion had made her an angel. Poor sainted virgin! Sweet memory which has vanished! 
Mademoiselle Baptistine has so often narrated what passed at the episcopal residence that evening, that there are many people now living who still recall the most minute details. 
At the moment when the Bishop entered, Madame Magloire was talking with considerable vivacity. She was haranguing Mademoiselle Baptistine on a subject which was familiar to her and to which the Bishop was also accustomed. The question concerned the lock upon the entrance door. 
It appears that while procuring some provisions for supper, Madame Magloire had heard things in divers places. People had spoken of a prowler of evil appearance; a suspicious vagabond had arrived who must be somewhere about the town, and those who should take it into their heads to return home late that night might be subjected to unpleasant encounters. The police was very badly organized, moreover, because there was no love lost between the Prefect and the Mayor, who sought to injure each other by making things happen. It behooved wise people to play the part of their own police, and to guard themselves well, and care must be taken to duly close, bar and barricade their houses, and to fasten the doors well. 
Madame Magloire emphasized these last words; but the Bishop had just come from his room, where it was rather cold. He seated himself in front of the fire, and warmed himself, and then fell to thinking of other things. He did not take up the remark dropped with design by Madame Magloire. She repeated it. Then Mademoiselle Baptistine, desirous of satisfying Madame Magloire without displeasing her brother, ventured to say timidly:-- 
"Did you hear what Madame Magloire is saying, brother?" 
"I have heard something of it in a vague way," replied the Bishop. Then half-turning in his chair, placing his hands on his knees, and raising towards the old servant woman his cordial face, which so easily grew joyous, and which was illuminated from below by the firelight,--"Come, what is the matter? What is the matter? Are we in any great danger?" 
Then Madame Magloire began the whole story afresh, exaggerating it a little without being aware of the fact. It appeared that a Bohemian, a bare-footed vagabond, a sort of dangerous mendicant, was at that moment in the town. He had presented himself at Jacquin Labarre's to obtain lodgings, but the latter had not been willing to take him in. He had been seen to arrive by the way of the boulevard Gassendi and roam about the streets in the gloaming. A gallows-bird with a terrible face. 
"Really!" said the Bishop. 
This willingness to interrogate encouraged Madame Magloire; it seemed to her to indicate that the Bishop was on the point of becoming alarmed; she pursued triumphantly:-- 
"Yes, Monseigneur. That is how it is. There will be some sort of catastrophe in this town to-night. Every one says so. And withal, the police is so badly regulated" (a useful repetition). "The idea of living in a mountainous country, and not even having lights in the streets at night! One goes out. Black as ovens, indeed! And I say, Monseigneur, and Mademoiselle there says with me--" 
"I," interrupted his sister, "say nothing. What my brother does is well done." 
Madame Magloire continued as though there had been no protest:-- 
"We say that this house is not safe at all; that if Monseigneur will permit, I will go and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and replace the ancient locks on the doors; we have them, and it is only the work of a moment; for I say that nothing is more terrible than a door which can be opened from the outside with a latch by the first passer-by; and I say that we need bolts, Monseigneur, if only for this night; moreover, Monseigneur has the habit of always saying `come in'; and besides, even in the middle of the night, O mon Dieu! there is no need to ask permission." 
At that moment there came a tolerably violent knock on the door. 
"Come in," said the Bishop.
那天晚上，迪涅的主教先生从城里散步回来，便关上房门，在自己屋子里一径待到相当晚的时候。当时他正对“义务”问题进行一种巨大的著述工作，可惜没有完成。他起初要把从前那些神甫和博士们就这一严重问题发表过的言论细心清理出来。他的著作分两部分；第一部分是大众的义务，第二部分是各个阶层中个人的义务。大众的义务是重要义务。共分四种。根据圣马太的指示，分作对天主的义务（《马太福音》第六章），对自己的义务（《马太福音》第五章第二十九、三十节），对他人的义务（《马太福音》第七章第十二节），对众生的义务（《马太福音》第六章第二十、二十五节），关于其他各种义务，主教又在旁的地方搜集了一些关于其他各种义务的指示和规定，人主和臣民的义务，在《罗马人书》里；官吏、妻子、母亲、青年男子的义务，是圣保罗明定了的；丈夫、父亲、孩童、仆婢的义务，在《以弗所书》里；信徒的义务，在《希伯来书》里；闺女的义务，在《哥林多书》里。他正苦心孤诣地着手把所有这些条规编成一个协调的整体，供世人阅读。
八点钟他还在工作，当马格洛大娘按平日习惯到他床边壁柜里去取银器时，他正在一张小方纸上勉强写着字，因为他膝头上正摊着一本碍手碍脚的厚书。过了一会，主教觉得餐具已经摆好，他的妹子也许在等待，他才阖上书本，起身走进餐室。
那餐室是一间长方形的屋子，有个壁炉，门对着街（我们已经说过），窗子对着花园。
马格洛大娘刚刚把餐具摆好。
她尽管忙于工作，却仍和巴狄斯丁姑娘聊天。
桌子靠近壁炉，桌上放了一盏灯。炉里正燃着相当大的火。
我们不难想见那两个都已年逾六十的妇人：马格洛大娘矮小、肥胖、活跃，巴狄斯丁姑娘温和、瘦削、脆弱，比她哥稍高一点，穿件蚤色绸袍，那是一八○六年流行的颜色，是她那年在巴黎买的，一径保存到现在。如果我们用粗俗的字眼来说（有些思想往往写上一页还说不清楚，可是单用一个俗字便可表达出来），马格洛大娘的神气象个“村婆”，巴狄斯丁姑娘却象“夫人”。马格洛大娘戴顶白楞边帽，颈上挂个小金十字，算是这家里独一无二的首饰了。她身穿玄青粗呢袍，袖子宽而短，领口里露出一条雪白的围脖，一根绿带子拦腰束住一条红绿方块花纹的棉布围裙，外加一块同样布料的胸巾，用别针扣住上面的两只角，脚上穿双马赛妇女穿的那种大鞋和黄袜。巴狄斯丁姑娘的袍子是照一八○六年的式样裁剪的，上身短，腰围紧，双肩高耸，盘花扣绊。她用一顶幼童式的波状假发遮着自己的斑白头发。马格洛大娘的神气是伶俐、活泼、善良的，她的两只嘴角，一高一低，上唇厚，下唇薄，使她显得怫郁和躁急。只要主教不说话，她总用一种恭敬而又不拘形迹的态度和他谈个不休；主教一开口，她又和那位姑娘一样，服服帖帖唯命是从了，这是大家都见过的。巴狄斯丁姑娘连话也不说。她谨守在听命与承欢的范围以内。即使是少年时期她也并不漂亮，她的蓝眼睛鼓齐面部，鼻子长而曲；但是她的整个面庞和整个人都含有一种说不出的贤淑气度，那是我们在开始时谈过的，她生性仁厚，而信仰、慈悲、愿望，这三种使心灵温暖的美德又渐渐把那种仁厚升为圣德了。她天生就是一头驯羊，宗教却已使她成为天使。可怜的圣女！不可复得的甘美的回忆！
巴狄斯丁姑娘曾把当天晚上发生在主教院里的那些事对人传述过无数次，以致几个现在还活着的人都还记得极其详尽。
主教先生走进来时，马格洛大娘正在兴高采烈地说着话。她正和“姑娘”谈着一个她所熟悉而主教也听惯了的问题，那就是关于大门的门闩问题。
好象是马格洛大娘在买晚餐食料时，在好几处听见了许多话。大家说来了一个奇形怪状的宵小，一个形迹可疑的恶棍，他大约已到了城里的某个地方，今晚打算深夜回家的人也许会遭殃，而且警务又办得很坏，省长和市长又互不相容，彼此都想惹出一些事故，好嫁祸于人。所以聪明人只有自己负起警察的责任，好好地保护自己，并且应当小心，把各人的房子好好地关起，闩起，堵塞起来，尤其要好好地把各人的房门关上。
马格洛大娘把最后那句话说得格外响些，但是主教从他那间冷冰冰的屋子里走进来坐在壁炉面前烤着火，又想着旁的事了。他没有让马格洛大娘刚才说的话产生影响。她只得再说一遍，于是巴狄斯丁姑娘为了想救马格洛大娘的面子而又不触犯阿哥，便冒着险，轻轻说道：
“哥，您听见马格洛大娘说的话没有？”
“我多少听见了一点。”主教回答说。
随后，他把椅子转过一半，两手放在膝上，炉火也正从下面照着他那副笑容可掬的诚恳面孔，他抬起头对着那年老的女仆说：
“好好的。有什么事？有什么事？难道我们有什么大不了的危险？”
于是马格洛大娘又把整个故事从头说起，无意中也不免稍稍说得过火一些。据说有一个游民，一个赤脚大汉，一个恶叫化子这时已到了城里。他到过雅甘·拉巴尔家里去求宿，拉巴尔不肯收留他，有人看见他沿着加桑第大路走来，在街上迷雾里荡来荡去。他是一个有袋子、有绳子、面孔凶恶的人。
“真的吗？”主教说。
他既肯向她探问，马格洛大娘自然更起劲了，在她看来，这好象表明主教已有意戒备了，她洋洋得意地追着说：“是呀，主教。是这样的。今天晚上城里一定要出乱子。大家都这样说。加以警务又办得那样坏（这是值得再提到的）。住在山区里，到了夜里，衔上连路灯也没有！出了门就是一个黑洞。我说过，主教，那边的姑娘也这样说……”
“我，”妹子岔着说，“我没有意见。我哥做的事总是好的。”
马格洛大娘仍继续说下去，好象没有人反对过她似的：
“我们说这房子一点也不安全，如果主教准许，我就去找普兰·缪斯博瓦铜匠，要他来把从前那些铁门闩重新装上去，那些东西都在，不过是一分钟的事，我还要说，主教，就是为了今天这一夜也应当有铁门闩，因为，我说，一扇只有活闩的门，随便什么人都可以从外面开进来，再没有比这更可怕的事了，加以主教平素总是让人随意进出，况且，就是在夜半，呵，我的天主！也不用先得许可……”
这时，有人在门上敲了一下，并且敲得相当凶。
“请进来。”主教说。
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 3 The Heroism of Passive Obedience
The door opened. 
It opened wide with a rapid movement, as though some one had given it an energetic and resolute push. 
A man entered. 
We already know the man. It was the wayfarer whom we have seen wandering about in search of shelter. 
He entered, advanced a step, and halted, leaving the door open behind him. He had his knapsack on his shoulders, his cudgel in his hand, a rough, audacious, weary, and violent expression in his eyes. The fire on the hearth lighted him up. He was hideous. It was a sinister apparition. 
Madame Magloire had not even the strength to utter a cry. She trembled, and stood with her mouth wide open. 
Mademoiselle Baptistine turned round, beheld the man entering, and half started up in terror; then, turning her head by degrees towards the fireplace again, she began to observe her brother, and her face became once more profoundly calm and serene. 
The Bishop fixed a tranquil eye on the man. 
As he opened his mouth, doubtless to ask the new-comer what he desired, the man rested both hands on his staff, directed his gaze at the old man and the two women, and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he said, in a loud voice:-- 
"See here. My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict from the galleys. I have passed nineteen years in the galleys. I was liberated four days ago, and am on my way to Pontarlier, which is my destination. I have been walking for four days since I left Toulon. I have travelled a dozen leagues to-day on foot. This evening, when I arrived in these parts, I went to an inn, and they turned me out, because of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the town-hall. I had to do it. I went to an inn. They said to me, `Be off,' at both places. No one would take me. I went to the prison; the jailer would not admit me. I went into a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and chased me off, as though he had been a man. One would have said that he knew who I was. I went into the fields, intending to sleep in the open air, beneath the stars. There were no stars. I thought it was going to rain, and I re-entered the town, to seek the recess of a doorway. Yonder, in the square, I meant to sleep on a stone bench. A good woman pointed out your house to me, and said to me, `Knock there!' I have knocked. What is this place? Do you keep an inn? I have money--savings. One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous, which I earned in the galleys by my labor, in the course of nineteen years. I will pay. What is that to me? I have money. I am very weary; twelve leagues on foot; I am very hungry. Are you willing that I should remain?" 
"Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place." 
The man advanced three paces, and approached the lamp which was on the table. "Stop," he resumed, as though he had not quite understood; "that's not it. Did you hear? I am a galley-slave; a convict. I come from the galleys." He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he unfolded. "Here's my passport. Yellow, as you see. This serves to expel me from every place where I go. Will you read it? I know how to read. I learned in the galleys. There is a school there for those who choose to learn. Hold, this is what they put on this passport: `Jean Valjean, discharged convict, native of'--that is nothing to you--`has been nineteen years in the galleys: five years for house-breaking and burglary; fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four occasions. He is a very dangerous man.' There! Every one has cast me out. Are you willing to receive me? Is this an inn? Will you give me something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?" 
"Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove." We have already explained the character of the two women's obedience. 
Madame Magloire retired to execute these orders. 
The Bishop turned to the man. 
"Sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We are going to sup in a few moments, and your bed will be prepared while you are supping." 
At this point the man suddenly comprehended. The expression of his face, up to that time sombre and harsh, bore the imprint of stupefaction, of doubt, of joy, and became extraordinary. He began stammering like a crazy man:-- 
"Really? What! You will keep me? You do not drive me forth? A convict! You call me sir! You do not address me as thou? `Get out of here, you dog!' is what people always say to me. I felt sure that you would expel me, so I told you at once who I am. Oh, what a good woman that was who directed me hither! I am going to sup! A bed with a mattress and sheets, like the rest of the world! a bed! It is nineteen years since I have slept in a bed! You actually do not want me to go! You are good people. Besides, I have money. I will pay well. Pardon me, monsieur the inn-keeper, but what is your name? I will pay anything you ask. You are a fine man. You are an inn-keeper, are you not?" 
"I am," replied the Bishop, "a priest who lives here." 
"A priest!" said the man. "Oh, what a fine priest! Then you are not going to demand any money of me? You are the cure, are you not? the cure of this big church? Well! I am a fool, truly! I had not perceived your skull-cap." 
As he spoke, he deposited his knapsack and his cudgel in a corner, replaced his passport in his pocket, and seated himself. Mademoiselle Baptistine gazed mildly at him. He continued: "You are humane, Monsieur le Cure; you have not scorned me. A good priest is a very good thing. Then you do not require me to pay?" 
"No," said the Bishop; "keep your money. How much have you? Did you not tell me one hundred and nine francs?" 
"And fifteen sous," added the man. 
"One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous. And how long did it take you to earn that?" 
"Nineteen years." 
"Nineteen years!" 
The Bishop sighed deeply. 
The man continued: "I have still the whole of my money. In four days I have spent only twenty-five sous, which I earned by helping unload some wagons at Grasse. Since you are an abbe, I will tell you that we had a chaplain in the galleys. And one day I saw a bishop there. Monseigneur is what they call him. He was the Bishop of Majore at Marseilles. He is the cure who rules over the other cures, you understand. Pardon me, I say that very badly; but it is such a far-off thing to me! You understand what we are! He said mass in the middle of the galleys, on an altar. He had a pointed thing, made of gold, on his head; it glittered in the bright light of midday. We were all ranged in lines on the three sides, with cannons with lighted matches facing us. We could not see very well. He spoke; but he was too far off, and we did not hear. That is what a bishop is like." 
While he was speaking, the Bishop had gone and shut the door, which had remained wide open. 
Madame Magloire returned. She brought a silver fork and spoon, which she placed on the table. 
"Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, "place those things as near the fire as possible." And turning to his guest: "The night wind is harsh on the Alps. You must be cold, sir." 
Each time that he uttered the word sir, in his voice which was so gently grave and polished, the man's face lighted up. Monsieur to a convict is like a glass of water to one of the shipwrecked of the Medusa. Ignominy thirsts for consideration. 
"This lamp gives a very bad light," said the Bishop. 
Madame Magloire understood him, and went to get the two silver candlesticks from the chimney-piece in Monseigneur's bed-chamber, and placed them, lighted, on the table. 
"Monsieur le Cure," said the man, "you are good; you do not despise me. You receive me into your house. You light your candles for me. Yet I have not concealed from you whence I come and that I am an unfortunate man." 
The Bishop, who was sitting close to him, gently touched his hand. "You could not help telling me who you were. This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome. And do not thank me; do not say that I receive you in my house. No one is at home here, except the man who needs a refuge. I say to you, who are passing by, that you are much more at home here than I am myself. Everything here is yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me you had one which I knew." 
The man opened his eyes in astonishment. 
"Really? You knew what I was called?" 
"Yes," replied the Bishop, "you are called my brother." 
"Stop, Monsieur le Cure," exclaimed the man. "I was very hungry when I entered here; but you are so good, that I no longer know what has happened to me." 
The Bishop looked at him, and said,-- 
"You have suffered much?" 
"Oh, the red coat, the ball on the ankle, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, toil, the convicts, the thrashings, the double chain for nothing, the cell for one word; even sick and in bed, still the chain! Dogs, dogs are happier! Nineteen years! I am forty-six. Now there is the yellow passport. That is what it is like." 
"Yes," resumed the Bishop, "you have come from a very sad place. Listen. There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If you emerge from that sad place with thoughts of hatred and of wrath against mankind, you are deserving of pity; if you emerge with thoughts of good-will and of peace, you are more worthy than any one of us." 
In the meantime, Madame Magloire had served supper: soup, made with water, oil, bread, and salt; a little bacon, a bit of mutton, figs, a fresh cheese, and a large loaf of rye bread. She had, of her own accord, added to the Bishop's ordinary fare a bottle of his old Mauves wine. 
The Bishop's face at once assumed that expression of gayety which is peculiar to hospitable natures. "To table!" he cried vivaciously. As was his custom when a stranger supped with him, he made the man sit on his right. Mademoiselle Baptistine, perfectly peaceable and natural, took her seat at his left. 
The Bishop asked a blessing; then helped the soup himself, according to his custom. The man began to eat with avidity. 
All at once the Bishop said: "It strikes me there is something missing on this table." 
Madame Magloire had, in fact, only placed the three sets of forks and spoons which were absolutely necessary. Now, it was the usage of the house, when the Bishop had any one to supper, to lay out the whole six sets of silver on the table-cloth--an innocent ostentation. 
This graceful semblance of luxury was a kind of child's play, which was full of charm in that gentle and severe household, which raised poverty into dignity. 
Madame Magloire understood the remark, went out without saying a word, and a moment later the three sets of silver forks and spoons demanded by the Bishop were glittering upon the cloth, symmetrically arranged before the three persons seated at the table.
门开了。
门一下子便大大地开了，好象有人使了大劲和决心推它似的。
有个人进来了。
这人我们已经认识，便是我们刚才见过，往来求宿的那个过路人。
他走进来，向前踏上一步，停住，让门在他背后敞着。他的肩上有个布袋，手里有根木棍，眼睛里有种粗鲁、放肆、困惫和强暴的神情。壁炉里的火正照着他，他那样子真是凶恶可怕，简直是恶魔的化身。
马格洛大娘连叫喊的力气都没有了。她大吃一惊，变得目瞪口呆。
巴狄斯丁姑娘回头瞧见那人朝门里走，吓得站不直身子，过了一会才慢慢地转过头去，对着壁炉，望着她哥，她的面色又转成深沉恬静的了。
主教用镇静的目光瞧着那人。
他正要开口问那新来的人需要什么，那人双手靠在他的棍上，把老人和两个妇人来回地看着，不等主教开口，便大声说：
“请听我说。我叫冉阿让。我是个苦役犯。在监牢里过了十九年。出狱四天了，现在我要去蓬塔利埃，那是我的目的地。我从土伦走来，已经走了四天了，我今天一天就走了十二法里。天黑时才到这地方，我到过一家客店，只因为我在市政厅请验了黄护照，就被人赶了出来。那又是非请验不可的。我又走到另外一家客店。他们对我说：‘滚！’这家不要我。那家也不要我。我又到了监狱，看门的人也不肯开门。我也到过狗窝。那狗咬了我，也把我撵了出来，好象它也是人似的，好象它也知道我是谁似的。我就跑到田里，打算露天过一宵。可是天上没有星。我想天要下雨了，又没有好天主阻挡下雨，我再回到城里，想找个门洞。那边，在那空地里，有一块石板，我正躺下去，一个婆婆把您这房子指给我瞧，对我说：‘您去敲敲那扇门。’我已经敲过了。这是什么地方？是客店吗？我有钱。我有积蓄。一百○九个法郎十五个苏，我在监牢里用十九年的工夫作工赚来的。可以付账。那有什么关系？我有钱。我困极了，走了十二法里，我饿得很。您肯让我歇下吗？”
“马格洛大娘，”主教说，“加一副刀叉。”
那人走了三步，靠近台上的那盏灯。“不是，”他说，仿佛他没有听懂似的，“不是这个意思。您听见了没有？我是一个苦役犯，一个罚作苦役的罪犯。我是刚从牢里出来的。”他从衣袋里抽出一张大黄纸，展开说：“这就是我的护照。黄的，您瞧。这东西害我处处受人撵。您要念吗？我能念，我，我在牢里念过书。那里有个学校，愿意读书的人都可以进去。您听吧，这就是写在纸上的话：‘冉阿让，苦役犯，刑满释放，原籍……’您不一定要知道我是什么地方人，‘处狱中凡十九年。计穿墙行窃，五年。四次企图越狱，十四年。为人异常险狠。’就这样！大家都把我撵出来，您肯收留我吗？您这是客店吗？您肯给我吃，给我睡吗？您有一间马房没有？”
“马格洛大娘，”主教说，“您在壁厢里的床上铺上一条白床单。”
我们已解释过那两个妇人的服从性是怎样的。
马格洛大娘即刻出去执行命令。
主教转过身来，朝着那人。
“先生，请坐，烤烤火。等一会儿，我们就吃晚饭，您吃着的时候，您的床也就会预备好的。”
到这时，那人才完全懂了。他的那副一向阴沉严肃的面孔显出惊讶、疑惑和欢乐，变得很奇特，他好象一个疯子，低声慢气地说：
“真的吗？怎么？您留我吗？您不撵我走！一个苦役犯！您叫我做‘先生’！和我说话，您不用‘你’字。‘滚！狗东西！’人家总那样叫我。我还以为您一定会撵我走呢。并且我一上来就说明我是谁。呵！那个好婆婆，她把这地方告诉了我。我有晚饭吃了！有床睡了！一张有褥子、垫单的床！和旁人一样！十九年我没有睡在床上了，您当真不要我走！您是有天良的人！并且我有钱。我自然要付账的。对不起，客店老板先生，您贵姓？随便您要多少，我都照付。您是个好人。您是客店老板，不是吗？”
“我是一个住在此地的神甫。”主教说。
“一个神甫！”那人说。“呵，好一个神甫！那么您不要我的钱吗？本堂神甫，是吗？那个大教堂里的本堂神甫。对呀！真是，我多么蠢，我刚才还没有注意看您的小帽子！”
他一面说，一面把布袋和棍子放在屋角里，随后又把护照插进衣袋，然后坐下去，巴狄斯丁姑娘和蔼地瞧着他。他继续说：
“您是有人道的，本堂神甫先生。您没有瞧不起人的心。一个好神甫真是好。那么您不要我付账吗？”“不用付账，”主教说，“留着您的钱吧。您有多少？您没有说过一百○九个法郎吗？”
“还得加上十五个苏。”那人说。
“一百○九个法郎十五个苏。您花了多少时间赚来的？”
“十九年。”
“十九年！”
主教深深地叹了一口气。
那人接着说：
“我的钱，全都在。这四天里我只用了二十五个苏，那二十五个苏是我在格拉斯地方帮着卸车上的货物赚来的。您既是神甫，我就得和您说，从前在我们牢里有个布道神甫。一天，我又看见一个主教。大家都称他做‘主教大人’。那是马赛马若尔教堂的主教。他是一些神甫头上的神甫。请您原谅，您知道，我不会说话；对我来说，实在说不好！您知道，象我们这种人！他在监狱里一个祭台上做过弥撒，头上有个尖的金玩意儿。在中午的阳光里，那玩意几照得多么亮。我们一行行排着，三面围着。在我们的前面，有许多大炮，引火绳子也点着了。我们看不大清楚。他对我们讲话，但是他站得太靠里了，我们听不见。那样就是一个主教。”
他谈着，主教走去关上那扇敞着的门。
马格洛大娘又进来，拿着一套餐具，摆在桌子上。“马格洛大娘，”主教说，“您把这套餐具摆在靠近火的地方。”他又转过去朝着他的客人：
“阿尔卑斯山里的夜风是够受的。先生，您大约很冷吧？”
每次他用他那种柔和严肃、诚意待客的声音说出“先生”那两个字时，那人总是喜形于色。“先生”对于罪犯，正象一杯水对于墨杜萨①的遭难音。蒙羞的人都渴望别人的尊重。
“这盏灯，”主教说，“太不亮了。” 
①墨杜萨（Méduse），船名，一八一六年七月二日在距非洲西岸四十海里地方遇险。一百四十九个旅客改乘木排，在海上飘了十二天，旅客多因饥渴死去。得救者十五人。
马格洛大娘会意，走到主教的卧室里，从壁炉上拿了那两个银烛台，点好放在桌上。
“神甫先生，”那人说，“您真好。您并不瞧不起我。您让我住在您的家里，您为我点起蜡烛。我并没有瞒您我是从什么地方来的，也没有瞒您我是一个倒霉蛋。”
主教坐在他身旁，轻轻按着他的手。
“您不用向我说您是谁。这并不是我的房子，这是耶稣基督的房子。这扇门并不问走进来的人有没有名字，但是要问他是否有痛苦。您有痛苦，您又饿又渴，您安心待下吧。并且不应当谢我，不应当说我把您留在我的家里。除非是需要住处的人，谁也不是在自己家里。您是过路的人，我告诉您，与其说我是在我的家里，倒不如说您是在您的家里。这儿所有的东西都是您的。我为什么要知道您的名字呢？并且在您把您的名字告诉我以前，您已经有了一个名字，是我早知道了的。”
那个人睁圆了眼，有些莫名其妙。
“真的吗？您早已知道我的名字吗？”
“对，”主教回答说，“您的名字叫‘我的兄弟’。”
“真怪，神甫先生，”那人叫着说，“我进来时肚子是真饿，但是您这么好，我已经不知道饿了，我已经不饿了。”
主教望着他，向他说：
“您很吃过一些苦吧？”
“穿红衣，脚上拖铁球，睡觉只有一块木板，受热，受冷，做苦工，编到苦囚队里，挨棍子！没有一点事也得拖上夹链条。说错一个字就关黑屋子。病在床上也得拖着链子，狗，狗还快乐些呢！十九年！我已经四十六岁了。现在还得带张黄护照，就这样。”
“是呀，”主教说，“您是从苦地方出来的。您听吧。一个流着泪忏悔的罪人在天上所得的快乐，比一百个穿白衣的善人还更能获得上天的喜爱呢。您从那个苦地方出来，如果还有愤怒憎恨别人的心，那您真是值得可怜的；如果您怀着善心、仁爱、和平的思想，那您就比我们中的任何人都还高贵些。”
马格洛大娘把晚餐开出来了。一盆用白开水、植物油、面包和盐做的汤，还有一点咸肉、一块羊肉、无花果、新鲜乳酪和一大块黑麦面包。她在主教先生的日常食物之外，主动加了一瓶陈年母福酒。
主教的脸上忽然起了好客的人所特有的那种愉快神情。
“请坐。”他连忙说。如同平日留客晚餐一样，他请那人坐在他的右边，巴狄斯丁姑娘，完全宁静自如，坐在他的左边。
主教依照他的习惯，先做祷告，再亲手分汤。那人贪婪地吃起来。
主教忽然说：“桌上好象少了一件东西。”
马格洛大娘的确没有摆上那三副绝不可少的餐具。照这一家人的习惯，主教留客晚餐时，总得在台布上陈设上那六份银器，这其实是一种可有可无的陈设。那种温雅的假奢华是这一家人的一种饶有情趣的稚气，把清寒的景象提高到富华的气派。
马格洛大娘领会到他的意思，一声不响，走了出去，不大一会，主教要的那三副食具，在三位进餐人的面前齐齐整整地摆出来了，在台布上面闪闪发光。
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 4 Details concerning the Cheese-Dairies of Pontarlier
Now, in order to convey an idea of what passed at that table, we cannot do better than to transcribe here a passage from one of Mademoiselle Baptistine's letters to Madame Boischevron, wherein the conversation between the convict and the Bishop is described with ingenious minuteness.
". . . This man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the voracity of a starving man. However, after supper he said:
"`Monsieur le Cure of the good God, all this is far too good for me; but I must say that the carters who would not allow me to eat with them keep a better table than you do.'
"Between ourselves, the remark rather shocked me. My brother replied:-
"`They are more fatigued than I.'
"`No,' returned the man, `they have more money. You are poor; I see that plainly. You cannot be even a curate. Are you really a cure? Ah, if the good God were but just, you certainly ought to be a cure!'
"`The good God is more than just,' said my brother.
"A moment later he added:--
"`Monsieur Jean Valjean, is it to Pontarlier that you are going?'
"`With my road marked out for me.'
"I think that is what the man said. Then he went on:--
"`I must be on my way by daybreak to-morrow. Travelling is hard. If the nights are cold, the days are hot.'
"`You are going to a good country,' said my brother. `During the Revolution my family was ruined. I took refuge in Franche-Comte at first, and there I lived for some time by the toil of my hands. My will was good. I found plenty to occupy me. One has only to choose. There are paper mills, tanneries, distilleries, oil factories, watch factories on a large scale, steel mills, copper works, twenty iron foundries at least, four of which, situated at Lods, at Chatillon, at Audincourt, and at Beure, are tolerably large.'
"I think I am not mistaken in saying that those are the names which my brother mentioned. Then he interrupted himself and addressed me:--
"`Have we not some relatives in those parts, my dear sister?'
"I replied,--
"`We did have some; among others, M. de Lucenet, who was captain of the gates at Pontarlier under the old regime.'
"`Yes,' resumed my brother; `but in '93, one had no longer any relatives, one had only one's arms. I worked. They have, in the country of Pontarlier, whither you are going, Monsieur Valjean, a truly patriarchal and truly charming industry, my sister. It is their cheese-dairies, which they call fruitieres.'
"Then my brother, while urging the man to eat, explained to him, with great minuteness, what these fruitieres of Pontarlier were; that they were divided into two classes: the big barns which belong to the rich, and where there are forty or fifty cows which produce from seven to eight thousand cheeses each summer, and the associated fruitieres, which belong to the poor; these are the peasants of mid-mountain, who hold their cows in common, and share the proceeds. `They engage the services of a cheese-maker, whom they call the grurin; the grurin receives the milk of the associates three times a day, and marks the quantity on a double tally. It is towards the end of April that the work of the cheese-dairies begins; it is towards the middle of June that the cheese-makers drive their cows to the mountains.'
"The man recovered his animation as he ate. My brother made him drink that good Mauves wine, which he does not drink himself, because he says that wine is expensive. My brother imparted all these details with that easy gayety of his with which you are acquainted, interspersing his words with graceful attentions to me. He recurred frequently to that comfortable trade of grurin, as though he wished the man to understand, without advising him directly and harshly, that this would afford him a refuge. One thing struck me. This man was what I have told you. Well, neither during supper, nor during the entire evening, did my brother utter a single word, with the exception of a few words about Jesus when he entered, which could remind the man of what he was, nor of what my brother was. To all appearances, it was an occasion for preaching him a little sermon, and of impressing the Bishop on the convict, so that a mark of the passage might remain behind. This might have appeared to any one else who had this, unfortunate man in his hands to afford a chance to nourish his soul as well as his body, and to bestow upon him some reproach, seasoned with moralizing and advice, or a little commiseration, with an exhortation to conduct himself better in the future. My brother did not even ask him from what country he came, nor what was his history. For in his history there is a fault, and my brother seemed to avoid everything which could remind him of it. To such a point did he carry it, that at one time, when my brother was speaking of the mountaineers of Pontarlier, who exercise a gentle labor near heaven, and who, he added, are happy because they are innocent, he stopped short, fearing lest in this remark there might have escaped him something which might wound the man. By dint of reflection, I think I have comprehended what was passing in my brother's heart. He was thinking, no doubt, that this man, whose name is Jean Valjean, had his misfortune only too vividly present in his mind; that the best thing was to divert him from it, and to make him believe, if only momentarily, that he was a person like any other, by treating him just in his ordinary way. Is not this indeed, to understand charity well? Is there not, dear Madame, something truly evangelical in this delicacy which abstains from sermon, from moralizing, from allusions? and is not the truest pity, when a man has a sore point, not to touch it at all? It has seemed to me that this might have been my brother's private thought. In any case, what I can say is that, if he entertained all these ideas, he gave no sign of them; from beginning to end, even to me he was the same as he is every evening, and he supped with this Jean Valjean with the same air and in the same manner in which he would have supped with M. Gedeon le Provost, or with the curate of the parish.
"Towards the end, when he had reached the figs, there came a knock at the door. It was Mother Gerbaud, with her little one in her arms. My brother kissed the child on the brow, and borrowed fifteen sous which I had about me to give to Mother Gerbaud. The man was not paying much heed to anything then. He was no longer talking, and he seemed very much fatigued. After poor old Gerbaud had taken her departure, my brother said grace; then he turned to the man and said to him, `You must be in great need of your bed.' Madame Magloire cleared the table very promptly. I understood that we must retire, in order to allow this traveller to go to sleep, and we both went up stairs. Nevertheless, I sent Madame Magloire down a moment later, to carry to the man's bed a goat skin from the Black Forest, which was in my room. The nights are frigid, and that keeps one warm. It is a pity that this skin is old; all the hair is falling out. My brother bought it while he was in Germany, at Tottlingen, near the sources of the Danube, as well as the little ivory-handled knife which I use at table.
"Madame Magloire returned immediately. We said our prayers in the drawing-room, where we hang up the linen, and then we each retired to our own chambers, without saying a word to each other."
现在，为了把那餐桌上经过的事大致地说一说，最好是把巴狄斯丁姑娘写给波瓦舍佛隆夫人的信中的一段抄下来，那苦役犯和主教的谈话，在那上面都有了坦率而细致的叙述。
“……那人对谁也不注意。他饿鬼似的贪婪地吃着。吃完汤以后，他说：
“‘慈悲上帝的神甫先生，这一切东西对我来说还确确实实是太好了，但是我得说，不肯和我一道吃饭的那些车夫比您还吃得好些呢。’
“说句私话，我觉得这种观察有些刺耳。我哥答道：
“‘他们要比我疲劳些。’
“‘不，’那人接着说，‘他们的钱多些。您穷。我看得出来。您也许连本堂神甫也还不是吧。您只是一个普通神甫吧？岂有此理，如果慈悲上帝是公平的话，您理应当个神甫。’
“‘公平两字远远不能全部表达慈悲上帝的好处。’我哥说。
“过了一会，他又说：
“‘冉阿让先生，您是要到蓬塔利埃去吗？’
“‘那是指定的路程。’
“我想他一定是那样说的。随后他接着说：
“‘明天一早我就得动身。这段路是很难走的。晚上冷，白天却很热。’
“‘您去的地方倒是个好地方，’我哥说，‘在革命时期我家破了产，起初我躲在法兰什·康地，靠自己的两条胳膊作工度日。我的毅力好。在那里我找到许多工作，只要我们肯选择。有造纸厂、制革广、蒸馏厂、榨油厂、大规模的钟表制造厂、炼钢厂、炼铜厂，铁工厂就至少有二十个，其中四个在洛兹、夏蒂荣、奥当库尔和白尔，这些厂都是很大的。’
“我想我没有搞错吧，我哥说的几个名字一定就是那几个了，随后他自己又把话打断，对我说：
“‘亲爱的妹子，我们有些亲戚住在那里吗？’
“我回答说：
“‘我们从前有过的，在那些亲戚里有德·吕司内先生，革命以前，他是蓬塔利埃的卫戍司令。’
“‘对的，’我哥接着说，‘但到了九三年大家都没有亲戚了，都只靠自己的两只手。我做过工。在蓬塔利埃，您，冉阿让先生，将要去的那地方，有一种历史悠久而极有趣的实业，我的妹妹，这就是他们叫做果品厂的那些乳酪厂。’
“于是我哥一面劝那人吃，一面把篷塔利埃果品厂的内容非常详细地说给他听。厂分两种，‘大仓’是富人的，里面有四十或五十头母牛，每个夏季可以产七千到八千个酪饼；还有合作果品厂是穷人的，半山里的乡下人把他们的牛合起来大伙公养，产品也由大伙分享。他们雇用一个制酪工人，管他叫格鲁阑；格鲁阑把各会友的牛乳收下来，每天三次，同时把分量记在双合板上。四月末，乳酪厂的工作开始；六月中，那些制酪工人就把他们的牛牵到山里去了。
“那人一面吃，一面精神也振作起来了。我哥拿那种好的母福酒给他喝，他自己却不喝，因为他说那种酒贵。我哥带着您所知道的那种怡然自得的愉快神情，把那些琐事讲给他听，谈时还不时露出殷勤的态度。他再三重复说那些格鲁阑的情况良好，好象他既迫切希望那人能懂得那是个安身的好地方，而又感到不便直截了当开导他似的。有件事给了我强烈的印象。那人的来历我已向您说过了，可是，我的哥，在晚餐期间直到就寝前，除了在他刚进门时说了几句关于耶稣的话以外，再也没有说过一个字可以使那人回忆起他自己是谁，也没有一个字可以使那人看出我的哥是谁。在那种场合，似乎很可以告诫他几句，并且可以把主教压在罪犯的头上，暂时给他留下一个印象。如果是别人碰上了这样一个可怜人，他也许会认为，在给以物质食粮的同时，还应当给以精神食粮，不妨在谴责当中附带教训开导一番，或是说些怜惜的话勉励他以后好好做人。我哥却连他的籍贯和历史都没有问。因为在他的历史里，有他的过失，我哥仿佛要避免一切可以使他回忆起那些事的话。他谈到蓬塔利埃的山民，只说他们接近青天，工作舒适。他还说他们快乐，因为他们没有罪过，正说到这儿，他突然停了下来，唯恐他无心说出的那两个字含有可以触犯那人的意思。我仔细想过以后，自信领会了我哥的心思。他心里想，那个叫作冉阿让的人，脑子里苦恼太多了，最好是装出完全没有事的样子，使他感到轻松自在，使他认为他是和旁人一样的一个人。那样，即使只是片刻，也是好的。那岂不是对慈善的最深切的了解吗？我慈祥的夫人，他那样撇开告诫、教训、暗示，岂不是体贴入微，确实高明无比吗？人有痛处，最好的爱护，难道不是绝不去碰它吗？我想这或者就是我哥心里的想法了。无论怎样，我可以说，即使他有过那些心思，却对我也不曾流露过，自然至终，他完全是平时那个人，他那晚和冉阿让进餐，正和他陪着瑞德翁·勒普莱服先生或是总司铎管辖区的司铎进晚餐一样。
“晚餐快完，大家吃着无花果时，有个人来敲门。那是瑞波妈妈，手里抱着她的小孩。我哥吻了吻那孩子的额头，向我借去身上的十五个苏，给了瑞波妈妈。那人到了这时，已经不大留心，注意力已不怎么集中了。他不再说话，显得非常疲倦。可怜的老瑞波走了以后，我哥念了谢食文，随后又转过身去，向那人说：‘您大概很需要上床休息了。’马格洛大娘赶忙收拾桌子。我知道我们应当走开，让那旅客去休息，两个人便一同上了楼。过了一会，我又派马格洛大娘把我房里的那张黑森林麂子皮送到那人的床上。夜间冰冷，那东西可以御寒。可惜那张皮已经旧了，毛已落光。它是我哥从前住在德国多瑙河发源地附近的多德林根城时买的，我在餐桌上用的那把象牙柄的小刀也是在那地方同时买的。
“马格洛大娘几乎即刻就上楼来了，我们在晾洗衣服的屋子里祷告了上帝，随后，各自回到自己的房间，没有再谈什么。”
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 5 Tranquillity
After bidding his sister good night, Monseigneur Bienvenu took one of the two silver candlesticks from the table, handed the other to his guest, and said to him,--
"Monsieur, I will conduct you to your room."
The man followed him.
As might have been observed from what has been said above, the house was so arranged that in order to pass into the oratory where the alcove was situated, or to get out of it, it was necessary to traverse the Bishop's bedroom.
At the moment when he was crossing this apartment, Madame Magloire was putting away the silverware in the cupboard near the head of the bed. This was her last care every evening before she went to bed.
The Bishop installed his guest in the alcove. A fresh white bed had been prepared there. The man set the candle down on a small table.
"Well," said the Bishop, "may you pass a good night. To-morrow morning, before you set out, you shall drink a cup of warm milk from our cows."
"Thanks, Monsieur l'Abbe," said the man.
Hardly had he pronounced these words full of peace, when all of a sudden, and without transition, he made a strange movement, which would have frozen the two sainted women with horror, had they witnessed it. Even at this day it is difficult for us to explain what inspired him at that moment. Did he intend to convey a warning or to throw out a menace? Was he simply obeying a sort of instinctive impulse which was obscure even to himself? He turned abruptly to the old man, folded his arms, and bending upon his host a savage gaze, he exclaimed in a hoarse voice:--
"Ah! really! You lodge me in your house, close to yourself like this?"
He broke off, and added with a laugh in which there lurked something monstrous:--
"Have you really reflected well? How do you know that I have not been an assassin?"
The Bishop replied:--
"That is the concern of the good God."
Then gravely, and moving his lips like one who is praying or talking to himself, he raised two fingers of his right hand and bestowed his benediction on the man, who did not bow, and without turning his head or looking behind him, he returned to his bedroom.
When the alcove was in use, a large serge curtain drawn from wall to wall concealed the altar. The Bishop knelt before this curtain as he passed and said a brief prayer. A moment later he was in his garden, walking, meditating, conteplating, his heart and soul wholly absorbed in those grand and mysterious things which God shows at night to the eyes which remain open.
As for the man, he was actually so fatigued that he did not even profit by the nice white sheets. Snuffing out his candle with his nostrils after the manner of convicts, he dropped, all dressed as he was, upon the bed, where he immediately fell into a profound sleep.
Midnight struck as the Bishop returned from his garden to his apartment.
A few minutes later all were asleep in the little house.
卞福汝主教和他的妹子道过晚安以后，从桌上拿起一个银烛台，并把另外那一个交给他的客人，说：
“先生，我来引您到您的房间里去。”
那人跟着他走。
我们在上面已经谈到过那所房子的结构形式，到那间有壁厢的祈祷室里去，或是从里面出来，都得经过主教的卧室。
他们穿过那屋子时，马格洛大娘正把那些银杯盏塞进他床头的壁橱，那是她每晚就寝以前要做的最后一件事。
主教把他的客人安顿在壁厢里。那里安着一张洁白的床。
那人把烛台放在一张小桌上。
“好了，”主教说，“好好唾一晚吧。明天早晨，您在动身以前，再喝一杯我们家里的热牛奶。”
“谢谢教士先生。”那人说。
那句极平静的话刚说出口，他忽然加上一个奇怪的动作，假使那两个圣女看见了，她们一定会吓得发呆的。直到现在，我们还难于肯定他当时是受了什么力量的主使。他是要给个警告还是想进行恐吓呢？还是他受了一种连他自己也无法了解的本能的冲动呢？他蓦地转过身来对着那老人，叉起胳膊，用一种凶横的目光望着他的房主，并且粗声地喊道：
“呀哈！真的吗？您让我睡在离您这样近的地方吗？”
他又接上一阵狰狞的笑声，说道：
“您全想清楚了吗？谁向您说我不曾杀过人呢？”
主教抬起头，望着天花板，回答说：
“那只干上帝的事。”
随后，他严肃地动着嘴唇，好象一个做祷告或自言自语的人，伸出他右手的两个指头，为那人祝福，那人并没有低头，他不掉头也不朝后看，就回到自己的屋子里去了。
壁厢里有人住时，他总把一方大哗叽帷布拉开，遮住神座。主教走过帷布跟前，跪下去做了一回短短的祈祷。过了一会，他到了他的园里，散步。潜思，默想，心灵和思想全寄托在上帝在晚间为所有尚未合眼的人显示的伟大神秘的事物上面。
至于那人，确是太困了，连那洁白的床单也没有享用，他用鼻孔（这是囚犯们的作法）吹灭了烛，和衣倒在床上，立即睡熟了。
主教从园中回到他住宅时，钟正敲着十二点。
几分钟过后，那所小房子里的一切全都睡去了。
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 6 Jean Valjean
Towards the middle of the night Jean Valjean woke.
Jean Valjean came from a poor peasant family of Brie. He had not learned to read in his childhood. When he reached man's estate, be became a tree-pruner at Faverolles. His mother was named Jeanne Mathieu; his father was called Jean Valjean or Vlajean, probably a sobriquet, and a contraction of viola Jean, "here's Jean."
Jean Valjean was of that thoughtful but not gloomy disposition which constitutes the peculiarity of affectionate natures. On the whole, however, there was something decidedly sluggish and insignificant about Jean Valjean in appearance, at least. He had lost his father and mother at a very early age. His mother had died of a milk fever, which had not been properly attended to. His father, a tree-pruner, like himself, had been killed by a fall from a tree. All that remained to Jean Valjean was a sister older than himself,--a widow with seven children, boys and girls. This sister had brought up Jean Valjean, and so long as she had a husband she lodged and fed her young brother.
The husband died. The eldest of the seven children was eight years old. The youngest, one.
Jean Valjean had just attained his twenty-fifth year. He took the father's place, and, in his turn, supported the sister who had brought him up. This was done simply as a duty and even a little churlishly on the part of Jean Valjean. Thus his youth had been spent in rude and ill-paid toil. He had never known a "kind woman friend" in his native parts. He had not had the time to fall in love.
He returned at night weary, and ate his broth without uttering a word. His sister, mother Jeanne, often took the best part of his repast from his bowl while he was eating,--a bit of meat, a slice of bacon, the heart of the cabbage,--to give to one of her children. As he went on eating, with his head bent over the table and almost into his soup, his long hair falling about his bowl and concealing his eyes, he had the air of perceiving nothing and allowing it. There was at Faverolles, not far from the Valjean thatched cottage, on the other side of the lane, a farmer's wife named Marie-Claude; the Valjean children, habitually famished, sometimes went to borrow from Marie-Claude a pint of milk, in their mother's name, which they drank behind a hedge or in some alley corner, snatching the jug from each other so hastily that the little girls spilled it on their aprons and down their necks. If their mother had known of this marauding, she would have punished the delinquents severely. Jean Valjean gruffly and grumblingly paid Marie-Claude for the pint of milk behind their mother's back, and the children were not punished.
In pruning season he earned eighteen sous a day; then he hired out as a hay-maker, as laborer, as neat-herd on a farm, as a drudge. He did whatever he could. His sister worked also but what could she do with seven little children? It was a sad group enveloped in misery, which was being gradually annihilated. A very hard winter came. Jean had no work. The family had no bread. No bread literally. Seven children!
One Sunday evening, Maubert Isabeau, the baker on the Church Square at Faverolles, was preparing to go to bed, when he heard a violent blow on the grated front of his shop. He arrived in time to see an arm passed through a hole made by a blow from a fist, through the grating and the glass. The arm seized a loaf of bread and carried it off. Isabeau ran out in haste; the robber fled at the full speed of his legs. Isabeau ran after him and stopped him. The thief had flung away the loaf, but his arm was still bleeding. It was Jean Valjean.
This took place in 1795. Jean Valjean was taken before the tribunals of the time for theft and breaking and entering an inhabited house at night. He had a gun which he used better than any one else in the world, he was a bit of a poacher, and this injured his case. There exists a legitimate prejudice against poachers. The poacher, like the smuggler, smacks too strongly of the brigand. Nevertheless, we will remark cursorily, there is still an abyss between these races of men and the hideous assassin of the towns. The poacher lives in the forest, the smuggler lives in the mountains or on the sea. The cities make ferocious men because they make corrupt men. The mountain, the sea, the forest, make savage men; they develop the fierce side, but often without destroying the humane side.
Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty. The terms of the Code were explicit. There occur formidable hours in our civilization; there are moments when the penal laws decree a shipwreck. What an ominous minute is that in which society draws back and consummates the irreparable abandonment of a sentient being! Jean Valjean was condemned to five years in the galleys.
On the 22d of April, 1796, the victory of Montenotte, won by the general-in-chief of the army of Italy, whom the message of the Directory to the Five Hundred, of the 2d of Floreal, year IV., calls Buona-Parte, was announced in Paris; on that same day a great gang of galley-slaves was put in chains at Bicetre. Jean Valjean formed a part of that gang. An old turnkey of the prison, who is now nearly eighty years old, still recalls perfectly that unfortunate wretch who was chained to the end of the fourth line, in the north angle of the courtyard. He was seated on the ground like the others. He did not seem to comprehend his position, except that it was horrible. It is probable that he, also, was disentangling from amid the vague ideas of a poor man, ignorant of everything, something excessive. While the bolt of his iron collar was being riveted behind his head with heavy blows from the hammer, he wept, his tears stifled him, they impeded his speech; he only managed to say from time to time, "I was a tree-pruner at Faverolles." Then still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered it gradually seven times, as though he were touching in succession seven heads of unequal heights, and from this gesture it was divined that the thing which he had done, whatever it was, he had done for the sake of clothing and nourishing seven little children.
He set out for Toulon. He arrived there, after a journey of twenty-seven days, on a cart, with a chain on his neck. At Toulon he was clothed in the red cassock. All that had constituted his life, even to his name, was effaced; he was no longer even Jean Valjean; he was number 24,601. What became of his sister? What became of the seven children? Who troubled himself about that? What becomes of the handful of leaves from the young tree which is sawed off at the root?
It is always the same story. These poor living beings, these creatures of God, henceforth without support, without guide, without refuge, wandered away at random,--who even knows?-- each in his own direction perhaps, and little by little buried themselves in that cold mist which engulfs solitary destinies; gloomy shades, into which disappear in succession so many unlucky heads, in the sombre march of the human race. They quitted the country. The clock-tower of what had been their village forgot them; the boundary line of what had been their field forgot them; after a few years' residence in the galleys, Jean Valjean himself forgot them. In that heart, where there had been a wound, there was a scar. That is all. Only once, during all the time which he spent at Toulon, did he hear his sister mentioned. This happened, I think, towards the end of the fourth year of his captivity. I know not through what channels the news reached him. Some one who had known them in their own country had seen his sister. She was in Paris. She lived in a poor street Rear Saint-Sulpice, in the Rue du Gindre. She had with her only one child, a little boy, the youngest. Where were the other six? Perhaps she did not know herself. Every morning she went to a printing office, No. 3 Rue du Sabot, where she was a folder and stitcher. She was obliged to be there at six o'clock in the morning--long before daylight in winter. In the same building with the printing office there was a school, and to this school she took her little boy, who was seven years old. But as she entered the printing office at six, and the school only opened at seven, the child had to wait in the courtyard, for the school to open, for an hour--one hour of a winter night in the open air! They would not allow the child to come into the printing office, because he was in the way, they said. When the workmen passed in the morning, they beheld this poor little being seated on the pavement, overcome with drowsiness, and often fast asleep in the shadow, crouched down and doubled up over his basket. When it rained, an old woman, the portress, took pity on him; she took him into her den, where there was a pallet, a spinning-wheel, and two wooden chairs, and the little one slumbered in a corner, pressing himself close to the cat that he might suffer less from cold. At seven o'clock the school opened, and he entered. That is what was told to Jean Valjean.
They talked to him about it for one day; it was a moment, a flash, as though a window had suddenly been opened upon the destiny of those things whom he had loved; then all closed again. He heard nothing more forever. Nothing from them ever reached him again; he never beheld them; he never met them again; and in the continuation of this mournful history they will not be met with any more.
Towards the end of this fourth year Jean Valjean's turn to escape arrived. His comrades assisted him, as is the custom in that sad place. He escaped. He wandered for two days in the fields at liberty, if being at liberty is to be hunted, to turn the head every instant, to quake at the slightest noise, to be afraid of everything,--of a smoking roof, of a passing man, of a barking dog, of a galloping horse, of a striking clock, of the day because one can see, of the night because one cannot see, of the highway, of the path, of a bush, of sleep. On the evening of the second day he was captured. He had neither eaten nor slept for thirty-six hours. The maritime tribunal condemned him, for this crime, to a prolongation of his term for three years, which made eight years. In the sixth year his turn to escape occurred again; he availed himself of it, but could not accomplish his flight fully. He was missing at roll-call. The cannon were fired, and at night the patrol found him hidden under the keel of a vessel in process of construction; he resisted the galley guards who seized him. Escape and rebellion. This case, provided for by a special code, was punished by an addition of five years, two of them in the double chain. Thirteen years. In the tenth year his turn came round again; he again profited by it; he succeeded no better. Three years for this fresh attempt. Sixteen years. Finally, I think it was during his thirteenth year, he made a last attempt, and only succeeded in getting retaken at the end of four hours of absence. Three years for those four hours. Nineteen years. In October, 1815, he was released; he had entered there in 1796, for having broken a pane of glass and taken a loaf of bread.
Room for a brief parenthesis. This is the second time, during his studies on the penal question and damnation by law, that the author of this book has come across the theft of a loaf of bread as the point of departure for the disaster of a destiny. Claude Gaux had stolen a loaf; Jean Valjean had stolen a loaf. English statistics prove the fact that four thefts out of five in London have hunger for their immediate cause.
Jean Valjean had entered the galleys sobbing and shuddering; he emerged impassive. He had entered in despair; he emerged gloomy.
What had taken place in that soul?
半夜，冉阿让醒了。
冉阿让生在布里的一个贫农家里。他幼年不识字。成人以后，在法维洛勒做修树枝的工人，他的母亲叫让·马弟，他的父亲叫冉阿让，或让来，让来大致是浑名，也是“阿让来了”的简音。
冉阿让生来就好用心思，但并不沉郁，那是富于情感的人的特性。但是他多少有些昏昏沉沉、无足轻重的味儿，至少表面如此。他在很小时就失去父母。他的母亲是因为害乳炎，诊治失当死的。他的父亲和他一样，也是个修树枝的工人，从树上摔下来死的。冉阿让只剩一个姐姐，姐姐孀居，有七个子女。把冉阿让抚养成人的就是这个姐姐。丈夫在世时，她一直负担着她小弟弟的膳宿。丈夫死了。七个孩子中最大的一个有八岁，最小的一岁。冉阿让刚到二十五岁，他代行父职，帮助姐姐，报答她当年抚养之恩。那是很自然的事，象一种天职似的，冉阿让甚至做得有些过火。他的青年时期便是那样在干着报酬微薄的辛苦工作中消磨过去的。他家乡的人从来没有听说他有过“女朋友”。他没有时间去想爱情问题。
他天黑回家，精疲力尽，一言不发，吃他的菜汤。他吃时，他姐姐让妈妈，时常从他的汤瓢里把他食物中最好的一些东西，一块瘦肉，一片肥肉，白菜的心，拿给她的一个孩子吃。他呢，俯在桌上，头几乎浸在汤里，头发垂在瓢边，遮着他的眼睛，只管吃，好象全没看见，让人家拿。
在法维洛勒的那条小街上，阿让茅屋斜对面的地方，住着一个农家妇女，叫玛丽－克洛德，阿让家的孩子们，挨饿是常事，他们有时冒他们母亲的名，到玛丽－克洛德那里去借一勺牛奶，躲在篱笆后面或路角上喝起来，大家拿那奶罐抢来抢去，使那些小女孩子紧张到泼得身上、颈子上都是奶。母亲如果知道了这种欺诈行为，一定会严厉惩罚这些小骗子的。冉阿让气冲冲，嘴里唠叨不绝，瞒着孩子们的母亲把牛奶钱照付给玛丽－克洛德，他们才没有挨揍。
在修树枝的季节里，他每天可以赚十八个苏，过后他就替人家当割麦零工、小工、牧牛人、苦工。他做他能做的事。他的姐也作工，但是拖着七个孩子怎么办呢？那是一群苦恼的人，穷苦把他们逐渐围困起来。有一年冬季，冉阿让找不到工作。
家里没有面包。绝对没有一点面包，却有七个孩子。
住在法维洛勒的天主堂广场上的面包店老板穆伯·易查博，一个星期日的晚上正预备去睡时，忽听得有人在他铺子的那个装了铁丝网的玻璃橱窗上使劲打了一下。他赶来正好看见一只手从铁丝网和玻璃上被拳头打破的一个洞里伸进来，把一块面包抓走了。易查博赶忙追出来，那小偷也拚命逃，易查博跟在他后面追，捉住了他。他丢了面包，胳膊却还流着血。
那正是冉阿让。
那是一七九五年的事。冉阿让被控为“黑夜破坏有人住着的房屋入内行窃”，送到当时的法院。他原有一枝枪，他比世上任何枪手都射得好，有时并且喜欢私自打猎，那对他是很不利的。大家对私自打猎的人早有一种合法的成见。私自打猎的人正如走私的人，都和土匪相去不远。但是，我们附带说一句，那种人和城市中那些卑鄙无耻的杀人犯比较起来总还有天壤之别。私自打猎的人住在森林里，走私的人住在山中或海上。城市会使人变得凶残，因为它使人腐化堕落。山、海和森林使人变得粗野。它们只发展这种野性，却不毁灭人性。
冉阿让被判罪。法律的条文是死板的。在我们的文明里，有许多令人寒心的时刻，那就是刑法令人陷入绝境的时刻。一个有思想的生物被迫远离社会，遭到了无可挽救的遗弃，那是何等悲惨的日子！冉阿让被宣判服五年苦役。
一七九六年四月二十二日，巴黎正欢呼意大利前线①总指挥（共和四年花月二日执政内阁致五百人院咨文中称作Buona－Parte②的那位总指挥）在芒泰诺泰③所获的胜利。这同一天，在比塞特监狱中却扣上了一长条铁链。冉阿让便是那铁链上的一个。当时的一个禁子，现在已年近九十了，还记得非常清楚，那天，那个可怜人待在院子的北角上，被锁在第四条链子的末尾。他和其余的犯人一样，坐在地上。他除了知道他的地位可怕以外好象完全莫名其妙。或许在他那种全无知识的穷人的混沌观念里，他多少也还觉得在这件事里有些过火的地方。当别人在他脑后用大锤钉着他枷上的大头钉时，他不禁痛哭起来。眼泪使他气塞，呜咽不能成声。他只能断续地说：“我是法维洛勒修树枝的工人。”过后，他一面痛哭，一面伸起他的右手，缓缓地按下去，这样一共做了七次，好象他依次抚摩了七个高矮不齐的头顶。我们从他这动作上可以猜想到，他所做的任何事全是为了那七个孩子的衣食。 
①当时欧洲联盟国的军队从意大利和莱茵河两方面进攻革命的法国，拿破仑从意大利出击，在意大利境内击溃奥地利军队以后，直趋维也纳，以一年时间，迫使奥地利求和。
②拿破仑出生于科西嘉岛，该岛原属意大利，一七六八年卖给法国。他的姓，Bonaparte（波拿巴），按原来意大利文写法是Buonaparte。此处所言咨文，将一字写成两字，盖当时其名未显，以致发生这一错误。
③芒泰诺泰（Montenotte），意大利北部距法国国境不远的一个村镇。
他出发到土伦去。他乘着小车，颈上悬着铁链，经过二十七天的路程到了那地方。在土伦，他穿上红色囚衣。他生命中的一切全消灭了，连他的名字也消灭了。他已不再是冉阿让，而是二四六○一号。姐姐怎样了呢？七个孩子怎样了呢？谁照顾他们呢？一棵年轻的树被大齐根锯了，它的一撮嫩叶怎样了呢？
那是千篇一律的经过，那些可怜的活生生的人，上帝的创造物，从此无所凭借，无人指导，无处栖身，只得随着机缘东飘西荡，谁还能知道呵？或者是人各一方，渐渐陷入苦命人的那种丧身亡命的凄凉的迷雾里，一经进入人类的悲惨行列，他们便和那些不幸的黔首一样，一个接一个地消失了。他们背井离乡。他们乡村里的钟塔忘了他们，他们田地边的界石也忘了他们，冉阿让在监牢里住了几年之后，自己也忘了那些东西。在他的心上，从前有过一条伤口，后来只剩下一条伤痕，如是而已。关于他姐姐的消息，他在土伦从始至终只听见人家稍稍谈到过一次。那仿佛是在他坐监的第四年末。我已经想不起他是从什么地方得到了那消息。有个和他们相识的同乡人看见过他姐姐，说她到了巴黎。她住在常德尔街，即圣稣尔比斯教堂附近的一条穷街。她只带着一个孩子，她最小的那个男孩。其余的六个到什么地方去了呢？也许连她自己也不知道。每天早晨，她到木鞋街三号，一个印刷厂里去，她在那里做装订的女工。早晨六点她就得到厂，在冬季，那时离天亮还很早。在那印刷厂里有个小学校，她每天领着那七岁的孩子到学校里去读书。只不过她六点到厂，学校要到七点才开门，那孩子只好在院里等上一个钟头，等学校开门。到了冬天，那一个钟点是在黑暗中露天里等过的。他们不肯让那孩子进印刷厂的门，因为有人说他碍事。那些工人清早路过那里时，总看见那小把戏沉沉欲睡坐在石子路上，并且常是在一个黑暗的角落里，他蹲在地上，伏在他的篮子上便睡着了。下雨时，那个看门的老婆子看了过意不去，便把他引到她那破屋子里去，那屋子里只有一张破床、一架纺车和两张木椅，小孩便睡在屋角里，紧紧抱着一只猫，可以少受一点冻。到七点，学校开门了，他便跑进去。以上便是冉阿让听到的话。人家那天把这消息告诉他，那只是极短暂的一刹那，好象一扇窗子忽然开了，让他看了一眼他心爱的那些亲人的命运后随即一切又都隔绝了。从此以后，他再也没有听见人家说到过他们，永远没有得到过关于他们的其他消息，永远没有和他们再见面，也永远没有遇见过他们，并且就是在这一段悲惨故事的后半段，我们也不会再见到他们了。
到了第四年末，冉阿让有了越狱的机会。他的同伙帮助他逃走，这类事是同处困境中人常会发生的。他逃走了，在田野里自由地游荡了两天，如果自由这两个字的意义是这样的一些内容：受包围，时时朝后看，听见一点声音便吃惊，害怕一切，害怕冒烟的屋顶、过路的行人、狗叫、马跑、钟鸣、看得见东西的白昼、看不见东西的黑夜、大路、小路、树丛、睡眠。在第二天晚上，他又被逮住了。三十六个钟头以来他没有吃也没有睡。海港法庭对他这次过失，判决延长拘禁期三年，一共是八年。到第六年他又有了越狱的机会，他要利用那机会，但是他没能逃脱。点名时他不在。警炮响了，到了晚上，巡夜的人在一只正在建造的船骨里找到了他，他拒捕，但是被捕了。越狱并且拒捕，那种被特别法典预见的事受了加禁五年的处罚。五年当中，要受两年的夹链。一共是十三年。到第十年，他又有了越狱的机会，他又要趁机试一试，仍没有成功。那次的新企图又被判监禁三年。一共是十六年。到末了，我想是在第十三年内，他试了最后的一次，所得的成绩只是在四个钟头之后又被拘捕。那四个钟头换来了三年的监禁。一共是十九年。到一八一五年的十月里他被释放了。他是在一七九六年关进去的，为了打破一块玻璃，拿了一个面包。
此地不妨说一句题外的话。本书作者在他对刑法问题和法律裁判的研究里遇见的那种为了窃取一个面包而造成终身悲局的案情，这是第二次。克洛德·格①偷了一个面包，冉阿让也偷了一个面包。英国的一个统计家说，在伦敦五件窃案里，四件是由饥饿直接引起的。 
①克洛德·格（ClaudeGueux）。雨果一八三四年为穷苦人民呼吁的小说《克洛德·格》的主角。
冉阿让走进牢狱时一面痛哭，面战栗，出狱时却无动于衷；他进去时悲痛失望，出来时老气横秋。
这个人的心有过怎样的波动呢？
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 7 The Interior of Despair
Let us try to say it. 
It is necessary that society should look at these things, because it is itself which creates them. 
He was, as we have said, an ignorant man, but he was not a fool. The light of nature was ignited in him. Unhappiness, which also possesses a clearness of vision of its own, augmented the small amount of daylight which existed in this mind. Beneath the cudgel, beneath the chain, in the cell, in hardship, beneath the burning sun of the galleys, upon the plank bed of the convict, he withdrew into his own consciousness and meditated. 
He constituted himself the tribunal. 
He began by putting himself on trial. 
He recognized the fact that he was not an innocent man unjustly punished. He admitted that he had committed an extreme and blameworthy act; that that loaf of bread would probably not have been refused to him had he asked for it; that, in any case, it would have been better to wait until he could get it through compassion or through work; that it is not an unanswerable argument to say, "Can one wait when one is hungry?" That, in the first place, it is very rare for any one to die of hunger, literally; and next, that, fortunately or unfortunately, man is so constituted that he can suffer long and much, both morally and physically, without dying; that it is therefore necessary to have patience; that that would even have been better for those poor little children; that it had been an act of madness for him, a miserable, unfortunate wretch, to take society at large violently by the collar, and to imagine that one can escape from misery through theft; that that is in any case a poor door through which to escape from misery through which infamy enters; in short, that he was in the wrong. 
Then he asked himself-- 
Whether he had been the only one in fault in his fatal history. Whether it was not a serious thing, that he, a laborer, out of work, that he, an industrious man, should have lacked bread. And whether, the fault once committed and confessed, the chastisement had not been ferocious and disproportioned. Whether there had not been more abuse on the part of the law, in respect to the penalty, than there had been on the part of the culprit in respect to his fault. Whether there had not been an excess of weights in one balance of the scale, in the one which contains expiation. Whether the over-weight of the penalty was not equivalent to the annihilation of the crime, and did not result in reversing the situation, of replacing the fault of the delinquent by the fault of the repression, of converting the guilty man into the victim, and the debtor into the creditor, and of ranging the law definitely on the side of the man who had violated it. 
Whether this penalty, complicated by successive aggravations for attempts at escape, had not ended in becoming a sort of outrage perpetrated by the stronger upon the feebler, a crime of society against the individual, a crime which was being committed afresh every day, a crime which had lasted nineteen years. 
He asked himself whether human society could have the right to force its members to suffer equally in one case for its own unreasonable lack of foresight, and in the other case for its pitiless foresight; and to seize a poor man forever between a defect and an excess, a default of work and an excess of punishment. 
Whether it was not outrageous for society to treat thus precisely those of its members who were the least well endowed in the division of goods made by chance, and consequently the most deserving of consideration. 
These questions put and answered, he judged society and condemned it. 
He condemned it to his hatred. 
He made it responsible for the fate which he was suffering, and he said to himself that it might be that one day he should not hesitate to call it to account. He declared to himself that there was no equilibrium between the harm which he had caused and the harm which was being done to him; he finally arrived at the conclusion that his punishment was not, in truth, unjust, but that it most assuredly was iniquitous. 
Anger may be both foolish and absurd; one can be irritated wrongfully; one is exasperated only when there is some show of right on one's side at bottom. Jean Valjean felt himself exasperated. 
And besides, human society had done him nothing but harm; he had never seen anything of it save that angry face which it calls Justice, and which it shows to those whom it strikes. Men had only touched him to bruise him. Every contact with them had been a blow. Never, since his infancy, since the days of his mother, of his sister, had he ever encountered a friendly word and a kindly glance. From suffering to suffering, he had gradually arrived at the conviction that life is a war; and that in this war he was the conquered. He had no other weapon than his hate. He resolved to whet it in the galleys and to bear it away with him when he departed. 
There was at Toulon a school for the convicts, kept by the Ignorantin friars, where the most necessary branches were taught to those of the unfortunate men who had a mind for them. He was of the number who had a mind. He went to school at the age of forty, and learned to read, to write, to cipher. He felt that to fortify his intelligence was to fortify his hate. In certain cases, education and enlightenment can serve to eke out evil. 
This is a sad thing to say; after having judged society, which had caused his unhappiness, he judged Providence, which had made society, and he condemned it also. 
Thus during nineteen years of torture and slavery, this soul mounted and at the same time fell. Light entered it on one side, and darkness on the other. 
Jean Valjean had not, as we have seen, an evil nature. He was still good when he arrived at the galleys. He there condemned society, and felt that he was becoming wicked; he there condemned Providence, and was conscious that he was becoming impious. 
It is difficult not to indulge in meditation at this point. 
Does human nature thus change utterly and from top to bottom? Can the man created good by God be rendered wicked by man? Can the soul be completely made over by fate, and become evil, fate being evil? Can the heart become misshapen and contract incurable deformities and infirmities under the oppression of a disproportionate unhappiness, as the vertebral column beneath too low a vault? Is there not in every human soul, was there not in the soul of Jean Valjean in particular, a first spark, a divine element, incorruptible in this world, immortal in the other, which good can develop, fan, ignite, and make to glow with splendor, and which evil can never wholly extinguish? 
Grave and obscure questions, to the last of which every physiologist would probably have responded no, and that without hesitation, had he beheld at Toulon, during the hours of repose, which were for Jean Valjean hours of revery, this gloomy galley-slave, seated with folded arms upon the bar of some capstan, with the end of his chain thrust into his pocket to prevent its dragging, serious, silent, and thoughtful, a pariah of the laws which regarded the man with wrath, condemned by civilization, and regarding heaven with severity. 
Certainly,--and we make no attempt to dissimulate the fact,-- the observing physiologist would have beheld an irremediable misery; he would, perchance, have pitied this sick man, of the law's making; but he would not have even essayed any treatment; he would have turned aside his gaze from the caverns of which he would have caught a glimpse within this soul, and, like Dante at the portals of hell, he would have effaced from this existence the word which the finger of God has, nevertheless, inscribed upon the brow of every man,--hope. 
Was this state of his soul, which we have attempted to analyze, as perfectly clear to Jean Valjean as we have tried to render it for those who read us? Did Jean Valjean distinctly perceive, after their formation, and had he seen distinctly during the process of their formation, all the elements of which his moral misery was composed? Had this rough and unlettered man gathered a perfectly clear perception of the succession of ideas through which he had, by degrees, mounted and descended to the lugubrious aspects which had, for so many years, formed the inner horizon of his spirit? Was he conscious of all that passed within him, and of all that was working there? That is something which we do not presume to state; it is something which we do not even believe. There was too much ignorance in Jean Valjean, even after his misfortune, to prevent much vagueness from still lingering there. At times he did not rightly know himself what he felt. Jean Valjean was in the shadows; he suffered in the shadows; he hated in the shadows; one might have said that he hated in advance of himself. He dwelt habitually in this shadow, feeling his way like a blind man and a dreamer. Only, at intervals, there suddenly came to him, from without and from within, an access of wrath, a surcharge of suffering, a livid and rapid flash which illuminated his whole soul, and caused to appear abruptly all around him, in front, behind, amid the gleams of a frightful light, the hideous precipices and the sombre perspective of his destiny. 
The flash passed, the night closed in again; and where was he? He no longer knew. The peculiarity of pains of this nature, in which that which is pitiless--that is to say, that which is brutalizing--predominates, is to transform a man, little by little, by a sort of stupid transfiguration, into a wild beast; sometimes into a ferocious beast. 
Jean Valjean's successive and obstinate attempts at escape would alone suffice to prove this strange working of the law upon the human soul. Jean Valjean would have renewed these attempts, utterly useless and foolish as they were, as often as the opportunity had presented itself, without reflecting for an instant on the result, nor on the experiences which he had already gone through. He escaped impetuously, like the wolf who finds his cage open. Instinct said to him, "Flee!" Reason would have said, "Remain!" But in the presence of so violent a temptation, reason vanished; nothing remained but instinct. The beast alone acted. When he was recaptured, the fresh severities inflicted on him only served to render him still more wild. 
One detail, which we must not omit, is that he possessed a physical strength which was not approached by a single one of the denizens of the galleys. At work, at paying out a cable or winding up a capstan, Jean Valjean was worth four men. He sometimes lifted and sustained enormous weights on his back; and when the occasion demanded it, he replaced that implement which is called a jack-screw, and was formerly called orgueil [pride], whence, we may remark in passing, is derived the name of the Rue Montorgueil, near the Halles [Fishmarket] in Paris. His comrades had nicknamed him Jean the Jack-screw. Once, when they were repairing the balcony of the town-hall at Toulon, one of those admirable caryatids of Puget, which support the balcony, became loosened, and was on the point of falling. Jean Valjean, who was present, supported the caryatid with his shoulder, and gave the workmen time to arrive. 
His suppleness even exceeded his strength. Certain convicts who were forever dreaming of escape, ended by making a veritable science of force and skill combined. It is the science of muscles. An entire system of mysterious statics is daily practised by prisoners, men who are forever envious of the flies and birds. To climb a vertical surface, and to find points of support where hardly a projection was visible, was play to Jean Valjean. An angle of the wall being given, with the tension of his back and legs, with his elbows and his heels fitted into the unevenness of the stone, he raised himself as if by magic to the third story. He sometimes mounted thus even to the roof of the galley prison. 
He spoke but little. He laughed not at all. An excessive emotion was required to wring from him, once or twice a year, that lugubrious laugh of the convict, which is like the echo of the laugh of a demon. To all appearance, he seemed to be occupied in the constant contemplation of something terrible. 
He was absorbed, in fact. 
Athwart the unhealthy perceptions of an incomplete nature and a crushed intelligence, he was confusedly conscious that some monstrous thing was resting on him. In that obscure and wan shadow within which he crawled, each time that he turned his neck and essayed to raise his glance, he perceived with terror, mingled with rage, a sort of frightful accumulation of things, collecting and mounting above him, beyond the range of his vision,-- laws, prejudices, men, and deeds,--whose outlines escaped him, whose mass terrified him, and which was nothing else than that prodigious pyramid which we call civilization. He distinguished, here and there in that swarming and formless mass, now near him, now afar off and on inaccessible table-lands, some group, some detail, vividly illuminated; here the galley-sergeant and his cudgel; there the gendarme and his sword; yonder the mitred archbishop; away at the top, like a sort of sun, the Emperor, crowned and dazzling. It seemed to him that these distant splendors, far from dissipating his night, rendered it more funereal and more black. All this-- laws, prejudices, deeds, men, things--went and came above him, over his head, in accordance with the complicated and mysterious movement which God imparts to civilization, walking over him and crushing him with I know not what peacefulness in its cruelty and inexorability in its indifference. Souls which have fallen to the bottom of all possible misfortune, unhappy men lost in the lowest of those limbos at which no one any longer looks, the reproved of the law, feel the whole weight of this human society, so formidable for him who is without, so frightful for him who is beneath, resting upon their heads. 
In this situation Jean Valjean meditated; and what could be the nature of his meditation? 
If the grain of millet beneath the millstone had thoughts, it would, doubtless, think that same thing which Jean Valjean thought. 
All these things, realities full of spectres, phantasmagories full of realities, had eventually created for him a sort of interior state which is almost indescribable. 
At times, amid his convict toil, he paused. He fell to thinking. His reason, at one and the same time riper and more troubled than of yore, rose in revolt. Everything which had happened to him seemed to him absurd; everything that surrounded him seemed to him impossible. He said to himself, "It is a dream." He gazed at the galley-sergeant standing a few paces from him; the galley-sergeant seemed a phantom to him. All of a sudden the phantom dealt him a blow with his cudgel. 
Visible nature hardly existed for him. It would almost be true to say that there existed for Jean Valjean neither sun, nor fine summer days, nor radiant sky, nor fresh April dawns. I know not what vent-hole daylight habitually illumined his soul. 
To sum up, in conclusion, that which can be summed up and translated into positive results in all that we have just pointed out, we will confine ourselves to the statement that, in the course of nineteen years, Jean Valjean, the inoffensive tree-pruner of Faverolles, the formidable convict of Toulon, had become capable, thanks to the manner in which the galleys had moulded him, of two sorts of evil action: firstly, of evil action which was rapid, unpremeditated, dashing, entirely instinctive, in the nature of reprisals for the evil which he had undergone; secondly, of evil action which was serious, grave, consciously argued out and premeditated, with the false ideas which such a misfortune can furnish. His deliberate deeds passed through three successive phases, which natures of a certain stamp can alone traverse,--reasoning, will, perseverance. He had for moving causes his habitual wrath, bitterness of soul, a profound sense of indignities suffered, the reaction even against the good, the innocent, and the just, if there are any such. The point of departure, like the point of arrival, for all his thoughts, was hatred of human law; that hatred which, if it be not arrested in its development by some providential incident, becomes, within a given time, the hatred of society, then the hatred of the human race, then the hatred of creation, and which manifests itself by a vague, incessant, and brutal desire to do harm to some living being, no matter whom. It will be perceived that it was not without reason that Jean Valjean's passport described him as a very dangerous man. 
From year to year this soul had dried away slowly, but with fatal sureness. When the heart is dry, the eye is dry. On his departure from the galleys it had been nineteen years since he had shed a tear.
让我们试述一下。
社会必须正视这些事，因为这些事是它自己制造出来的。
我们已经说过，冉阿让只是个无知识的人，并不是个愚蠢的人，他心里生来就燃着性灵的光。愁苦（愁苦也有它的光）更增加了他心里的那一点微光。他终日受着棍棒、鞭笞、镣铐、禁闭、疲乏之苦，受着狱中烈日的折磨，睡在囚犯的木板库上他扪心自问，反躬自省。
他自己组织法庭。
他开始审问自己。
他承认自己不是一个无罪的人，受的处分也没有过分。他承认自己犯了一种应受指摘的鲁莽的行为；假使当初他肯向人乞讨那块面包，人家也许不会不给；无论给与不给，他总应当从别人的哀怜或自己的工作中去等待那块面包；有些人说肚子饿了也能等待么？这并不是一种无可非难的理由；真正饿死的事根本就很少见到；并且无论是幸或不幸，人类生来在肉体上和精神上总是能长期受苦、多方受苦而不至于送命的；所以应当忍耐；即使是为那些可怜的孩子们着想，那样做也比较妥当些；象他那样一个不幸的贱人也敢挺身和整个社会搏斗，还自以为依靠偷窃，就可以解除困难，那完全是一种疯狂举动；无论怎样，如果你通过一道门能脱离穷困，但同时又落入不名誉的境地，那样的门总还是一扇坏门；总之，他错了。
随后他又问自己：
在他这次走上绝路的过程中，他是否是唯一有过失的人？愿意工作，但缺少工作，愿意劳动，而又缺少面包，首先这能不能不算是件严重的事呢？后来，犯了过失，并且招认了，处罚又是否苛刻过分了呢？法律在处罚方面所犯的错误，是否比犯人在犯罪方面所犯的错误更严重呢？天平的两端，在处罚那端的砝码是否太重了一些呢？加重处罚绝不能消除过失；加重处罚的结果并不能扭转情势，并不能以惩罚者的过失代替犯罪者的过失，也并不能使犯罪的人转为受损害的人，使债务人转为债权人，使侵犯人权的人受到人权的保障，这种看法是否正确呢？企图越狱一次，便加重处罚一次，这种作法的结果，是否构成强者对弱者的谋害，是否构成社会侵犯个人的罪行，并使这种罪行日日都在重犯，一直延续到十九年之久呢？
他再问自己：人类社会是否有权使它的成员在某种情况下接受它那种无理的不关心态度，而在另一种情况下又同样接受它那种无情的不放心态度，并使一个穷苦的人永远陷入一种不是缺乏（工作的缺乏）就是过量（刑罚的过量）的苦海中呢？贫富的形成往往由于机会，在社会的成员中，分得财富最少的人也正是最需要照顾的人，而社会对他们恰又苛求最甚，这样是否合乎情理呢？
他提出这些问题，并作出结论以后，他便开始审判社会，并且判了它的罪。
他凭心中的愤怒判了它的罪。
他认为社会对他的遭遇是应当负责的，他下定决心，将来总有一天，他要和它算账。他宣称他自己对别人造成的损失和别人对他造成的损失，两相比较，太不平衡，他最后的结论是他所受的处罚实际上并不是不公允，而肯定是不平等的。
盛怒可能是疯狂和妄诞的，发怒有时也会发错的，但是，人，如果不是在某一方面确有理由，是不会愤慨的。冉阿让觉得自己在愤慨了。
再说，人类社会所加于他的只是残害。他所看到的社会，历来只是它摆在它的打击对象面前自称为正义的那副怒容。世人和他接触，无非是为了要达到迫害他的目的。他和他们接触，每次都受到打击。从他的幼年，从失去母亲、失去姐姐以来，他从来没有听到过一句友好的言语，也从没有见过一次和善的嘴脸。由痛苦到痛苦，他逐渐得出了一种结论：人生即战争，并且在这场战争里，他是一名败兵。他除了仇恨以外没有其他武器。于是他下定决心，要在监牢里磨练他这武器，并带着它出狱。
有些无知的教士在土伦办了一所囚犯学校，把一些必要的课程教给那些不幸人中的有毅力者。他就是那些有毅力者中的一个。他四十岁进学校，学习了读，写，算。他感到提高他的知识，也就是加强他的仇恨。在某种情况下，教育和智力都是可以起济恶的作用的。
有件事说来很可惜，他在审判了造成他的不幸的社会以后，他接着又审判创造社会的上帝。
他也定了上帝的罪。
在那十九年的苦刑和奴役中，这个人的心是一面上升，一面也堕落了。他一面醒悟，一面糊涂。
我们已经知道，冉阿让并不是一个生性恶劣的人。初进监牢时他还是个好人。他在监牢里判了社会的罪后觉得自己的心狠起来了，在判了上帝的罪后他觉得自己成了天不怕地不怕的人了。
我们在这里不能不仔细想想。
人的性情真能那样彻头彻尾完全改变吗？人由上帝创造，生而性善，能通过人力使他性恶吗？灵魂能不能由于恶劣命运的影响彻底转成恶劣的呢？人心难道也能象矮屋下的背脊一样，因痛苦压迫过甚而蜷屈萎缩变为畸形丑态，造成各种不可救药的残废吗？在每个人的心里，特别是在冉阿让的心里，难道没有一点原始的火星，一种来自上帝的素质，在人间不朽，在天上不灭，可以因善而发扬、鼓舞、光大、昌炽，发为奇观异彩，并且永远也不会完全被恶扑灭吗？
这是一些严重而深奥的问题，任何一个生理学家，他如果在土伦看见过这个苦役犯叉着两条胳膊，坐在绞盘的铁杆上休息（休息也就是冉阿让思前想后的时刻），链头纳在衣袋里，以免拖曳，神情颓丧、严肃、沉默、若有所思；他如果看见过这个被法律抛弃的贱人经常以愤怒的眼光注视着所有的人，他如果看见过这个被文明排斥了的罪犯经常以严厉的颜色仰望天空，他也许会不假思索地对上面那些问题中最后的一个，回答说：“没有。”
当然，我们也并不想隐瞒，这位作为观察者的生理学家也许会在这种场合，看出一种无可挽救的惨局，他也许会替那个被法律伤害了的人叫屈，可是他却连医治的方法也没有想过，他也许会掉转头，不望那个人心上的伤口，他并且会象那个掉头不望地狱门的但丁，把上帝写在每个人前额上的“希望”二字从这个人的生命中拭去。
他的思想情况，我们已试着分析过了，冉阿让本人对自己的思想情况，是否和我们替本书读者试作的分析一样明白呢？构成冉阿让精神痛苦的那一切因素，在形成以后，冉阿让是否看得清楚呢？在它们一一形成的过程中，他又是否看清楚过呢？他的思想是层层发展的，他日甚一日地被困在许多愁惨的景象中颠来倒去，多年以来，他的精神，就始终被局限在那些景象的范围以内，粗鲁不文的他对这种思想的发展层次是否完全了解呢？他对自己思想的起伏波动是否十分明确呢？那是我们不敢肯定的，也是我们不敢相信的。冉阿让太没有知识了，他虽然受了那么多的痛苦，但对这些事，却仍是迷迷糊糊的，有时，他甚至还不知道他所感受的究竟是什么。冉阿让落在黑暗里，他便在黑暗里吃苦，他便在黑暗里愤恨，我们可以说，他无往而不恨。他经常生活在暗无天日的环境中，如同一个盲人或梦游者一样瞎摸瞎撞。不过，在某些时候，他也会，由于内因或外因，忽然感到一股怨气的突袭，一阵异乎寻常的苦痛，他会感到突然出现一道惨淡的、一闪即逝的光，照彻他的整个心灵，同时也使他命运中的种种险恶的深渊和悲惨的远景，在那片凶光的照射下一齐出现在他的前后左右。
闪光过后仍旧是黑夜沉沉，他在什么地方？他又莫名其妙了。
那种刑罚的最不人道，也就是说，最足以戕贼人的智慧的地方，就是它特别能使人经过一种慢性的毒害逐渐化为野兽，有时还化为猛兽。冉阿让屡次执拗不变地图谋越狱，已足够证明法律在人心上所起的那种特殊作用。冉阿让的那种计划完全是无济于事的，愚蠢的，但是只要能得到机会，他总要试一试，绝不想到它的后果，也不想到既得的经验。他象一头狼，看见笼门开了，总要慌忙出逃。本能向他说：“快逃！”理智却会向他说：“待下！”但是面对着那样强烈的引诱，他的理智终于消失了，他有的只是本能。在那里活动着的只是兽性。他在重新被捕以后受到的新处罚，又足以使他更加惊惶失措。
有一件我们不应当忽略的小事，就是他体质强壮，苦役牢里的那些人都比不上他。服劳役时，扭铁索，推绞盘，冉阿让抵得上四个人。他的手举得起、背也能够扛得动非常重大的东西。有时他可以代替一个千斤顶，千斤顶在从前叫做“骄子”，巴黎菜市场附近的那条骄子山街，我们附带说一句，便是以此得名的。他的伙伴们替他起了个浑名，叫冉千斤。一次，土伦市政厅正修理阳台，阳台下面有许多彼惹雕的人形柱，美丽可喜，其中一根脱了榫，几乎倒下来。当时冉阿让正在那里，他居然用肩头撑住了那根柱子等着其余的工人来修理。
他身体的轻捷比他的力气更可观。有些囚徒终年梦想潜逃，于是他们把巧和力结合起来，形成一种真正的科学。那些无时不羡慕飞虫飞鸟的囚徒，每日都练习一种神奇的巧技。冉阿让的特长便是能直登陡壁，在不易发现的凸处找出着力的地方。他在墙角里把肘弯和脚跟靠紧石块上的不平处，便能利用背部和腿弯的伸张力，妖魔似的升到四楼。有时，他还用那种方法直上监狱的房顶。
他很少说话。他从不笑。必得有一种外来的刺激才能使他发出一种象是魔鬼笑声的回音的苦笑，那也是一年难得一两次的事。看他那神气，仿佛随时在留心瞧着一种骇人的东西。
他的确是一心一意在想什么事的样子。
他的禀赋既不完全，智力又受了摧残，通过他那种不健全的辨别能力，他隐约感到有一种怪物附在他身上。他在那种阴暗、惨白、半明不暗的地方过着非人的生活，他每次转过头颈，想往上看时，便又恐怖又愤怒地看见在自己头上，层层叠叠地有一堆大得可怕的东西，法律、偏见、人和事，堆积如山，直到望不见的高度，崇危峻险，令人心悸，它的形状不是他所能知道的，它的体积使他心胆俱裂，这并不是旁的东西，只是那座不可思议的金字塔，我们所谓的文明。这儿那儿，在那堆蠕蠕欲动、形状畸异、忽远忽近的东西上面和一些高不可攀的高原上面，他看见一群群的人，被强烈的光线照得须眉毕现，这儿是携带棍棒的狱卒，手持钢刀的警察，那边是戴着高冠的总主教，最高处，一片圆光的中央，却是戴着冠冕、耀人眼睛的帝王。远处的那些奇观异彩似乎不但不能惊醒他的沉梦，反而使他更加悲伤，更加惶惑。举凡法律、偏见、物体、人和事，都按上帝在文明方面所指定的神秘复杂的动态，在他的头上来来去去，用一种凶残却又平和、安详却又苛刻、无可言状的态度在践踏他，蹂躏他。所有沉在恶运底下、陷在无人怜恤的十八层地狱里面、被法律所摈弃的人们，觉得这个社会的全部重量都压在他们的头上，这种社会对处在它外面的人是多么可怕，对处在它下面的人是多么可怕。
冉阿让在这种情况下，东想西想，但是他的思想是怎样一种性质的呢？
假使磨盘底下的黍粒有思维的能力，它所想的也许就是冉阿让所想的了。
结果，那种充满了鬼影的现实和充满了现实的鬼域替他构成了一种几乎无可言喻的内心状况。
有时，他正在干着牢里的工作，会忽然停着不动，细想起来。他的那种比以前更加成熟、但也更加混乱的理性起来反抗了。他觉得他所遭受的一切都是不合理的。环绕他的一切都是不近人情的。他常对自己说这是一场梦，他望着那个站在他几步以外的狱卒，会觉得那是一个鬼，那个鬼突然给他吃了一棍。
对他来说，这个历历可见的自然界是若有若无的。我们几乎可以说，对冉阿让，无所谓太阳，无所谓春秋佳日，无所谓晴空，无所谓四月天的清凉晓色。我不知道是怎样一种黯淡的光经常照着他的心。
最后，如果我们要把我们以上所谈的一切，择其可以总括的总括起来，指出一个明确的结果的话，我们只能说，冉阿让，法维洛勒的一个安分守己的修树枝工人，土伦的一个强顽的囚犯，由于监狱潜移默化的作用，十九年来已有能力做出两种坏行为：第一种坏行为是急切的、不假思索的、轻躁的、完全出自本能的，是对他所受痛苦的反击；第二种坏行为是阴沉的、持重的、平心静气考虑过的、用他从痛苦中得来的那种错误观念深思熟虑过的。他的打算经常通过三个连续的层次：思考，决心，固执；只有某种性格的人才会走上这条路。起因是由于一贯愤慨，心灵的苦闷，由于受虐待而引起的深刻的恶感、对人的反抗，包括对善良、无辜、公正的人的反抗，假如世上真有这几种人的话。他一切思想的出发点和目的全是对人类法律的仇恨；那种仇恨，在它发展的过程中，如果得不到某种神智来加以制止，就可以在一定的时刻变成对社会的仇恨，再变成对人类的仇恨，再变成对造物的仇恨，最后变成一种无目标、无止境、凶狠残暴的为害欲，不问是谁，逢人便害。我们知道，那张护照称冉阿让“为人异常险狠”，不是没有理由的。
年复一年，这个人的心慢慢地、但是无可挽救地越变越硬了。他的心一硬，他的眼泪也就干了。直到他出狱的那天，十九年中，他没有流过一滴泪。
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 8 Billows and Shadows
A man overboard!
What matters it? The vessel does not halt. The wind blows. That sombre ship has a path which it is forced to pursue. It passes on.
The man disappears, then reappears; he plunges, he rises again to the surface; he calls, he stretches out his arms; he is not heard. The vessel, trembling under the hurricane, is wholly absorbed in its own workings; the passengers and sailors do not even see the drowning man; his miserable head is but a speck amid the immensity of the waves. He gives vent to desperate cries from out of the depths. What a spectre is that retreating sail! He gazes and gazes at it frantically. It retreats, it grows dim, it diminishes in size. He was there but just now, he was one of the crew, he went and came along the deck with the rest, he had his part of breath and of sunlight, he was a living man. Now, what has taken place? He has slipped, he has fallen; all is at an end.
He is in the tremendous sea. Under foot he has nothing but what flees and crumbles. The billows, torn and lashed by the wind, encompass him hideously; the tossings of the abyss bear him away; all the tongues of water dash over his head; a populace of waves spits upon him; confused openings half devour him; every time that he sinks, he catches glimpses of precipices filled with night; frightful and unknown vegetations seize him, knot about his feet, draw him to them; he is conscious that he is becoming an abyss, that he forms part of the foam; the waves toss him from one to another; he drinks in the bitterness; the cowardly ocean attacks him furiously, to drown him; the enormity plays with his agony. It seems as though all that water were hate.
Nevertheless, he struggles.
He tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he makes an effort; he swims. He, his petty strength all exhausted instantly, combats the inexhaustible.
Where, then, is the ship? Yonder. Barely visible in the pale shadows of the horizon.
The wind blows in gusts; all the foam overwhelms him. He raises his eyes and beholds only the lividness of the clouds. He witnesses, amid his death-pangs, the immense madness of the sea. He is tortured by this madness; he hears noises strange to man, which seem to come from beyond the limits of the earth, and from one knows not what frightful region beyond.
There are birds in the clouds, just as there are angels above human distresses; but what can they do for him? They sing and fly and float, and he, he rattles in the death agony.
He feels himself buried in those two infinities, the ocean and the sky, at one and the same time: the one is a tomb; the other is a shroud.
Night descends; he has been swimming for hours; his strength is exhausted; that ship, that distant thing in which there were men, has vanished; he is alone in the formidable twilight gulf; he sinks, he stiffens himself, he twists himself; he feels under him the monstrous billows of the invisible; he shouts.
There are no more men. Where is God?
He shouts. Help! Help! He still shouts on.
Nothing on the horizon; nothing in heaven.
He implores the expanse, the waves, the seaweed, the reef; they are deaf. He beseeches the tempest; the imperturbable tempest obeys only the infinite.
Around him darkness, fog, solitude, the stormy and nonsentient tumult, the undefined curling of those wild waters. In him horror and fatigue. Beneath him the depths. Not a point of support. He thinks of the gloomy adventures of the corpse in the limitless shadow. The bottomless cold paralyzes him. His hands contract convulsively; they close, and grasp nothingness. Winds, clouds, whirlwinds, gusts, useless stars! What is to be done? The desperate man gives up; he is weary, he chooses the alternative of death; he resists not; he lets himself go; he abandons his grip; and then he tosses forevermore in the lugubrious dreary depths of engulfment.
Oh, implacable march of human societies! Oh, losses of men and of souls on the way! Ocean into which falls all that the law lets slip! Disastrous absence of help! Oh, moral death!
The sea is the inexorable social night into which the penal laws fling their condemned. The sea is the immensity of wretchedness.
The soul, going down stream in this gulf, may become a corpse. Who shall resuscitate it?
一个人落在海里了！
有什么要紧！船是不会停的。风刮着，这条阴暗的船有它非走不可的路程。它过去了。
那个人灭了顶，随后又出现，忽沉忽浮，漂在水面，他叫喊，扬手，却没有人听见他的喊声。船呢，在飓风里飘荡不定，人们正忙于操作，海员和旅客，对那个落水的人，甚至连一眼也不再望了，他那个可怜的头只是沧海中的一粟而已。
他在深处发出了悲惨的呼号。那条驶去的帆船简直是个鬼影！他望着它，发狂似的望着它。它越去越远，船影渐淡，船身也渐小了。刚才他还在那船上，是船员中的一员，和其余的人一道在甲板上忽来忽往，他有他的一份空气和阳光，还是一个活生生的人。现在，出了什么事呢？他滑了一交，掉了下去，这就完了。
他被困在惊涛骇浪中。他的脚只能踏着虚空，只能往下沉。迎风崩裂的波涛狠狠地包围着他，波峰波谷带着他辗转上下，一缕缕的白练飞腾在他的头上，一阵阵的狂澜向他喷唾，巨浪的口把他吞没殆半；他每次下沉，都隐约看见那黑暗的深渊，一些未曾见过的奇怪植物捉住他，缠着他的脚，把他拉向它们那里去；他觉得自己也成了旋涡，也成了泡沫的一部分，波涛把他往复抛掷；他喝着苦汁，无情的海水前仆后继，定要把他淹没，浩瀚的泽国拿他的垂死挣扎来取乐。好象这里的水对他全怀着仇恨。
但是他仍旧挣扎，尽力保卫自己，他振奋精神，努力泅泳。
他微弱的力气立刻告竭了，仍旧和无边无际的波涛奋斗。
船到哪里去了？在前面。在水天相接、惨淡无光的地方，仿佛还隐约可辨。
狂风在吼，无穷的浪花在向他猛扑。他抬起眼睛，只见行云的灰暗色。他气息奄奄地目击浩海的疯狂，而这种疯狂已把他置于绝地了。他听见一片从未听过的怪声，仿佛是从世外，从不知何处恐怖的国度里飞来。
在云里有许多飞鸟，如同在人生祸患的上面有许多天使。但是它们和他有什么相干呢？它们飞、鸣、翱翔；至于他，他呼号待毙。
他觉得自己同时被两种广大无边的东西所掩埋：海和天，一种是墓穴，一种是殓衣。
黑夜来了，他已经泅泳了几个钟头，力气使尽了，那条船，那条载着一些人的远远的船，已经不见了。他孤零零陷在那可怕的，笼罩在暮色中的深渊里，他往下沉，他挣扎，他扭动身体，在他的底下他觉得有些目不能见的渺茫的怪物。他号着。
人全不在了。上帝在什么地方呢？
他喊着，救命呀！救命呀！他不停地喊着。
水边没有一点东西，天上也没有一点东西。
他向空际、波涛、海藻、礁石哀求；它们都充耳不闻。他向暴风央求；坚强的暴风只服从太空的号令。
在他四周的是夜色、暮霭、寂寥、奔腾放逐的骚乱、起伏不停的怒涛。他的身体中只有恐怖和疲惫。他的脚下只有一片虚空。没有立足的地方。他想到他的尸体漂浮在那无限凄凉的幽冥里。无底的寒泉使他僵直。他的手痉挛，握着的是虚空。风，云，漩流，狂飙，无用的群星！怎么办呵？那失望的人只得听从命运摆布了，穷于应付的人往往坐以待毙，他只得听其自然，任其飘荡不再抵抗了，看呵，他从此跌入灭亡的阴惨深渊里了。
呵，人类社会历久不变的行程！途中多少人和灵魂要丧失！人类社会是所有那些被法律抛弃了的人的海洋！那里最惨的是没有援助！呵，这是精神的死亡！
海，就是冷酷无情的法律抛掷它牺牲品的总渊薮。海，就是无边的苦难。
漂在那深渊里的心灵可以变成尸体，将来谁使它复活呢？
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 9 New Troubles
When the hour came for him to take his departure from the galleys, when Jean Valjean heard in his ear the strange words, Thou art free! the moment seemed improbable and unprecedented; a ray of vivid light, a ray of the true light of the living, suddenly penetrated within him. But it was not long before this ray paled. Jean Valjean had been dazzled by the idea of liberty. He had believed in a new life. He very speedily perceived what sort of liberty it is to which a yellow passport is provided.
And this was encompassed with much bitterness. He had calculated that his earnings, during his sojourn in the galleys, ought to amount to a hundred and seventy-one francs. It is but just to add that he had forgotten to include in his calculations the forced repose of Sundays and festival days during nineteen years, which entailed a diminution of about eighty francs. At all events, his hoard had been reduced by various local levies to the sum of one hundred and nine francs fifteen sous, which had been counted out to him on his departure. He had understood nothing of this, and had thought himself wronged. Let us say the word--robbed.
On the day following his liberation, he saw, at Grasse, in front of an orange-flower distillery, some men engaged in unloading bales. He offered his services. Business was pressing; they were accepted. He set to work. He was intelligent, robust, adroit; he did his best; the master seemed pleased. While he was at work, a gendarme passed, observed him, and demanded his papers. It was necessary to show him the yellow passport. That done, Jean Valjean resumed his labor. A little while before he had questioned one of the workmen as to the amount which they earned each day at this occupation; he had been told thirty sous. When evening arrived, as he was forced to set out again on the following day, he presented himself to the owner of the distillery and requested to be paid. The owner did not utter a word, but handed him fifteen sous. He objected. He was told, "That is enough for thee." He persisted. The master looked him straight between the eyes, and said to him "Beware of the prison."
There, again, he considered that he had been robbed.
Society, the State, by diminishing his hoard, had robbed him wholesale. Now it was the individual who was robbing him at retail.
Liberation is not deliverance. One gets free from the galleys, but not from the sentence.
That is what happened to him at Grasse. We have seen in what manner he was received at D----
当冉阿让出狱时，他听见有人在他耳边说了这样一句奇特的话“你自由了”，那一片刻竟好象是不真实的，闻所未闻的；一道从不曾有过的强烈的光，一道人生的真实的光突然射到他的心里。但是这道光，一会儿就黯淡下去了。冉阿让起初想到自由，不禁欣然自喜，他以为得着新生命了。但他很快又想到，既然拿的是一张黄护照，所谓自由也就是那么一回事。
而且在这件事上也还有不少的苦情。他计算过，他的储蓄，按照他在狱中度过的岁月计算，本应有一百七十一个法郎。还应当指出，十九年中，礼拜日和节日的强迫休息大致要使他少赚二十四个法郎，他还忘了把那个数目加入他的账目。不管怎样，他的储蓄经过照例的七折八扣以后，已减到一百○九个法郎十五个苏。那就是他在出狱时所领到的。
他虽然不了解这其中的道理，但他认为他总是吃了亏。让我们把话说明白，他是被人盗窃了。
出狱的第二天，他到了格拉斯，他在一家橙花香精提炼厂的门前，看见许多人在卸货。他请求加入工作。那时工作正吃紧，他们同意了。他便动起手来。他聪明、强壮、伶俐，他尽力搬运，主人好象也满意。正在他工作时，有个警察走过，注意到他，便向他要证件。他只好把那黄护照拿出来。警察看完以后，冉阿让又去工作。他先头问过一个工人，做那种工作每天可以赚多少钱。那工人回答他说：“三十个苏。”到了晚上，他走去找那香精厂的厂主，请把工资付给他，因为他第二天一早便得上路。厂主没说一句话，给了他十五个苏。他提出要求。那人回答他说：“这对你已是够好的了。”他仍旧要。那主人睁圆了两只眼睛对他说：“小心黑屋子。”
那一次，他又觉得自己被盗窃了。
社会、政府，在削减他的储蓄上大大地盗窃了他一次，现在是轮到那小子来偷窃他了。
被释放并不等于得到解放。他固然出了牢狱，但仍背着罪名。
那就是他在格拉斯遇到的事，至于后来他在迪涅受到的待遇，我们已经知道了。
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 10 The Man aroused
As the Cathedral clock struck two in the morning, Jean Valjean awoke.
What woke him was that his bed was too good. It was nearly twenty years since he had slept in a bed, and, although he had not undressed, the sensation was too novel not to disturb his slumbers.
He had slept more than four hours. His fatigue had passed away. He was accustomed not to devote many hours to repose.
He opened his eyes and stared into the gloom which surrounded him; then he closed them again, with the intention of going to sleep once more.
When many varied sensations have agitated the day, when various matters preoccupy the mind, one falls asleep once, but not a second time. Sleep comes more easily than it returns. This is what happened to Jean Valjean. He could not get to sleep again, and he fell to thinking.
He was at one of those moments when the thoughts which one has in one's mind are troubled. There was a sort of dark confusion in his brain. His memories of the olden time and of the immediate present floated there pell-mell and mingled confusedly, losing their proper forms, becoming disproportionately large, then suddenly disappearing, as in a muddy and perturbed pool. Many thoughts occurred to him; but there was one which kept constantly presenting itself afresh, and which drove away all others. We will mention this thought at once: he had observed the six sets of silver forks and spoons and the ladle which Madame Magloire had placed on the table.
Those six sets of silver haunted him.--They were there.--A few paces distant.--Just as he was traversing the adjoining room to reach the one in which he then was, the old servant-woman had been in the act of placing them in a little cupboard near the head of the bed.-- He had taken careful note of this cupboard.--On the right, as you entered from the dining-room.--They were solid.--And old silver.-- From the ladle one could get at least two hundred francs.-- Double what he had earned in nineteen years.--It is true that he would have earned more if "the administration had not robbed him."
His mind wavered for a whole hour in fluctuations with which there was certainly mingled some struggle. Three o'clock struck. He opened his eyes again, drew himself up abruptly into a sitting posture, stretched out his arm and felt of his knapsack, which he had thrown down on a corner of the alcove; then he hung his legs over the edge of the bed, and placed his feet on the floor, and thus found himself, almost without knowing it, seated on his bed.
He remained for a time thoughtfully in this attitude, which would have been suggestive of something sinister for any one who had seen him thus in the dark, the only person awake in that house where all were sleeping. All of a sudden he stooped down, removed his shoes and placed them softly on the mat beside the bed; then he resumed his thoughtful attitude, and became motionless once more.
Throughout this hideous meditation, the thoughts which we have above indicated moved incessantly through his brain; entered, withdrew, re-entered, and in a manner oppressed him; and then he thought, also, without knowing why, and with the mechanical persistence of revery, of a convict named Brevet, whom he had known in the galleys, and whose trousers had been upheld by a single suspender of knitted cotton. The checkered pattern of that suspender recurred incessantly to his mind.
He remained in this situation, and would have so remained indefinitely, even until daybreak, had not the clock struck one--the half or quarter hour. It seemed to him that that stroke said to him, "Come on!"
He rose to his feet, hesitated still another moment, and listened; all was quiet in the house; then he walked straight ahead, with short steps, to the window, of which he caught a glimpse. The night was not very dark; there was a full moon, across which coursed large clouds driven by the wind. This created, outdoors, alternate shadow and gleams of light, eclipses, then bright openings of the clouds; and indoors a sort of twilight. This twilight, sufficient to enable a person to see his way, intermittent on account of the clouds, resembled the sort of livid light which falls through an air-hole in a cellar, before which the passersby come and go. On arriving at the window, Jean Valjean examined it. It had no grating; it opened in the garden and was fastened, according to the fashion of the country, only by a small pin. He opened it; but as a rush of cold and piercing air penetrated the room abruptly, he closed it again immediately. He scrutinized the garden with that attentive gaze which studies rather than looks. The garden was enclosed by a tolerably low white wall, easy to climb. Far away, at the extremity, he perceived tops of trees, spaced at regular intervals, which indicated that the wall separated the garden from an avenue or lane planted with trees.
Having taken this survey, he executed a movement like that of a man who has made up his mind, strode to his alcove, grasped his knapsack, opened it, fumbled in it, pulled out of it something which he placed on the bed, put his shoes into one of his pockets, shut the whole thing up again, threw the knapsack on his shoulders, put on his cap, drew the visor down over his eyes, felt for his cudgel, went and placed it in the angle of the window; then returned to the bed, and resolutely seized the object which he had deposited there. It resembled a short bar of iron, pointed like a pike at one end. It would have been difficult to distinguish in that darkness for what employment that bit of iron could have been designed. Perhaps it was a lever; possibly it was a club.
In the daytime it would have been possible to recognize it as nothing more than a miner's candlestick. Convicts were, at that period, sometimes employed in quarrying stone from the lofty hills which environ Toulon, and it was not rare for them to have miners' tools at their command. These miners' candlesticks are of massive iron, terminated at the lower extremity by a point, by means of which they are stuck into the rock.
He took the candlestick in his right hand; holding his breath and trying to deaden the sound of his tread, he directed his steps to the door of the adjoining room, occupied by the Bishop, as we already know.
On arriving at this door, he found it ajar. The Bishop had not closed it.
天主堂的钟正敲着早晨两点，冉阿让醒了。
那张床太舒服，因此他醒了。他没有床睡，已经快十九年了，他虽然没有脱衣，但那种感受太新奇，不能不影响他的睡眠。
他睡了四个多钟头，疲乏已经过去。他早已习惯不在休息上多花时间。
他张开眼睛，向他四周的黑暗望了一阵，随后又闭上眼，想再睡一会儿。
假使白天的感触太复杂，脑子里的事太多，我们就只能睡，而不能重行入睡，睡容易，再睡难。这正是冉阿让的情形。
他不能再睡，他便想。
他正陷入这种思想紊乱的时刻，在他的脑子里有一种看不见的、来来去去的东西。他的旧恨和新愁在他的心里翻来倒去，凌乱杂沓，漫无条理，既失去它们的形状，也无限扩大了它们的范围，随后又仿佛忽然消失在一股汹涌的浊流中。他想到许多事，但是其中有一件却反反复复一再出现，并且排除了其余的事。这一件，我们立即说出来，他注意了马格洛大娘先头放在桌上的那六副银器和那只大汤勺。
那六副银器使他烦懑。那些东西就在那里。只有几步路。刚才他经过隔壁那间屋子走到他房里来时，老大娘正把那些东西放在床头的小壁橱里。他特别注意了那壁橱。进餐室，朝右走。那些东西多重呵！并且是古银器，连那大勺至少可以卖二百法郎。是他在十九年里所赚的一倍。的确，假使“官府”没有“偷盗”他，他也许还多赚几文。
他心里反反复复，踌躇不决，斗争了整整一个钟头。三点敲过了。他重行睁开眼睛，忽然坐了起来，伸手去摸他先头丢在壁厢角里的那只布袋，随后他垂下两腿，又把脚踏在地上，几乎不知道怎样会坐在床边的。
他那样坐着，发了一阵呆，房子里的人全睡着了，惟有他独自一人醒着，假使有人看见他那样呆坐在黑暗角落里，一定会吃一惊的。他忽然弯下腰去，脱下鞋子，轻轻放在床前的席子上，又恢复他那发呆的样子，待着不动。
在那种可怕的思考中，我们刚指出的那种念头不停地在他的脑海里翻搅着，进去又出来，出来又进去，使他感受到一种压力；同时他不知道为什么，会带着梦想中那种机械的顽固性，想到他从前在监狱里认识他一个叫布莱卫的囚犯，那人的裤子只用一根棉织的背带吊住。那根背带的棋盘格花纹不停地在他脑子里显现出来。
他在那样的情形下呆着不动，并且也许会一直呆到天明，如果那只挂钟没有敲那一下棗报一刻或报半点的一下。那一下仿佛是对他说：“来吧！”
他站起来，又迟疑了一会，再侧耳细听，房子里一点声音也没有，于是他小步小步一直朝前走到隐约可辨的窗边。当时夜色并不很暗，风高月圆，白云掩映；云来月隐，云过月明，因此窗外时明时暗，室内也偶得微光。那种微光，足使室内的人行走，由于行云的作用，屋内也乍明乍暗，仿佛是人在地下室里，见风窗外面不时有人来往一样，因而室内黯淡的光也忽强忽弱。冉阿让走到窗边，把它仔细看了一遍，它没有铁闩，只有它的活梢扣着，这原是那地方的习惯。窗外便是那园子。他把窗子打开，于是一股冷空气突然钻进房来，他又立刻把它关上。他仔仔细细把那园子瞧了一遍，应当说，研究了一遍。园的四周绕着一道白围墙，相当低，容易越过。在园的尽头，围墙外面，他看见成列的树梢，彼此距离相等，说明墙外便是一条林荫道，或是一条栽有树木的小路。
瞧了那一眼之后，他做了一个表示决心的动作，向壁厢走去，拿起他的布袋，打开，从里面搜出一件东西，放在床上，又把他的鞋子塞进袋里，扣好布袋，驮在肩上，藏上他的便帽，帽檐齐眉，又伸手去摸他的棍子，把它放在窗角上，回到床边，毅然决然拿起先头放在床上的那件东西。好象是根短铁钎，一端磨到和标枪一般尖。
在黑暗里我们不易辨出那铁钎是为了作什么用才磨成那个样子的，这也许是根撬棍，也许是把铁杵。
如果是在白天，我们便认得出来，那只是一根矿工用的蜡烛钎。当时，常常派犯人到土伦周围的那些高丘上去采取岩石，他们便时常持有矿工的器械。矿工的蜡烛钎是用粗铁条做的，下面一端尖，为了好插在岩石里。
他用右手握住那根烛钎，屏住呼吸，放轻脚步，走向隔壁那间屋子，我们知道，那是主教的卧房。走到门边，他看见门是掩着的，留着一条缝。主教并没有把它关上。
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 11 What he does
Jean Valjean listened. Not a sound.
He gave the door a push.
He pushed it gently with the tip of his finger, lightly, with the furtive and uneasy gentleness of a cat which is desirous of entering.
The door yielded to this pressure, and made an imperceptible and silent movement, which enlarged the opening a little.
He waited a moment; then gave the door a second and a bolder push.
It continued to yield in silence. The opening was now large enough to allow him to pass. But near the door there stood a little table, which formed an embarrassing angle with it, and barred the entrance.
Jean Valjean recognized the difficulty. It was necessary, at any cost, to enlarge the aperture still further.
He decided on his course of action, and gave the door a third push, more energetic than the two preceding. This time a badly oiled hinge suddenly emitted amid the silence a hoarse and prolonged cry.
Jean Valjean shuddered. The noise of the hinge rang in his ears with something of the piercing and formidable sound of the trump of the Day of Judgment.
In the fantastic exaggerations of the first moment he almost imagined that that hinge had just become animated, and had suddenly assumed a terrible life, and that it was barking like a dog to arouse every one, and warn and to wake those who were asleep. He halted, shuddering, bewildered, and fell back from the tips of his toes upon his heels. He heard the arteries in his temples beating like two forge hammers, and it seemed to him that his breath issued from his breast with the roar of the wind issuing from a cavern. It seemed impossible to him that the horrible clamor of that irritated hinge should not have disturbed the entire household, like the shock of an earthquake; the door, pushed by him, had taken the alarm, and had shouted; the old man would rise at once; the two old women would shriek out; people would come to their assistance; in less than a quarter of an hour the town would be in an uproar, and the gendarmerie on hand. For a moment he thought himself lost.
He remained where he was, petrified like the statue of salt, not daring to make a movement. Several minutes elapsed. The door had fallen wide open. He ventured to peep into the next room. Nothing had stirred there. He lent an ear. Nothing was moving in the house. The noise made by the rusty hinge had not awakened any one.
This first danger was past; but there still reigned a frightful tumult within him. Nevertheless, he did not retreat. Even when he had thought himself lost, he had not drawn back. His only thought now was to finish as soon as possible. He took a step and entered the room.
This room was in a state of perfect calm. Here and there vague and confused forms were distinguishable, which in the daylight were papers scattered on a table, open folios, volumes piled upon a stool, an arm-chair heaped with clothing, a prie-Dieu, and which at that hour were only shadowy corners and whitish spots. Jean Valjean advanced with precaution, taking care not to knock against the furniture. He could hear, at the extremity of the room, the even and tranquil breathing of the sleeping Bishop.
He suddenly came to a halt. He was near the bed. He had arrived there sooner than he had thought for.
Nature sometimes mingles her effects and her spectacles with our actions with sombre and intelligent appropriateness, as though she desired to make us reflect. For the last half-hour a large cloud had covered the heavens. At the moment when Jean Valjean paused in front of the bed, this cloud parted, as though on purpose, and a ray of light, traversing the long window, suddenly illuminated the Bishop's pale face. He was sleeping peacefully. He lay in his bed almost completely dressed, on account of the cold of the Basses-Alps, in a garment of brown wool, which covered his arms to the wrists. His head was thrown back on the pillow, in the careless attitude of repose; his hand, adorned with the pastoral ring, and whence had fallen so many good deeds and so many holy actions, was hanging over the edge of the bed. His whole face was illumined with a vague expression of satisfaction, of hope, and of felicity. It was more than a smile, and almost a radiance. He bore upon his brow the indescribable reflection of a light which was invisible. The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a mysterious heaven.
A reflection of that heaven rested on the Bishop.
It was, at the same time, a luminous transparency, for that heaven was within him. That heaven was his conscience.
At the moment when the ray of moonlight superposed itself, so to speak, upon that inward radiance, the sleeping Bishop seemed as in a glory. It remained, however, gentle and veiled in an ineffable half-light. That moon in the sky, that slumbering nature, that garden without a quiver, that house which was so calm, the hour, the moment, the silence, added some solemn and unspeakable quality to the venerable repose of this man, and enveloped in a sort of serene and majestic aureole that white hair, those closed eyes, that face in which all was hope and all was confidence, that head of an old man, and that slumber of an infant.
There was something almost divine in this man, who was thus august, without being himself aware of it.
Jean Valjean was in the shadow, and stood motionless, with his iron candlestick in his hand, frightened by this luminous old man. Never had he beheld anything like this. This confidence terrified him. The moral world has no grander spectacle than this: a troubled and uneasy conscience, which has arrived on the brink of an evil action, contemplating the slumber of the just.
That slumber in that isolation, and with a neighbor like himself, had about it something sublime, of which he was vaguely but imperiously conscious.
No one could have told what was passing within him, not even himself. In order to attempt to form an idea of it, it is necessary to think of the most violent of things in the presence of the most gentle. Even on his visage it would have been impossible to distinguish anything with certainty. It was a sort of haggard astonishment. He gazed at it, and that was all. But what was his thought? It would have been impossible to divine it. What was evident was, that he was touched and astounded. But what was the nature of this emotion?
His eye never quitted the old man. The only thing which was clearly to be inferred from his attitude and his physiognomy was a strange indecision. One would have said that he was hesitating between the two abysses,-- the one in which one loses one's self and that in which one saves one's self. He seemed prepared to crush that skull or to kiss that hand.
At the expiration of a few minutes his left arm rose slowly towards his brow, and he took off his cap; then his arm fell back with the same deliberation, and Jean Valjean fell to meditating once more, his cap in his left hand, his club in his right hand, his hair bristling all over his savage head.
The Bishop continued to sleep in profound peace beneath that terrifying gaze.
The gleam of the moon rendered confusedly visible the crucifix over the chimney-piece, which seemed to be extending its arms to both of them, with a benediction for one and pardon for the other.
Suddenly Jean Valjean replaced his cap on his brow; then stepped rapidly past the bed, without glancing at the Bishop, straight to the cupboard, which he saw near the head; he raised his iron candlestick as though to force the lock; the key was there; he opened it; the first thing which presented itself to him was the basket of silverware; he seized it, traversed the chamber with long strides, without taking any precautions and without troubling himself about the noise, gained the door, re-entered the oratory, opened the window, seized his cudgel, bestrode the window-sill of the ground-floor, put the silver into his knapsack, threw away the basket, crossed the garden, leaped over the wall like a tiger, and fled.
冉阿让张耳细听。绝没有一点声响。
他推门。
他用指尖推着，轻轻地、缓缓地、正象一只胆怯心细、想要进门的猫。
门被推以后，静悄悄地移动了几乎不能察觉的那么一点点，缝也稍微宽了一丝。
他等待了一会，再推，这次使力比较大。
门悄然逐渐开大了。现在那条缝已能容他身体过去。但是门旁有一张小桌子，那角度堵住了路，妨碍他通过门缝。
冉阿让知道那种困难。无论如何，他非得把门推得更开一些不可。
他打定主意，再推，比先头两次更使劲一些。这一次，却有个门臼，由于润滑油干了，在黑暗里突然发出一种嘶哑延续的声音。
冉阿让大吃一惊。在他耳里门臼的响声就和末日审判的号角那样洪亮骇人。
在开始行动的那一刹那间，由于幻想的扩大，他几乎认为那个门臼活起来了，并且具有一种非常的活力，就象一头狂叫的狗要向全家告警，要叫醒那些睡着的人。
他停下来，浑身哆嗦，不知所措，他原是踮着脚尖走路，现在连脚跟也落地了。他听见他的动脉在两边太阳穴里象两个铁锤那样敲打着，胸中出来的气也好象来自山洞的风声。他认为那个发怒的门臼所发出的那种震耳欲聋的声响，如果不是天崩地裂似的把全家惊醒，那是不可能的。他推的那扇门已有所警惕，并且已经叫喊；那个老人就要起来了，两个老姑娘也要大叫了，还有旁人都会前来搭救；不到一刻钟，满城都会骚乱，警察也会出动。他一下子认为自己完了。
他立在原处发慌，好象一尊石人，一动也不敢动。
几分钟过去了。门大大地开着。他冒险把那房间瞧了一遍。丝毫没有动静，他伸出耳朵听，整所房子里没有一点声音。
那个锈门臼的响声并不曾惊醒任何人。
这第一次的危险已经过了，但是他心里仍旧惊恐难受。不过他并不后退。即使是在他以为一切没有希望时，他也没有后退。他心里只想到要干就得赶快。他向前一步，便跨进了那房间。
那房间是完全寂静的。这儿那儿，他看见一些模糊紊乱的形体，如果在白天便看得出来，那只是桌上一些零乱的纸张、展开的表册、圆凳上堆着的书本、一把堆着衣服的安乐椅、一把祈祷椅，可是在这时，这些东西却一齐变为黑黝黝的空穴和迷蒙难辨的地域。冉阿让仍朝前走，谨慎小心，唯恐撞了家具。
他听到主教熟睡在那房间的尽头，发出均匀安静的呼吸。
他忽然停下来。他已到了床边。他自己并没有料到会那样快就到了主教的床边。
上天有时会在适当时刻使万物的景象和人的行动发生巧妙的配合，从而产生出深刻的效果，仿佛有意要我们多多思考似的。大致在半个钟点以前，就已有一大片乌云遮着天空。正当冉阿让停在床前，那片乌云忽然散开了，好象是故意要那样做似的，一线月光也随即穿过长窗，正正照在主教的那张苍老的脸上。主教正安安稳稳地睡着。他几乎是和衣睡在床上的，因为下阿尔卑斯一带的夜晚很冷，一件棕色的羊毛衫盖住他的胳膊，直到腕边。他的头仰在枕头上，那正是恣意休息的姿态，一只手垂在床外，指上戴着主教的指环，多少功德都是由这只手圆满了的。他的面容隐隐显出满足、乐观和安详的神情。那不仅仅是微笑，还几乎是容光的焕发。他额上反映出灵光，那是我们看不见的。心地正直的人在睡眠中也在景仰那神秘的天空。
来自天空的一线彩光正射在主教的身上。
同时他本身也是光明剔透的，因为那片天就在他的心里。
那片天就是他的信仰。
正当月光射来重叠（不妨这样说）在他心光上的时候，熟睡着的主教好象是包围在一圈灵光里。那种光却是柔和的，涵容在一种无可言喻的半明半暗的光里。天空的那片月光，地上的这种沉寂，这个了无声息的园子，这个静谧的人家，此时此刻，万籁俱寂，这一切，都使那慈祥老人酣畅的睡眠有着一种说不出的奇妙庄严的神态，并且还以一种端详肃静的圆光环绕着那些白发和那双合着的眼睛，那种充满了希望和赤忱的容颜，老人的面目和赤子的睡眠。
这个人不自觉的无比尊严几乎可以和神明媲美。冉阿让，他，却待在黑影里，手中拿着他的铁烛钎，立着不动，望着这位全身光亮的老人，有些胆寒。他从来没有见过那样的人。他那种待人的赤忱使他惊骇。一个心怀叵测、濒于犯罪的人在景仰一个睡乡中的至人，精神领域中没有比这更宏伟的场面了。
他孤零零独自一人，却酣然睡在那样一个陌生人的旁边，他那种卓绝的心怀冉阿让多少也感觉到了，不过他不为所动。
谁也说不出他的心情，连他自己也说不出。如果我们真要领会，就必须设想一种极端强暴的力和一种极端温和的力的并立。即使是从他的面色上，我们肯定不能分辨出什么来。那只是一副凶顽而又惊骇的面孔。他望着，如是而已。但是他的心境是怎样的呢？那是无从揣测的。不过，他受到了感动，受到了困扰，那是很显明的。但是那种感动究竟属于什么性质的呢？
他的眼睛没有离开老人。从他的姿势和面容上显露出来的，仅仅是一种奇特的犹豫神情。我们可以说，他正面对着两种关口而踟蹰不前，一种是自绝的关口，一种是自救的关口。
他仿佛已准备要击碎那头颅或吻那只手。
过了一会，他缓缓地举起他的左手，直到额边，脱下他的小帽，随后他的手又同样缓缓地落下去。冉阿让重又堕入冥想中了，左手拿着小帽，右手拿着铁钎，头发乱竖在他那粗野的头上。
尽管他用怎样可怕的目光望着主教，但主教仍安然酣睡。
月光依稀照着壁炉上的那个耶稣受难像，他仿佛把两只手同时伸向他们两个人，为一个降福，为另一个赦宥。忽然，冉阿让拿起他的小帽，戴在头上，不望那主教，连忙沿着床边，向他从床头可以隐隐望见的那个壁橱走去，他想起那根铁烛钎，好象要撬锁似的，但是钥匙已在那上面，他打开橱，他最先见到的东西，便是那篮银器，他提着那篮银器，大踏步穿过那间屋子，也不管声响了，走到门边，进入祈祷室，推开窗子，拿起木棍，跨过窗台，把银器放进布袋，丢下篮子，穿过园子，老虎似的跳过墙头逃了。
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 12 The Bishop works
The next morning at sunrise Monseigneur Bienvenu was strolling in his garden. Madame Magloire ran up to him in utter consternation.
"Monseigneur, Monseigneur!" she exclaimed, "does your Grace know where the basket of silver is?"
"Yes," replied the Bishop.
"Jesus the Lord be blessed!" she resumed; "I did not know what had become of it."
The Bishop had just picked up the basket in a flower-bed. He presented it to Madame Magloire.
"Here it is."
"Well!" said she. "Nothing in it! And the silver?"
"Ah," returned the Bishop, "so it is the silver which troubles you? I don't know where it is."
"Great, good God! It is stolen! That man who was here last night has stolen it."
In a twinkling, with all the vivacity of an alert old woman, Madame Magloire had rushed to the oratory, entered the alcove, and returned to the Bishop. The Bishop had just bent down, and was sighing as he examined a plant of cochlearia des Guillons, which the basket had broken as it fell across the bed. He rose up at Madame Magloire's cry.
"Monseigneur, the man is gone! The silver has been stolen!" As she uttered this exclamation, her eyes fell upon a corner of the garden, where traces of the wall having been scaled were visible. The coping of the wall had been torn away.
"Stay! yonder is the way he went. He jumped over into Cochefilet Lane. Ah, the abomination! He has stolen our silver!"
The Bishop remained silent for a moment; then he raised his grave eyes, and said gently to Madame Magloire:--
"And, in the first place, was that silver ours?"
Madame Magloire was speechless. Another silence ensued; then the Bishop went on:--
"Madame Magloire, I have for a long time detained that silver wrongfully. It belonged to the poor. Who was that man? A poor man, evidently."
"Alas! Jesus!" returned Madame Magloire. "It is not for my sake, nor for Mademoiselle's. It makes no difference to us. But it is for the sake of Monseigneur. What is Monseigneur to eat with now?"
The Bishop gazed at her with an air of amazement.
"Ah, come! Are there no such things as pewter forks and spoons?"
Madame Magloire shrugged her shoulders.
"Pewter has an odor."
"Iron forks and spoons, then."
Madame Magloire made an expressive grimace.
"Iron has a taste."
"Very well," said the Bishop; "wooden ones then."
A few moments later he was breakfasting at the very table at which Jean Valjean had sat on the previous evening. As he ate his breakfast, Monseigneur Welcome remarked gayly to his sister, who said nothing, and to Madame Magloire, who was grumbling under her breath, that one really does not need either fork or spoon, even of wood, in order to dip a bit of bread in a cup of milk.
"A pretty idea, truly," said Madame Magloire to herself, as she went and came, "to take in a man like that! and to lodge him close to one's self! And how fortunate that he did nothing but steal! Ah, mon Dieu! it makes one shudder to think of it!"
As the brother and sister were about to rise from the table, there came a knock at the door.
"Come in," said the Bishop.
The door opened. A singular and violent group made its appearance on the threshold. Three men were holding a fourth man by the collar. The three men were gendarmes; the other was Jean Valjean.
A brigadier of gendarmes, who seemed to be in command of the group, was standing near the door. He entered and advanced to the Bishop, making a military salute.
"Monseigneur--" said he.
At this word, Jean Valjean, who was dejected and seemed overwhelmed, raised his head with an air of stupefaction.
"Monseigneur!" he murmured. "So he is not the cure?"
"Silence!" said the gendarme. "He is Monseigneur the Bishop."
In the meantime, Monseigneur Bienvenu had advanced as quickly as his great age permitted.
"Ah! here you are!" he exclaimed, looking at Jean Valjean. "I am glad to see you. Well, but how is this? I gave you the candlesticks too, which are of silver like the rest, and for which you can certainly get two hundred francs. Why did you not carry them away with your forks and spoons?"
Jean Valjean opened his eyes wide, and stared at the venerable Bishop with an expression which no human tongue can render any account of.
"Monseigneur," said the brigadier of gendarmes, "so what this man said is true, then? We came across him. He was walking like a man who is running away. We stopped him to look into the matter. He had this silver--"
"And he told you," interposed the Bishop with a smile, "that it had been given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom he had passed the night? I see how the matter stands. And you have brought him back here? It is a mistake."
"In that case," replied the brigadier, "we can let him go?"
"Certainly," replied the Bishop.
The gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who recoiled.
"Is it true that I am to be released?" he said, in an almost inarticulate voice, and as though he were talking in his sleep.
"Yes, thou art released; dost thou not understand?" said one of the gendarmes.
"My friend," resumed the Bishop, "before you go, here are your candlesticks. Take them."
He stepped to the chimney-piece, took the two silver candlesticks, and brought them to Jean Valjean. The two women looked on without uttering a word, without a gesture, without a look which could disconcert the Bishop.
Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. He took the two candlesticks mechanically, and with a bewildered air.
"Now," said the Bishop, "go in peace. By the way, when you return, my friend, it is not necessary to pass through the garden. You can always enter and depart through the street door. It is never fastened with anything but a latch, either by day or by night."
Then, turning to the gendarmes:--
"You may retire, gentlemen."
The gendarmes retired.
Jean Valjean was like a man on the point of fainting.
The Bishop drew near to him, and said in a low voice:--
"Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money in becoming an honest man."
Jean Valjean, who had no recollection of ever having promised anything, remained speechless. The Bishop had emphasized the words when he uttered them. He resumed with solemnity:--
"Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God."
次日破晓，卞福汝主教在他的园中散步。马格洛大娘慌慌张张地向他跑来。
“我的主教，我的主教，”她喊着说，“大人可知道那只银器篮子在什么地方吗？”
“知道的。”主教说。
“耶稣上帝有灵！”她说。“我刚才还说它到什么地方去了呢。”
主教刚在花坛脚下拾起了那篮子，把它交给马格洛大娘。
“篮子在这儿。”
“怎样？”她说。“里面一点东西也没有！那些银器呢？”
“呀，”主教回答说，“您原来是问银器吗？我不知道在什么地方。”
“大哉好上帝！给人偷去了！是昨天晚上那个人偷了的！”
一转瞬间，马格洛大娘已用急躁老太婆的全部敏捷劲儿跑进祈祷室，穿进壁厢，又回到主教那儿。
主教正弯下腰去，悼惜一株被那篮子压折的秋海棠，那是篮子从花坛落到地下把它压折了的。主教听到马格洛大娘的叫声，又立起立。
“我的主教，那个人已经走了！银器也偷去了。”
她一面嚷，眼睛却落在园子的一角上，那儿还看得出越墙的痕迹。墙上的垛子也弄掉了一个。
“您瞧！他是从那儿逃走的。他跳进了车网巷！呀！可耻的东西！他偷了我们的银器！”
主教沉默了一会，随后他张开那双严肃的眼睛，柔声向马格洛大娘说：
“首先，那些银器难道真是我们的吗？”
马格洛大娘不敢说下去了。又是一阵沉寂。随后，主教继续说：
“马格洛大娘，我占用那些银器已经很久了。那是属于穷人的。那个人是什么人呢？当然是个穷人了。”
“耶稣，”马格洛大娘又说，“不是为了我，也不是为了姑娘，我们是没有关系的。但是我是为了我的主教着想。我的主教现在用什么东西盛饭菜呢？”
主教显出一副惊奇的神气瞧着她。
“呀！这话怎讲！我们不是有锡器吗？”
马格洛大娘耸了耸肩。
“锡器有一股臭气。”
“那么，铁器也可以。”
马格洛大娘做出一副怪样子：
“铁器有一股怪味。”
“那么，”主教说，“用木器就是了。”
过了一会，他坐在昨晚冉阿让坐过的那张桌子边用早餐。卞福汝主教一面吃，一面欢欢喜喜地叫他那哑口无言的妹子和叽哩咕噜的马格洛大娘注意，他把一块面包浸在牛奶里，连木匙和木叉也都不用。
“真想不到！”马格洛大娘一面走来走去，一面自言自语，“招待这样一个人，并且让他睡在自己的旁边！幸而他只偷了一点东西！我的上帝！想想都使人寒毛直竖。”
正在兄妹俩要离开桌子时，有人敲门。
“请进。”主教说。
门开了，一群狠巴巴的陌生人出现在门边。三个人拿着另一个人的衣领。那三个人是警察，另一个就是冉阿让。
一个警察队长，仿佛是率领那群人的，起先立在门边。他进来，行了个军礼，向主教走去。
“我的主教……”他说。
冉阿让先头好象是垂头丧气的，听了这称呼，忽然抬起头来，露出大吃一惊的神气。
“我的主教，”他低声说，“那么，他不是本堂神甫了……”
“不准开口！”一个警察说，“这是主教先生。”
但是卞福汝主教尽他的高年所允许的速度迎上去。
“呀！您来了！”他望着冉阿让大声说，“我真高兴看见您。怎么！那一对烛台，我也送给您了，那和其余的东西一样，都是银的，您可以变卖二百法郎。您为什么没有把那对烛台和餐具一同带去呢？”
冉阿让睁圆了眼睛，瞧着那位年高可敬的主教。他的面色，绝没有一种人类文字可以表达得出来。
“我的主教，”警察队长说，“难道这人说的话是真的吗？我们碰到了他。他走路的样子好象是个想逃跑的人。我们就把他拦下来看看。他拿着这些银器……”
“他还向你们说过，”主教笑容可掬地岔着说，“这些银器是一个神甫老头儿给他的，他还在他家里宿了一夜。我知道这是怎么回事。你们又把他带回到此地。对吗？你们误会了。”
“既是这样，”队长说，“我们可以把他放走吗？”
“当然。”主教回答说。
警察释放了冉阿让，他向后退了几步。
“你们真让我走吗？”他说，仿佛是在梦中，字音也几乎没有吐清楚。
“是的，我们让你走，你耳朵聋了吗？”一个警察说。
“我的朋友，”主教又说，“您在走之先，不妨把您的那对烛台拿去。”
他走到壁炉边，拿了那两个银烛台，送给冉阿让。那两个妇人没有说一个字、做一个手势或露一点神气去阻扰主教，她们瞧着他行动。
冉阿让全身发抖。他机械地接了那两个烛台，不知道怎样才好。
“现在，”主教说，“您可以放心走了。呀！还有一件事，我的朋友，您再来时，不必走园里。您随时都可以由街上的那扇门进出。白天和夜里，它都只上一个活闩。”
他转过去朝着那些警察：
“先生们，你们可以回去了。”
那些警察走了。
这时冉阿让象是个要昏倒的人。
主教走到他身边，低声向他说：
“不要忘记，永远不要忘记您允诺过我，您用这些银子是为了成为一个诚实的人。”
冉阿让绝对回忆不起他曾允诺过什么话，他呆着不能开口。主教说那些话是一字一字叮嘱的，他又郑重地说：“冉阿让，我的兄弟，您现在已不是恶一方面的人了，您是在善的一面了。我赎的是您的灵魂，我把它从黑暗的思想和自暴自弃的精神里救出来，交还给上帝。”
Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 13 LITTLE GERVAIS
Jean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from it. He set out at a very hasty pace through the fields, taking whatever roads and paths presented themselves to him, without perceiving that he was incessantly retracing his steps. He wandered thus the whole morning, without having eaten anything and without feeling hungry. He was the prey of a throng of novel sensations. He was conscious of a sort of rage; he did not know against whom it was directed. He could not have told whether he was touched or humiliated. There came over him at moments a strange emotion which he resisted and to which he opposed the hardness acquired during the last twenty years of his life. This state of mind fatigued him. He perceived with dismay that the sort of frightful calm which the injustice of his misfortune had conferred upon him was giving way within him. He asked himself what would replace this. At times he would have actually preferred to be in prison with the gendarmes, and that things should not have happened in this way; it would have agitated him less. Although the season was tolerably far advanced, there were still a few late flowers in the hedge-rows here and there, whose odor as he passed through them in his march recalled to him memories of his childhood. These memories were almost intolerable to him, it was so long since they had recurred to him.
Unutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all day long.
As the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows athwart the soil from every pebble, Jean Valjean sat down behind a bush upon a large ruddy plain, which was absolutely deserted. There was nothing on the horizon except the Alps. Not even the spire of a distant village. Jean Valjean might have been three leagues distant from D----A path which intersected the plain passed a few paces from the bush.
In the middle of this meditation, which would have contributed not a little to render his rags terrifying to any one who might have encountered him, a joyous sound became audible.
He turned his head and saw a little Savoyard, about ten years of age, coming up the path and singing, his hurdy-gurdy on his hip, and his marmot-box on his back, One of those gay and gentle children, who go from land to land affording a view of their knees through the holes in their trousers.
Without stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from time to time, and played at knuckle-bones with some coins which he had in his hand--his whole fortune, probably.
Among this money there was one forty-sou piece.
The child halted beside the bush, without perceiving Jean Valjean, and tossed up his handful of sous, which, up to that time, he had caught with a good deal of adroitness on the back of his hand.
This time the forty-sou piece escaped him, and went rolling towards the brushwood until it reached Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean set his foot upon it.
In the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had caught sight of him.
He showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to the man. The spot was absolutely solitary. As far as the eye could see there was not a person on the plain or on the path. The only sound was the tiny, feeble cries of a flock of birds of passage, which was traversing the heavens at an immense height. The child was standing with his back to the sun, which cast threads of gold in his hair and empurpled with its blood-red gleam the savage face of Jean Valjean.
"Sir," said the little Savoyard, with that childish confidence which is composed of ignorance and innocence, "my money."
"What is your name?" said Jean Valjean.
"Little Gervais, sir."
"Go away," said Jean Valjean.
"Sir," resumed the child, "give me back my money."
Jean Valjean dropped his head, and made no reply.
The child began again, "My money, sir."
Jean Valjean's eyes remained fixed on the earth.
"My piece of money!" cried the child, "my white piece! my silver!"
It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped him by the collar of his blouse and shook him. At the same time he made an effort to displace the big iron-shod shoe which rested on his treasure.
"I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous!"
The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still remained seated. His eyes were troubled. He gazed at the child, in a sort of amazement, then he stretched out his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voice, "Who's there?"
"I, sir," replied the child. "Little Gervais! I! Give me back my forty sous, if you please! Take your foot away, sir, if you please!"
Then irritated, though he was so small, and becoming almost menacing:--
"Come now, will you take your foot away? Take your foot away, or we'll see!"
"Ah! It's still you!" said Jean Valjean, and rising abruptly to his feet, his foot still resting on the silver piece, he added:--
"Will you take yourself off!"
The frightened child looked at him, then began to tremble from head to foot, and after a few moments of stupor he set out, running at the top of his speed, without daring to turn his neck or to utter a cry.
Nevertheless, lack of breath forced him to halt after a certain distance, and Jean Valjean heard him sobbing, in the midst of his own revery.
At the end of a few moments the child had disappeared.
The sun had set.
The shadows were descending around Jean Valjean. He had eaten nothing all day; it is probable that he was feverish.
He had remained standing and had not changed his attitude after the child's flight. The breath heaved his chest at long and irregular intervals. His gaze, fixed ten or twelve paces in front of him, seemed to be scrutinizing with profound attention the shape of an ancient fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass. All at once he shivered; he had just begun to feel the chill of evening.
He settled his cap more firmly on his brow, sought mechanically to cross and button his blouse, advanced a step and stopped to pick up his cudgel.
At that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piece, which his foot had half ground into the earth, and which was shining among the pebbles. It was as though he had received a galvanic shock. "What is this?" he muttered between his teeth. He recoiled three paces, then halted, without being able to detach his gaze from the spot which his foot had trodden but an instant before, as though the thing which lay glittering there in the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him.
At the expiration of a few moments he darted convulsively towards the silver coin, seized it, and straightened himself up again and began to gaze afar off over the plain, at the same time casting his eyes towards all points of the horizon, as he stood there erect and shivering, like a terrified wild animal which is seeking refuge.
He saw nothing. Night was falling, the plain was cold and vague, great banks of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight.
He said, "Ah!" and set out rapidly in the direction in which the child had disappeared. After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him and saw nothing.
Then he shouted with all his might:--
"Little Gervais! Little Gervais!"
He paused and waited.
There was no reply.
The landscape was gloomy and deserted. He was encompassed by space. There was nothing around him but an obscurity in which his gaze was lost, and a silence which engulfed his voice.
An icy north wind was blowing, and imparted to things around him a sort of lugubrious life. The bushes shook their thin little arms with incredible fury. One would have said that they were threatening and pursuing some one.
He set out on his march again, then he began to run; and from time to time he halted and shouted into that solitude, with a voice which was the most formidable and the most disconsolate that it was possible to hear, "Little Gervais! Little Gervais!"
Assuredly, if the child had heard him, he would have been alarmed and would have taken good care not to show himself. But the child was no doubt already far away.
He encountered a priest on horseback. He stepped up to him and said:--
"Monsieur le Cure, have you seen a child pass?"
"No," said the priest.
"One named Little Gervais?"
"I have seen no one."
He drew two five-franc pieces from his money-bag and handed them to the priest.
"Monsieur le Cure, this is for your poor people. Monsieur le Cure, he was a little lad, about ten years old, with a marmot, I think, and a hurdy-gurdy. One of those Savoyards, you know?"
"I have not seen him."
"Little Gervais? There are no villages here? Can you tell me?"
"If he is like what you say, my friend, he is a little stranger. Such persons pass through these parts. We know nothing of them."
Jean Valjean seized two more coins of five francs each with violence, and gave them to the priest.
"For your poor," he said.
Then he added, wildly:--
"Monsieur l'Abbe, have me arrested. I am a thief."
The priest put spurs to his horse and fled in haste, much alarmed.
Jean Valjean set out on a run, in the direction which he had first taken.
In this way he traversed a tolerably long distance, gazing, calling, shouting, but he met no one. Two or three times he ran across the plain towards something which conveyed to him the effect of a human being reclining or crouching down; it turned out to be nothing but brushwood or rocks nearly on a level with the earth. At length, at a spot where three paths intersected each other, he stopped. The moon had risen. He sent his gaze into the distance and shouted for the last time, "Little Gervais! Little Gervais! Little Gervais!" His shout died away in the mist, without even awakening an echo. He murmured yet once more, "Little Gervais!" but in a feeble and almost inarticulate voice. It was his last effort; his legs gave way abruptly under him, as though an invisible power had suddenly overwhelmed him with the weight of his evil conscience; he fell exhausted, on a large stone, his fists clenched in his hair and his face on his knees, and he cried, "I am a wretch!"
Then his heart burst, and he began to cry. It was the first time that he had wept in nineteen years.
When Jean Valjean left the Bishop's house, he was, as we have seen, quite thrown out of everything that had been his thought hitherto. He could not yield to the evidence of what was going on within him. He hardened himself against the angelic action and the gentle words of the old man. "You have promised me to become an honest man. I buy your soul. I take it away from the spirit of perversity; I give it to the good God."
This recurred to his mind unceasingly. To this celestial kindness he opposed pride, which is the fortress of evil within us. He was indistinctly conscious that the pardon of this priest was the greatest assault and the most formidable attack which had moved him yet; that his obduracy was finally settled if he resisted this clemency; that if he yielded, he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the actions of other men had filled his soul through so many years, and which pleased him; that this time it was necessary to conquer or to be conquered; and that a struggle, a colossal and final struggle, had been begun between his viciousness and the goodness of that man.
In the presence of these lights, he proceeded like a man who is intoxicated. As he walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a distinct perception of what might result to him from his adventure at D----? Did he understand all those mysterious murmurs which warn or importune the spirit at certain moments of life? Did a voice whisper in his ear that he had just passed the solemn hour of his destiny; that there no longer remained a middle course for him; that if he were not henceforth the best of men, he would be the worst; that it behooved him now, so to speak, to mount higher than the Bishop, or fall lower than the convict; that if he wished to become good be must become an angel; that if he wished to remain evil, he must become a monster?
Here, again, some questions must be put, which we have already put to ourselves elsewhere: did he catch some shadow of all this in his thought, in a confused way? Misfortune certainly, as we have said, does form the education of the intelligence; nevertheless, it is doubtful whether Jean Valjean was in a condition to disentangle all that we have here indicated. If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught glimpses of, rather than saw them, and they only succeeded in throwing him into an unutterable and almost painful state of emotion. On emerging from that black and deformed thing which is called the galleys, the Bishop had hurt his soul, as too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes on emerging from the dark. The future life, the possible life which offered itself to him henceforth, all pure and radiant, filled him with tremors and anxiety. He no longer knew where he really was. Like an owl, who should suddenly see the sun rise, the convict had been dazzled and blinded, as it were, by virtue.
That which was certain, that which he did not doubt, was that he was no longer the same man, that everything about him was changed, that it was no longer in his power to make it as though the Bishop had not spoken to him and had not touched him.
In this state of mind he had encountered little Gervais, and had robbed him of his forty sous. Why? He certainly could not have explained it; was this the last effect and the supreme effort, as it were, of the evil thoughts which he had brought away from the galleys,-- a remnant of impulse, a result of what is called in statics, acquired force? It was that, and it was also, perhaps, even less than that. Let us say it simply, it was not he who stole; it was not the man; it was the beast, who, by habit and instinct, had simply placed his foot upon that money, while the intelligence was struggling amid so many novel and hitherto unheard-of thoughts besetting it.
When intelligence re-awakened and beheld that action of the brute, Jean Valjean recoiled with anguish and uttered a cry of terror.
It was because,--strange phenomenon, and one which was possible only in the situation in which he found himself,--in stealing the money from that child, he had done a thing of which he was no longer capable.
However that may be, this last evil action had a decisive effect on him; it abruptly traversed that chaos which he bore in his mind, and dispersed it, placed on one side the thick obscurity, and on the other the light, and acted on his soul, in the state in which it then was, as certain chemical reagents act upon a troubled mixture by precipitating one element and clarifying the other.
First of all, even before examining himself and reflecting, all bewildered, like one who seeks to save himself, he tried to find the child in order to return his money to him; then, when he recognized the fact that this was impossible, he halted in despair. At the moment when he exclaimed "I am a wretch!" he had just perceived what he was, and he was already separated from himself to such a degree, that he seemed to himself to be no longer anything more than a phantom, and as if he had, there before him, in flesh and blood, the hideous galley-convict, Jean Valjean, cudgel in hand, his blouse on his hips, his knapsack filled with stolen objects on his back, with his resolute and gloomy visage, with his thoughts filled with abominable projects.
Excess of unhappiness had, as we have remarked, made him in some sort a visionary. This, then, was in the nature of a vision. He actually saw that Jean Valjean, that sinister face, before him. He had almost reached the point of asking himself who that man was, and he was horrified by him.
His brain was going through one of those violent and yet perfectly calm moments in which revery is so profound that it absorbs reality. One no longer beholds the object which one has before one, and one sees, as though apart from one's self, the figures which one has in one's own mind.
Thus he contemplated himself, so to speak, face to face, and at the same time, athwart this hallucination, he perceived in a mysterious depth a sort of light which he at first took for a torch. On scrutinizing this light which appeared to his conscience with more attention, he recognized the fact that it possessed a human form and that this torch was the Bishop.
His conscience weighed in turn these two men thus placed before it,-- the Bishop and Jean Valjean. Nothing less than the first was required to soften the second. By one of those singular effects, which are peculiar to this sort of ecstasies, in proportion as his revery continued, as the Bishop grew great and resplendent in his eyes, so did Jean Valjean grow less and vanish. After a certain time he was no longer anything more than a shade. All at once he disappeared. The Bishop alone remained; he filled the whole soul of this wretched man with a magnificent radiance.
Jean Valjean wept for a long time. He wept burning tears, he sobbed with more weakness than a woman, with more fright than a child.
As he wept, daylight penetrated more and more clearly into his soul; an extraordinary light; a light at once ravishing and terrible. His past life, his first fault, his long expiation, his external brutishness, his internal hardness, his dismissal to liberty, rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeance, what had happened to him at the Bishop's, the last thing that he had done, that theft of forty sous from a child, a crime all the more cowardly, and all the more monstrous since it had come after the Bishop's pardon,--all this recurred to his mind and appeared clearly to him, but with a clearness which he had never hitherto witnessed. He examined his life, and it seemed horrible to him; his soul, and it seemed frightful to him. In the meantime a gentle light rested over this life and this soul. It seemed to him that he beheld Satan by the light of Paradise.
How many hours did he weep thus? What did he do after he had wept? Whither did he go! No one ever knew. The only thing which seems to be authenticated is that that same night the carrier who served Grenoble at that epoch, and who arrived at D---- about three o'clock in the morning, saw, as he traversed the street in which the Bishop's residence was situated, a man in the attitude of prayer, kneeling on the pavement in the shadow, in front of the door of Monseigneur Welcome.
冉阿让逃也似的出了城。他在田亩中仓皇乱窜，不问大路小路，遇着就走，也不觉得他老在原处兜圈子。他那样瞎跑了一早晨，没吃东西，也不知道饿。他被一大堆新的感触控制住了。他觉得自己怒不可遏，却又不知道怒为谁发。他说不出他是受了感动还是受了侮辱。有时他觉得心头有一种奇特的柔和滋味，他却和它抗拒，拿了他过去二十年中立志顽抗到底的心情来对抗。这种情形使他感到疲乏。过去使他受苦的那种不公平的处罚早已使他决心为恶，现在他觉得那种决心动摇了，反而感到不安。他问自己：以后将用什么志愿来代替那种决心？有时，他的确认为假使没有这些经过，他仍能和警察相处狱中，他也许还高兴些，他心中也就可以少起一些波动。当时虽然已近岁暮，可是在青树篱中，三三两两，偶然也还有几朵晚开的花，他闻到花香，触起了童年的许多往事。那些往事对他几乎是不堪回首的，他已有那么多年不去想它了。
因此，那一天，有许许多多莫名其妙的感触一齐涌上他的心头。
正当落日西沉、地面上最小的石子也拖着细长的影子时，冉阿让坐在一片绝对荒凉的红土平原中的一丛荆棘后面。远处，只望见阿尔卑斯山。连远村的钟楼也瞧不见一个。冉阿让离开迪涅城大致已有三法里了。在离开荆棘几步的地方，横着一条穿过平原的小路。
他正在胡思乱想，当时如果有人走来，见了他那种神情，必然会感到他那身褴褛衣服格外可怕。正在那时，他忽然听到一阵欢乐的声音。
他转过头，看见一个十岁左右的穷孩子顺着小路走来，嘴里唱着歌，腰间一只摇琴，背上一只田鼠笼子，这是一个那种嬉皮笑脸、四乡游荡、从裤腿窟窿里露出膝头的孩子中的一个。
那孩子一面唱，一面又不时停下来，拿着手中的几个钱，做“抓子儿”游戏，那几个钱，大致就是他的全部财产了。里面有一个值四十苏的钱。
孩子停留在那丛荆棘旁边，没有看见冉阿让，把他的一把钱抛起来，他相当灵巧，每次都个个接在手背上。
可是这一次他那个值四十苏的钱落了空，向那丛荆棘滚了去，滚到了冉阿让的脚边。
冉阿让一脚踏在上面。
可是那孩子的眼睛早随着那个钱，他看见冉阿让用脚踏着。
他一点也不惊慌，直向那人走去。
那是一处绝对没有人的地方。在视线所及的范围内，绝没有一个人在平原和小路上。他们只听见一群掠空而过的飞鸟从高空送来微弱的鸣声。那孩子背朝太阳，日光把他的头发照成缕缕金丝，用血红的光把冉阿让的凶悍的脸照成紫色。
“先生，”那穷孩子用蒙昧和天真合成的赤子之心说，“我的钱呢？”
“你叫什么？”冉阿让说。
“小瑞尔威，先生。”
“滚！”冉阿让说。
“先生，”那孩子又说，“请您把我的那个钱还我。”
冉阿让低下头，不答话。
那孩子再说：
“我的钱，先生！”
冉阿让的眼睛仍旧盯在地上。
“我的钱！”那孩子喊起来，“我的白角子！我的银钱！”
冉阿让好象全没听见。那孩子抓住他的布衫领，推他。同时使劲推开那只压在他宝贝上面的铁钉鞋。
“我要我的钱！我要我值四十个苏的钱！”
孩子哭起来了。冉阿让抬起头，仍旧坐着不动。他眼睛的神气是迷糊不清的。他望着那孩子有点感到惊奇，随后，他伸手到放棍子的地方，大声喊道：
“谁在那儿？”
“是我，先生，”那孩子回答，“小瑞尔威。我！我！请您把我的四十个苏还我！把您的脚拿开，先生，求求您！”
他年纪虽小，却动了火，几乎有要硬干的神气：
“哈！您究竟拿开不拿开您的脚？快拿开您的脚！听见了没有？”
“呀！又是你！”冉阿让说。
随后，他忽然站起来，脚仍旧踏在银币上，接着说：
“你究竟走不走！”
那孩子吓坏了，望着他，继而从头到脚哆嗦起来，发了一会呆，逃了，他拚命跑，不敢回头，也不敢叫。
但是他跑了一程过后，喘不过气了，只得停下来。冉阿让在紊乱的心情中听到了他的哭声。
过一会，那孩子不见了。
太阳也落下去了。
黑暗渐渐笼罩着冉阿让的四周。他整天没有吃东西，他也许正在发寒热。
他仍旧立着，自从那孩子逃走以后，他还没有改变他那姿势。他的呼吸，忽长忽促，胸膛随着起伏。他的眼睛盯在他前面一二十步的地方，仿佛在专心研究野草中的一块碎蓝瓷片的形状。
忽然，他哆嗦了一下，此刻他才感到夜寒。
他重新把他的鸭舌帽压紧在额头上，机械地动手去把他的布衫拉拢，扣上，走了一步，弯下腰去，从地上拾起他的棍子。
这时，他忽然看见了那个值四十个苏的钱，他的脚已把它半埋在土中了，它在石子上发出闪光。
这一下好象是触着电似的，“这是什么东西？”他咬紧牙齿说。他向后退了三步，停下来，无法把他的视线从刚才他脚踏着的那一点移开，在黑暗里闪光的那件东西，仿佛是一只盯着他的大眼睛。
几分钟过后，他慌忙向那银币猛扑过去，捏住它，立起身来，向平原的远处望去，把目光投向天边四处，站着发抖，好象一只受惊以后要找地方藏身的猛兽。
他什么也瞧不见。天黑了，平原一片苍凉。紫色的浓雾正在黄昏的微光中腾起。他说了声“呀”，急忙向那孩子逃跑的方向走去。走了百来步以后，他停下来，向前望去，可是什么也看不见。
于是他使出全身力气，喊道：
“小瑞尔威！小瑞尔威！”
他住口细听。没有人回答。
那旷野是荒凉凄黯的。四周一望无际，全是荒地。除了那望不穿的黑影和叫不破的寂静以外，一无所有。
一阵冷峭的北风吹来，使他四周的东西都呈现出愁惨的景象。几棵矮树，摇着枯枝，带有一种不可思议的愤怒，仿佛要恐吓追扑什么人似的。
他再往前走，随后又跑起来，跑跑停停，在那寂寥的原野上，吼出他那无比凄惨惊人的声音：
“小瑞尔威！小瑞尔威！”
如果那孩子听见了，也一定会害怕，会好好地躲起来。不过那孩子，毫无疑问，已经走远了。
他遇见一个骑马的神甫。他走到他身边，向他说：
“神甫先生，您看见一个孩子走过去吗？”
“没有。”神甫说。
“一个叫小瑞尔威的？”
“我谁也没看见。”
他从他钱袋里取出两枚五法郎的钱，交给神甫。
“神甫先生，这是给您的穷人的。神甫先生，他是一个十岁左右的孩子，他有一只田鼠笼子，我想，还有一把摇琴。他是向那个方向走去的。他是一个通烟囱的穷孩子，您知道吗？”
“我确实没有看见。”
“小瑞尔威？他不是这村子里的吗？您能告诉我吗？”
“如果他是象您那么说的，我的朋友，那就是一个从别处来的孩子了。他们经过这里，却不会有人认识他们。”
冉阿让另又拿出两个五法郎的钱交给神甫。
“给您的穷人。”他说。
随后他又迷乱地说：
“教士先生，您去叫人来捉我吧。我是一个窃贼。”
神甫踢动双腿，催马前进，魂飞天外似的逃了。
冉阿让又朝着他先头预定的方向跑去。
他那样走了许多路，张望，叫喊，呼号，但是再也没有碰见一个人。他在那原野里，看见一点象是卧着或蹲着的东西，他就跑过去，那样前后有两三次，他见到的只是一些野草，或是露在地面上的石头，最后，他走到一个三岔路口，停下来。月亮出来了。他张望远处，作了最后一次的呼唤：“小瑞尔威！小瑞尔威！小瑞尔威！”他的呼声在暮霭中消失，连回响也没有了。他嘴里还念着：“小瑞尔威！”但是声音微弱，几乎不成字音。那是他最后的努力，他的膝弯忽然折下，仿佛他良心上的负担已成了一种无形的威力突然把他压倒了似的，他精疲力竭，倒在一块大石头上，两手握着头发，脸躲在膝头中间，他喊道：
“我是一个无赖！”
他的心碎了，他哭了出来，那是他第一次流泪。
冉阿让从主教家里出来时，我们看得出来，他已完全摆脱了从前的那种思想。不过他一时还不能分辨自己的心情。他对那个老人的仁言懿行还强自抗拒。“您允诺了我做诚实人。我赎买了您的灵魂，我把它从污秽当中救出来交给慈悲的上帝。”这些话不停地回到他的脑子里。他用自己的傲气来和那种至高无上的仁德对抗，傲气真是我们心里的罪恶堡垒。他仿佛觉得，神甫的原有是使他回心转意的一种最大的迫击和最凶猛的攻势，如果他对那次恩德还要抵抗，那他就会死硬到底，永不回头；如果他屈服，他就应当放弃这许多年来别人种在他心里、也是他自鸣得意的那种仇恨。那一次是他的胜败关头，那种斗争，那种关系着全盘胜负的激烈斗争，已在他自身的凶恶和那人的慈善间展开了。
他怀着一种一知半解的心情，醉汉似的往前走。当他那样惝恍迷离往前走时，他对这次在迪涅的意外遭遇给他的后果是否有一种明确的认识呢？在人生的某些时刻，常有一种神秘的微音来惊觉或搅扰我们的心神，他是否也听到过这种微音呢？是否有种声音在他的耳边说他正在经历他生命中最严重的一刻呢？他已没有中立的余地，此后他如果不做最好的人，就会做最恶的人，现在他应当超过主教（不妨这样说），否则就会堕落到连苦役犯也不如，如果他情愿为善，就应当做天使，如果他甘心为恶，就一定做恶魔。
在此地，我们应当再提出我们曾在别处提出过的那些问题，这一切在他的思想上是否多少发生了一点影响呢？当然，我们曾经说过，艰苦的生活能教育人，能启发人，但是在冉阿让那种水平上，他是否能分析我们在此地指出的这一切，那却是一个疑问，如果他对那些思想能有所体会，那也只是一知半解，他一定看不清楚，并且那些思想也只能使他堕入一种烦恼，使他感到难堪，几乎感到痛苦。他从所谓牢狱的那种畸形而黑暗的东西里出来后，主教已伤了他的灵魂，正如一种太强烈的光会伤他那双刚从黑暗中出来的眼睛一样。将来的生活，摆在他眼前的那种永远纯洁、光彩、完全可能实现的生活，使他战栗惶感。他确实不知道怎么办。正如一只骤见日出的枭乌，这个罪犯也因见了美德而目眩，并且几乎失明。
有一点可以肯定，并且是他自己也相信的，那就是他已不是从前那个人了，他的心完全变了，他已没有能力再去做主教不曾和他谈到也不曾触及的那些事了。
在这样的思想状况下，他遇到了小瑞尔威，抢了他的四十个苏。那是为什么？他一定不能说明，难道这是他从监牢里带来的那种恶念的最后影响，好比临终的振作，冲动的余力，力学里所谓“惯性”的结果吗？是的。也许还不完全是。我们简单地说说，抢东西的并不是他，并不是他这个人，而是那只兽，当时他心里有那么多初次感到的苦恼，正当他作思想斗争时，那只兽，由于习惯和本能作用，便不自觉地把脚踏在那钱上了。等到心智清醒以后，看见了那种兽类的行为，冉阿让才感到痛心，向后退却，并且惊骇到大叫起来。
抢那孩子的钱，那已不是他下得了手的事，那次的非常现象只是在他当时的思想情况下才有发生的可能。
无论如何，这最后一次恶劣的行为对他起了一种决定性的效果。这次的恶劣行为突然穿过他的混乱思想并加以澄清，把黑暗的障碍置在一边，光明置在另一边，并且按照他当时的思想水平，影响他的心灵，正如某些化学反应体对一种混浊的混合物发生作用时的情况一样，它能使一种原素沉淀，另一种澄清。
最初，在自我检查和思考之先，他登时心情慌乱，正如一个逃命的人，狠命追赶，要找出那个孩子把钱还给他；后来等到他明白已经太迟，不可能追上时，他才大失所望，停了下来。当他喊着“我是一个无赖”时，他才看出自己是怎样一个人，在那时，他已离开他自己，仿佛觉得他自己只是一个鬼，并且看见那个有肉有骨、形相丑恶的苦役犯冉阿让就立在他面前，手里拿着棍，腰里围着布衫，背上的布袋里装满了偷来的东西，面目果决而忧郁，脑子里充满卑劣的阴谋。
我们已指出过，过分的痛苦使他成了一个多幻想的人，那正好象是一种幻境，他确实看见了冉阿让的那副凶恶面孔出现在他前面。他几乎要问他自己那个人是谁，并且对他起了强烈的反感。
人在幻想中，有时会显得沉静到可怕，继而又强烈地激动起来，惑于幻想的人，往往无视于实际，冉阿让当时的情况，正是那样。他看不见自己周围的东西，却仿佛看见心里的人物出现在自己的前面。
我们可以这样说，他正望着他自己，面面相觑，并且同时通过那种幻景，在一种神妙莫测的深远处看见一点光，起初他还以为是什么火炬，等到他再仔细去看那一点显现在他良心上的光时，他才看出那火炬似的光具有人形，并且就是那位主教。
他的良心再三再四地研究那样立在他面前的两个人，主教和冉阿让。要驯服第二个就非第一个不行。由于那种痴望所特具的奇异效力，他的幻想延续越久，主教的形象也越高大，越在他眼前显得光辉灿烂，冉阿让却越来越小，也越来越模糊。到某一时刻他已只是个影子。忽然一下，他完全消失了。
只剩下那个主教。
他让烂灿光辉充实了那个可怜人的全部心灵。
冉阿让哭了许久，淌着热泪，痛不成声，哭得比妇女更柔弱，比孩子更慌乱。
正在他哭时，光明逐渐在他脑子里出现了，一种奇特的光，一种极其可爱同时又极其可怕的光。他已往的生活，最初的过失，长期的赎罪，外貌的粗俗，内心的顽强，准备在出狱后痛痛快快报复一番的种种打算，例如在主教家里干的事，他最后干的事，抢了那孩子的四十个苏的那一次罪行，并且这次罪行是犯在获得主教的宥免以后，那就更加无耻，更加丑恶；凡此种种都回到了他脑子里，清清楚楚地显现出来，那种光的明亮是他生平从未见过的。他回顾他的生活，丑恶已极，他的心灵，卑鄙不堪。但是在那种生活和心灵上面有一片和平的光。
他好象是在天堂的光里看见了魔鬼。
他那样哭了多少时间呢？哭过以后，他做了些什么呢？他到什么地方去了呢？从来没有人知道。但有一件事似乎是可靠的，就是在那天晚上，有辆去格勒诺布尔的车子，在早晨三点左右到了迪涅，在经过主教院街时，车夫曾看见一个人双膝跪在卞福汝主教大门外的路旁，仿佛是在黑暗里祈铸。
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 1 The Year 1817
1817 is the year which Louis XVIII., with a certain royal assurance which was not wanting in pride, entitled the twenty-second of his reign. It is the year in which M. Bruguiere de Sorsum was celebrated. All the hairdressers' shops, hoping for powder and the return of the royal bird, were besmeared with azure and decked with fleurs-de-lys. It was the candid time at which Count Lynch sat every Sunday as church-warden in the church-warden's pew of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, in his costume of a peer of France, with his red ribbon and his long nose and the majesty of profile peculiar to a man who has performed a brilliant action. The brilliant action performed by M. Lynch was this: being mayor of Bordeaux, on the 12th of March, 1814, he had surrendered the city a little too promptly to M. the Duke d'Angouleme. Hence his peerage. In 1817 fashion swallowed up little boys of from four to six years of age in vast caps of morocco leather with ear-tabs resembling Esquimaux mitres. The French army was dressed in white, after the mode of the Austrian; the regiments were called legions; instead of numbers they bore the names of departments; Napoleon was at St. Helena; and since England refused him green cloth, he was having his old coats turned. In 1817 Pelligrini sang; Mademoiselle Bigottini danced; Potier reigned; Odry did not yet exist. Madame Saqui had succeeded to Forioso. There were still Prussians in France. M. Delalot was a personage. Legitimacy had just asserted itself by cutting off the hand, then the head, of Pleignier, of Carbonneau, and of Tolleron. The Prince de Talleyrand, grand chamberlain, and the Abbe Louis, appointed minister of finance, laughed as they looked at each other, with the laugh of the two augurs; both of them had celebrated, on the 14th of July, 1790, the mass of federation in the Champ de Mars; Talleyrand had said it as bishop, Louis had served it in the capacity of deacon. In 1817, in the side-alleys of this same Champ de Mars, two great cylinders of wood might have been seen lying in the rain, rotting amid the grass, painted blue, with traces of eagles and bees, from which the gilding was falling. These were the columns which two years before had upheld the Emperor's platform in the Champ de Mai. They were blackened here and there with the scorches of the bivouac of Austrians encamped near Gros-Caillou. Two or three of these columns had disappeared in these bivouac fires, and had warmed the large hands of the Imperial troops. The Field of May had this remarkable point: that it had been held in the month of June and in the Field of March (Mars). In this year, 1817, two things were popular: the Voltaire-Touquet and the snuff-box a la Charter. The most recent Parisian sensation was the crime of Dautun, who had thrown his brother's head into the fountain of the Flower-Market.
They had begun to feel anxious at the Naval Department, on account of the lack of news from that fatal frigate, The Medusa, which was destined to cover Chaumareix with infamy and Gericault with glory. Colonel Selves was going to Egypt to become Soliman-Pasha. The palace of Thermes, in the Rue de La Harpe, served as a shop for a cooper. On the platform of the octagonal tower of the Hotel de Cluny, the little shed of boards, which had served as an observatory to Messier, the naval astronomer under Louis XVI., was still to be seen. The Duchesse de Duras read to three or four friends her unpublished Ourika, in her boudoir furnished by X. in sky-blue satin. The N's were scratched off the Louvre. The bridge of Austerlitz had abdicated, and was entitled the bridge of the King's Garden [du Jardin du Roi], a double enigma, which disguised the bridge of Austerlitz and the Jardin des Plantes at one stroke. Louis XVIII., much preoccupied while annotating Horace with the corner of his finger-nail, heroes who have become emperors, and makers of wooden shoes who have become dauphins, had two anxieties,--Napoleon and Mathurin Bruneau. The French Academy had given for its prize subject, The Happiness procured through Study. M. Bellart was officially eloquent. In his shadow could be seen germinating that future advocate-general of Broe, dedicated to the sarcasms of Paul-Louis Courier. There was a false Chateaubriand, named Marchangy, in the interim, until there should be a false Marchangy, named d'Arlincourt. Claire d'Albe and Malek-Adel were masterpieces; Madame Cottin was proclaimed the chief writer of the epoch. The Institute had the academician, Napoleon Bonaparte, stricken from its list of members. A royal ordinance erected Angouleme into a naval school; for the Duc d'Angouleme, being lord high admiral, it was evident that the city of Angouleme had all the qualities of a seaport; otherwise the monarchical principle would have received a wound. In the Council of Ministers the question was agitated whether vignettes representing slack-rope performances, which adorned Franconi's advertising posters, and which attracted throngs of street urchins, should be tolerated. M. Paer, the author of Agnese, a good sort of fellow, with a square face and a wart on his cheek, directed the little private concerts of the Marquise de Sasenaye in the Rue Ville l'Eveque. All the young girls were singing the Hermit of Saint-Avelle, with words by Edmond Geraud. The Yellow Dwarf was transferred into Mirror. The Cafe Lemblin stood up for the Emperor, against the Cafe Valois, which upheld the Bourbons. The Duc de Berri, already surveyed from the shadow by Louvel, had just been married to a princess of Sicily. Madame de Stael had died a year previously. The body-guard hissed Mademoiselle Mars. The grand newspapers were all very small. Their form was restricted, but their liberty was great. The Constitutionnel was constitutional. La Minerve called Chateaubriand Chateaubriant. That t made the good middle-class people laugh heartily at the expense of the great writer. In journals which sold themselves, prostituted journalists, insulted the exiles of 1815. David had no longer any talent, Arnault had no longer any wit, Carnot was no longer honest, Soult had won no battles; it is true that Napoleon had no longer any genius. No one is ignorant of the fact that letters sent to an exile by post very rarely reached him, as the police made it their religious duty to intercept them. This is no new fact; Descartes complained of it in his exile. Now David, having, in a Belgian publication, shown some displeasure at not receiving letters which had been written to him, it struck the royalist journals as amusing; and they derided the prescribed man well on this occasion. What separated two men more than an abyss was to say, the regicides, or to say the voters; to say the enemies, or to say the allies; to say Napoleon, or to say Buonaparte. All sensible people were agreed that the era of revolution had been closed forever by King Louis XVIII., surnamed "The Immortal Author of the Charter." On the platform of the Pont-Neuf, the word Redivivus was carved on the pedestal that awaited the statue of Henry IV. M. Piet, in the Rue Therese, No. 4, was making the rough draft of his privy assembly to consolidate the monarchy. The leaders of the Right said at grave conjunctures, "We must write to Bacot." MM. Canuel, O'Mahoney, and De Chappedelaine were preparing the sketch, to some extent with Monsieur's approval, of what was to become later on "The Conspiracy of the Bord de l'Eau"--of the waterside. L'Epingle Noire was already plotting in his own quarter. Delaverderie was conferring with Trogoff. M. Decazes, who was liberal to a degree, reigned. Chateaubriand stood every morning at his window at No. 27 Rue Saint-Dominique, clad in footed trousers, and slippers, with a madras kerchief knotted over his gray hair, with his eyes fixed on a mirror, a complete set of dentist's instruments spread out before him, cleaning his teeth, which were charming, while he dictated The Monarchy according to the Charter to M. Pilorge, his secretary. Criticism, assuming an authoritative tone, preferred Lafon to Talma. M. de Feletez signed himself A.; M. Hoffmann signed himself Z. Charles Nodier wrote Therese Aubert. Divorce was abolished. Lyceums called themselves colleges. The collegians, decorated on the collar with a golden fleur-de-lys, fought each other apropos of the King of Rome. The counter-police of the chateau had denounced to her Royal Highness Madame, the portrait, everywhere exhibited, of M. the Duc d'Orleans, who made a better appearance in his uniform of a colonel-general of hussars than M. the Duc de Berri, in his uniform of colonel-general of dragoons-- a serious inconvenience. The city of Paris was having the dome of the Invalides regilded at its own expense. Serious men asked themselves what M. de Trinquelague would do on such or such an occasion; M. Clausel de Montals differed on divers points from M. Clausel de Coussergues; M. de Salaberry was not satisfied. The comedian Picard, who belonged to the Academy, which the comedian Moliere had not been able to do, had The Two Philiberts played at the Odeon, upon whose pediment the removal of the letters still allowed THEATRE OF THE EMPRESS to be plainly read. People took part for or against Cugnet de Montarlot. Fabvier was factious; Bavoux was revolutionary. The Liberal, Pelicier, published an edition of Voltaire, with the following title: Works of Voltaire, of the French Academy. "That will attract purchasers," said the ingenious editor. The general opinion was that M. Charles Loyson would be the genius of the century; envy was beginning to gnaw at him--a sign of glory; and this verse was composed on him:--
"Even when Loyson steals, one feels that he has paws."
As Cardinal Fesch refused to resign, M. de Pins, Archbishop of Amasie, administered the diocese of Lyons. The quarrel over the valley of Dappes was begun between Switzerland and France by a memoir from Captain, afterwards General Dufour. Saint-Simon, ignored, was erecting his sublime dream. There was a celebrated Fourier at the Academy of Science, whom posterity has forgotten; and in some garret an obscure Fourier, whom the future will recall. Lord Byron was beginning to make his mark; a note to a poem by Millevoye introduced him to France in these terms: a certain Lord Baron. David d'Angers was trying to work in marble. The Abbe Caron was speaking, in terms of praise, to a private gathering of seminarists in the blind alley of Feuillantines, of an unknown priest, named Felicite-Robert, who, at a latter date, became Lamennais. A thing which smoked and clattered on the Seine with the noise of a swimming dog went and came beneath the windows of the Tuileries, from the Pont Royal to the Pont Louis XV.; it was a piece of mechanism which was not good for much; a sort of plaything, the idle dream of a dream-ridden inventor; an utopia--a steamboat. The Parisians stared indifferently at this useless thing. M. de Vaublanc, the reformer of the Institute by a coup d'etat, the distinguished author of numerous academicians, ordinances, and batches of members, after having created them, could not succeed in becoming one himself. The Faubourg Saint-Germain and the pavilion de Marsan wished to have M. Delaveau for prefect of police, on account of his piety. Dupuytren and Recamier entered into a quarrel in the amphitheatre of the School of Medicine, and threatened each other with their fists on the subject of the divinity of Jesus Christ. Cuvier, with one eye on Genesis and the other on nature, tried to please bigoted reaction by reconciling fossils with texts and by making mastodons flatter Moses.
M. Francois de Neufchateau, the praiseworthy cultivator of the memory of Parmentier, made a thousand efforts to have pomme de terre [potato] pronounced parmentiere, and succeeded therein not at all. The Abbe Gregoire, ex-bishop, ex-conventionary, ex-senator, had passed, in the royalist polemics, to the state of "Infamous Gregoire." The locution of which we have made use--passed to the state of--has been condemned as a neologism by M. Royer Collard. Under the third arch of the Pont de Jena, the new stone with which, the two years previously, the mining aperture made by Blucher to blow up the bridge had been stopped up, was still recognizable on account of its whiteness. Justice summoned to its bar a man who, on seeing the Comte d'Artois enter Notre Dame, had said aloud: "Sapristi! I regret the time when I saw Bonaparte and Talma enter the Bel Sauvage, arm in arm." A seditious utterance. Six months in prison. Traitors showed themselves unbuttoned; men who had gone over to the enemy on the eve of battle made no secret of their recompense, and strutted immodestly in the light of day, in the cynicism of riches and dignities; deserters from Ligny and Quatre-Bras, in the brazenness of their well-paid turpitude, exhibited their devotion to the monarchy in the most barefaced manner.
This is what floats up confusedly, pell-mell, for the year 1817, and is now forgotten. History neglects nearly all these particulars, and cannot do otherwise; the infinity would overwhelm it. Nevertheless, these details, which are wrongly called trivial,-- there are no trivial facts in humanity, nor little leaves in vegetation,--are useful. It is of the physiognomy of the years that the physiognomy of the centuries is composed. In this year of 1817 four young Parisians arranged "a fine farce."
一八一七是路易十八用那种目空一切的君王气魄称为他登极第二十二年①的那一年。也是布吕吉尔·德·沙松先生扬名的那一年。所有假发店老板一心希望扑粉和御鸟再出现，都刷上了天蓝色灰浆并画上了百合花。②这是蓝舒伯爵穿上法兰西世卿服装，佩着红绶带，挺着长鼻子，有着轰动一时的人物所具有的那种奇特侧影的威仪，以理事员身分每礼拜日坐在圣日耳曼·代·勃雷教堂的公凳上的承平时期。蓝舒伯爵的功绩是这样的：他在任波尔多③市长期内，一八一四年三月十二日那天，把城池献给了昂古莱姆公爵，凭这项轰轰烈烈的功勋，他就得了世卿的禄位。 
①法国大革命在一七九三年推翻了君主专制，国王路易十六经国民公会判处死刑，王党奉路易十七（路易十六的儿子）为国王继承人，路易十七在一七九五年死在狱中，路易十六之弟路易十八被认为继承人，他是在一八一五年拿破仑逊位才回国登王位的，但是他不承认王室的统治是中断了的，认为他的王权应从一七九五年算起，所以一八一七年是他的统治的第二十二年。
②百合花是法国波旁王朝的标志。贵族都戴假发，并以粉扑发为美。“御鸟”是一种髻的名称。
③波尔多（Bordeaux），法国西南部滨大西洋的商业城市。拿破仑和英国争霸，封锁了大陆，商业资产阶级深感痛苦，一八一四年三月，英国军队从西班牙侵入法国南部时，他们把城池献给了敌人。昂古莱姆公爵是路易十八的侄儿，随着英国军队进入波尔多。
在一八一七年，四岁到六岁的男孩都戴一种极大的染色羊皮帽，成了风行一时的时装，帽子两旁有耳遮，颇象爱斯基摩人的高统帽。法国军队，仿奥地利式样，穿上了白军服，联队改称为驻防部队，不用番号，而冠以行省的名称。拿破仑还在圣赫勒拿岛，由于英国人不肯供应蓝呢布，他便翻穿旧衣服。在一八一七年，佩勒格利尼正歌唱，比戈第尼姑娘正跳舞，博基埃正红及一时，奥德利还没有出世。沙基夫人继福利奥佐①而起。在法国还有普鲁士人②。德拉洛先生③成了著名的人物。正统江山在斩了普勒尼埃、加尔波诺和托勒龙的手、又斩了他们的头④以后地位才宣告稳固。大臣塔列朗⑤王爷和钦命财政总长路易教士，好象两个巫师一样，相顾而笑⑥，他们两个都参加过一七九○年七月十四日在马尔斯广场举行的联邦弥撒，塔列朗以主教资格主祭，路易助祭。 
①佩勒格利尼（Pellegrini），那不勒斯歌手，当时在巴黎演出。比戈第尼姑娘（Bigottini），当时的舞蹈家。博基埃（Potie），当时的喜剧演员。奥德利（Odry），喜剧演员。沙基夫人（MmeSaqui）和福利奥佐（Forioso），第一帝国时期最著名的杂技演员，走绳索者。
②占领军在一八一八年才撤离法国。
③德拉洛（Delalot，1772-1842），极端保王派，《辩论日报》的编辑。
④普勒尼埃、加尔波诺、托勒龙，秘密会社社员，因赞成处死路易十六被处死。斩手又斩首是法国对弑王者的刑罚。
⑤塔列朗（Talleyrand，1754-1838），公爵，原是拿破仑的外交大臣，一八○七年免职后勾结国外势力。一八一四年三月俄普联军攻入巴黎，塔列朗组织临时内阁，迎接路易十八回国。
⑥巫师共同作弊，彼此心里明白，所以相顾而笑。
在一八一七年，就在那马尔斯广场旁边的小路上，发现了几根蓝漆大木柱倒在雨水和乱草里腐烂，柱上的金鹰和金蜂都褪了色，只剩下一点痕迹。那些柱子是两年前开五月会议①时搭建御用礼台用的。驻扎在大石头附近的奥地利军队的露营部队已把它们烧得遍体焦痕了。其中的两三根已被那些露营部队当作柴火烧掉了，并还烘过日耳曼皇军的巨掌。五月会议有这样一个特点，那就是五月会议是六月间在马尔斯广场上举行的。在一八一七年里，有两件事是人人知道的：伏尔泰－都格事件和鼻烟壶上刻的宪章问题。巴黎最新的骇人消息是杜丹的罪案，杜丹曾把他兄弟的脑袋丢在花市的水池里。海军部开始调查海船墨杜萨号事件，这使肖马勒蒙羞，热利果光采。塞尔夫上校赴埃及去做沙里蒙总督。竖琴街的浴宫做了一个修桶匠的店面。当时在克吕尼宅子的八角塔的平台上，还可以看见一间小木板房子，那是梅西埃的天文台，就是做过路易十六的海军天文宫的梅西埃。杜拉公爵夫人在她那间陈设了天蓝缎交叉式家具的客厅里对着三四个朋友朗诵她作的那篇未经发表的《舞力卡》。卢浮宫里的N②正被刮去。奥斯特里茨桥退位了，改名为御花园桥，那种双关的隐语把奥斯特里茨桥和植物园③都同时隐没了。路易十八拿起《贺拉斯》④，用指甲尖划着读，特别注意那些做皇帝的英雄和做王子的木鞋匠，因为他有双重顾虑：拿破仑和马蒂兰·布吕诺⑤。法兰西学院的征文题目是《读书乐》。伯拉先生经官府承认确有辩才。在他的培养下，未来的检察长德勃洛艾已初露头角，立志学习保尔－路易·古利埃的尖刻。那年有个冒充里昂⑥的马尚吉，随后又有个冒充马尚吉的达兰谷。《克勒尔·达尔伯》和《马勒克·亚岱尔》被称为两部杰作。歌丹夫人被推为当时的第一作家。法兰西学院任人把院士拿破仑·波拿巴从它的名册上除名。国王命令在昂古莱姆⑦设立海军学校，因为昂古莱姆公爵是个伟大的海军大臣，昂古莱姆城就必然具有海港的一切优越条件，否则君主制就失了体统了。法兰柯尼⑧在他的布告上加上一些有关骑术的插图，吸引了街上的野孩子，内阁会议曾经热烈讨论应否容许他那样做。巴埃先生，《亚尼丝阿》的作者，颊上生了一颗肉痣的方脸好人，常在主教城街沙塞南侯爵夫人家里布置小型家庭音乐会。所有的年轻姑娘都唱爱德蒙·热罗作词的《圣阿卫尔的隐者》。《黄矮子报》改成了《镜报》。朗布兰咖啡馆抬出皇帝来对抗那家拥护波旁王室的瓦洛亚咖啡馆。人家刚把西西里的一个公主嫁给那位已被卢韦尔⑨暗中注意的贝里公爵。 
①五月会议是拿破仑于一八一五年召集的一种人民代表会议。
②N是拿破仑的徽志。
③巴黎植物园初建于十七世纪初，一七九三年起曾加扩建。
④《贺拉斯》（Horace），高乃依根据罗马历史故事所作的悲剧。
⑤马蒂兰·布吕诺（MathurinBruneau），当时名人之一，木鞋匠出身，所以路易十八对他心存戒心。
⑥夏多布里昂（Chateaubriand，1768-1848），法国作家，消极浪漫主义文学的创始人。
⑦昂古莱姆（Angouleme），城名，在内地，不在海滨。
⑧法兰柯尼，一个养马官。
⑨卢韦尔（Louve）是个制造马鞍的工人，他刺杀了贝里公爵，贝里公爵是路易十八的侄儿，杀他，是想绝王族之后。
斯达尔夫人①去世已一年。近卫军老喝马尔斯②小姐的倒彩。各种大报都只一点点大，篇幅缩小，但是自由还是大的。《立宪主义者报》是拥护宪政的。《密涅瓦报》把Chateaubriand（夏多布里昂）写成Chateaubriant。资产阶级借了写错了的那个t字大大嘲笑这位大作家。在一些被收买了的报纸里，有些妓女式的新闻记者辱骂那些在一八一五年被清洗的人们，大卫③已经没有才艺了，亚尔诺④已经没有文思了，卡诺⑤已经没有羞耻了，苏尔特⑥从来没有打过胜仗，拿破仑确也没有天才。大家都知道，通过邮局寄给一个被放逐的人的信件是很少寄到的，警察把截留那些信件作为他们的神圣任务。那种事由来已久，被放逐的笛卡儿⑦便诉过苦。大卫为了收不到他的信件在比利时的一家报纸上发了几句牢骚，引起了保王党报章的兴趣，借此机会，把那位被放逐者讥讽了一番。说“弑君犯”或“投票人”⑧，说“敌人”或“盟友”⑨，说“拿破仑”或“布宛纳巴”⑩，一字之差，可以在两人中造成一道鸿沟。 
①斯达尔夫人（MadamedeStaeBl），浪漫主义作家。
②马尔斯（Mars），喜剧演员。
③大卫（David），油画家，曾任国民公会代表，继为拿破仑所器重。
④亚尔诺（Arnault），诗人和寓言家。
⑤卡诺（Carnot），数学家，国民公会代表，公安委员会委员，共和国十四军的创编者，一七九四年参加热月九日反革命政变。
⑥苏尔特（Soult），拿破仑部下的元帅，奥斯特里茨一役居首功。
⑦笛卡儿（Descartes，1569-1650），法国二元论哲学家。
⑧指投票赞成斩决路易十六的代表。
⑨指帮助波旁王室复辟的奥、英、俄、普等同盟国。
⑩拿破仑是帝号。拿破仑姓Bonaparte（波拿巴），是由他原来的意大利姓Buonaparte（读如“布宛纳巴”），经过法国化后变成的。仇视他的人按照意大利语音叫他的姓，带有表示他不是法国土著的意思。
一切头脑清楚的人都认为这革命的世纪已被国王路易十八永远封闭了，他被称为“宪章的不朽的创作者”。在新桥的桥堍平地，准备建立亨利四世①铜像的石座上已经刻上“更生”两字。比艾先生在戴莱丝街四号筹备他的秘密会议，以图巩固君主制度。右派的领袖在严重关头，老是说：“我们应当写信给巴柯。”加奴埃、奥马阿尼、德·沙伯德兰诸人正策划日后所谓的“水滨阴谋”，他们多少征得了御弟②的同意。“黑别针”在另一方面也有所策动。德拉卫德里和特洛果夫正进行谈判。多少具有一些自由思想的德卡兹③先生正掌握实权。夏多布里昂每天早晨立在圣多米尼克街二十七号的窗子前面，穿着长裤和拖鞋，一条马德拉斯绸巾裹着他的灰白头发，眼睛望着一面镜子，全套牙科手术工具箱开在面前，修着他的美丽的牙齿，一面向他的书记毕洛瑞先生口述《君主与宪章》的诠言。权威批评家称赞拉封而不称赞塔尔马④。德·菲勒茨⑤先生签名A，霍夫曼⑥先生签Z。查理·诺缔埃⑦正创作《泰莱斯·阿贝尔》。离婚被禁止了。中学校改称中学堂。衣领上装一朵金质百合花的中学生因罗马王⑧问题互相斗殴。宫庭侦探向夫人殿下⑨递报告，说奥尔良公爵⑩的像四处悬挂，并说他穿轻骑将军制服的相貌比穿龙骑将军制服的贝里公爵还好看是件非常不妥的事。巴黎自筹经费把残废军人院的屋顶重行装了金。正派人彼此猜问：德·特兰克拉格先生在某种和某种情形下会怎样处理？克洛塞尔·德·蒙达尔先生和克洛塞尔·德·古塞格先生在许多方面意见分歧，德·沙拉伯利先生不得意。喜剧家比加尔，戏剧学院（喜剧家莫里哀也不曾当选的那个戏剧学院）的院士，在奥德翁戏院公演《两个菲力浦》，在那戏院的大门头上，揭去了的字还显明地露着“皇后戏院”的字迹。有些人对古涅·德·蒙达洛的态度不一致。法布维埃是暴动分子，巴武是革命党人。贝里西埃书店印行了一部伏尔泰文集，题名为《法兰西学院院士伏尔泰文集》。那位天真的发行人说：“这样做可以招引买主”。一般舆论认为查理·罗丛先生是本世纪的天才，他已开始受人羡慕，那是光荣的预兆，并且有人为他写了一句这样的诗：
鹅雏⑾纵能飞，无以匿其蹼。 
①亨利四世是波旁王朝第一代国王。
②御弟，指路易十八之弟阿图瓦伯爵，即后来继承路易十八王位的查理十世。
③德卡兹（Decazes），路易十八的警务大臣。当时的自由思想是维护资产阶级个人权利的学说。
④拉封（Lafon）和塔尔马（Talma），当时的悲剧演员，后来曾受拿破仑赞赏。
⑤菲勒茨（Féletz），拥护古典主义反对浪漫主义的批评家。
⑥霍夫曼（Hoffman），戏剧作家和批评家。
⑦查理·诺缔埃（CharlesNodler，1783-1844），法国作家。
⑧罗马王，拿破仑和玛丽亚·路易莎所生之子。
⑨夫人殿下，指路易十八的弟妇，阿图瓦伯爵夫人，贝里公爵的母亲。
⑩奥尔良公爵，指一八三○年继查理十世（即阿图瓦伯爵）为王的路易—菲力浦。
⑾鹅雏（lAoison）和罗丛（loyson）同音，鹅雏是小笨蛋的意思。
红衣主教费什既不肯辞职，只得由亚马齐总主教德班先生管辖里昂教区。瑞士和法兰西两国关于达泊河流域的争执因杜福尔统领的一篇密呈而展开了，从此他升为将军。不闻名的圣西门①正计划他的好梦。科学院有过一个闻名于世的傅立叶，后世已把他忘了，我不知道从哪个角落里又钻出了另一个无名的傅立叶②，后世却将永志勿忘。贵人拜伦初露头角；米尔瓦把他介绍给法兰西，在一篇诗的注解中有这样的词句：“有某贵人拜伦者……”大卫·德·昂热③正试制大理石粉。 
①圣西门（SaintCSimon），空想社会主义者。
②这一个傅立叶是随拿破仑出征埃及的几何学家，著有《出征埃及记》。另一傅立叶是空想社会主义者。
③大卫·德·昂热（DaviddAAngers，1788-1856），法国雕塑家。
加龙教士在斐扬死巷向一小群青年教士称赞一个无名的神甫，这人叫费里西德·罗贝尔，他便是日后的拉梅耐①。一只煤烟腾漫、扑扑作声的东西，在杜伊勒里宫的窗子下面、王家桥和路易十五桥间的塞纳河上来回走动，声如泅水的狗，那是一件没有多大好处的机器，一种玩具，异想天开的发明家的一种幻梦，一种乌托邦棗一只汽船。巴黎人对那废物漠然视之。德·沃布兰先生用强力改组了科学院，组织、人选，一手包办，轰轰烈烈地安插了好几个院士，自己却落了一场空。圣日耳曼郊区和马桑营都期望德纳福先生做警署署长，因为他虔信天主。杜彼唐②和雷加密为了耶稣基督的神性问题在医科学校的圆讲堂里争论起来，弄到挥拳相对。居维叶③一只眼睛望着《创世记》，另一只眼睛望着自然界，为了取媚于迷信的反动势力，于是用化石证实经文，用猛犸颂扬摩西。佛朗沙·德·诺夫沙多先生，帕芒蒂埃④的一个可敬的继起者，千方百计要使⑤（马铃薯）读成“帕芒蒂埃”，但毫无结果。格列高利神甫，前主教，前国民公会代表，前元老院元老，在保王党的宣传手册里竟成了“无耻的格列高利”。我们刚才所用的这一词组“竟成了……”是被罗叶－柯拉尔认作新词的。在耶拿桥的第三桥洞下，人们还可以从颜色的洁白上认出那块用来填塞布吕歇尔⑥在两年前，为了炸桥而凿的火药眼的新石头。有一个人看见阿图瓦伯爵走进圣母院，那个人大声说：“见他妈的鬼！我真留恋我从前看见波拿巴和塔尔马手挽手同赴蛮舞会的那个时代。”法庭传讯了他，认为那是叛徒的口吻，六个月监禁。一些卖国贼明目张胆地露面了，有些在某次战争前夕投敌的人完全不隐藏他们所得的赃款，并在光天化日之下，不顾羞耻，卖弄他们的可耻的富贵。里尼和四臂村⑦的一些叛徒，毫不掩饰他们爱国的丑行，还表示他们为国王尽忠的热忱，竟忘了英国公共厕所内墙上所写的PleaseadjustyourdressbeCforeleaving．⑧这些都是在一八一七年（现在已没有人记得的一年）发生过的一些事。拉拉杂杂，信手拈来。这些特点历史几乎全部忽略了，那也是无可奈何的事，因为实在记不胜记。可是这些小事（我们原不应当称之为小）都是有用的；人类没有小事，犹如植物没有小叶，世纪的面貌是岁月的动态集成的。
在一八一七那年里，四个巴黎青年开了一个“妙玩笑”。 
①拉梅耐（Lamennais，1782-1854），法国神甫，政论家。
②杜彼唐（Dupuytren），法国外科医生。
③雷加密（Récamier），法国内科医生。
④居维叶（Cuvier），法国自然科学家。
⑤帕芒蒂埃（Parmentier，1737-1813），第一个在法国种植马铃薯的人。
⑥布吕歇尔（Blucher，1742-1819），参加滑铁卢战争的普鲁士军将领。
⑦一八一五年六月十六日，即滑铁卢战役的前两日，拿破仑在里尼击败普鲁士军队，又在四臂村击败英国军队。两地都在比利时境内。
⑧英文，意为“出去以前，请先整理衣服。” 
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 2 A Double Quartette
These Parisians came, one from Toulouse, another from Limoges, the third from Cahors, and the fourth from Montauban; but they were students; and when one says student, one says Parisian: to study in Paris is to be born in Paris.
These young men were insignificant; every one has seen such faces; four specimens of humanity taken at random; neither good nor bad, neither wise nor ignorant, neither geniuses nor fools; handsome, with that charming April which is called twenty years. They were four Oscars; for, at that epoch, Arthurs did not yet exist. Burn for him the perfumes of Araby! exclaimed romance. Oscar advances. Oscar, I shall behold him! People had just emerged from Ossian; elegance was Scandinavian and Caledonian; the pure English style was only to prevail later, and the first of the Arthurs, Wellington, had but just won the battle of Waterloo.
These Oscars bore the names, one of Felix Tholomyes, of Toulouse; the second, Listolier, of Cahors; the next, Fameuil, of Limoges; the last, Blachevelle, of Montauban. Naturally, each of them had his mistress. Blachevelle loved Favourite, so named because she had been in England; Listolier adored Dahlia, who had taken for her nickname the name of a flower; Fameuil idolized Zephine, an abridgment of Josephine; Tholomyes had Fantine, called the Blonde, because of her beautiful, sunny hair.
Favourite, Dahlia, Zephine, and Fantine were four ravishing young women, perfumed and radiant, still a little like working-women, and not yet entirely divorced from their needles; somewhat disturbed by intrigues, but still retaining on their faces something of the serenity of toil, and in their souls that flower of honesty which survives the first fall in woman. One of the four was called the young, because she was the youngest of them, and one was called the old; the old one was twenty-three. Not to conceal anything, the three first were more experienced, more heedless, and more emancipated into the tumult of life than Fantine the Blonde, who was still in her first illusions.
Dahlia, Zephine, and especially Favourite, could not have said as much. There had already been more than one episode in their romance, though hardly begun; and the lover who had borne the name of Adolph in the first chapter had turned out to be Alphonse in the second, and Gustave in the third. Poverty and coquetry are two fatal counsellors; one scolds and the other flatters, and the beautiful daughters of the people have both of them whispering in their ear, each on its own side. These badly guarded souls listen. Hence the falls which they accomplish, and the stones which are thrown at them. They are overwhelmed with splendor of all that is immaculate and inaccessible. Alas! what if the Jungfrau were hungry?
Favourite having been in England, was admired by Dahlia and Zephine. She had had an establishment of her own very early in life. Her father was an old unmarried professor of mathematics, a brutal man and a braggart, who went out to give lessons in spite of his age. This professor, when he was a young man, had one day seen a chambermaid's gown catch on a fender; he had fallen in love in consequence of this accident. The result had been Favourite. She met her father from time to time, and he bowed to her. One morning an old woman with the air of a devotee, had entered her apartments, and had said to her, "You do not know me, Mamemoiselle?" "No." "I am your mother." Then the old woman opened the sideboard, and ate and drank, had a mattress which she owned brought in, and installed herself. This cross and pious old mother never spoke to Favourite, remained hours without uttering a word, breakfasted, dined, and supped for four, and went down to the porter's quarters for company, where she spoke ill of her daughter.
It was having rosy nails that were too pretty which had drawn Dahlia to Listolier, to others perhaps, to idleness. How could she make such nails work? She who wishes to remain virtuous must not have pity on her hands. As for Zephine, she had conquered Fameuil by her roguish and caressing little way of saying "Yes, sir."
The young men were comrades; the young girls were friends. Such loves are always accompanied by such friendships.
Goodness and philosophy are two distinct things; the proof of this is that, after making all due allowances for these little irregular households, Favourite, Zephine, and Dahlia were philosophical young women, while Fantine was a good girl.
Good! some one will exclaim; and Tholomyes? Solomon would reply that love forms a part of wisdom. We will confine ourselves to saying that the love of Fantine was a first love, a sole love, a faithful love.
She alone, of all the four, was not called "thou" by a single one of them.
Fantine was one of those beings who blossom, so to speak, from the dregs of the people. Though she had emerged from the most unfathomable depths of social shadow, she bore on her brow the sign of the anonymous and the unknown. She was born at M. sur M. Of what parents? Who can say? She had never known father or mother. She was called Fantine. Why Fantine? She had never borne any other name. At the epoch of her birth the Directory still existed. She had no family name; she had no family; no baptismal name; the Church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first random passer-by, who had encountered her, when a very small child, running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she received the water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained. She was called little Fantine. No one knew more than that. This human creature had entered life in just this way. At the age of ten, Fantine quitted the town and went to service with some farmers in the neighborhood. At fifteen she came to Paris "to seek her fortune." Fantine was beautiful, and remained pure as long as she could. She was a lovely blonde, with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her dowry; but her gold was on her head, and her pearls were in her mouth.
She worked for her living; then, still for the sake of her living,-- for the heart, also, has its hunger,--she loved.
She loved Tholomyes.
An amour for him; passion for her. The streets of the Latin quarter, filled with throngs of students and grisettes, saw the beginning of their dream. Fantine had long evaded Tholomyes in the mazes of the hill of the Pantheon, where so many adventurers twine and untwine, but in such a way as constantly to encounter him again. There is a way of avoiding which resembles seeking. In short, the eclogue took place.
Blachevelle, Listolier, and Fameuil formed a sort of group of which Tholomyes was the head. It was he who possessed the wit.
Tholomyes was the antique old student; he was rich; he had an income of four thousand francs; four thousand francs! a splendid scandal on Mount Sainte-Genevieve. Tholomyes was a fast man of thirty, and badly preserved. He was wrinkled and toothless, and he had the beginning of a bald spot, of which he himself said with sadness, the skull at thirty, the knee at forty. His digestion was mediocre, and he had been attacked by a watering in one eye. But in proportion as his youth disappeared, gayety was kindled; he replaced his teeth with buffooneries, his hair with mirth, his health with irony, his weeping eye laughed incessantly. He was dilapidated but still in flower. His youth, which was packing up for departure long before its time, beat a retreat in good order, bursting with laughter, and no one saw anything but fire. He had had a piece rejected at the Vaudeville. He made a few verses now and then. In addition to this he doubted everything to the last degree, which is a vast force in the eyes of the weak. Being thus ironical and bald, he was the leader. Iron is an English word. Is it possible that irony is derived from it?
One day Tholomyes took the three others aside, with the gesture of an oracle, and said to them:--
"Fantine, Dahlia, Zephine, and Favourite have been teasing us for nearly a year to give them a surprise. We have promised them solemnly that we would. They are forever talking about it to us, to me in particular, just as the old women in Naples cry to Saint Januarius, `Faccia gialluta, fa o miracolo, Yellow face, perform thy miracle,' so our beauties say to me incessantly, `Tholomyes, when will you bring forth your surprise?' At the same time our parents keep writing to us. Pressure on both sides. The moment has arrived, it seems to me; let us discuss the question."
Thereupon, Tholomyes lowered his voice and articulated something so mirthful, that a vast and enthusiastic grin broke out upon the four mouths simultaneously, and Blachevelle exclaimed, "That is an idea."
A smoky tap-room presented itself; they entered, and the remainder of their confidential colloquy was lost in shadow.
The result of these shades was a dazzling pleasure party which took place on the following Sunday, the four young men inviting the four young girls.
上述的那些巴黎青年中，有一个是图卢兹人，一个是利摩日人，第三个是卡奥尔人，第四个是蒙托邦人，不过他们都是学生，凡是学生，都是巴黎人，在巴黎求学，便算生在巴黎。
他们都是一些无足称道的青年，谁都见过这一类的人，四种庸俗人的标本，既不善，也不恶，既无学问，又非无知，既非天才，亦非笨伯，年方二十，美如妩媚的阳春。这是四个毫不出奇的奥斯卡尔①，因为在那时代，阿瑟②还没有出世。当时的歌谣说：“为了他，点上龙涎香，奥斯卡尔走上前来，奥斯卡尔，我要去看他！”大家已放下了《欧辛集》③。姿态的俊美崇尚的是斯堪的纳维亚式和苏格兰式。纯粹英国式要到以后才风行，并且阿瑟派的头号人物威灵顿得逞于滑铁卢战役还没有多少时候。 
①奥斯卡尔（Oscar），瑞典和挪威国王，一七九九年生于巴黎。
②阿瑟（Arthur），美国第二十一届总统，生于一八三○年。
③《欧辛集》（Ossian），一部古诗集的名称，苏格兰文人麦克弗森（Macpherson）的英译本发表于一七六○年，一说该诗集系麦克弗森仿古的创作，曾传诵一时。
那些奥斯卡尔中间有一个叫斐利克斯·多罗米埃，图卢兹人；一个叫李士多里，卡奥尔人；还有一个叫法梅依，利摩日人；最后一个是勃拉什维尔，蒙托邦人。自然每个人都有他的情妇。勃拉什维尔爱宠儿，她取了那样一个名字，是因为她到英国去过一趟；李士多里锺情于用花名作别名的大丽；法梅依奉瑟芬如天人，瑟芬是约瑟芬的简称；多罗米埃有芳汀，别号金发美人，因为她生得一头日光色的美发。
宠儿、大丽、瑟芬和芳汀是四个春风满面、香气袭人的美女，但仍带有一点女工的本色，因为她们并没有完全不理针线，虽然谈情说爱，她们脸上总还多少保存一点劳动人民的庄重气味，在她们的心里也还有一朵不因破瓜而消失的诚实之花。四个人里，有一个叫做小妹，因为她的年龄最轻，还有一个叫做大姐的。大姐有二十三岁。不瞒大家说，起头的三个人，都比金发美人芳汀有经验些，放得开些，在人生的尘嚣中阅历多些，芳汀却还正做她初次的情梦。
大丽，瑟芬，尤其是宠儿，都不可能有那种痴情。她们的情史，虽然刚开始，却已有过多次的波折，第一章里的情人叫阿多尔夫，第二章里的却变了阿尔封斯，到第三章又是古士达夫了。贫寒和爱俏是两种逼死人的动力，一个埋怨，一个逢迎。平民中的一般美貌姑娘都兼而有之，每一个都附在一边耳朵上细语不停。防范不严的心灵便俯首听命了。自己落井的原因在此，别人下石的原因也在此。而人们却总要拿那一切莹洁无瑕、高不可攀的贞操来对她们求全责备。唉！假使少妇不胜饥寒之苦呢？
宠儿到英国去过一趟，因此瑟芬和大丽都羡慕她。她很早就有个家。她的父亲是个性情粗暴、爱吹牛的老数学教师，从没正式结过婚，虽然上了年纪，却还靠替人补课度日。这位教师在年轻时，有一天，看见女仆的一件衣裳挂在炉遮上，便为了那件偶然的事，动了春心。结果，有了宠儿。她有时碰见父亲，她父亲总向她行礼。有一天早晨，一个离奇古怪的老婆子走到她家里来，对她说：“小姐，您不认识我吗？”“不认识。”“我是你的妈。”那老婆子随即打开了菜橱，吃喝以后，又把她一床褥子搬来，住下了。那位叽哩咕噜、笃信上帝的母亲从不和宠儿说话，几个钟头里能不说一个字，早餐、中餐、晚餐，她一个人吃的抵得上四个人、还要到门房里去串门子，说她女儿的坏话。
大丽委身于李士多里，也许还结识过旁人，她之所以游手好闲，是她那十只过分美丽的桃红指甲在作怪。怎能忍心让那样的指甲去做工呢？凡是愿意保全自己清白的人都不应怜惜自己的手。至于瑟芬，她之所以能征服法梅依，是因为她能用一种娇里带妖的神态对他说：“是呀，先生。”
那些青年是同学，那群姑娘是朋友。那种爱情总是有那种友谊陪衬着的。
自爱和自知是两回事。这儿有个证明，我们暂且把他们那种不正规的结合放下不谈，我们可以说宠儿、瑟芬和大丽是有自知之明的姑娘，芳汀却是自爱的姑娘。
我们可以说她自爱吗？那么，多罗米埃又怎么说呢？所罗门也许会回答说爱也是自爱之一道。我们只说芳汀的爱是初次的爱，专一的爱，真诚的爱。
她在那四人当中是唯一只许一个人对她称“你”的。
芳汀是那样一个从平民的底层（不妨这样说）孕育出来的孩子。她虽然是从黑暗社会的那种不可测的深渊中生出来的，她的风度却使人摸不着她的出处和身世。她生在滨海蒙特勒伊①。出自怎样的父母？谁知道？谁也没有见过她的父母。她叫芳汀。为什么叫芳汀呢？因为人家从来不知道她有旁的名字。她出世时，督政府②还存在。她没有姓，因为她没有家；她没有教名，因为当时教堂已不过问这些事了。她在极小时赤着脚在街上走，一个过路人这样叫了她，她就得了这个名字。她接受了这个名字，正如她在下雨时额头从天上接受了一点雨水一样。大家都叫她做小芳汀。除此以外，谁也不知道关于她的其他事。她便是这样来到人间的。十岁上，芳汀出城到附近的庄稼人家里去作工。十五岁上，她到巴黎来“碰运气”。芳汀生得美，她保持她的童贞直到最后一刻。她是一个牙齿洁白、头发浅黄的漂亮姑娘。她有黄金和珍珠做奁资，不过她的黄金在她的头上，珍珠在她的口中。 
①滨海蒙特勒伊（MontreuilCsurCmer），法国北部加来海峡省的一县。
②督政府（Directoire），一七九五年，革命的国民公会解散，让位于代表新兴富豪阶级的督政府，一七九九年督政府解散，政权转入以波拿巴为首的执政府。
她为生活而工作，到后来，她爱上了人，这也还是为了生活，因为心也有它的饥饿。
她爱上了多罗米埃。
对他来说，这不过是逢场作戏，而对她，却是一片真情。充塞着青年学生和青年姑娘的拉丁区曾目击那场情梦的滋长。在先贤祠的高坡一带，见过多少悲欢离合的那些长街曲巷里，芳汀逃避多罗米埃何止一次，但是躲避他却正是为了遇见他。世间有那么一种躲避，恰好象是追求。简单地说，情史开场了。
勃拉什维尔、李士多里和法梅依彼此形影不离，并以多罗米埃为首领。他有办法。
多罗米埃是往日那种老资格的学生，他有钱，他有四千法郎的年息，四千法郎的年息，在圣热纳微埃夫山①上，可以为所欲为了。多罗米埃已有三十岁了，一向寻欢作乐，不爱惜身体。他脸上已经起了皱纹，牙齿也不齐全，头也秃了顶；他自己毫不在乎，他常说：“三十岁的头顶秃，四十岁的膝头僵。”他的消化力平常，有一只眼睛常淌泪。但是他的青春去得越远，他的兴致却越高。他把谐谑代替他的牙，欢乐代替他的发，讥讽代替他的健康，那只泪汪汪的眼睛也总是笑眯眯的。他已经疲劳过度，却仍旧勇气百倍。尽管年事不高，青春先萎，他却能且战且退，整军以还，笑声脆劲，在别人看来，火力还是很足的。他写过一篇戏剧，被滑稽剧院退了回来。他随时随地写一些不相干的诗。并且，他自命不凡，怀疑一切事物，在胆怯的人的眼里他成了一条好汉。因此，尽管秃头，爱讽刺，他倒做了领袖。Iron是一个作“铁”解释的英国字。难道作“讽刺”解释的ironie是从这英文字来的吗？ 
①指拉丁区，巴黎大学所在地区。
有一天，多罗米埃把那三个人拉到一边，指手画脚地向他们说：
“芳汀，大丽，瑟芬和宠儿要求我们送她们一件古怪玩意儿已快一年了。我们也曾大模大样地答应了她们。她们直到现在还常常对我们谈到这件事，尤其是对着我。正好象那不勒斯①的那些老太婆常对圣詹纳罗喊着说‘黄面皮，快显灵！’一样，我们的美人也经常向我们说：‘多罗米埃，你那怪玩意儿几时拿出来？’同时我们的父母又常有信给我们。两面夹攻。我认为时间已经到了。我们来商量一下。” 
①那不勒斯（Naples），意大利西岸港口。圣詹纳罗（SaintJanvier）又译圣雅努亚里，是它的保护神。
说到此地，多罗米埃的声音放低了，并且鬼鬼祟祟地讲了些话，有趣到使那四张口同时发出一阵奔放、兴奋的笑声，勃拉什维尔还喊道：
“这真是妙不可言！”
他们走到一个烟雾腾腾的咖啡馆门前，钻了进去，他们会议的尾声便消失在黑暗中了。
这次密谈的结果带来了下星期日举行的那场别出心裁的郊游，四位青年邀请了那四位姑娘。
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 3 Four and Four
It is hard nowadays to picture to one's self what a pleasure-trip of students and grisettes to the country was like, forty-five years ago. The suburbs of Paris are no longer the same; the physiognomy of what may be called circumparisian life has changed completely in the last half-century; where there was the cuckoo, there is the railway car; where there was a tender-boat, there is now the steamboat; people speak of Fecamp nowadays as they spoke of Saint-Cloud in those days. The Paris of 1862 is a city which has France for its outskirts.
The four couples conscientiously went through with all the country follies possible at that time. The vacation was beginning, and it was a warm, bright, summer day. On the preceding day, Favourite, the only one who knew how to write, had written the following to Tholomyes in the name of the four: "It is a good hour to emerge from happiness." That is why they rose at five o'clock in the morning. Then they went to Saint-Cloud by the coach, looked at the dry cascade and exclaimed, "This must be very beautiful when there is water!" They breakfasted at the Tete-Noir, where Castaing had not yet been; they treated themselves to a game of ring-throwing under the quincunx of trees of the grand fountain; they ascended Diogenes' lantern, they gambled for macaroons at the roulette establishment of the Pont de Sevres, picked bouquets at Pateaux, bought reed-pipes at Neuilly, ate apple tarts everywhere, and were perfectly happy.
The young girls rustled and chatted like warblers escaped from their cage. It was a perfect delirium. From time to time they bestowed little taps on the young men. Matutinal intoxication of life! adorable years! the wings of the dragonfly quiver. Oh, whoever you may be, do you not remember? Have you rambled through the brushwood, holding aside the branches, on account of the charming head which is coming on behind you? Have you slid, laughing, down a slope all wet with rain, with a beloved woman holding your hand, and crying, "Ah, my new boots! what a state they are in!"
Let us say at once that that merry obstacle, a shower, was lacking in the case of this good-humored party, although Favourite had said as they set out, with a magisterial and maternal tone, "The slugs are crawling in the paths,--a sign of rain, children."
All four were madly pretty. A good old classic poet, then famous, a good fellow who had an Eleonore, M. le Chevalier de Labouisse, as he strolled that day beneath the chestnut-trees of Saint-Cloud, saw them pass about ten o'clock in the morning, and exclaimed, "There is one too many of them," as he thought of the Graces. Favourite, Blachevelle's friend, the one aged three and twenty, the old one, ran on in front under the great green boughs, jumped the ditches, stalked distractedly over bushes, and presided over this merry-making with the spirit of a young female faun. Zephine and Dahlia, whom chance had made beautiful in such a way that they set each off when they were together, and completed each other, never left each other, more from an instinct of coquetry than from friendship, and clinging to each other, they assumed English poses; the first keepsakes had just made their appearance, melancholy was dawning for women, as later on, Byronism dawned for men; and the hair of the tender sex began to droop dolefully. Zephine and Dahlia had their hair dressed in rolls. Listolier and Fameuil, who were engaged in discussing their professors, explained to Fantine the difference that existed between M. Delvincourt and M. Blondeau.
Blachevelle seemed to have been created expressly to carry Favourite's single-bordered, imitation India shawl of Ternaux's manufacture, on his arm on Sundays.
Tholomyes followed, dominating the group. He was very gay, but one felt the force of government in him; there was dictation in his joviality; his principal ornament was a pair of trousers of elephant-leg pattern of nankeen, with straps of braided copper wire; he carried a stout rattan worth two hundred francs in his hand, and, as he treated himself to everything, a strange thing called a cigar in his mouth. Nothing was sacred to him; he smoked.
"That Tholomyes is astounding!" said the others, with veneration. "What trousers! What energy!"
As for Fantine, she was a joy to behold. Her splendid teeth had evidently received an office from God,--laughter. She preferred to carry her little hat of sewed straw, with its long white strings, in her hand rather than on her head. Her thick blond hair, which was inclined to wave, and which easily uncoiled, and which it was necessary to fasten up incessantly, seemed made for the flight of Galatea under the willows. Her rosy lips babbled enchantingly. The corners of her mouth voluptuously turned up, as in the antique masks of Erigone, had an air of encouraging the audacious; but her long, shadowy lashes drooped discreetly over the jollity of the lower part of the face as though to call a halt. There was something indescribably harmonious and striking about her entire dress. She wore a gown of mauve barege, little reddish brown buskins, whose ribbons traced an X on her fine, white, open-worked stockings, and that sort of muslin spencer, a Marseilles invention, whose name, canezou, a corruption of the words quinze aout, pronounced after the fashion of the Canebiere, signifies fine weather, heat, and midday. The three others, less timid, as we have already said, wore low-necked dresses without disguise, which in summer, beneath flower-adorned hats, are very graceful and enticing; but by the side of these audacious outfits, blond Fantine's canezou, with its transparencies, its indiscretion, and its reticence, concealing and displaying at one and the same time, seemed an alluring godsend of decency, and the famous Court of Love, presided over by the Vicomtesse de Cette, with the sea-green eyes, would, perhaps, have awarded the prize for coquetry to this canezou, in the contest for the prize of modesty. The most ingenious is, at times, the wisest. This does happen.
Brilliant of face, delicate of profile, with eyes of a deep blue, heavy lids, feet arched and small, wrists and ankles admirably formed, a white skin which, here and there allowed the azure branching of the veins to be seen, joy, a cheek that was young and fresh, the robust throat of the Juno of AEgina, a strong and supple nape of the neck, shoulders modelled as though by Coustou, with a voluptuous dimple in the middle, visible through the muslin; a gayety cooled by dreaminess; sculptural and exquisite--such was Fantine; and beneath these feminine adornments and these ribbons one could divine a statue, and in that statue a soul.
Fantine was beautiful, without being too conscious of it. Those rare dreamers, mysterious priests of the beautiful who silently confront everything with perfection, would have caught a glimpse in this little working-woman, through the transparency of her Parisian grace, of the ancient sacred euphony. This daughter of the shadows was thoroughbred. She was beautiful in the two ways-- style and rhythm. Style is the form of the ideal; rhythm is its movement.
We have said that Fantine was joy; she was also modesty.
To an observer who studied her attentively, that which breathed from her athwart all the intoxication of her age, the season, and her love affair, was an invincible expression of reserve and modesty. She remained a little astonished. This chaste astonishment is the shade of difference which separates Psyche from Venus. Fantine had the long, white, fine fingers of the vestal virgin who stirs the ashes of the sacred fire with a golden pin. Although she would have refused nothing to Tholomyes, as we shall have more than ample opportunity to see, her face in repose was supremely virginal; a sort of serious and almost austere dignity suddenly overwhelmed her at certain times, and there was nothing more singular and disturbing than to see gayety become so suddenly extinct there, and meditation succeed to cheerfulness without any transition state. This sudden and sometimes severely accentuated gravity resembled the disdain of a goddess. Her brow, her nose, her chin, presented that equilibrium of outline which is quite distinct from equilibrium of proportion, and from which harmony of countenance results; in the very characteristic interval which separates the base of the nose from the upper lip, she had that imperceptible and charming fold, a mysterious sign of chastity, which makes Barberousse fall in love with a Diana found in the treasures of Iconia.
Love is a fault; so be it. Fantine was innocence floating high over fault.
四十五年前的学生们和姑娘们到郊外游玩的情形，到今天①已是难以想象的了。巴黎的近郊已不是当年那模样，半个世纪以来，我们可以称为巴黎郊区生活的那种情况已完全改变了，从前有子规的地方，今天有了火车；从前有游艇的地方，今天有了汽船；从前的人谈圣克鲁②，正如今天的人谈费康③一样。一八六二年的巴黎已是一个以全法国作为近郊的城市了。 
①本书作于一八六二年，四十五年前即指一八一七年。
②圣克鲁（St．Cloud），巴黎西郊的一个名胜区。
③费康（Fécamp），英法海峡边上的一个港口。
当时在乡间所能得到的狂欢，那四对情人都一一尽情享受了。他们开始度暑假，这是个和暖爽朗的夏日。宠儿是唯一知道写字的人，她在前一日用四个人的名义写了这样一句话给多罗米埃：“青早出门很块乐。”①因此他们早晨五点就起身了。随后，他们坐上公共马车，去圣克鲁，看了一回干瀑布，大家喊着说：“有水的时候，一定很好看！”在加斯丹还没有到过的那个黑头饭店里用了午餐，在大池边的五株林里玩了一局七连环②，登上了第欧根尼的灯笼③，到过塞夫勒桥，拿着杏仁饼去押了轮盘赌，在普托采了许多花，在讷伊买了些芦管笛，沿途吃着苹果饺，快乐无比。 
①这句话的原文里有两个错字，以示宠儿识字不多。
②恰似中国的九连环，但只有七个环。
③第欧根尼的灯笼（lanternedeDiogène），当地的一游览场所。关于第欧根尼的灯笼，请参阅《悲惨世界》第三部732页及901页注。
这几个姑娘好象一群逃出笼子的秀眼鸟，喧噪谈笑，闹个不休。这是一种狂欢。她们不时和这些青年们撩撩打打。一生中少年时代的陶醉！可爱的岁月！蜻蜓的翅膀颤着！呀！无论你是谁，你总忘不了吧！你曾否穿越树丛，为跟在你后面走来的姣好的头分开枝叶呢？在雨后笑着从湿润的斜坡上滑下去，一个心爱的腻友牵着你的手，口里喊着：“呀！我崭新的鞋子！弄成什么样子了！”你曾否有过这样经历呢？
让我们立刻说出来那件有趣的意外，那阵骤雨，对那一群兴高采烈的伴侣，多少有些扫兴，虽然宠儿在出发时曾用长官和慈母式的口吻说过：“孩子们，蜗牛在小路上爬，这是下雨的兆头。”
这四位姑娘都是美到令人心花怒放的。有位名震一时的古典派老诗人，自己也据有个美人儿的男子，拉布依斯骑士先生，那天也正在圣克鲁的栗树林里徘徊，他看见她们在早晨十点左右打那儿经过，叫道“可惜多了一个”，他心里想到了三位美惠女神①。勃拉什维尔的情人宠儿，二十三岁的那位大姐，在苍翠的虬枝下带头奔跑，跳过泥沟，放恣地跨过荆棘，兴致勃发，俨如田野间的幼年女神。至于瑟芬和大丽，在这场合下她们便互相接近，互相衬托，以表示她们的得意，她们寸步不离，互相倚偎，仿效英国人的姿态；我们与其说那是出于友谊，倒不如说她俩是天生爱俏。最初的几本《妇女时装手册》当时才出版不久，妇女们渐尚工愁的神情，正如日后的男子们摹仿拜伦一样，女性的头发已开始披散了，瑟芬和大丽的头发是转筒式的。李士多里和法梅依正谈论他们的教师，向芳汀述说戴尔文古先生和勃隆多先生的不同点。 
①指希腊神话中的三个美惠女神，优雅而美丽。
勃拉什维尔仿佛生来是专门替宠儿在星期日挽她那件德尔诺式的绒线披肩的。
多罗米埃跟在后面走，做那一伙的殿后。他也是有说有笑的，不过大家总觉得他是家长。他的嬉笑总含有专制君王的意味，他的主要服装是一条象腿式的南京布裤子，用一条铜丝带把裤脚扎在脚底，手里拿一条值两百法郎的粗藤手杖，他一向为所欲为，嘴里也就衔了一支叫做雪茄的那种怪东西。他真是目空一切，竟敢吸烟。
“这个多罗米埃真是特别，”大家都肃然起敬地那样说，“他竟穿那样的裤子！他真有魄力！”
至于芳汀，她就是欢乐。她那一嘴光彩夺目的牙齿明明从上帝那里奉了一道使命，笑的使命。一顶垂着白色长飘带的精致小草帽，她拿在手里的时候多，戴在头上的时候少。一头蓬松的黄发，偏偏喜欢飘舞，容易披散，不时需要整理，仿佛是为使垂杨下的仙女遮羞而生的。她的樱唇，喋喋不休，令人听了心醉。她嘴的两角含情脉脉地向上翘着，正如爱里柯尼的古代塑像，带着一种鼓励人放肆的神气；但是她那双迟疑的睫毛蔼然低垂在冶艳的面容上，又仿佛是在说着“行不得也哥哥”一样。她周身的装饰具有一种说不出的和谐和夺目的光彩。她穿了件玫瑰紫的毛织薄呢袍，一双闪烁的玲珑古式鞋，鞋带交叉结在两旁挑花的细质白袜上，还穿一件轻罗短衫，那种短衫，是马赛人新创的式样，名叫“加纳佐”①，这个字是“八月十五”的变音，在加纳皮尔大街上是那样读的，它的含义是“睛暖的南国”。其余那三个，我们已说过，比较放纵，都干脆露着胸部，那种装束，一到夏天，在花枝招展的帽子下显得格外妖娆恼人，但是在那种大胆的装饰之外，还有金发美人芳汀的那件薄如蝉翼的“八月十五”，若隐若现，亦盖亦彰，仿佛是一种独出心裁、惹人寻味的艳服。海绿眼睛的塞特子爵夫人所主持的那个有名的情宫，也许会把服装奖颁给这件追求娴静趣味的“八月十五”。最天真的人有时是最高明的。这是常有的事。光艳的脸儿，秀丽的侧影，眼睛深蓝，眼皮如凝脂，脚秀而翘，腕、踝都肥瘦适度，美妙天成，白皙的皮肤四处露着蔚蓝的脉络，两颊鲜润得和童女一样，颈脖肥硕如埃伊纳岛②的朱诺③，后颈窝显得既健壮又柔和，两肩仿佛是库斯图④塑造的，中间有一个动人的圆涡从轻罗下透出来，多愁工媚，冷若冰霜，状如石刻，色态如蝉娟，这样便是芳汀。在那朴素的衣服下面，我们可以想见一座塑像，塑像的心中有个灵魂。 
①“加纳佐”原文是canezou，和法文“八月十五”（quinzeaout）发音相近。
②埃伊纳岛（Egine），希腊的一个岛。一八一一年掘出大批塑像。
③朱诺（Junon），众神之后。
④库斯图（Coustou），法国十八世纪的著名雕塑家。
芳汀很美，但她自己不大知道。偶然有些深思的人默默地用十全十美的标准来衡量一切事物，他们在这个小小女工的巴黎式的丰采中，也许会想见古代圣乐的和谐吧。这位出自幽谷的姑娘有根基，她在两个方面，风韵和容止方面都是美丽的。风韵是理想中的形象，容止是理想中的动静。
我们已经说过，芳汀就是欢乐，芳汀也就是贞操。一个旁观者，如果仔细研究她，就会知道，她在那种年龄、那种季节、那种爱慕的陶醉中表露出来的，只是一种谦虚谨慎、毫不苟且的神情。芳汀自己也有一些感到惊奇。这种纯洁的惊奇，也就是普赛克和维纳斯①之间的最细微的不同处。芳汀的手指，长而白，宛如拿着金针拨圣火灰的贞女。虽然她对多罗米埃的一切要求都不拒绝（关于这一点，我们以后还可以看得更清楚），但她的面貌，在静止时却仍是端庄如处子的，有时，她会突然表现出一种冷峻到近乎严肃的凛然不可犯的神情；我们看到她的欢乐忽然消失了，不需要经过一个中间阶段而立即继以沉思，世间再没有比这更奇特动人的情景了。这种突如其来的庄重，有时甚至显得严厉，正象女神的鄙夷神情。她的额、鼻和下颏具有线条上的平衡（绝不是比例上的平衡），因而构成了她面部的匀称，在从鼻底到上唇的那一段非常特别的地方，她有一种隐约难辨的美妙窝痕，那正是贞静的神秘标志，从前红胡子②之所以爱上在搜寻圣像时发现的一幅狄安娜③，也正是为了这样一种贞静之美。
好吧，爱是一种过失。芳汀却是飘浮在过失上的天贞。 
①普赛克（Psyché），希腊神话中的一个美女，爱神的情人。维纳斯（Vénus），美神。
②红胡子（Barberousse），十六世纪有两个红胡子，兄弟俩，一个是海盗，一个是土耳其的舰队司令。
③狄安娜（Diane），希腊神话中的猎神。
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 4 Tholomyes is so Merry that he sings a Spanish Ditty
That day was composed of dawn, from one end to the other. All nature seemed to be having a holiday, and to be laughing. The flower-beds of Saint-Cloud perfumed the air; the breath of the Seine rustled the leaves vaguely; the branches gesticulated in the wind, bees pillaged the jasmines; a whole bohemia of butterflies swooped down upon the yarrow, the clover, and the sterile oats; in the august park of the King of France there was a pack of vagabonds, the birds.
The four merry couples, mingled with the sun, the fields, the flowers, the trees, were resplendent.
And in this community of Paradise, talking, singing, running, dancing, chasing butterflies, plucking convolvulus, wetting their pink, open-work stockings in the tall grass, fresh, wild, without malice, all received, to some extent, the kisses of all, with the exception of Fantine, who was hedged about with that vague resistance of hers composed of dreaminess and wildness, and who was in love. "You always have a queer look about you," said Favourite to her.
Such things are joys. These passages of happy couples are a profound appeal to life and nature, and make a caress and light spring forth from everything. There was once a fairy who created the fields and forests expressly for those in love,--in that eternal hedge-school of lovers, which is forever beginning anew, and which will last as long as there are hedges and scholars. Hence the popularity of spring among thinkers. The patrician and the knife-grinder, the duke and the peer, the limb of the law, the courtiers and townspeople, as they used to say in olden times, all are subjects of this fairy. They laugh and hunt, and there is in the air the brilliance of an apotheosis--what a transfiguration effected by love! Notaries' clerks are gods. And the little cries, the pursuits through the grass, the waists embraced on the fly, those jargons which are melodies, those adorations which burst forth in the manner of pronouncing a syllable, those cherries torn from one mouth by another,--all this blazes forth and takes its place among the celestial glories. Beautiful women waste themselves sweetly. They think that this will never come to an end. Philosophers, poets, painters, observe these ecstasies and know not what to make of it, so greatly are they dazzled by it. The departure for Cythera! exclaims Watteau; Lancret, the painter of plebeians, contemplates his bourgeois, who have flitted away into the azure sky; Diderot stretches out his arms to all these love idyls, and d'Urfe mingles druids with them.
After breakfast the four couples went to what was then called the King's Square to see a newly arrived plant from India, whose name escapes our memory at this moment, and which, at that epoch, was attracting all Paris to Saint-Cloud. It was an odd and charming shrub with a long stem, whose numerous branches, bristling and leafless and as fine as threads, were covered with a million tiny white rosettes; this gave the shrub the air of a head of hair studded with flowers. There was always an admiring crowd about it.
After viewing the shrub, Tholomyes exclaimed, "I offer you asses!" and having agreed upon a price with the owner of the asses, they returned by way of Vanvres and Issy. At Issy an incident occurred. The truly national park, at that time owned by Bourguin the contractor, happened to be wide open. They passed the gates, visited the manikin anchorite in his grotto, tried the mysterious little effects of the famous cabinet of mirrors, the wanton trap worthy of a satyr become a millionaire or of Turcaret metamorphosed into a Priapus. They had stoutly shaken the swing attached to the two chestnut-trees celebrated by the Abbe de Bernis. As he swung these beauties, one after the other, producing folds in the fluttering skirts which Greuze would have found to his taste, amid peals of laughter, the Toulousan Tholomyes, who was somewhat of a Spaniard, Toulouse being the cousin of Tolosa, sang, to a melancholy chant, the old ballad gallega, probably inspired by some lovely maid dashing in full flight upon a rope between two trees:--
    "Soy de Badajoz,   "Badajoz is my home,
    Amor me llama,     And Love is my name;
    Toda mi alma,      To my eyes in flame,
    Es en mi ojos,     All my soul doth come;
    Porque ensenas,    For instruction meet
    A tuas piernas.    I receive at thy feet"
Fantine alone refused to swing.
"I don't like to have people put on airs like that," muttered Favourite, with a good deal of acrimony.
After leaving the asses there was a fresh delight; they crossed the Seine in a boat, and proceeding from Passy on foot they reached the barrier of l'Etoile. They had been up since five o'clock that morning, as the reader will remember; but bah! there is no such thing as fatigue on Sunday, said Favourite; on Sunday fatigue does not work.
About three o'clock the four couples, frightened at their happiness, were sliding down the Russian mountains, a singular edifice which then occupied the heights of Beaujon, and whose undulating line was visible above the trees of the Champs Elysees.
From time to time Favourite exclaimed:--
"And the surprise? I claim the surprise."
"Patience," replied Tholomyes.
那天从早到晚都充满了一股朝气。整个自然界仿佛在过节日，在嬉笑。圣克鲁的花坛吐着阵阵香气，塞纳河里的微风拂着翠叶，枝头迎风舞弄，蜂群侵占茉莉花，一群群流浪的蝴蝶在蓍草、苜蓿和野麦中间翩翩狂舞，法兰西国王的森严园囿里有成堆的流氓小鸟。
四对喜洋洋的情侣，嬉游在日光、田野、花丛、树林中，显得光艳照人。
这群来自天上的神仙谈着，唱着，互相追逐，舞蹈，扑着蝴蝶，采着牵牛，在深草中渍湿他们的粉红挑花袜；她们是鲜艳的，疯狂的，对人毫无恶念，每个姑娘都随时随地接受各个男子的吻，惟有芳汀，固守在她那种多愁易怒、半迎半拒的抵抗里，她的心有所专爱。“你，”宠儿对她说，“你老是这样。”
这就是欢乐。这一对对情侣的活动是对人生和自然发出的一种强烈的呼声，使天地万物都放出了爱和光。从前有一个仙女特地为痴情男女创造了草地和树林。从此有情人便永远逃学野游，朝朝暮暮，了无尽期，只要一天有原野和学生，这样的事便一天不会停止。因此思想家无不怀念春光。王孙公子、磨刀匠、公卿、缙绅、朝廷中人和城市中人（从前有这种说法）都成了那仙女的顺民。大家欢笑，相互追求，空中也有着一种喜悦的光彩，爱真是普天同庆！月下老人便是上帝。娇喘的叫声，草丛中的追逐，顺手搂住的细腰，音乐般的俏骂，用一个音节表现出的热爱，从这张嘴里夺到那张嘴里的樱桃，凡此种种，都烈火似的燃烧着，火焰直薄云霄。美丽的姑娘们甘于牺牲色相，那大概是永无尽期的了。哲学家、诗人和画家望着那种痴情，都不知道如何是好，他们早已眼花缭乱了。华托①号召到爱乡去。平民画家朗克雷②凝视着他那些飞入天空的仕女，狄德罗③赞颂爱情，杜尔菲④甚至说古代的祭司们也不免触景生情。 
①华托（Watteau，1684-1721），法国画家。
②朗克雷（Lancret，1690-1743），法国画家。
③狄德罗（Diderot），十八世纪法国唯物主义哲学家，百科全书创编人。
④杜尔非（dAUrfé，1567-1625），法国小说家。
午餐过后，那四对情侣到了所谓王家方城，在那里看了那株新从印度运来的植物（我一时忘了它的名称，它曾经轰动一时，把巴黎的人全吸引到了圣克鲁），它是一株新奇、悦目、枝长的小树，无数的细如线缕的旁枝蓬松披散，没有叶子，开着盈千累万的小小白团花，象一丛插满花朵的头发。成群结队的人不断地去赞赏它。
看完了树，多罗米埃大声说：“我请你们骑毛驴！”和赶驴人讲好价钱以后，他们便从凡沃尔和伊西转回来。到了伊西，又有一件意外的收获，当时由军需官布尔甘占用的那个国有公园园门恰巧大开。他们穿过铁栏门，到岩洞里望了那个木头人似的隐修僧，在那著名的明镜厅里他们又尝试了那些神秘的小玩意，那是一种诲淫的陷阱，如果是一个成为巨富的登徒子或变作普利阿普斯①的杜卡莱②，这玩意倒十分相称。在伯尔尼神甫祭过的那两株栗树间，系着一个大秋千网，他们使劲荡了一回。那些美人一个个轮流荡着，裙边飞扬，皆大欢喜，戈洛治③如在场，大约又找到他的题材了；正在那时，那位图卢兹人多罗米埃（他和西班牙人的性格有些渊源，图卢兹和托洛萨是妹妹城）用一种情致缠绵的曲调，唱了一首旧时的西班牙歌曲，大致是因为看见一个美丽的姑娘在树间的绳索上荡来荡去而有所感吧：
我来自巴达霍斯，
受了情魔的驱使，
我全部的灵魂
都在我的眼里。
为什么
要露出你的腿。 
①普利阿普斯（Priape），园艺、畜牧、生育之神。
②杜卡莱（Turcaret），十八世纪初法国喜剧家勒萨日（Lesage）所作喜剧中
的主人公，原是仆人，经过欺诈钻营，成了巨富。
③戈洛治（Greuze，1725-1805），法国画家。
只有芳汀一个人不肯打秋千。
“我不喜欢有人装这种腔。”宠儿气愤愤地说。丢了毛驴，又有了新的欢乐，他们坐上船，渡过塞纳河，从巴喜走到明星区便门。我们记得，他们是在早晨五点起身的，但是，没有关系！“星期日没有什么叫做疲倦，”宠儿说，“疲倦到星期日也去休息了。”三点左右，这四对乐不可支的朋友，跑上了俄罗斯山①，那是当时在波戎高地上的一种新奇建筑物，我们从爱丽舍广场的树梢上望过去，便可以望见它那婉蜒曲折的线路。 
①俄罗斯山，一种供人游戏的蜿蜒起伏的架空铁道。
宠儿不时喊道：
“还有那新鲜玩意呢？我要那新鲜玩意儿。”
“不用急。”多罗米埃回答。
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 5 At Bombardas
The Russian mountains having been exhausted, they began to think about dinner; and the radiant party of eight, somewhat weary at last, became stranded in Bombarda's public house, a branch establishment which had been set up in the Champs-Elysees by that famous restaurant-keeper, Bombarda, whose sign could then be seen in the Rue de Rivoli, near Delorme Alley.
A large but ugly room, with an alcove and a bed at the end (they had been obliged to put up with this accommodation in view of the Sunday crowd); two windows whence they could survey beyond the elms, the quay and the river; a magnificent August sunlight lightly touching the panes; two tables; upon one of them a triumphant mountain of bouquets, mingled with the hats of men and women; at the other the four couples seated round a merry confusion of platters, dishes, glasses, and bottles; jugs of beer mingled with flasks of wine; very little order on the table, some disorder beneath it;
            "They made beneath the table
A noise, a clatter of the feet that was abominable," says Moliere.
This was the state which the shepherd idyl, begun at five o'clock in the morning, had reached at half-past four in the afternoon. The sun was setting; their appetites were satisfied.
The Champs-Elysees, filled with sunshine and with people, were nothing but light and dust, the two things of which glory is composed. The horses of Marly, those neighing marbles, were prancing in a cloud of gold. Carriages were going and coming. A squadron of magnificent body-guards, with their clarions at their head, were descending the Avenue de Neuilly; the white flag, showing faintly rosy in the setting sun, floated over the dome of the Tuileries. The Place de la Concorde, which had become the Place Louis XV. once more, was choked with happy promenaders. Many wore the silver fleur-de-lys suspended from the white-watered ribbon, which had not yet wholly disappeared from button-holes in the year 1817. Here and there choruses of little girls threw to the winds, amid the passersby, who formed into circles and applauded, the then celebrated Bourbon air, which was destined to strike the Hundred Days with lightning, and which had for its refrain:--
"Rendez-nous notre pere de Gand, Rendez-nous notre pere."
"Give us back our father from Ghent, Give us back our father."
Groups of dwellers in the suburbs, in Sunday array, sometimes even decorated with the fleur-de-lys, like the bourgeois, scattered over the large square and the Marigny square, were playing at rings and revolving on the wooden horses; others were engaged in drinking; some journeyman printers had on paper caps; their laughter was audible. Every thing was radiant. It was a time of undisputed peace and profound royalist security; it was the epoch when a special and private report of Chief of Police Angeles to the King, on the subject of the suburbs of Paris, terminated with these lines:--
"Taking all things into consideration, Sire, there is nothing to be feared from these people. They are as heedless and as indolent as cats. The populace is restless in the provinces; it is not in Paris. These are very pretty men, Sire. It would take all of two of them to make one of your grenadiers. There is nothing to be feared on the part of the populace of Paris the capital. It is remarkable that the stature of this population should have diminished in the last fifty years; and the populace of the suburbs is still more puny than at the time of the Revolution. It is not dangerous. In short, it is an amiable rabble."
Prefects of the police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform itself into a lion; that does happen, however, and in that lies the miracle wrought by the populace of Paris. Moreover, the cat so despised by Count Angles possessed the esteem of the republics of old. In their eyes it was liberty incarnate; and as though to serve as pendant to the Minerva Aptera of the Piraeus, there stood on the public square in Corinth the colossal bronze figure of a cat. The ingenuous police of the Restoration beheld the populace of Paris in too "rose-colored" a light; it is not so much of "an amiable rabble" as it is thought. The Parisian is to the Frenchman what the Athenian was to the Greek: no one sleeps more soundly than he, no one is more frankly frivolous and lazy than he, no one can better assume the air of forgetfulness; let him not be trusted nevertheless; he is ready for any sort of cool deed; but when there is glory at the end of it, he is worthy of admiration in every sort of fury. Give him a pike, he will produce the 10th of August; give him a gun, you will have Austerlitz. He is Napoleon's stay and Danton's resource. Is it a question of country, he enlists; is it a question of liberty, he tears up the pavements. Beware! his hair filled with wrath, is epic; his blouse drapes itself like the folds of a chlamys. Take care! He will make of the first Rue Grenetat which comes to hand Caudine Forks. When the hour strikes, this man of the faubourgs will grow in stature; this little man will arise, and his gaze will be terrible, and his breath will become a tempest, and there will issue forth from that slender chest enough wind to disarrange the folds of the Alps. It is, thanks to the suburban man of Paris, that the Revolution, mixed with arms, conquers Europe. He sings; it is his delight. Proportion his song to his nature, and you will see! As long as he has for refrain nothing but la Carmagnole, he only overthrows Louis XVI.; make him sing the Marseillaise, and he will free the world.
This note jotted down on the margin of Angles' report, we will return to our four couples. The dinner, as we have said, was drawing to its close.
俄罗斯山溜完以后，他们想到了晚餐，到底有些疲倦了，兴高采烈的八仙在蓬巴达酒家歇下来了，那酒家是有名的饭店老板蓬巴达在爱丽舍广场设下的分店，当时人们可以从里沃利街，德乐麦通道旁边看见它的招牌。
一间房间，宽敞而丑陋，里面有壁厢，厢底有床（由于星期日酒楼人满，只得忍受那样的地方）；两扇窗子，凭窗可以眺望榆树外面的河水和河岸，一股八月的明媚阳光正射在窗口；两张桌子，一张上面有着堆积如山的鲜花以及男人和女人的帽子，另一张，则由这四对朋友占了，他们团团坐在一堆喜气洋洋的杯盘瓶碟的周围，啤酒罐和葡萄酒瓶杂陈，桌上不大有秩序，桌下更是有点乱。
“他们用脚在桌子下面搞得乒零乓郎一团糟。”莫里哀说过。
这就是从早晨五点开始的那次郊游到了下午四点半钟时的情形。太阳西沉了，意兴也阑珊了。
充满了日光和人群的爱丽舍广场只见阳光和灰尘，那是构成光辉的两种东西。马尔利雕刻的一群石马，在金粉似的烟尘中立在后蹄上，引颈长鸣。华丽的马车川流不息。一队堂皇富丽的近卫骑兵，随着喇叭，从讷伊林荫大道走下来，一面白旗①在斜阳返照中带着淡红颜色，在杜伊勒里宫的圆顶上飘荡。协和广场（当时已经恢复旧名，叫路易十五广场）上人山人海，个个喜气洋洋。许多人的衣纽上还佩着一朵吊在一条白闪缎带上的银百合花，那种东西，到一八一七年还没有完全绝迹。这儿那儿，成群的小女孩，在过路闲人围观鼓掌声中跳着团圆舞，迎风唱着一种波旁舞曲，那种舞曲，本是用来打倒百日帝政的，直到当时还流行，其中的叠句是：
送还我们根特②的伯伯，
送还我们的伯伯。 
①波旁王朝的旗帜。
②根特（Gand），比利时城市，百日帝政期间，路易十八逃亡在那里。
一群群近郊居民，穿着节日的漂亮衣服，有些还模仿绅士，也佩上一朵百合花，四散在大方场和马里尼方场上，玩着七连环游戏或是骑着木马兜圆圈，其余一些人喝着酒；印刷厂里的几个学徒，戴着纸帽，又说又笑。处处都光辉灿烂。无可否认，那确是国泰民安，君权巩固的时代。警署署长昂格勒斯曾向国王递过一本私人密奏，谈到巴黎四郊的情形，他最后的几句话是这样的：“陛下，根据各方面的缜密观察，这些人民不足为畏。他们都和猫儿一样，懒惰驯良。外省的下民好骚动，巴黎的人民却不然。这全是些小民，陛下，要两个这样的小民叠起来，才抵得上一个近卫军士。在首都的民众方面，完全没有可虑的地方。五十年来，人民的身材又缩小了，这是值得注意的，巴黎四郊的人民，比革命前更矮小了。他们不足为害。总而言之，这都是些贱民，驯良的贱民。”
警署署长们是绝不相信猫能变成狮子的，然而事实上却是可能的，而且那正是巴黎人民的奇迹。就拿猫来说吧，昂格勒斯那样瞧不起猫，猫却受到古代共和国的尊重，他们认为猫是自由的化身，在科林斯①城的公共广场上，就有一只极大的紫铜猫，仿佛是和比雷埃夫斯②的那尊无翅膀的密涅瓦塑像作对衬似的。复辟时代的警察太天真，把巴黎的人民看得太“易与”了。恰恰相反，他们绝不是“驯良的贱民”，巴黎人之于法兰西人，正如雅典人之于希腊人，他比任何人都睡得好些，他比任何人都着实要来得轻佻懒惰些，没有人比他更显得健忘，但是切不可以为他们是可靠的，他尽可以百般疏懒，但是一旦光荣在望，他便会奋不顾身，什么都干的。给他一支矛吧，他可以干出八月十日③的事，给他一支枪吧，他可以再有一次奥斯特里茨。他是拿破仑的支柱，丹东④的后盾。国家发生了问题？他捐躯行伍；自由发生了问题？他喋血街头；留神！他的怒发令人难忘；他的布衫可以和希腊的宽袍媲美，他会象在格尔内塔街那样，迫使强敌投降。当心！时机一到，这个郊区的居民就会长大起来的。这小子会站起来，怒目向人，他吐出的气将变成飓风，从他孱弱的胸中，会呼出足够的风，来改变阿尔卑斯山的丘壑。革命之所以能够战胜欧洲，全赖军队里巴黎郊区的居民。他歌唱，那是他的欢乐。你让他的歌适合他的性格，你看着吧！如果他唱来唱去只有《卡玛尼奥拉》⑤一首歌，他当然只能推倒路易十六；但你如果叫他唱《马赛曲》，他便能拯救全世界。 
①科林斯（Corinthe），古希腊城市。
②比雷埃夫斯（Pirée），希腊港口。
③一七九二年八月十日，巴黎人民攻入王宫，逮捕国王，推翻了君主政体。
④丹东（Danton），雅各宾派的右翼领袖。
⑤《卡玛尼奥拉》（Carmagnolle），法国大革命时期歌曲之一，针对玛丽·安东尼特而作。
我们在昂格勒斯奏本的边上写了这段评语以后，再回头来说我们的那四对情人。我们说过，晚餐已经用完了。
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 6 A Chapter in which they adore Each Other
Chat at table, the chat of love; it is as impossible to reproduce one as the other; the chat of love is a cloud; the chat at table is smoke.
Fameuil and Dahlia were humming. Tholomyes was drinking. Zephine was laughing, Fantine smiling, Listolier blowing a wooden trumpet which he had purchased at Saint-Cloud.
Favourite gazed tenderly at Blachevelle and said:--
"Blachevelle, I adore you."
This called forth a question from Blachevelle:--
"What would you do, Favourite, if I were to cease to love you?"
"I!" cried Favourite. "Ah! Do not say that even in jest! If you were to cease to love me, I would spring after you, I would scratch you, I should rend you, I would throw you into the water, I would have you arrested."
Blachevelle smiled with the voluptuous self-conceit of a man who is tickled in his self-love. Favourite resumed:--
"Yes, I would scream to the police! Ah! I should not restrain myself, not at all! Rabble!"
Blachevelle threw himself back in his chair, in an ecstasy, and closed both eyes proudly.
Dahlia, as she ate, said in a low voice to Favourite, amid the uproar:--
"So you really idolize him deeply, that Blachevelle of yours?"
"I? I detest him," replied Favourite in the same tone, seizing her fork again. "He is avaricious. I love the little fellow opposite me in my house. He is very nice, that young man; do you know him? One can see that he is an actor by profession. I love actors. As soon as he comes in, his mother says to him: `Ah! mon Dieu! My peace of mind is gone. There he goes with his shouting. But, my dear, you are splitting my head!' So he goes up to rat-ridden garrets, to black holes, as high as he can mount, and there he sets to singing, declaiming, how do I know what? so that he can be heard down stairs! He earns twenty sous a day at an attorney's by penning quibbles. He is the son of a former precentor of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. Ah! he is very nice. He idolizes me so, that one day when he saw me making batter for some pancakes, he said to me: `Mamselle, make your gloves into fritters, and I will eat them.' It is only artists who can say such things as that. Ah! he is very nice. I am in a fair way to go out of my head over that little fellow. Never mind; I tell Blachevelle that I adore him--how I lie! Hey! How I do lie!"
Favourite paused, and then went on:--
"I am sad, you see, Dahlia. It has done nothing but rain all summer; the wind irritates me; the wind does not abate. Blachevelle is very stingy; there are hardly any green peas in the market; one does not know what to eat. I have the spleen, as the English say, butter is so dear! and then you see it is horrible, here we are dining in a room with a bed in it, and that disgusts me with life."
餐桌上的谈话和情侣们的谈话同样是不可捉摸的，情侣们的谈话是云霞，餐桌上的谈话是烟雾。
法梅依和大丽哼着歌儿，多罗米埃喝着酒，瑟芬笑着，芳汀微笑着。李士多里吹着在圣克鲁买来的木喇叭。宠儿脉脉含情地望着勃拉什维尔说道：
“勃拉什维尔。我爱你。”
这话引起了勃拉什维尔的一个问题。
“宠儿，假使我不爱你了，你将怎样呢？”
“我吗！”宠儿喊着说，“唉！不要说这种话，哪怕是开玩笑，也不要说这种话！假使你不爱我了，我就跳到你后面，抓你的皮，扯你的头发，把水淋到你的身上，叫你吃官司。”
勃拉什维尔自诩多情地微笑了一下，正如一个自尊心获得极端满足而感到舒服的人一样。宠儿又说：
“是呀！我会叫警察！哼！你以为我有什么事做不出的！
坏种！”
勃拉什维尔，受宠若惊，仰在椅上，沾沾自喜地闭上了眼睛。
大丽吃个不停，从喧杂的语声中对宠儿说：
“看来，你对你的勃拉什维尔不是很痴心吗？”
“我，我厌恶他，”宠儿用了同样的语调回答，重又拿起她的叉子。“他舍不得花钱。我爱着在我对面住的那个小伙子。那小子长得漂亮得很，你认得他吗？他很有做戏子的派头。我喜欢戏子。他一回家，他娘就说：‘呀！我的上帝！我又不得安静了。他要叫起来了。唉，我的朋友，你要叫破我的脑袋吗！’因为他一到家里，便到那些住耗子的阁楼上，那些黑洞里，越高越好，他在那里又唱又朗诵，谁知道他搞些什么！下面的人都听得见。他在一个律师家里写讼词，每天已能赚二十个苏了。他父亲是圣雅克教堂里的唱诗人。呀！他生得非常好。他已经爱我到这种地步，有一天，他看见我在调灰面做薄饼，他对我说：‘小姐，您拿您的手套做些饼，我全会吃下去。’世界上只有艺术家才会说这样的话。听！他生得非常好。我已要为那小白脸发疯了。这不打紧，我对勃拉什维尔还是说我爱他。
我多么会撒谎！你说是吗？我多么会撒谎！”
宠儿喘了口气，又继续说：
“大丽，你知道吗？我心里烦得很。落了一夏季的雨，这风真叫我受不了，风又熄不了我心头的火，勃拉什维尔是个小气鬼，菜场里又不大有豌豆卖，他只知道吃，正好象英国人说的，我害‘忧郁病’了，奶油又那么贵！并且，你瞧，真是笑话，我们竟会在有床铺的房间里吃饭，我还不如死了的好。”
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 7 The Wisdom of Tholomyes
In the meantime, while some sang, the rest talked together tumultuously all at once; it was no longer anything but noise. Tholomyes intervened.
"Let us not talk at random nor too fast," he exclaimed. "Let us reflect, if we wish to be brilliant. Too much improvisation empties the mind in a stupid way. Running beer gathers no froth. No haste, gentlemen. Let us mingle majesty with the feast. Let us eat with meditation; let us make haste slowly. Let us not hurry. Consider the springtime; if it makes haste, it is done for; that is to say, it gets frozen. Excess of zeal ruins peach-trees and apricot-trees. Excess of zeal kills the grace and the mirth of good dinners. No zeal, gentlemen! Grimod de la Reyniere agrees with Talleyrand."
A hollow sound of rebellion rumbled through the group.
"Leave us in peace, Tholomyes," said Blachevelle.
"Down with the tyrant!" said Fameuil.
"Bombarda, Bombance, and Bambochel!" cried Listolier.
"Sunday exists," resumed Fameuil.
"We are sober," added Listolier.
"Tholomyes," remarked Blachevelle, "contemplate my calmness [mon calme]."
"You are the Marquis of that," retorted Tholomyes.
This mediocre play upon words produced the effect of a stone in a pool. The Marquis de Montcalm was at that time a celebrated royalist. All the frogs held their peace.
"Friends," cried Tholomyes, with the accent of a man who had recovered his empire, "Come to yourselves. This pun which has fallen from the skies must not be received with too much stupor. Everything which falls in that way is not necessarily worthy of enthusiasm and respect. The pun is the dung of the mind which soars. The jest falls, no matter where; and the mind after producing a piece of stupidity plunges into the azure depths. A whitish speck flattened against the rock does not prevent the condor from soaring aloft. Far be it from me to insult the pun! I honor it in proportion to its merits; nothing more. All the most august, the most sublime, the most charming of humanity, and perhaps outside of humanity, have made puns. Jesus Christ made a pun on St. Peter, Moses on Isaac, AEschylus on Polynices, Cleopatra on Octavius. And observe that Cleopatra's pun preceded the battle of Actium, and that had it not been for it, no one would have remembered the city of Toryne, a Greek name which signifies a ladle. That once conceded, I return to my exhortation. I repeat, brothers, I repeat, no zeal, no hubbub, no excess; even in witticisms, gayety, jollities, or plays on words. Listen to me. I have the prudence of Amphiaraus and the baldness of Caesar. There must be a limit, even to rebuses. Est modus in rebus.
"There must be a limit, even to dinners. You are fond of apple turnovers, ladies; do not indulge in them to excess. Even in the matter of turnovers, good sense and art are requisite. Gluttony chastises the glutton, Gula punit Gulax. Indigestion is charged by the good God with preaching morality to stomachs. And remember this: each one of our passions, even love, has a stomach which must not be filled too full. In all things the word finis must be written in good season; self-control must be exercised when the matter becomes urgent; the bolt must be drawn on appetite; one must set one's own fantasy to the violin, and carry one's self to the post. The sage is the man who knows how, at a given moment, to effect his own arrest. Have some confidence in me, for I have succeeded to some extent in my study of the law, according to the verdict of my examinations, for I know the difference between the question put and the question pending, for I have sustained a thesis in Latin upon the manner in which torture was administered at Rome at the epoch when Munatius Demens was quaestor of the Parricide; because I am going to be a doctor, apparently it does not follow that it is absolutely necessary that I should be an imbecile. I recommend you to moderation in your desires. It is true that my name is Felix Tholomyes; I speak well. Happy is he who, when the hour strikes, takes a heroic resolve, and abdicates like Sylla or Origenes."
Favourite listened with profound attention.
"Felix," said she, "what a pretty word! I love that name. It is Latin; it means prosper."
Tholomyes went on:--
"Quirites, gentlemen, caballeros, my friends. Do you wish never to feel the prick, to do without the nuptial bed, and to brave love? Nothing more simple. Here is the receipt: lemonade, excessive exercise, hard labor; work yourself to death, drag blocks, sleep not, hold vigil, gorge yourself with nitrous beverages, and potions of nymphaeas; drink emulsions of poppies and agnus castus; season this with a strict diet, starve yourself, and add thereto cold baths, girdles of herbs, the application of a plate of lead, lotions made with the subacetate of lead, and fomentations of oxycrat."
"I prefer a woman," said Listolier.
"Woman," resumed Tholomyes; "distrust her. Woe to him who yields himself to the unstable heart of woman! Woman is perfidious and disingenuous. She detests the serpent from professional jealousy. The serpent is the shop over the way."
"Tholomyes!" cried Blachevelle, "you are drunk!"
"Pardieu," said Tholomyes.
"Then be gay," resumed Blachevelle.
"I agree to that," responded Tholomyes.
And, refilling his glass, he rose.
"Glory to wine! Nunc te, Bacche, canam! Pardon me ladies; that is Spanish. And the proof of it, senoras, is this: like people, like cask. The arrobe of Castile contains sixteen litres; the cantaro of Alicante, twelve; the almude of the Canaries, twenty-five; the cuartin of the Balearic Isles, twenty-six; the boot of Tzar Peter, thirty. Long live that Tzar who was great, and long live his boot, which was still greater! Ladies, take the advice of a friend; make a mistake in your neighbor if you see fit. The property of love is to err. A love affair is not made to crouch down and brutalize itself like an English serving-maid who has callouses on her knees from scrubbing. It is not made for that; it errs gayly, our gentle love. It has been said, error is human; I say, error is love. Ladies, I idolize you all. O Zephine, O Josephine, face more than irregular, you would be charming were you not all askew. You have the air of a pretty face upon which some one has sat down by mistake. As for Favourite, O nymphs and muses! one day when Blachevelle was crossing the gutter in the Rue Guerin-Boisseau, he espied a beautiful girl with white stockings well drawn up, which displayed her legs. This prologue pleased him, and Blachevelle fell in love. The one he loved was Favourite. O Favourite, thou hast Ionian lips. There was a Greek painter named Euphorion, who was surnamed the painter of the lips. That Greek alone would have been worthy to paint thy mouth. Listen! before thee, there was never a creature worthy of the name. Thou wert made to receive the apple like Venus, or to eat it like Eve; beauty begins with thee. I have just referred to Eve; it is thou who hast created her. Thou deservest the letters-patent of the beautiful woman. O Favourite, I cease to address you as `thou,' because I pass from poetry to prose. You were speaking of my name a little while ago. That touched me; but let us, whoever we may be, distrust names. They may delude us. I am called Felix, and I am not happy. Words are liars. Let us not blindly accept the indications which they afford us. It would be a mistake to write to Liege[2] for corks, and to Pau for gloves. Miss Dahlia, were I in your place, I would call myself Rosa. A flower should smell sweet, and woman should have wit. I say nothing of Fantine; she is a dreamer, a musing, thoughtful, pensive person; she is a phantom possessed of the form of a nymph and the modesty of a nun, who has strayed into the life of a grisette, but who takes refuge in illusions, and who sings and prays and gazes into the azure without very well knowing what she sees or what she is doing, and who, with her eyes fixed on heaven, wanders in a garden where there are more birds than are in existence. O Fantine, know this: I, Tholomyes, I am all illusion; but she does not even hear me, that blond maid of Chimeras! as for the rest, everything about her is freshness, suavity, youth, sweet morning light. O Fantine, maid worthy of being called Marguerite or Pearl, you are a woman from the beauteous Orient. Ladies, a second piece of advice: do not marry; marriage is a graft; it takes well or ill; avoid that risk. But bah! what am I saying? I am wasting my words. Girls are incurable on the subject of marriage, and all that we wise men can say will not prevent the waistcoat-makers and the shoe-stitchers from dreaming of husbands studded with diamonds. Well, so be it; but, my beauties, remember this, you eat too much sugar. You have but one fault, O woman, and that is nibbling sugar. O nibbling sex, your pretty little white teeth adore sugar. Now, heed me well, sugar is a salt. All salts are withering. Sugar is the most desiccating of all salts; it sucks the liquids of the blood through the veins; hence the coagulation, and then the solidification of the blood; hence tubercles in the lungs, hence death. That is why diabetes borders on consumption. Then, do not crunch sugar, and you will live. I turn to the men: gentlemen, make conquest, rob each other of your well-beloved without remorse. Chassez across. In love there are no friends. Everywhere where there is a pretty woman hostility is open. No quarter, war to the death! a pretty woman is a casus belli; a pretty woman is flagrant misdemeanor. All the invasions of history have been determined by petticoats. Woman is man's right. Romulus carried off the Sabines; William carried off the Saxon women; Caesar carried off the Roman women. The man who is not loved soars like a vulture over the mistresses of other men; and for my own part, to all those unfortunate men who are widowers, I throw the sublime proclamation of Bonaparte to the army of Italy: "Soldiers, you are in need of everything; the enemy has it."
[2] Liege: a cork-tree. Pau: a jest on peau, skin.
Tholomyes paused.
"Take breath, Tholomyes," said Blachevelle.
At the same moment Blachevelle, supported by Listolier and Fameuil, struck up to a plaintive air, one of those studio songs composed of the first words which come to hand, rhymed richly and not at all, as destitute of sense as the gesture of the tree and the sound of the wind, which have their birth in the vapor of pipes, and are dissipated and take their flight with them. This is the couplet by which the group replied to Tholomyes' harangue:--
"The father turkey-cocks so grave Some money to an agent gave, That master good Clermont-Tonnerre Might be made pope on Saint Johns' day fair. But this good Clermont could not be Made pope, because no priest was he; And then their agent, whose wrath burned, With all their money back returned."
This was not calculated to calm Tholomyes' improvisation; he emptied his glass, filled, refilled it, and began again:--
"Down with wisdom! Forget all that I have said. Let us be neither prudes nor prudent men nor prudhommes. I propose a toast to mirth; be merry. Let us complete our course of law by folly and eating! Indigestion and the digest. Let Justinian be the male, and Feasting, the female! Joy in the depths! Live, O creation! The world is a great diamond. I am happy. The birds are astonishing. What a festival everywhere! The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou. Summer, I salute thee! O Luxembourg! O Georgics of the Rue Madame, and of the Allee de l'Observatoire! O pensive infantry soldiers! O all those charming nurses who, while they guard the children, amuse themselves! The pampas of America would please me if I had not the arcades of the Odeon. My soul flits away into the virgin forests and to the savannas. All is beautiful. The flies buzz in the sun. The sun has sneezed out the humming bird. Embrace me, Fantine!"
He made a mistake and embraced Favourite.
这时，有几个人唱着歌，其余的人都谈着话，稀里哗啦，也不分个先后，到处只有一片乱嘈嘈的声音。多罗米埃开口了：“我们不应当胡说八道，也不应当说得太快，”他大声说，“让我们想想，我们是不是想要卖弄自己的口才。过分地信口开河只能浪费精力，再傻也没有了。流着的啤酒堆不起泡沫。先生们，不可性急。我们吃喝，也得有吃喝的气派。让我们细心地吃，慢慢地喝。我们不必赶快。你们看春天吧，如果它来得太快，它就烧起来了，就是说，一切植物都不能发芽了。过分的热可以损害桃花和杏花。过分的热也可以消灭盛宴的雅兴和欢乐。先生们，心不可热！拉雷尼埃尔①和塔列朗的意见都是这样。”
一阵震耳欲聋的反抗声从那堆人里发出来。
“多罗米埃，不要闹！”勃拉什维尔说。
‘打倒专制魔王！”法梅依说。
“蓬巴达②！蓬彭斯③！彭博什④！”
“星期日还没完呢。”法梅依又说。
“我们并没有乱来。”李士多里说。
“多罗米埃，”勃拉什维尔说，“请注意我的安静态度。”
“在这方面，你算得是侯爷。”
这句小小的隐语竟好象是一块丢在池塘里的石头。安静山⑤侯爵是当时一个大名鼎鼎的保王党。蛙群全没声息了。 
①拉雷尼埃尔（GrimoddelaReynière），巴黎的烹调专家，著有食谱。
②蓬巴达（Bombarda），酒家。
③蓬彭斯（Bombance），盛筵。
④彭博什（Bambocbhe），荷兰画家。
⑤“安静山”（Montcalm）和上面勃拉什维尔所说的“我的安静”（moncalme）同音。
“朋友们，”多罗米埃以一个重获首领地位的人的口吻大声说，“安静下来。见了这种天上落下来的玩笑也不必太慌张。凡是这样落下来的东西，不一定是值得兴奋和敬佩的。隐语是飞着的精灵所遗的粪。笑话四处都有，精灵在说笑一通之后，又飞上天去了。神鹰遗了一堆白色的秽物在岩石上，仍旧翱翔自如。我毫不亵渎隐语。我仅就它价值的高下，寄以相当的敬意罢了。人类中，也许是人类以外，最尊严、最卓越和最可亲的人都说过隐语。耶稣基督说过一句有关圣彼得的隐语。摩西在谈到以撒、埃斯库罗斯、波吕尼刻斯时，克娄巴特拉在谈到屋大维时也都使用过隐语。还要请你们注意，克娄巴特拉的隐语是在亚克兴①战争以前说的，假使没有它，也就不会有人记得多临城，多临在希腊语中只是一个勺而已。这件事交代以后，我再回头来说我的劝告词。我的弟兄们，我再说一遍，即使是在说俏皮话、诙谐、笑谑和隐语时，也不可过于热心，不可嚣张，不可过分。诸位听我讲，我有安菲阿拉俄斯②的谨慎和恺撒的秃顶。即使是猜谜语，也应当有限度。这就是拉丁话所谓的Estmodusinrebus。即使是饮食，也应当有节制。 
①亚克兴（Actium），公元前三一年罗马舰队在屋大维率领下，击败叛将安敦尼于此，埃及王后克娄巴特拉死之。
②安菲阿拉俄斯（AmphiararauBs），攻打底比斯的七英雄之一，是著名的先知。
女士们，你们喜欢苹果饺，可不要吃得太多了。就是吃饺，也应当有限度和有艺术手法。贪多嚼不烂，好比蛇吞象。胃病总是由于贪吃。疳积病是上帝派来教育胃的。并且你们应当记住这一点：我们的每一种欲念，甚至包括爱情在内，也都有胃口，不可太饱。在任何事情上，都应当在适当的时候写上‘终’字；在紧急的时候，我们应当自行约束，推上食量的门闩，囚禁自己的妄念，并且自请处罚。知道在适当的时候自动管制自己的人就是聪明人。对于我，你们不妨多少有点信心，因为我学过一点法律，我的考试成绩可以证明，因为我知道存案和悬案间的差别，因为我用拉丁文做过一篇论文，论《缪纳修斯·德门任弑君者的度支官时期的罗马刑法》，因为我快做博士了，照说，从此以后，我就一定不会是个蠢才了。我劝告你们，应当节欲。我说的是好话，真实可靠到和我叫斐利克斯·多罗米埃一样。时机一到，就下定决心，象西拉①或奥利金②那样，毅然引退，那样才真是快乐的人。”
宠儿聚精会神地听着。
“斐利克斯！”她说，“这是个多么漂亮的名字！我爱这个名字。这是拉丁文，作‘兴盛’解释。”
多罗米埃接下去说：
“公民们，先生们，少爷们③，朋友们！你们要摒绝床第之事，放弃儿女之情而毫不冲动吗？再简单也没有。这就是药方：柠檬水，过度的体操，强迫劳动，疲劳，拖重东西，不睡觉，守夜，多饮含硝质的饮料和白荷花汤，尝莺粟油和马鞭草油，厉行节食，饿肚子，继之以冷水浴，使用草索束身，佩带铅块，用醋酸铅擦身，用醋汤作热敷。” 
①西拉（Sylla），即苏拉（Sulla），公元前一世纪罗马的独裁者。
②奥利金（Origène，约前185-254），基督教神学家。
③这三种称呼，原文用的是拉丁文、英文和西班牙文：guirites，gentlemen，caballeros。
“我宁愿请教女人。”李士多里说。
“女人！”多罗米埃说，“你们得小心。女人杨花水性，信赖她们，那真是自讨苦吃。女人是邪淫寡信的。她们恨蛇，那只是出于同业的妒嫉心。蛇和女人是对门住的。”
“多罗米埃！”勃拉什维尔喊着说，“你喝醉了！”
“可不是！”多罗米埃说。
“那么，你乐一乐吧。”勃拉什维尔又说。
“我同意。”多罗米埃回答。
于是，一面斟满酒，一面立起来：
“光荣属于美酒！现在，酒神，请喝！①对不起，诸位小姐，这是西班牙文。证据呢，女士们，就是这样。怎样的民族就有怎样的酒桶。卡斯蒂利亚②的亚洛伯，盛十六公升，阿利坎特的康达罗十二公升，加那利群岛的亚尔缪德二十五公升，巴科阿里③群岛的苦亚丹二十六公升，沙皇彼得的普特三十公升。伟大的彼得万岁，他那更伟大的普特万万岁。诸位女士们，请让我以朋友资格奉劝一句话：你们应当随心所欲，广结良缘。爱情的本质就是乱撞。爱神不需要象一个膝盖上擦起疙瘩的英国女仆那样死死蹲在一个地方。那位温柔的爱神生来并不是这样的，它嘻嘻哈哈四处乱撞，别人说过，撞错总也还是人情；我说，撞错总也还是爱情。诸位女士，我崇拜你们中的每一位。呵瑟芬，呵，约瑟芬，俏皮娘儿，假使你不那样撅着嘴，你就更迷人了。你那神气好象是被谁在你脸上无意中坐了一下子似的。至于宠儿，呵，山林中的仙女和缪斯！勃拉什维尔一天走过格雷－巴梭街的小溪边，看见一个美貌姑娘，露着腿，穿着一双白袜，拉得紧紧的。这个样子合了他的意，于是勃拉什维尔着迷了。他爱的那个人儿便是宠儿。呵，宠儿！你有爱奥尼亚人的嘴唇。从前有个希腊画家叫欧风里翁，别人给了他个别号，叫嘴唇画家。只有那个希腊人才配画你的嘴唇。听我说！在你以前，没有一个人是够得上他一画的。你和美神一样是为得苹果而生的，或者说，和夏娃一样，是为吃苹果而生的。美是由你开始的。我刚才提到了夏娃，夏娃是你创造出来的。你有资格获得‘发明美女’的证书。呵，宠儿，我不再称您为你了。因为我要由诗歌转入散文了。刚才您谈到我的名字，您打动了我的心弦，但是无论我们是什么人，对于名字，总不宜轻信。名不一定副实。我叫做斐利克斯，但是我并不快乐。字是骗人的。我们不要盲目接受它的含义。写信到列日④去买软木塞，到波城⑤去买皮手套，那才荒唐呢。密斯⑥大丽，我如果是您的话，我就要叫做玫瑰，花应当有香味，女子应当有智慧。至于芳汀，我不打算说什么，她是一个多幻象、多梦想、多思虑、多感触的人，一个具有仙女的体态和信女的贞洁的小精灵；她失足在风流女郎的队伍里，又要在幻想中藏身，她唱歌，却又祈祷又望着天空，但又不大知道她所望的是什么，也不大知道她所作的究竟是什么，她望着天空，自以为生活在大花园里，以为到处是花和鸟，而实际上花和鸟并不多。呵，芳汀，您应当知道这一点：我，多罗米埃，我只是一种幻象，但是这位心思缥渺的黄发女郎，她并没有听见我说话！然而她有的全是光艳、趣味、青春、柔美的晨曦。呵，芳汀，您是一个值得称为白菊或明珠的姑娘，您是一个满身珠光宝气的妇女。诸位女士，还有第二个忠告：你们决不要嫁人，结婚犹如接木，效果好坏，不一定，你们不必自寻苦吃。但是，哎呀！我在这里胡说些什么？我失言了。姑娘们在配偶问题上是不可救药的。我们这些明眼人所能说的一切绝不足以防止那些做背心、做鞋子的姑娘们去梦想那些金玉满堂的良人。不管它，就是这样吧，但是，美人们，请记牢这一点：你们的糖，吃得太多了。呵，妇女们，你们只有一个错误：就是好嚼糖。呵，啮齿类的女性，你的皓齿多爱糖呵。那么，好好地听我讲、糖是一种盐。一切盐都吸收水分。糖在各种盐里有着最富于吸收水分的能力。它通过血管，把血液里的水分提出来，于是血液凝结，由凝结而凝固，而得肺结核，而死亡。因此，糖尿病常和痨病并发。因此，你们不要嚼糖就长寿了！现在我转到男子方面来。先生们，多多霸占妇女。在你们彼此之间不妨毫无顾忌地互相霸占爱人。猎艳，乱交，情场中无所谓朋友。凡是有一个漂亮女子的地方，争夺总是公开的；无分区域，大家杀个你死我活！一个漂亮女子便是一场战争的缘因，一个漂亮女子便是一场明目张胆的盗窃。历来一切的劫掠都是在亵衣上发动的。罗慕洛掳过萨宾妇人⑦，威廉掳过萨克森妇人，恺撒掳过罗马妇人。没有女子爱着的男子，总好象饿鹰那样，在别人的情妇头上翱翔。至于我，我向一切没有家室的可怜虫介绍波拿巴的《告意大利大军书》：‘兵士们，你们什么也没有。敌人却有。’” 
①“现在，酒神，请喝！”原文为西班牙文Nuncte，Bacche，canam！
②卡斯蒂利亚（Castille），在西班牙中部，十一世纪时成立王国，十五世纪时和其他几个小王国合并成为西班牙王国。
③巴利阿里群岛（Baléares），在地中海西端，属西班牙。
④列日（Liège），比利时城名，和“软木”（Lège）同音。
⑤波城（Pau），法国城名，和“皮”（Peau）同音。
⑥密斯（miss），英语，意为“小姐”。
⑦罗慕洛（Romulus，约生于460年），西罗马帝国的最后一个皇帝（475-476）。萨宾，意大利古国名。
多罗米埃的话中断了。
“喘口气吧，多罗米埃。”勃拉什维尔说。
同时，勃拉什维尔开始唱一支悲伤的歌，李士多里和法梅依随声和着，那种歌是用从车间里信手拈来的歌词编的，音韵似乎很丰富，其实完全没有音韵；意义空虚，有如风声树影，是从烟斗的雾气中产生出来的，因此也就和雾气一同飘散消失。
下面便是那群人答复多罗米埃的演说词的一节：
几个荒唐老头子，
拿些银子交给狗腿子，
要教克雷蒙－东纳①先生，
圣约翰节坐上教皇的位子，
克雷蒙－东纳先生不能当教皇，
原来他不是教士，
狗腿子气冲冲，
送还他们的银子。 
①克雷蒙－东纳（ClemontCTonnerre），法国多菲内地区一大家族，其中最著名者一是红衣主教，一是伯爵。
那种歌并不能平息多罗米埃的随机应变的口才。他干了杯，再斟上一杯，又说起话来。
“打倒圣人！我说的话，你们全不必放在心上。我们不要清规戒律，不要束手束脚，不要谨小慎微。我要为欢乐浮一大白，让我们狂欢吧！让我们拿放荡和酒肉来补足我们的法律课。吃喝，消化。让查士丁尼①作雄的，让酒囊饭装作雌的。喜气弥漫穹苍呵！造物主！祝你长生！地球是一颗大金刚钻！我快乐。雀鸟真够劲，遍地都是盛会！黄莺儿是一个任人欣赏的艾勒维奥②。夏日，我向你致敬。呵，卢森堡，呵，夫人街和天文台路的竹枝词！呵，神魂颠倒的丘八！呵，那些看守孩子又拿孩子寻开心的漂亮女用人。如果我没有奥德翁③的长廊，我也许会喜欢美洲的草原吧。我的灵魂飞向森林中的处女地和广漠的平原。一切都是美的。青蝇在日光中营营飞舞。太阳打喷嚏打出了蜂雀。吻我吧，芳汀。”
他弄错了，吻了宠儿。 
①查士丁尼（Justinien，483-565），拜占庭皇帝，编有《法家言类纂》
（digeste）书名与“消化”（digestion）近似。
②艾勒维奥（Elleviou），当时法国的一个著名歌唱家。
③奥德翁（Odéon），指奥德翁戏院，一七九七年成立。 
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 8 The Death of a Horse
"The dinners are better at Edon's than at Bombarda's," exclaimed Zephine.
"I prefer Bombarda to Edon," declared Blachevelle. "There is more luxury. It is more Asiatic. Look at the room downstairs; there are mirrors [glaces] on the walls."
"I prefer them [glaces, ices] on my plate," said Favourite.
Blachevelle persisted:--
"Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bombarda's and of bone at Edon's. Now, silver is more valuable than bone."
"Except for those who have a silver chin," observed Tholomyes.
He was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visible from Bombarda's windows.
A pause ensued.
"Tholomyes," exclaimed Fameuil, "Listolier and I were having a discussion just now."
"A discussion is a good thing," replied Tholomyes; "a quarrel is better."
"We were disputing about philosophy."
"Well?"
"Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?"
"Desaugiers," said Tholomyes.
This decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went on:--
"I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since we can still talk nonsense. For that I return thanks to the immortal gods. We lie. One lies, but one laughs. One affirms, but one doubts. The unexpected bursts forth from the syllogism. That is fine. There are still human beings here below who know how to open and close the surprise box of the paradox merrily. This, ladies, which you are drinking with so tranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from the vineyard of Coural das Freiras, which is three hundred and seventeen fathoms above the level of the sea. Attention while you drink! three hundred and seventeen fathoms! and Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house keeper, gives you those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for four francs and fifty centimes."
Again Fameuil interrupted him:--
"Tholomyes, your opinions fix the law. Who is your favorite author?"
"Ber--"
"Quin?"
"No; Choux."
And Tholomyes continued:--
"Honor to Bombarda! He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he could but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thygelion of Chaeronea if he could bring me a Greek courtesan; for, oh, ladies! There were Bombardas in Greece and in Egypt. Apuleius tells us of them. Alas! always the same, and nothing new; nothing more unpublished by the creator in creation! Nil sub sole novum, says Solomon; amor omnibus idem, says Virgil; and Carabine mounts with Carabin into the bark at Saint-Cloud, as Aspasia embarked with Pericles upon the fleet at Samos. One last word. Do you know what Aspasia was, ladies? Although she lived at an epoch when women had, as yet, no soul, she was a soul; a soul of a rosy and purple hue, more ardent hued than fire, fresher than the dawn. Aspasia was a creature in whom two extremes of womanhood met; she was the goddess prostitute; Socrates plus Manon Lescaut. Aspasia was created in case a mistress should be needed for Prometheus."
Tholomyes, once started, would have found some difficulty in stopping, had not a horse fallen down upon the quay just at that moment. The shock caused the cart and the orator to come to a dead halt. It was a Beauceron mare, old and thin, and one fit for the knacker, which was dragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Bombarda's, the worn-out, exhausted beast had refused to proceed any further. This incident attracted a crowd. Hardly had the cursing and indignant carter had time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word, Matin (the jade), backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip, when the jade fell, never to rise again. On hearing the hubbub made by the passersby, Tholomyes' merry auditors turned their heads, and Tholomyes took advantage of the opportunity to bring his allocution to a close with this melancholy strophe:--
"Elle etait de ce monde ou coucous et carrosses[3]
Ont le meme destin; Et, rosse, elle a vecu ce que vivant les rosses, L'espace d'un matin!"
[3] She belonged to that circle where cuckoos and carriages share the same fate; and a jade herself, she lived, as jades live, for the space of a morning (or jade).
"Poor horse!" sighed Fantine.
And Dahlia exclaimed:--
"There is Fantine on the point of crying over horses. How can one be such a pitiful fool as that!"
At that moment Favourite, folding her arms and throwing her head back, looked resolutely at Tholomyes and said:--
"Come, now! the surprise?"
"Exactly. The moment has arrived," replied Tholomyes. "Gentlemen, the hour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck. Wait for us a moment, ladies."
"It begins with a kiss," said Blachevelle.
"On the brow," added Tholomyes.
Each gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress's brow; then all four filed out through the door, with their fingers on their lips.
Favourite clapped her hands on their departure.
"It is beginning to be amusing already," said she.
"Don't be too long," murmured Fantine; "we are waiting for you."
“爱同饭店比蓬巴达酒家好。”瑟芬叫着说。
“我喜欢蓬巴达胜过爱同，”勃拉什维尔说，“这里来得阔绰些，有些亚洲味儿。你们看下面的那间大厅，四面墙上都有镜子。”
“我只注意盘子里的东西。”宠儿说。
勃拉什维尔一再坚持说：
“你们瞧这些刀子。在蓬巴达酒家里刀柄是银的，在爱同店里是骨头的。银子当然比骨头贵重些。”
“对那些装了银下巴的人来说，这话却不对。”多罗米埃说。
这时他从蓬巴达的窗口望着残废军人院的圆屋顶。
大家寂静下来。
“多罗米埃，”法梅依叫道，“刚才李士多里和我辩论了一番。”
“辩论固然好，相骂更加妙。”多罗米埃回答。
“我们辩论哲学问题。”
“哼。”
“你喜欢笛卡儿还是斯宾诺莎①？” 
①斯宾诺莎（Spinosa），十八世纪荷兰唯物主义哲学家。
“我喜欢德佐吉埃①。”多罗米埃说。
下了那判词以后，他又喝酒，接着说：
“活在世上，我是同意的。世界上并不是一切都完蛋了的，既然我们还可以胡思乱想。因此我感谢永生的众神。我们说谎，但我们会发笑，我们一面肯定，但我们一面也怀疑。三段论里常出岔子。有趣。这世上究竟还有一些人能洋洋得意地从那些与众不同的见解中拿出一些特别玩意儿。诸位女士，你们安安静静喝着的那些东西是从马德拉②来的酒，你们应当知道，是古拉尔·达·弗莱拉斯地方的产品，那里超出海面三百十七个脱阿斯③！喝酒时你们应当注意这三百十七个脱阿斯！而那位漂亮的饭店老板蓬巴达凭着这三百十七个脱阿斯，却只卖你们四法郎五十生丁④！”
法梅依重行把话打断了：
“多罗米埃，你的意见等于法律。哪一个作家是你所最欣赏的？”
“贝尔……。”
“贝尔坎⑤！”
“不对，贝尔舒⑥。” 
①德佐吉埃（Desaugiers），当时歌手。
②马德拉群岛（Madère），在大西详，葡萄牙殖民地。
③脱阿斯（toise），约等于二公尺。
④生丁（centime），法国辅币名，等于百分之一法郎，又译“分”。
⑤贝尔坎（Berquin，1747-1791），法国文学家。
⑥贝尔舒Berchoux，十九世纪法国一个食谱作者。
多罗米埃又接下去说：
光荣属于蓬巴达！假使他能为我招来一个埃及舞女，他就可以和艾勒芳达的缪诺菲斯媲美；假使他能为我送来一个希腊名妓，他就可以和喀洛内的迪瑞琳媲美了！因为，呵，女士们，希腊和埃及，也有过蓬巴达呢。那是阿普列乌斯①告诉我们的。可惜世界永远是老一套，绝没有什么新东西。在造物主的创作里，再也没有什么未发表的东西，所罗门说过：‘在太阳下面没有新奇的事物。’维吉尔②说过：‘各人的爱全是一样的。’今天的男学生和女学生走上圣克鲁的篷船，正和从前亚斯巴昔和伯利克里③乘舰队去萨摩斯一样。最后一句话。诸位女士，你们知道亚斯巴昔是什么人吗？她虽然生在女子还没有灵魂的时代，她却是一个灵魂，是一个紫红色的比火更灿烂、比朝暾更鲜艳的灵魂。亚斯巴昔是个兼有女性两个极端性的人儿，她是一个神妓，是苏格拉底④和曼侬·列斯戈⑤的混合体。亚斯巴昔是为了普罗米修斯⑥需要一个尤物的原故而生的。” 
①阿普列乌斯（Apulée，约123-约180），罗马作家，哲学家，《变形记》和《金驴》的作者。
②维吉尔（Virgile，前70-19），杰出的罗马诗人。③伯利克里（Périclès，约前490一429），雅典政治家，亚斯巴昔是他的妻子。萨摩斯是他征服的一个岛。
④苏格拉底（Socrate，约前469-399），古希腊唯心主义哲学家，奴隶主贵族思想家。
⑤曼侬·列斯戈ManonLescaut，十八世纪法国作家普莱服所作小说《曼侬·列斯戈》中的女主角。
⑥普罗米修斯Prométhée，希腊神话中窃火给人类的神。
假使当时没有一匹马倒在河沿上，高谈阔论的多罗米埃是难于住嘴的。由于那一冲击，那辆车子和这位高谈阔论者都一齐停下来了。一匹又老又瘦只配送给屠夫的博斯母马，拉着一辆很重的车子。那头精疲力竭的牲口走到蓬巴达的门前，不肯再走了。这件意外的事引来不少观众。一面咒骂、一面生气的车夫举起鞭子，对准目标，狠狠一鞭下去，同时嘴里骂着“贱畜牲”时，那匹老马已倒在地上永不再起了。在行人轰动声中多罗米埃的那些愉快的听众全掉转头去看了，多罗米埃趁这机会念了这样一节忧伤的诗来结束他的演讲：
在这世界上，
小车和大车，
命运都一样；
它是匹劣马，
活得象老狗，
所以和其他劣马一样。①
“怪可怜的马。”芳汀叹着说。
于是大丽叫起来了： 
①有这样一首悼念幼女夭亡的古诗：
Mais elle était du monde où les plus belles cnoses
Ont le pire destin，
Et，rose ell a vécu ce que vivent les roses，
L'espace d'un matin
诗的大意是：在这世界上，最美丽的东西，命运也最坏，她是一朵玫瑰，所以和玫瑰一样，只活了一个早晨。多罗米埃把这首诗改动了几个字，用来悼念那匹死马，主要是以“驽马”rosse代“玫瑰”rose，“恶狗”（matin）代“早晨”（matin），结果这诗的内容就变成现在这个样子。
“你们瞧芳汀，她为那些马也叫屈了！有这样蠢的人！”
这时宠儿交叉起两条胳膊，仰着头，定睛望着多罗米埃说：
“够了够了！还有那古怪玩意儿呢？”
“正是呵。时候已经到了，”多罗米埃回答说，“诸位先生，送各位女士一件古怪玩意儿的时候已经到了。诸位女士，请等一会儿。”
“先亲一个嘴。”勃拉什维尔说。
“亲额。”多罗米埃加上一句。
每个人在他情妇的额上郑重地吻了一下，四个男人鱼贯而出，都把一个手指放在嘴上。
宠儿鼓着掌，送他们出去。
“已经很有意思了。”她说。
“不要去得太久了，”芳汀低声说，“我们等着你们呢。”
Part 1 Book 3 Chapter 9 A Merry End to Mirth
When the young girls were left alone, they leaned two by two on the window-sills, chatting, craning out their heads, and talking from one window to the other.
They saw the young men emerge from the Cafe Bombarda arm in arm. The latter turned round, made signs to them, smiled, and disappeared in that dusty Sunday throng which makes a weekly invasion into the Champs-Elysees.
"Don't be long!" cried Fantine.
"What are they going to bring us?" said Zephine.
"It will certainly be something pretty," said Dahlia.
"For my part," said Favourite, "I want it to be of gold."
Their attention was soon distracted by the movements on the shore of the lake, which they could see through the branches of the large trees, and which diverted them greatly.
It was the hour for the departure of the mail-coaches and diligences. Nearly all the stage-coaches for the south and west passed through the Champs-Elysees. The majority followed the quay and went through the Passy Barrier. From moment to moment, some huge vehicle, painted yellow and black, heavily loaded, noisily harnessed, rendered shapeless by trunks, tarpaulins, and valises, full of heads which immediately disappeared, rushed through the crowd with all the sparks of a forge, with dust for smoke, and an air of fury, grinding the pavements, changing all the paving-stones into steels. This uproar delighted the young girls. Favourite exclaimed:--
"What a row! One would say that it was a pile of chains flying away."
It chanced that one of these vehicles, which they could only see with difficulty through the thick elms, halted for a moment, then set out again at a gallop. This surprised Fantine.
"That's odd!" said she. "I thought the diligence never stopped."
Favourite shrugged her shoulders.
"This Fantine is surprising. I am coming to take a look at her out of curiosity. She is dazzled by the simplest things. Suppose a case: I am a traveller; I say to the diligence, `I will go on in advance; you shall pick me up on the quay as you pass.' The diligence passes, sees me, halts, and takes me. That is done every day. You do not know life, my dear."
In this manner a certain time elapsed. All at once Favourite made a movement, like a person who is just waking up.
"Well," said she, "and the surprise?"
"Yes, by the way," joined in Dahlia, "the famous surprise?"
"They are a very long time about it!" said Fantine.
As Fantine concluded this sigh, the waiter who had served them at dinner entered. He held in his hand something which resembled a letter.
"What is that?" demanded Favourite.
The waiter replied:--
"It is a paper that those gentlemen left for these ladies."
"Why did you not bring it at once?"
"Because," said the waiter, "the gentlemen ordered me not to deliver it to the ladies for an hour."
Favourite snatched the paper from the waiter's hand. It was, in fact, a letter.
"Stop!" said she; "there is no address; but this is what is written on it--"
"THIS IS THE SURPRISE."
She tore the letter open hastily, opened it, and read [she knew how to read]:--
"OUR BELOVED:--
"You must know that we have parents. Parents--you do not know much about such things. They are called fathers and mothers by the civil code, which is puerile and honest. Now, these parents groan, these old folks implore us, these good men and these good women call us prodigal sons; they desire our return, and offer to kill calves for us. Being virtuous, we obey them. At the hour when you read this, five fiery horses will be bearing us to our papas and mammas. We are pulling up our stakes, as Bossuet says. We are going; we are gone. We flee in the arms of Lafitte and on the wings of Caillard. The Toulouse diligence tears us from the abyss, and the abyss is you, O our little beauties! We return to society, to duty, to respectability, at full trot, at the rate of three leagues an hour. It is necessary for the good of the country that we should be, like the rest of the world, prefects, fathers of families, rural police, and councillors of state. Venerate us. We are sacrificing ourselves. Mourn for us in haste, and replace us with speed. If this letter lacerates you, do the same by it. Adieu.
"For the space of nearly two years we have made you happy. We bear you no grudge for that.
"Signed:
BLACHEVELLE.
FAMUEIL.
LISTOLIER.
FELIX THOLOMYES.
"Postscriptum. The dinner is paid for."
The four young women looked at each other.
Favourite was the first to break the silence.
"Well!" she exclaimed, "it's a very pretty farce, all the same."
"It is very droll," said Zephine.
"That must have been Blachevelle's idea," resumed Favourite. "It makes me in love with him. No sooner is he gone than he is loved. This is an adventure, indeed."
"No," said Dahlia; "it was one of Tholomyes' ideas. That is evident.
"In that case," retorted Favourite, "death to Blachevelle, and long live Tholomyes!"
"Long live Tholomyes!" exclaimed Dahlia and Zephine.
And they burst out laughing.
Fantine laughed with the rest.
An hour later, when she had returned to her room, she wept. It was her first love affair, as we have said; she had given herself to this Tholomyes as to a husband, and the poor girl had a child.
那几位姑娘独自留下，两个两个地伏在窗子边上闲谈，伸着头，隔窗对语。
她们看见那些年轻人挽着手走出蓬巴达酒家。他们回转头来，笑嘻嘻对着她们挥了挥手，便消失在爱丽舍广场每周都有的那种星期日的尘嚣中去了。
“不要去得太久了！”芳汀喊着说。
“他们预备带什么玩意儿回来给我们呢？”瑟芬说。
“那一定是些好看的东西。”大丽说。
“我呢，”宠儿说，“我希望带回来的东西是金的。”
她们从那些大树的枝桠间望着水边的活动，觉得也很有趣，不久就忘记那回事了。那正是邮车和公共马车起程的时刻。当时到南部和西部去的客货，几乎全要走过爱丽舍广场，大部分顺着河沿，经过巴喜便门出去。每隔一分钟，就会有一辆刷了黄漆和黑漆的大车，载着沉重的东西，马蹄铁链响成一片，箱、箧、提包堆到不成样子，车子里人头攒动，一眨眼全都走了，碾踏着街心，疯狂地穿过人堆，路面上的石块尽成了燧石，尘灰滚滚，就好象是从炼铁炉里冒出的火星和浓烟。几位姑娘见了那种热闹大为兴奋，宠儿喊着说：
“多么热闹！就象一堆堆铁链在飞着。”
一次，她们仿佛看见有辆车子（由于榆树的枝叶过于浓密，她们看不大清楚）停了一下，随即又飞跑去了。这事惊动了芳汀。
“这真奇怪！”她说。“我还以为公共客车从不停的呢。”
宠儿耸了耸肩。
“这个芳汀真特别，我刚才故意望着她。最简单的事她也要大惊小怪。假如我是个旅客，我关照公共客车说：‘我要到前面去一下，您经过河沿时让我上车。客车来了看见我，停下来，让我上去。’这是每天都有的事。你脱离现实生活了，我亲爱的。”
那样过了一些时候，宠儿忽然一动，仿佛一个初醒的人。
“喂，”她说，“他们要送我们的古怪玩意儿呢？”“是呀，正是这话，”大丽接着说，“那闹了半天的古怪玩意儿呢？”
“他们耽搁得太久了！”芳汀说。
芳汀正叹完这口气，伺候晚餐的那个堂倌走进来了，他手里捏着一件东西，好象是封信。
“这是什么？”宠儿问。
堂倌回答说：
“这是那几位先生留给太太们的一张条子。
“为什么没有马上送来？”
“因为那些先生们吩咐过的，”堂倌接着说，“要过了一个钟头才交给这几位太太。”
宠儿从那堂倌手里把那张纸夺过来。那确是一封信。
“奇怪，”她说，“没有收信人的姓名，但有这几个字写在上面：
这就是古怪玩意儿。
她急忙把信拆开，打开来念（她识字）：
呵，我们的情妇！
你们应当知道，我们是有双亲的人。双亲，这是你们不大知道的。在幼稚而诚实的民法里，那叫做父亲和母亲。那些亲人，长者，慈祥的老公公，慈祥的老婆婆，他们老叫苦，老想看看我们，叫我们做浪子，盼望我们回去，并且要为我们宰牛宰羊。我们现在服从他们。因为我们是有品德的人。你们念这时信时，五匹怒马已把我们送还给我们的爸爸妈妈了。正如博须埃所说，我们拆台了。我们走了，我们已经走了。我们在拉菲特的怀中，在加亚尔①的翅膀上逃了。去图卢兹的公共客车已把我们从陷阱中拔了出来。陷阱，就是你们，呵，我们美丽的小姑娘！我们回到社会、天职、秩序中去了，马蹄得得，每小时要走三法里，祖国需要我们，和旁人一样，去做长官，做家长，做乡吏，做政府顾问。要尊敬我们。我们正在作一种牺牲。快快为我们哭一场。快快为我们找替身吧。假使这封信撕碎了你们的心，你们就照样向它报复，把它撕碎。永别了。
近两年来我们曾使你们幸福，千万不要埋怨我们。
勃拉什维尔　法梅依
李士多里　多罗米埃（签字） 
①拉菲特（Lafitte）和加亚尔（Caillard）均为当时负责客车事务的官员。
附告：餐费已付。
那四位姑娘面面相觑。
宠儿第一个打破沉寂。
“好呀，”她喊着说，“这玩笑确是开得不坏。”
“很有趣。”瑟芬说。
“这一定是勃拉什维尔出的主意，”宠儿又说，“这倒使我爱他了。人不在，心头爱，人总是这样的。”
“不对，”大丽说，“这是多罗米埃的主意。一望便知。”
“既是这样，”宠儿又说，“勃拉什维尔该死，多罗米埃万岁！”
“多罗米埃万岁！”大丽和瑟芬都喊起来。
接着，她们放声大笑。
芳汀也随着大家笑。
一个钟头过后，她回到了自己的屋子里，她哭出来了。我们已经说过，这是她第一次的爱。她早已如同委身于自己的丈夫一样委身于多罗米埃了，并且这可怜的姑娘已生有一个孩子。
Part 1 Book 4 Chapter 1 One Mother meets Another Mother
There was, at Montfermeil, near Paris, during the first quarter of this century, a sort of cook-shop which no longer exists. This cook-shop was kept by some people named Thenardier, husband and wife. It was situated in Boulanger Lane. Over the door there was a board nailed flat against the wall. Upon this board was painted something which resembled a man carrying another man on his back, the latter wearing the big gilt epaulettes of a general, with large silver stars; red spots represented blood; the rest of the picture consisted of smoke, and probably represented a battle. Below ran this inscription: AT THE SIGN OF SERGEANT OF WATERLOO (Au Sargent de Waterloo).
Nothing is more common than a cart or a truck at the door of a hostelry. Nevertheless, the vehicle, or, to speak more accurately, the fragment of a vehicle, which encumbered the street in front of the cook-shop of the Sergeant of Waterloo, one evening in the spring of 1818, would certainly have attracted, by its mass, the attention of any painter who had passed that way.
It was the fore-carriage of one of those trucks which are used in wooded tracts of country, and which serve to transport thick planks and the trunks of trees. This fore-carriage was composed of a massive iron axle-tree with a pivot, into which was fitted a heavy shaft, and which was supported by two huge wheels. The whole thing was compact, overwhelming, and misshapen. It seemed like the gun-carriage of an enormous cannon. The ruts of the road had bestowed on the wheels, the fellies, the hub, the axle, and the shaft, a layer of mud, a hideous yellowish daubing hue, tolerably like that with which people are fond of ornamenting cathedrals. The wood was disappearing under mud, and the iron beneath rust. Under the axle-tree hung, like drapery, a huge chain, worthy of some Goliath of a convict. This chain suggested, not the beams, which it was its office to transport, but the mastodons and mammoths which it might have served to harness; it had the air of the galleys, but of cyclopean and superhuman galleys, and it seemed to have been detached from some monster. Homer would have bound Polyphemus with it, and Shakespeare, Caliban.
Why was that fore-carriage of a truck in that place in the street? In the first place, to encumber the street; next, in order that it might finish the process of rusting. There is a throng of institutions in the old social order, which one comes across in this fashion as one walks about outdoors, and which have no other reasons for existence than the above.
The centre of the chain swung very near the ground in the middle, and in the loop, as in the rope of a swing, there were seated and grouped, on that particular evening, in exquisite interlacement, two little girls; one about two years and a half old, the other, eighteen months; the younger in the arms of the other. A handkerchief, cleverly knotted about them, prevented their falling out. A mother had caught sight of that frightful chain, and had said, "Come! there's a plaything for my children."
The two children, who were dressed prettily and with some elegance, were radiant with pleasure; one would have said that they were two roses amid old iron; their eyes were a triumph; their fresh cheeks were full of laughter. One had chestnut hair; the other, brown. Their innocent faces were two delighted surprises; a blossoming shrub which grew near wafted to the passers-by perfumes which seemed to emanate from them; the child of eighteen months displayed her pretty little bare stomach with the chaste indecency of childhood. Above and around these two delicate heads, all made of happiness and steeped in light, the gigantic fore-carriage, black with rust, almost terrible, all entangled in curves and wild angles, rose in a vault, like the entrance of a cavern. A few paces apart, crouching down upon the threshold of the hostelry, the mother, not a very prepossessing woman, by the way, though touching at that moment, was swinging the two children by means of a long cord, watching them carefully, for fear of accidents, with that animal and celestial expression which is peculiar to maternity. At every backward and forward swing the hideous links emitted a strident sound, which resembled a cry of rage; the little girls were in ecstasies; the setting sun mingled in this joy, and nothing could be more charming than this caprice of chance which had made of a chain of Titans the swing of cherubim.
As she rocked her little ones, the mother hummed in a discordant voice a romance then celebrated:--
"It must be, said a warrior."
Her song, and the contemplation of her daughters, prevented her hearing and seeing what was going on in the street.
In the meantime, some one had approached her, as she was beginning the first couplet of the romance, and suddenly she heard a voice saying very near her ear:--
"You have two beautiful children there, Madame."
"To the fair and tender Imogene--"
replied the mother, continuing her romance; then she turned her head.
A woman stood before her, a few paces distant. This woman also had a child, which she carried in her arms.
She was carrying, in addition, a large carpet-bag, which seemed very heavy.
This woman's child was one of the most divine creatures that it is possible to behold. lt was a girl, two or three years of age. She could have entered into competition with the two other little ones, so far as the coquetry of her dress was concerned; she wore a cap of fine linen, ribbons on her bodice, and Valenciennes lace on her cap. The folds of her skirt were raised so as to permit a view of her white, firm, and dimpled leg. She was admirably rosy and healthy. The little beauty inspired a desire to take a bite from the apples of her cheeks. Of her eyes nothing could be known, except that they must be very large, and that they had magnificent lashes. She was asleep.
She slept with that slumber of absolute confidence peculiar to her age. The arms of mothers are made of tenderness; in them children sleep profoundly.
As for the mother, her appearance was sad and poverty-stricken. She was dressed like a working-woman who is inclined to turn into a peasant again. She was young. Was she handsome? Perhaps; but in that attire it was not apparent. Her hair, a golden lock of which had escaped, seemed very thick, but was severely concealed beneath an ugly, tight, close, nun-like cap, tied under the chin. A smile displays beautiful teeth when one has them; but she did not smile. Her eyes did not seem to have been dry for a very long time. She was pale; she had a very weary and rather sickly appearance. She gazed upon her daughter asleep in her arms with the air peculiar to a mother who has nursed her own child. A large blue handkerchief, such as the Invalides use, was folded into a fichu, and concealed her figure clumsily. Her hands were sunburnt and all dotted with freckles, her forefinger was hardened and lacerated with the needle; she wore a cloak of coarse brown woollen stuff, a linen gown, and coarse shoes. It was Fantine.
It was Fantine, but difficult to recognize. Nevertheless, on scrutinizing her attentively, it was evident that she still retained her beauty. A melancholy fold, which resembled the beginning of irony, wrinkled her right cheek. As for her toilette, that aerial toilette of muslin and ribbons, which seemed made of mirth, of folly, and of music, full of bells, and perfumed with lilacs had vanished like that beautiful and dazzling hoar-frost which is mistaken for diamonds in the sunlight; it melts and leaves the branch quite black. Ten months had elapsed since the "pretty farce."
What had taken place during those ten months? It can be divined.
After abandonment, straightened circumstances. Fantine had immediately lost sight of Favourite, Zephine and Dahlia; the bond once broken on the side of the men, it was loosed between the women; they would have been greatly astonished had any one told them a fortnight later, that they had been friends; there no longer existed any reason for such a thing. Fantine had remained alone. The father of her child gone,--alas! such ruptures are irrevocable,-- she found herself absolutely isolated, minus the habit of work and plus the taste for pleasure. Drawn away by her liaison with Tholomyes to disdain the pretty trade which she knew, she had neglected to keep her market open; it was now closed to her. She had no resource. Fantine barely knew how to read, and did not know how to write; in her childhood she had only been taught to sign her name; she had a public letter-writer indite an epistle to Tholomyes, then a second, then a third. Tholomyes replied to none of them. Fantine heard the gossips say, as they looked at her child: "Who takes those children seriously! One only shrugs one's shoulders over such children!" Then she thought of Tholomyes, who had shrugged his shoulders over his child, and who did not take that innocent being seriously; and her heart grew gloomy toward that man. But what was she to do? She no longer knew to whom to apply. She had committed a fault, but the foundation of her nature, as will be remembered, was modesty and virtue. She was vaguely conscious that she was on the verge of falling into distress, and of gliding into a worse state. Courage was necessary; she possessed it, and held herself firm. The idea of returning to her native town of M. sur M. occurred to her. There, some one might possibly know her and give her work; yes, but it would be necessary to conceal her fault. In a confused way she perceived the necessity of a separation which would be more painful than the first one. Her heart contracted, but she took her resolution. Fantine, as we shall see, had the fierce bravery of life. She had already valiantly renounced finery, had dressed herself in linen, and had put all her silks, all her ornaments, all her ribbons, and all her laces on her daughter, the only vanity which was left to her, and a holy one it was. She sold all that she had, which produced for her two hundred francs; her little debts paid, she had only about eighty francs left. At the age of twenty-two, on a beautiful spring morning, she quitted Paris, bearing her child on her back. Any one who had seen these two pass would have had pity on them. This woman had, in all the world, nothing but her child, and the child had, in all the world, no one but this woman. Fantine had nursed her child, and this had tired her chest, and she coughed a little.
We shall have no further occasion to speak of M. Felix Tholomyes. Let us confine ourselves to saying, that, twenty years later, under King Louis Philippe, he was a great provincial lawyer, wealthy and influential, a wise elector, and a very severe juryman; he was still a man of pleasure.
Towards the middle of the day, after having, from time to time, for the sake of resting herself, travelled, for three or four sous a league, in what was then known as the Petites Voitures des Environs de Paris, the "little suburban coach service," Fantine found herself at Montfermeil, in the alley Boulanger.
As she passed the Thenardier hostelry, the two little girls, blissful in the monster swing, had dazzled her in a manner, and she had halted in front of that vision of joy.
Charms exist. These two little girls were a charm to this mother.
She gazed at them in much emotion. The presence of angels is an announcement of Paradise. She thought that, above this inn, she beheld the mysterious HERE of Providence. These two little creatures were evidently happy. She gazed at them, she admired them, in such emotion that at the moment when their mother was recovering her breath between two couplets of her song, she could not refrain from addressing to her the remark which we have just read:--
"You have two pretty children, Madame."
The most ferocious creatures are disarmed by caresses bestowed on their young.
The mother raised her head and thanked her, and bade the wayfarer sit down on the bench at the door, she herself being seated on the threshold. The two women began to chat.
"My name is Madame Thenardier," said the mother of the two little girls. "We keep this inn."
Then, her mind still running on her romance, she resumed humming between her teeth:--
"It must be so; I am a knight, And I am off to Palestine."
This Madame Thenardier was a sandy-complexioned woman, thin and angular-- the type of the soldier's wife in all its unpleasantness; and what was odd, with a languishing air, which she owed to her perusal of romances. She was a simpering, but masculine creature. Old romances produce that effect when rubbed against the imagination of cook-shop woman. She was still young; she was barely thirty. If this crouching woman had stood upright, her lofty stature and her frame of a perambulating colossus suitable for fairs, might have frightened the traveller at the outset, troubled her confidence, and disturbed what caused what we have to relate to vanish. A person who is seated instead of standing erect--destinies hang upon such a thing as that.
The traveller told her story, with slight modifications.
That she was a working-woman; that her husband was dead; that her work in Paris had failed her, and that she was on her way to seek it elsewhere, in her own native parts; that she had left Paris that morning on foot; that, as she was carrying her child, and felt fatigued, she had got into the Villemomble coach when she met it; that from Villemomble she had come to Montfermeil on foot; that the little one had walked a little, but not much, because she was so young, and that she had been obliged to take her up, and the jewel had fallen asleep.
At this word she bestowed on her daughter a passionate kiss, which woke her. The child opened her eyes, great blue eyes like her mother's, and looked at--what? Nothing; with that serious and sometimes severe air of little children, which is a mystery of their luminous innocence in the presence of our twilight of virtue. One would say that they feel themselves to be angels, and that they know us to be men. Then the child began to laugh; and although the mother held fast to her, she slipped to the ground with the unconquerable energy of a little being which wished to run. All at once she caught sight of the two others in the swing, stopped short, and put out her tongue, in sign of admiration.
Mother Thenardier released her daughters, made them descend from the swing, and said:--
"Now amuse yourselves, all three of you."
Children become acquainted quickly at that age, and at the expiration of a minute the little Thenardiers were playing with the new-comer at making holes in the ground, which was an immense pleasure.
The new-comer was very gay; the goodness of the mother is written in the gayety of the child; she had seized a scrap of wood which served her for a shovel, and energetically dug a cavity big enough for a fly. The grave-digger's business becomes a subject for laughter when performed by a child.
The two women pursued their chat.
"What is your little one's name?"
"Cosette."
For Cosette, read Euphrasie. The child's name was Euphrasie. But out of Euphrasie the mother had made Cosette by that sweet and graceful instinct of mothers and of the populace which changes Josepha into Pepita, and Francoise into Sillette. It is a sort of derivative which disarranges and disconcerts the whole science of etymologists. We have known a grandmother who succeeded in turning Theodore into Gnon.
"How old is she?"
"She is going on three."
"That is the age of my eldest."
In the meantime, the three little girls were grouped in an attitude of profound anxiety and blissfulness; an event had happened; a big worm had emerged from the ground, and they were afraid; and they were in ecstasies over it.
Their radiant brows touched each other; one would have said that there were three heads in one aureole.
"How easily children get acquainted at once!" exclaimed Mother Thenardier; "one would swear that they were three sisters!"
This remark was probably the spark which the other mother had been waiting for. She seized the Thenardier's hand, looked at her fixedly, and said:--
"Will you keep my child for me?"
The Thenardier made one of those movements of surprise which signify neither assent nor refusal.
Cosette's mother continued:--
"You see, I cannot take my daughter to the country. My work will not permit it. With a child one can find no situation. People are ridiculous in the country. It was the good God who caused me to pass your inn. When I caught sight of your little ones, so pretty, so clean, and so happy, it overwhelmed me. I said: `Here is a good mother. That is just the thing; that will make three sisters.' And then, it will not be long before I return. Will you keep my child for me?"
"I must see about it," replied the Thenardier.
"I will give you six francs a month."
Here a man's voice called from the depths of the cook-shop:--
"Not for less than seven francs. And six months paid in advance."
"Six times seven makes forty-two," said the Thenardier.
"I will give it," said the mother.
"And fifteen francs in addition for preliminary expenses," added the man's voice.
"Total, fifty-seven francs," said Madame Thenardier. And she hummed vaguely, with these figures:--
"It must be, said a warrior."
"I will pay it," said the mother. "I have eighty francs. I shall have enough left to reach the country, by travelling on foot. I shall earn money there, and as soon as I have a little I will return for my darling."
The man's voice resumed:--
"The little one has an outfit?"
"That is my husband," said the Thenardier.
"Of course she has an outfit, the poor treasure.--I understood perfectly that it was your husband.--And a beautiful outfit, too! a senseless outfit, everything by the dozen, and silk gowns like a lady. It is here, in my carpet-bag."
"You must hand it over," struck in the man's voice again.
"Of course I shall give it to you," said the mother. "It would be very queer if I were to leave my daughter quite naked!"
The master's face appeared.
"That's good," said he.
The bargain was concluded. The mother passed the night at the inn, gave up her money and left her child, fastened her carpet-bag once more, now reduced in volume by the removal of the outfit, and light henceforth and set out on the following morning, intending to return soon. People arrange such departures tranquilly; but they are despairs!
A neighbor of the Thenardiers met this mother as she was setting out, and came back with the remark:--
"I have just seen a woman crying in the street so that it was enough to rend your heart."
When Cosette's mother had taken her departure, the man said to the woman:--
"That will serve to pay my note for one hundred and ten francs which falls due to-morrow; I lacked fifty francs. Do you know that I should have had a bailiff and a protest after me? You played the mouse-trap nicely with your young ones."
"Without suspecting it," said the woman.
本世纪的最初二十五年中，在巴黎附近的孟费郿地方有一家大致象饭店那样的客店，现在已经不在了。这客店是名叫德纳第的夫妇俩开的。开在面包师巷。店门头上有块木板，平钉在墙上。板上画了些东西，仿佛是个人，那人背上背着另一个带有将军级的金色大肩章、章上还有几颗大银星的人；画上还有一些红斑纹，代表血；其余部分全是烟尘，大致是要描绘战场上的情景。木板的下端有这样几个字：滑铁卢中士客寓。
一个客店门前停辆榻车或小车原是件最平常的事。但在一八一八年春季的一天傍晚，在那滑铁卢中士客寓门前停着的那辆阻塞街道的大车（不如说一辆车子的残骸），却足以吸引过路画家的注意。
那是一辆在森林地区用来装运厚木板和树身的重型货车的前半部。它的组成部分是一条装在两个巨轮上的粗笨铁轴和一条嵌在轴上的粗笨辕木。整体是庞大、笨重、奇形怪状的，就象一架大炮的座子。车轮、轮边、轮心、轮轴和辕木上面都被沿路的泥坑涂上了一层黄污泥浆，颇象一般人喜欢用来修饰天主堂的那种灰浆。木质隐在泥浆里，铁质隐在铁锈里，车轴下面，横挂着一条适合苦役犯歌利亚①的粗链。那条链子不会使人想到它所捆载的巨材，却使人想到它所能驾驭的乳齿象和猛犸；它那模样，好象是从监狱（巨魔和超人的监狱）里出来的，也好象是从一个奴怪身上解下来的。荷马一定会用它来缚住波吕菲摩斯，莎士沈亚用来缚住凯列班。 
①歌利亚（Goliath），《圣经》中所载为大卫王所杀之非利士巨人。
为什么那辆重型货车的前都会停在那街心呢？首先，为了阻塞道路；其次，为了让它锈完。在旧社会组织中，就有许许多多这类机构，也同样明目张胆地堵在路上，并没有其他存在的理由。
那亸下的链条，中段离地颇近，黄昏时有两个小女孩，一个大致两岁半，一个十八个月，并排坐在那链条的弯处，如同坐在秋千索上，小的那个躺在大的怀中，亲亲热热地相互拥抱着。一条手帕巧妙地系住她们，免得她们摔下。有个母亲最初看见那条丑链条时，她说：“嘿！这家伙可以做我孩子们的玩意儿。”
那两个欢欢喜喜的孩子，确也打扮得惹人爱，是有人细心照顾的，就象废铁中的两朵蔷薇；她们的眼睛，神气十足，鲜润的脸蛋儿笑嘻嘻的。一个的头发是栗色，另一个是棕色。她们天真的面庞露着又惊又喜的神气。附近有一丛野花对着行人频送香味，人家总以为那香味是从她们那里来的。十八个月的那个，天真烂漫，露出她那赤裸裸、怪可爱的小肚皮。在这两个幸福无边、娇艳夺目的小宝贝的顶上，立着那个高阔的车架，黑锈满身，形相丑陋，满是纵横交错、张牙舞爪的曲线和棱角，好比野人洞口的门拱。几步以外，有一个面目并不可爱但此刻却很令人感动的大娘，那就是她们的母亲；她正蹲在那客店门口，用一根长绳拉荡着那两个孩子，眼睛紧紧盯着她们，唯恐发生意外。她那神气，既象猛兽又象天神，除了母亲，别人不会那样。那些怪难看的链环，每荡一次，都象发脾气似的发出一种锐利的叫声。那两个小女孩乐得出神，斜阳也正从旁助兴。天意的诡谲使一条巨魔的铁链成了小天使们的秋千，世间没有比这更有趣的事了。
母亲，一面荡着她的两个孩子，一面用一种不准确的音调哼着一首当时流行的情歌：
必须如此，一个战士……
她的歌声和她对那两个女儿的注意，使她听不见、也看不见街上发生的事。
正当她开始唱那首情歌的第一节，就已有人走近她身边，她忽然听见有人在她耳边说：
“大嫂，您的两个小宝宝真可爱。”
对美丽温柔的伊默琴说，
那母亲唱着情歌来表示回答，随又转过头来。
原来是个妇人站在她面前，隔开她只几步远。那妇人也有个孩子抱在怀里。
此外，她还挽着一个好象很重的随身大衣包。
那妇人的孩子是个小仙女似的孩子。是一个两三岁的女孩。她衣服装饰的艳丽很可以和那两个孩子赛一下。她戴一顶细绸小帽，帽上有瓦朗斯①花边，披一件有飘带的斗篷。掀起裙子就看见她那雪白、肥嫩、坚实的大腿。她面色红润，身体健康，着实可爱。两颊鲜艳得象苹果，教人见了恨不得咬它一口。她的眼睛一定是很大的，一定还有非常秀丽的睫毛，我们不能再说什么，因为她正睡着。 
①瓦朗斯（Valence），法国城市，以产花边著名。
她睡得多甜呀！只有在她那种小小年纪才能那样绝无顾虑地睡着。慈母的胳膊是慈爱构成的，孩子们睡在里面怎能不甜？
至于那母亲却是种贫苦忧郁的模样，她的装束象个女工，却又露出一些想要重做农妇的迹象，她还年轻。她美吗？也许，但由于那种装束，她并不显得美。她头发里的一绺金发露了出来，显出她头发的丰厚，但是她用一条丑而窄的巫婆用的头巾紧紧结在颏下，把头发全遮住了。人可以在笑时露出美丽的牙齿，但是她一点也不笑。她的眼睛仿佛还没有干多久。她脸上没有血色，显得非常疲乏，象有病似的。她瞧着睡在她怀里的女儿的那种神情只有亲自哺乳的母亲才会有。一条对角折的粗蓝布大手巾，就是伤兵们用来擤鼻涕的那种大手巾，遮去了她的腰。她的手，枯而黑，生满了斑点，食指上的粗皮满是针痕，肩上披一件蓝色的粗羊毛氅，布裙袍，大鞋。她就是芳汀。
她就是芳汀。已经很难认了。但是仔细看去，她的美不减当年。一条含愁的皱痕横在她的右脸上，仿佛是冷笑的起始。至于装束，她从前那种镶缀丝带、散发丁香味儿、狂态十足的轻罗华服，好象是愉快、狂欢和音乐构成的装饰，早已象日光下和金刚钻一样耀眼的树上霜花那样消失殆尽了，霜花融化以后，留下的只是深黑的树枝。
那次的“妙玩笑”开过以后，已经过了十个月了。
在这十个月中发生了什么事呢？那是可以想见的。
遗弃之后，便是艰苦。芳汀完全见不着宠儿、瑟芬和大丽了；从男子方面断绝了的关系，在女子方面也拆散了；假使有人在十五天过后说她们从前是朋友，她们一定会感到奇怪，现在已没有再做朋友的理由了。芳汀只是孤零零的一个人。她孩子的父亲走了，真惨！这种绝交是无可挽回的，她孑然一身，无亲无故，加以劳动的习惯减少了，娱乐的嗜好加多了，自从和多罗米埃发生关系以后，她便轻视她从前学得的那些小手艺，她忽视了自己的出路，现在已是无路可通了。毫无救星。芳汀稍稍认识几个字，但不知道写，在她年幼时，人家只教过她签自己的名字。她曾请一个摆写字摊的先生写了一封信给多罗米埃，随后又写了第二封，随后又写了第三封。多罗米埃一封也没有答复。一天，芳汀听见一些贫嘴薄舌的女人望着她的孩子说：“谁会认这种孩子？对这种孩子，大家耸耸肩就完了！”于是她想到多罗米埃一定也对她的孩子耸肩，不会认这无辜的小人儿的，想到那男人，她的心灰了。但是作什么打算呢？她已不知道应当向谁求教。她犯了错误，但是我们记得，她的本质是贞洁贤淑的。她隐隐地感到，她不久就会堕入苦难，沉溺在更加不堪的境地里。她非得有毅力不行；她有毅力，于是她站稳脚跟。她忽然想到要回到她家乡滨海蒙特勒伊去，在那里也许会有人认识她，给她工作。这打算不错，不过得先隐瞒她的错误。于是她隐隐看出，可能又要面临生离的苦痛了，而这次的生离的苦痛是会比上一次更甚的。她的心扭作一团，但是她下定决心。芳汀，我们将来可以知道，是敢于大胆正视人生的。
她已毅然决然摈弃了修饰，自己穿着布衣，把她所有的丝织品、碎料子、飘带、花边，都用在她女儿身上，这女儿是她仅有的虚荣。她变卖了所有的东西，得到二百法郎，还清各处的零星债务后她只有八十来个法郎了。在二十二岁的芳龄，一个晴朗的春天的早晨，她背着她的孩子，离开了巴黎。如果有人看见她们母女俩走过，谁也会心酸。那妇人在世上只有这个孩子，那孩子在世上也只有这个妇人。芳汀喂过她女儿的奶，她的胸脯亏累了，因而有点咳嗽。
我们以后不会再有机会谈到斐利克斯·多罗米埃先生了。我们只说，二十年后，在路易·菲力浦王朝时代①，他是外省一个满脸横肉、有钱有势的公家律师，一个乖巧的选民，一个很严厉的审判官，一个一贯寻芳猎艳的登徒子。 
①即一八三○年至一八四八年。
芳汀坐上当时称为巴黎郊区小车的那种车子，花上每法里三四个苏的车费，白天就到了孟费郿的面包师巷。
她从德纳第客店门前走过，看见那两个小女孩在那怪形秋千架上玩得怪起劲的，不禁心花怒放，只望着那幅欢乐的景象出神。
诱惑人的魑魅是有的。那两个女孩对这个做母亲的来说，便是这种魑魅。
她望着她们，大为感动。看见天使便如身历天堂，她仿佛看见在那客店上面有“上帝在此”的神秘字样。那两个女孩明明是那样快活！她望着她们，羡慕她们，异常感动，以至当那母亲在她两句歌词间换气时，她不能不对她说出我们刚才读到的那句话：
“大嫂，您的两个小宝宝真可爱。”
最凶猛的禽兽，见人家抚摸它的幼雏也会驯服起来的。母亲抬起头，道了谢，又请这位过路的女客坐在门边条凳上，她自己仍蹲在门槛上。两个妇人便攀谈起来了。
“我叫德纳第妈妈，”两个女孩的母亲说，“这客店是我们开的。”
随后，又回到她的情歌，合着牙哼起来：
必须这样，我是骑士，
我正要到巴勒斯坦去。
这位德纳第妈妈是个赤发、多肉、呼吸滞塞的妇人，是个典型的装妖作怪的母老虎。并且说也奇怪，她老象有满腔心事似的，那是由于她多读了几回香艳小说。她是那么一个扭扭捏捏、男不男女不女的家伙，那些已经破烂的旧小说，对一个客店老板娘的想象力来说，往往会产生这样的影响。她还年轻，不到三十岁。假使这个蹲着的妇人当时直立起来，她那魁梧奇伟、游艺场中活菩萨似的身材也许会立刻吓退那位女客，扰乱她的信心，而我们要叙述的事也就不会发生了。一个人的一起一坐竟会牵涉到许多人的命运。
远来的女客开始谈她的身世，不过谈得稍微与实际情况有些出入。
她说她是一个女工，丈夫死了，巴黎缺少工作，她要到别处去找工作，她要回到她的家乡去。当天早晨，她徒步离开了巴黎，因为她带着孩子，觉得疲倦了，恰巧遇着到蒙白耳城去的车子，她便坐了上去；从蒙白耳城到孟费郿，她是走来的；小的也走了一点路，但是不多，她太幼小，只得抱着她，她的宝贝睡着了。
说到此地，她热烈地吻了一下她的女儿，把她弄醒了。那个孩子睁开她的眼睛，大的蓝眼睛，和她母亲的一样，望着，望什么呢？什么也不望，什么也在望，用孩子们那副一本正经并且有时严肃的神气望着，那种神气正是他们光明的天真面对我们日益衰败的道德的一种神秘的表示。仿佛他们觉得自己是天使，又知道我们是凡人。随后那个孩子笑起来了，母亲虽然抱住她，但她用小生命跃跃欲试的那种无可约束的毅力滑到地上去了，忽然她看见了秋千上面的那两个孩子，立刻停止不动，伸出舌头，表示羡慕。
德纳第妈妈把她两个女儿解下了，叫她们从秋千上下来，说道：
“你们三个人一道玩吧。”
在那种年纪，大家很快就玩熟了，一分钟过后，那两个小德纳第姑娘便和这个新来的伴侣一道在地上掘洞了，其乐无穷。
这个新来的伴侣是很活泼有趣的，母亲的好心肠已在这个娃娃的快乐里表现出来了，她拿了一小块木片做铲子，用力掘了一个能容一只苍蝇的洞。掘墓穴工人的工作出自一个孩子的手，便有趣了。
两个妇人继续谈话。
“您的宝宝叫什么？”
“珂赛特。”
珂赛特应当是欧福拉吉。那孩子本来叫欧福拉吉。但是她母亲把欧福拉吉改成了珂赛特，这是母亲和平民常有的一种娴雅的本能，比方说，约瑟华往往变成贝比达，佛朗索瓦斯往往变成西莱特。这种字的转借法，绝不是字源学家的学问所能解释的。我们认得一个人的祖母，她居然把泰奥多尔变成了格农。
“她几岁了？”
“快三岁了。”
“正和我的大孩子一样。”
那时，那三个女孩聚在一堆，神气显得极其快乐，但又显得非常焦急，因为那时发生了一件大事：一条肥大的蚯蚓刚从地里钻出来，他们正看得出神。
她们的喜气洋洋的额头一个挨着一个，仿佛三个头同在一圈圆光里一样。
“这些孩子们，”德纳第妈妈大声说，“一下子就混熟了！别人一定认为她们是三个亲妹妹呢！”
那句话大致就是这个母亲所等待的火星吧。她握住德纳第妈妈的手，眼睛盯着她，向她说：
“您肯替我照顾我的孩子吗？”
德纳第妈妈一惊，那是一种既不表示同意，也不表示拒绝的动作。
珂赛特的母亲紧接着说：
“您明白吗，我不能把我的孩子领到家乡去。工作不允许那样做。带着孩子不会有安身的地方。在那地方，他们本是那样古怪的。慈悲的上帝教我从您客店门前走过，当我看见您的孩子那样好看、那样干净、那样高兴时，我的心早被打动了。我说过：‘这才真是个好母亲呵。’哟，她们真会成三个亲姊妹。并且，我不久就要回来的。您肯替我照顾我的孩子吗？”
“我得先想想。”德纳第妈妈说。
“我可以每月付六个法郎。”
说到这里，一个男子的声音从那客店的底里叫出来：
“非得七个法郎不成。并且要先付六个月。”
“六七四十二。”德纳第妈妈说。
“我照付就是。”那母亲说。
“并且另外要十五法郎，做刚接过手时的一切费用。”男子的声音又说。
“总共五十七法郎。”德纳第妈妈说。
提到这些数目时，她又很随便地哼起来：
必须这样，一个战士说。
“我照付就是，”那母亲说，“我有八十法郎。剩下的钱，尽够我盘缠，如果走去的话。到了那里，我就赚得到钱，等我有点钱的时候，我就回头来找我的心肝。”
男子的声音又说：
“那孩子有包袱吗？”
“那是我的丈夫。”德纳第妈妈说。
“当然她有一个包袱，这个可怜的宝贝。我早知道他是您的丈夫。并且还是一个装得满满的包袱！不过有点满得不近人情。里面的东西全是成打的，还有一些和贵妇人衣料一样的绸缎衣服。它就在我的随身衣包里。”
“您得把它交出来。”男子的声音又说。
“我当然要把它交出来！”母亲说，“我让我的女儿赤身露体，那才笑话呢！”
德纳第把主人的面孔摆出来了。
“很好。”他说。
这件买卖成交了。母亲在那客店里住了一夜，交出了她的钱，留下了她的孩子，重新结上她那只由于取出了孩子衣服而缩小、从此永远轻便的随身衣包，在第二天早晨走了，一心打算早早回来。人们对骨肉的离合总爱打如意算盘，但是往往落一场空。
德纳第夫妇的一个女邻居碰到了这位离去的母亲，她回来说：
“我刚才看见一个妇人在街上哭得好惨！”
珂赛特的母亲走了以后，那汉子对他婆娘说：
“这样我可以付我那张明天到期的一百一十法郎的期票了。先头我还缺五十法郎。你可知道？法院的执达吏快要把人家告发我的拒绝付款状给我送来了。这一下，你靠了你的两个孩子做了个财神娘娘。”
“我没有想到。”那婆娘说。
Part 1 Book 4 Chapter 2 First Sketch of Two Unprepossessing Figures
The mouse which had been caught was a pitiful specimen; but the cat rejoices even over a lean mouse.
Who were these Thenardiers?
Let us say a word or two of them now. We will complete the sketch later on.
These beings belonged to that bastard class composed of coarse people who have been successful, and of intelligent people who have descended in the scale, which is between the class called "middle" and the class denominated as "inferior," and which combines some of the defects of the second with nearly all the vices of the first, without possessing the generous impulse of the workingman nor the honest order of the bourgeois.
They were of those dwarfed natures which, if a dull fire chances to warm them up, easily become monstrous. There was in the woman a substratum of the brute, and in the man the material for a blackguard. Both were susceptible, in the highest degree, of the sort of hideous progress which is accomplished in the direction of evil. There exist crab-like souls which are continually retreating towards the darkness, retrograding in life rather than advancing, employing experience to augment their deformity, growing incessantly worse, and becoming more and more impregnated with an ever-augmenting blackness. This man and woman possessed such souls.
Thenardier, in particular, was troublesome for a physiognomist. One can only look at some men to distrust them; for one feels that they are dark in both directions. They are uneasy in the rear and threatening in front. There is something of the unknown about them. One can no more answer for what they have done than for what they will do. The shadow which they bear in their glance denounces them. From merely hearing them utter a word or seeing them make a gesture, one obtains a glimpse of sombre secrets in their past and of sombre mysteries in their future.
This Thenardier, if he himself was to be believed, had been a soldier-- a sergeant, he said. He had probably been through the campaign of 1815, and had even conducted himself with tolerable valor, it would seem. We shall see later on how much truth there was in this. The sign of his hostelry was in allusion to one of his feats of arms. He had painted it himself; for he knew how to do a little of everything, and badly.
It was at the epoch when the ancient classical romance which, after having been Clelie, was no longer anything but Lodoiska, still noble, but ever more and more vulgar, having fallen from Mademoiselle de Scuderi to Madame Bournon-Malarme, and from Madame de Lafayette to Madame Barthelemy-Hadot, was setting the loving hearts of the portresses of Paris aflame, and even ravaging the suburbs to some extent. Madame Thenardier was just intelligent enough to read this sort of books. She lived on them. In them she drowned what brains she possessed. This had given her, when very young, and even a little later, a sort of pensive attitude towards her husband, a scamp of a certain depth, a ruffian lettered to the extent of the grammar, coarse and fine at one and the same time, but, so far as sentimentalism was concerned, given to the perusal of Pigault-Lebrun, and "in what concerns the sex," as he said in his jargon--a downright, unmitigated lout. His wife was twelve or fifteen years younger than he was. Later on, when her hair, arranged in a romantically drooping fashion, began to grow gray, when the Magaera began to be developed from the Pamela, the female Thenardier was nothing but a coarse, vicious woman, who had dabbled in stupid romances. Now, one cannot read nonsense with impunity. The result was that her eldest daughter was named Eponine; as for the younger, the poor little thing came near being called Gulnare; I know not to what diversion, effected by a romance of Ducray-Dumenil, she owed the fact that she merely bore the name of Azelma.
However, we will remark by the way, everything was not ridiculous and superficial in that curious epoch to which we are alluding, and which may be designated as the anarchy of baptismal names. By the side of this romantic element which we have just indicated there is the social symptom. It is not rare for the neatherd's boy nowadays to bear the name of Arthur, Alfred, or Alphonse, and for the vicomte--if there are still any vicomtes--to be called Thomas, Pierre, or Jacques. This displacement, which places the "elegant" name on the plebeian and the rustic name on the aristocrat, is nothing else than an eddy of equality. The irresistible penetration of the new inspiration is there as everywhere else. Beneath this apparent discord there is a great and a profound thing,-- the French Revolution.
那只被逮住的老鼠是瘦的，但是猫儿，即使得了一只瘦老鼠，也要快乐一场。
那德纳第夫妇是什么东西呢？
我们现在简单地谈谈。将来再补充描绘他们的轮廓。
这些人属于那种爬上去了的粗鄙人和失败了的聪明人所组成的混杂阶级，这种混杂阶级处于所谓中等阶级和所谓下层阶级之间，下层阶级的某些弱点和中等阶级的绝大部分恶习它都兼而有之，既没有工人的那种大公无私的热情，也没有资产阶级的那种诚实的信条。
这些小人，一旦受到恶毒的煽动就很容易变成凶恶的力量。那妇人就具有做恶婆的本质，那男子也是个无赖的材料。他们俩都有那种向罪恶方面猛烈发展的极大可能性。世上有一种人就象虾似的不断退向黑暗，他们一生中只后退，不前进，并且利用经验，增加他们的丑恶，不停地日益败坏下去，心地也日益狠毒起来。这一对男女，便是那种东西。
尤其是那德纳第汉子，他可以使观察他的人感到局促不安。我们对某些人只须望一眼便起戒惧之心，我们觉得他们在两方面都是阴森森的，在人后，他们惶惶终日，在人前，他们声势凶狠。他们的心，从不告人。我们无从知道他们曾干过什么，也无从知道他们将干些什么。他们目光中的那种遮遮掩掩的神情才会把他们揭露出来。我们只须观察他们的一言一行便可想见他们过去生活中一些见不得人的隐事和未来生活中一些阴谋鬼计。
这个德纳第，如果我们相信他自己说的话，是当过兵的；据他自己说，他当过中士；他大致参加过一八一五年的那次战役①，据说还表现得相当勇敢。将来我们就会知道他究竟是怎样的一个人。在他酒店的招牌上描绘了他在作战中的一次亲身经历。那是他自己画的，因为他什么都会干一点，但都干不好。 
①指滑铁卢战役。
当时的古典主义旧小说，在《克雷荔》以后就只有《洛多伊斯卡》，那些书都还高尚，但越往后越庸俗，从斯居德黎小姐降至布隆－麻拉姆夫人，从拉法耶特夫人降至巴德勒米－哈陀夫人，那一类小说都把巴黎那些看门女人的情火点燃了，甚至连累郊区。德纳弟妈妈恰有足够的聪明能读那一类书籍。她寝馈其中，把自己微弱的脑力沉浸在那里，因此，在她很年轻时，甚至在年龄稍大时，她在她丈夫身旁总显得心事重重似的。她丈夫是一个深沉的滑头，不务正业，略通文法，既粗鄙又精明，在言情小说方面他爱读比戈－勒白朗的作品，“在性的问题上”（这是他的口头禅），他却是个正经的鲁男子，从不乱来。他妻子的年龄比他小十二到十五岁。后来，当浪漫的堕马髻渐成白发，佳人转为丑妇，德纳第太太便成为一个肥胖、恶劣、尝过一些下流小说滋味的妇人了。读坏书的人总免不了坏影响。结果，她的大女儿叫做爱潘妮。至于小女儿，那可怜的孩子，几乎叫做菊纳尔，幸而狄克莱－狄弥尼尔的一部小说，倒莫名其妙的救了她，她只叫做阿兹玛。
此外，我们还顺便提一下，我们现在谈到的那个怪时代，在替孩子们取小名方面固然混乱，但也不见得事事都浅薄可笑。在我们刚才指出的那种浪漫因素以外，也还有一种社会影响。目前，平民的孩子叫做阿瑟、亚福莱或阿尔封斯，子爵（假使还有子爵的话）叫做托马、皮埃尔或雅克，那都不是什么稀罕的事。“高雅”的名字移到平民身上，村野的名字移到贵人身上，那样的交流只能说是平等思想激荡的后果。新思潮深入一切，无可阻挡，孩子命名的情形，便是一例。在这种混乱现象的后面存在一种伟大深刻的东西，那就是法兰西革命。
Part 1 Book 4 Chapter 3 The Lark
It is not all in all sufficient to be wicked in order to prosper. The cook-shop was in a bad way.
Thanks to the traveller's fifty-seven francs, Thenardier had been able to avoid a protest and to honor his signature. On the following month they were again in need of money. The woman took Cosette's outfit to Paris, and pawned it at the pawnbroker's for sixty francs. As soon as that sum was spent, the Thenardiers grew accustomed to look on the little girl merely as a child whom they were caring for out of charity; and they treated her accordingly. As she had no longer any clothes, they dressed her in the cast-off petticoats and chemises of the Thenardier brats; that is to say, in rags. They fed her on what all the rest had left--a little better than the dog, a little worse than the cat. Moreover, the cat and the dog were her habitual table-companions; Cosette ate with them under the table, from a wooden bowl similar to theirs.
The mother, who had established herself, as we shall see later on, at M. sur M., wrote, or, more correctly, caused to be written, a letter every month, that she might have news of her child. The Thenardiers replied invariably, "Cosette is doing wonderfully well."
At the expiration of the first six months the mother sent seven francs for the seventh month, and continued her remittances with tolerable regularity from month to month. The year was not completed when Thenardier said: "A fine favor she is doing us, in sooth! What does she expect us to do with her seven francs?" and he wrote to demand twelve francs. The mother, whom they had persuaded into the belief that her child was happy, "and was coming on well," submitted, and forwarded the twelve francs.
Certain natures cannot love on the one hand without hating on the other. Mother Thenardier loved her two daughters passionately, which caused her to hate the stranger.
It is sad to think that the love of a mother can possess villainous aspects. Little as was the space occupied by Cosette, it seemed to her as though it were taken from her own, and that that little child diminished the air which her daughters breathed. This woman, like many women of her sort, had a load of caresses and a burden of blows and injuries to dispense each day. If she had not had Cosette, it is certain that her daughters, idolized as they were, would have received the whole of it; but the stranger did them the service to divert the blows to herself. Her daughters received nothing but caresses. Cosette could not make a motion which did not draw down upon her head a heavy shower of violent blows and unmerited chastisement. The sweet, feeble being, who should not have understood anything of this world or of God, incessantly punished, scolded, ill-used, beaten, and seeing beside her two little creatures like herself, who lived in a ray of dawn!
Madame Thenardier was vicious with Cosette. Eponine and Azelma were vicious. Children at that age are only copies of their mother. The size is smaller; that is all.
A year passed; then another.
People in the village said:--
"Those Thenardiers are good people. They are not rich, and yet they are bringing up a poor child who was abandoned on their hands!"
They thought that Cosette's mother had forgotten her.
In the meanwhile, Thenardier, having learned, it is impossible to say by what obscure means, that the child was probably a bastard, and that the mother could not acknowledge it, exacted fifteen francs a month, saying that "the creature" was growing and "eating," and threatening to send her away. "Let her not bother me," he exclaimed, "or I'll fire her brat right into the middle of her secrets. I must have an increase." The mother paid the fifteen francs.
From year to year the child grew, and so did her wretchedness.
As long as Cosette was little, she was the scape-goat of the two other children; as soon as she began to develop a little, that is to say, before she was even five years old, she became the servant of the household.
Five years old! the reader will say; that is not probable. Alas! it is true. Social suffering begins at all ages. Have we not recently seen the trial of a man named Dumollard, an orphan turned bandit, who, from the age of five, as the official documents state, being alone in the world, "worked for his living and stole"?
Cosette was made to run on errands, to sweep the rooms, the courtyard, the street, to wash the dishes, to even carry burdens. The Thenardiers considered themselves all the more authorized to behave in this manner, since the mother, who was still at M. sur M., had become irregular in her payments. Some months she was in arrears.
If this mother had returned to Montfermeil at the end of these three years, she would not have recognized her child. Cosette, so pretty and rosy on her arrival in that house, was now thin and pale. She had an indescribably uneasy look. "The sly creature," said the Thenardiers.
Injustice had made her peevish, and misery had made her ugly. Nothing remained to her except her beautiful eyes, which inspired pain, because, large as they were, it seemed as though one beheld in them a still larger amount of sadness.
It was a heart-breaking thing to see this poor child, not yet six years old, shivering in the winter in her old rags of linen, full of holes, sweeping the street before daylight, with an enormous broom in her tiny red hands, and a tear in her great eyes.
She was called the Lark in the neighborhood. The populace, who are fond of these figures of speech, had taken a fancy to bestow this name on this trembling, frightened, and shivering little creature, no bigger than a bird, who was awake every morning before any one else in the house or the village, and was always in the street or the fields before daybreak.
Only the little lark never sang.
一味狠毒，不能发达。那客店的光景并不好。
幸而有那女客的五十七个法郎，德纳第得免于官厅的追究，他出的期票也保持了信用。下一个月他仍旧缺钱，那妇人便把珂赛特的衣服饰物带到巴黎，向当店押了六十法郎。那笔款子用完以后，德纳第夫妇便立刻认为他们带那孩子是在救济别人，因此那孩子在他家里经常受到被救济者的待遇。她的衣服被典光以后，他们便叫她穿德纳第家小姑娘的旧裙和旧衫，就是说，破裙和破衫。他们把大家吃剩的东西给她吃，她吃得比狗好一些，比猫又差一些，并且猫和狗还经常是她的同餐者；珂赛特用一只木盆，和猫狗的木盆一样，和猫狗一同在桌子底下吃。
她的母亲在滨海蒙特勒伊住下来了，我们以后还会谈到的，她每月写信，应当说，她每月请人写信探问她孩子的消息。
德纳第夫妇千篇一律地回复说：“珂赛特安好异常。”
最初六个月满了以后，她母亲把第七个月的七个法郎寄去，并且月月都按期寄去，相当准时。一年还不到，德纳第汉子便说：“她给了我们多大的面子！她要我们拿她这七个法郎干什么？”于是他写信硬要十二法郎。他们向这位母亲说她的孩子快乐平安，母亲曲意迁就，照寄了十二法郎。
某些人不能只爱一面而不恨其他一面。德纳第婆子酷爱她自己的两个女儿，因而也厌恶那外来的孩子。一个慈母的爱会有它丑恶的一面，想来真使人失望。珂赛特在她家里尽管只占一点点地方，她仍觉得她夺了她家里人的享受，仿佛那孩子把她两个小女儿呼吸的空气也减少了一样。那妇人，和许多和她同一类型的妇人一样，每天都有一定数量的抚爱和一定数量的打骂要发泄。假使她没有珂赛特，她那两个女儿，尽管百般宠爱，一定也还是要受尽她的打骂的。但是那个外来的女孩做了她们的替身，代受了打骂。她自己的两个女儿却只消受她的爱抚。珂赛特的一举一动都会受到一阵冰雹似的殴打，凶横无理之极。一个柔和、幼弱、还一点也不了解人生和上帝是什么的孩子，却无时不受惩罚、辱骂、虐待、殴打，还得瞧着那两个和她一样的女孩儿享受她们孩提时期的幸福！
德纳第婆子既狠心，爱潘妮和阿兹玛便也狠心。孩子们，在那种小小年纪总是母亲的再版。版本的大小有所不同而已。
一年过了，又是一年。
那村子里的人说：
“德纳第一家子都是好人。他们并不宽裕，却还抚养人家丢在他们家里的一个穷孩子！”
大家都认为珂赛特已被她的母亲忘记了。
同时，那德纳第汉子不知从什么密报中探听到那孩子大致是私生的，母亲不便承认，于是他硬敲每月十五法郎，说那“畜生”长大了，“要东西吃”，并且以送还孩子来要挟。“她敢不听我的话！”他吼道，“我也不管她瞒人不瞒人，把孩子送还给她就是。非加我的钱不行。”那母亲照寄十五法郎。
年复一年，孩子长大了，她的苦难也增加了。
珂赛特在极小时，一向是代那两个孩子受罪的替身；当她的身体刚长大一点，就是说连五岁还没有到的时候，她又成了这家人的仆人。
五岁，也许有人说，那不见得确有其事吧。唉！确有其事。人类社会的痛苦的起始是不限年齿的。最近我们不是见过杜美拉的案子，一个孤儿，当了土匪，据官厅的文件说，他从五岁起，便独自一人在世上“作工餬口，从事盗窃”吗？
他们叫珂赛特办杂事，打扫房间、院子、街道，洗杯盘碗盏，甚至搬运重东西。她的母亲一向住在滨海蒙特勒伊，德纳第夫妇见到她近来寄钱没有从前那样准时了，便更加觉得有理由那样对待孩子。有几个月没有寄钱来了。
假使那母亲在那第三年的年末来到孟费郿，她一定会不认识她的孩子了。珂赛特，当她到这一家的时候，是那样美丽，那样红润，现在是又黄又瘦。她的举动，也不知道为什么会那样缩手缩脚。德纳第夫妇老说她“鬼头鬼脑”！
待遇的不平使她性躁，生活的艰苦使她变丑。她只还保有那双秀丽的眼睛，使人见了格外难受，因为她的眼睛是那么大，看去就仿佛那里的愁苦也格外多。
冬天，看见这个还不到六岁的可怜的孩子衣衫褴褛，在寒气中战栗，天还没亮，便拿着一把大扫帚，用她的小红手紧紧握着它打扫街道，一滴泪珠挂在她那双大眼睛的边上，好不叫人痛心。
在那里，大家叫她百灵鸟。那小妞儿原不比小鸟大多少，并且老是哆哆嗦嗦，凡事都使她惊慌，战栗，每天早晨在那一家和那一村里老是第一个醒来，不到天亮，便已到了街上或田里，一般爱用比喻的人便替她取了这个名字。
不过这只百灵鸟从来不歌唱。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 1 The History of a Progress in Black Glass Trinkets
And in the meantime, what had become of that mother who according to the people at Montfermeil, seemed to have abandoned her child? Where was she? What was she doing?
After leaving her little Cosette with the Thenardiers, she had continued her journey, and had reached M. sur M.
This, it will be remembered, was in 1818.
Fantine had quitted her province ten years before. M. sur M. Had changed its aspect. While Fantine had been slowly descending from wretchedness to wretchedness, her native town had prospered.
About two years previously one of those industrial facts which are the grand events of small districts had taken place.
This detail is important, and we regard it as useful to develop it at length; we should almost say, to underline it.
From time immemorial, M. sur M. had had for its special industry the imitation of English jet and the black glass trinkets of Germany. This industry had always vegetated, on account of the high price of the raw material, which reacted on the manufacture. At the moment when Fantine returned to M. sur M., an unheard-of transformation had taken place in the production of "black goods." Towards the close of 1815 a man, a stranger, had established himself in the town, and had been inspired with the idea of substituting, in this manufacture, gum-lac for resin, and, for bracelets in particular, slides of sheet-iron simply laid together, for slides of soldered sheet-iron.
This very small change had effected a revolution.
This very small change had, in fact, prodigiously reduced the cost of the raw material, which had rendered it possible in the first place, to raise the price of manufacture, a benefit to the country; in the second place, to improve the workmanship, an advantage to the consumer; in the third place, to sell at a lower price, while trebling the profit, which was a benefit to the manufacturer.
Thus three results ensued from one idea.
In less than three years the inventor of this process had become rich, which is good, and had made every one about him rich, which is better. He was a stranger in the Department. Of his origin, nothing was known; of the beginning of his career, very little. It was rumored that he had come to town with very little money, a few hundred francs at the most.
It was from this slender capital, enlisted in the service of an ingenious idea, developed by method and thought, that he had drawn his own fortune, and the fortune of the whole countryside.
On his arrival at M. sur M. he had only the garments, the appearance, and the language of a workingman.
It appears that on the very day when he made his obscure entry into the little town of M. sur M., just at nightfall, on a December evening, knapsack on back and thorn club in hand, a large fire had broken out in the town-hall. This man had rushed into the flames and saved, at the risk of his own life, two children who belonged to the captain of the gendarmerie; this is why they had forgotten to ask him for his passport. Afterwards they had learned his name. He was called Father Madeleine.
①这是一种以玻璃原料制造假玉、假钻石、假珍珠及其他女用饰品的工厂。
成什么样了？她在什么地方？干什么事呢？
把她的小珂赛特交给德纳第夫妇以后，她继续赶路，到了滨海蒙特勒伊。
我们记得，那是一八一八年。
芳汀离开她的故乡已有十年光景。滨海蒙特勒伊的情形早已变了。正当芳汀从一次苦难陷入另一次苦难时，她的故乡却兴盛起来了。
两年以来，一种轻工业在那里发展起来了，那是小地方的大事情。
这些细节关系很大，我们认为值得把它叙述出来。我们几乎要说，把它当作重点叙述出来。
从一个不可考的时代起，滨海蒙特勒伊就有一种仿造英国黑玉和德国烧料的特别工业。那种工业素来不发达，因为原料贵，影响到工资。正当芳汀回到滨海蒙特勒伊时，那种“烧料细工品”的生产已经进行了一种空前的改革。一八一五年年底有一个人，一个大家不认识的人，来住在这城里，他想到在制造中用漆胶代替松胶，特别在手镯方面，他在做底圈时，采用只把两头靠拢的方法代替那种两头连接焊死的方法。这一点极小的改革就起了很大的作用。
那一点极小的改革确实大大降低了原料的成本，因此，首先工资可以增高，一乡都得到了实惠；第二，制造有了改进，消费者得了好处；第三，售价可以降低，利润加了三信，厂主也得到利润。
因此，从一个办法得出三种结果。
不到三年功夫，发明这方法的人成了大富翁，那当然很好，更大的好处是他四周的人也发了财。他不是本省的人。关于他的籍贯，大众全不知道，他的往事，知道的人也不多。
据说他来到这城里时只有很少的钱，至多不过几百法郎。
他利用这一点微薄的资本来实现他精心研究出来的那种巧妙方法，他自己获得了实惠，全乡也获得了实惠。
他初到滨海蒙特勒伊时，他的服装、举动和谈吐都象一个工人。
好象在一个十二月的黄昏，他背上背个口装，手里拿根带刺的棍，摸进这滨海蒙特勒伊小城时，正遇到区公所失火。他曾跳到火里，不顾生命危险，救出两个小孩，那两个小孩恰是警察队长的儿子，因此大家都没有想到验他的护照。从那一天起，大家都知道了他的名字，他叫马德兰伯伯。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 2 Madeleine
He was a man about fifty years of age, who had a preoccupied air, and who was good. That was all that could be said about him.
Thanks to the rapid progress of the industry which he had so admirably re-constructed, M. sur M. had become a rather important centre of trade. Spain, which consumes a good deal of black jet, made enormous purchases there each year. M. sur M. almost rivalled London and Berlin in this branch of commerce. Father Madeleine's profits were such, that at the end of the second year he was able to erect a large factory, in which there were two vast workrooms, one for the men, and the other for women. Any one who was hungry could present himself there, and was sure of finding employment and bread. Father Madeleine required of the men good will, of the women pure morals, and of all, probity. He had separated the work-rooms in order to separate the sexes, and so that the women and girls might remain discreet. On this point he was inflexible. It was the only thing in which he was in a manner intolerant. He was all the more firmly set on this severity, since M. sur M., being a garrison town, opportunities for corruption abounded. However, his coming had been a boon, and his presence was a godsend. Before Father Madeleine's arrival, everything had languished in the country; now everything lived with a healthy life of toil. A strong circulation warmed everything and penetrated everywhere. Slack seasons and wretchedness were unknown. There was no pocket so obscure that it had not a little money in it; no dwelling so lowly that there was not some little joy within it.
Father Madeleine gave employment to every one. He exacted but one thing: Be an honest man. Be an honest woman.
As we have said, in the midst of this activity of which he was the cause and the pivot, Father Madeleine made his fortune; but a singular thing in a simple man of business, it did not seem as though that were his chief care. He appeared to be thinking much of others, and little of himself. In 1820 he was known to have a sum of six hundred and thirty thousand francs lodged in his name with Laffitte; but before reserving these six hundred and thirty thousand francs, he had spent more than a million for the town and its poor.
The hospital was badly endowed; he founded six beds there. M. Sur M. is divided into the upper and the lower town. The lower town, in which he lived, had but one school, a miserable hovel, which was falling to ruin: he constructed two, one for girls, the other for boys. He allotted a salary from his own funds to the two instructors, a salary twice as large as their meagre official salary, and one day he said to some one who expressed surprise, "The two prime functionaries of the state are the nurse and the schoolmaster." He created at his own expense an infant school, a thing then almost unknown in France, and a fund for aiding old and infirm workmen. As his factory was a centre, a new quarter, in which there were a good many indigent families, rose rapidly around him; he established there a free dispensary.
At first, when they watched his beginnings, the good souls said, "He's a jolly fellow who means to get rich." When they saw him enriching the country before he enriched himself, the good souls said, "He is an ambitious man." This seemed all the more probable since the man was religious, and even practised his religion to a certain degree, a thing which was very favorably viewed at that epoch. He went regularly to low mass every Sunday. The local deputy, who nosed out all rivalry everywhere, soon began to grow uneasy over this religion. This deputy had been a member of the legislative body of the Empire, and shared the religious ideas of a father of the Oratoire, known under the name of Fouche, Duc d'Otrante, whose creature and friend he had been. He indulged in gentle raillery at God with closed doors. But when he beheld the wealthy manufacturer Madeleine going to low mass at seven o'clock, he perceived in him a possible candidate, and resolved to outdo him; he took a Jesuit confessor, and went to high mass and to vespers. Ambition was at that time, in the direct acceptation of the word, a race to the steeple. The poor profited by this terror as well as the good God, for the honorable deputy also founded two beds in the hospital, which made twelve.
Nevertheless, in 1819 a rumor one morning circulated through the town to the effect that, on the representations of the prefect and in consideration of the services rendered by him to the country, Father Madeleine was to be appointed by the King, mayor of M. Sur M. Those who had pronounced this new-comer to be "an ambitious fellow," seized with delight on this opportunity which all men desire, to exclaim, "There! what did we say!" All M. sur M. was in an uproar. The rumor was well founded. Several days later the appointment appeared in the Moniteur. On the following day Father Madeleine refused.
In this same year of 1819 the products of the new process invented by Madeleine figured in the industrial exhibition; when the jury made their report, the King appointed the inventor a chevalier of the Legion of Honor. A fresh excitement in the little town. Well, so it was the cross that he wanted! Father Madeleine refused the cross.
Decidedly this man was an enigma. The good souls got out of their predicament by saying, "After all, he is some sort of an adventurer."
We have seen that the country owed much to him; the poor owed him everything; he was so useful and he was so gentle that people had been obliged to honor and respect him. His workmen, in particular, adored him, and he endured this adoration with a sort of melancholy gravity. When he was known to be rich, "people in society" bowed to him, and he received invitations in the town; he was called, in town, Monsieur Madeleine; his workmen and the children continued to call him Father Madeleine, and that was what was most adapted to make him smile. In proportion as he mounted, throve, invitations rained down upon him. "Society" claimed him for its own. The prim little drawing-rooms on M. sur M., which, of course, had at first been closed to the artisan, opened both leaves of their folding-doors to the millionnaire. They made a thousand advances to him. He refused.
This time the good gossips had no trouble. "He is an ignorant man, of no education. No one knows where he came from. He would not know how to behave in society. It has not been absolutely proved that he knows how to read."
When they saw him making money, they said, "He is a man of business." When they saw him scattering his money about, they said, "He is an ambitious man." When he was seen to decline honors, they said, "He is an adventurer." When they saw him repulse society, they said, "He is a brute."
In 1820, five years after his arrival in M. sur M., the services which he had rendered to the district were so dazzling, the opinion of the whole country round about was so unanimous, that the King again appointed him mayor of the town. He again declined; but the prefect resisted his refusal, all the notabilities of the place came to implore him, the people in the street besought him; the urging was so vigorous that he ended by accepting. It was noticed that the thing which seemed chiefly to bring him to a decision was the almost irritated apostrophe addressed to him by an old woman of the people, who called to him from her threshold, in an angry way: "A good mayor is a useful thing. Is he drawing back before the good which he can do?"
This was the third phase of his ascent. Father Madeleine had become Monsieur Madeleine. Monsieur Madeleine became Monsieur le Maire.
他是个五十左右的人，神色忧虑而性情和好。我们能说的只是这一点。
由于那种工业经过他的巧妙改造，获得了迅速的发展，滨海蒙特勒伊便成了一个重要的企业中心。销售大量烧料细工品的西班牙每年都到这里来定购大宗产品。滨海蒙特勒伊在这种贸易上几乎和伦敦、柏林处于竞争地位。马德兰伯伯获得了大宗利润，因而能在第二年建造一幢高大的厂房，厂里分两个大车间，一个男车间，一个女车间。任何一个无衣食的人都可以到那里去报名，准有工作和面包。马德兰伯伯要求男工应有毅力，女工应有好作风，无论男女都应当贞洁。他把男女工人分在两个车间，目的是要让姑娘们和妇女们都能安心工作。在这一点上他的态度是一点不动摇的。这是他唯一无可通融的地方。正因为滨海蒙特勒伊是一个驻扎军队的城市，腐化堕落的机会多，他有足够的理由提出这种要求。况且他的来到是件好事，他的出现也是种天意。在马德兰伯伯来到这里以前，地方上的各种事业都是萧条的，现在呢，大家都靠健康的劳动生活。欣欣向荣的气象广被一乡，渗透一切。失业和苦难都已消灭。在这一乡已没有一个空到一文钱也没有的衣袋，也没有一个苦到一点欢乐也没有的人家。
马德兰伯伯雇用所有的人，他只坚持一点：做诚实的男子！做诚实的姑娘！
我们已经说过，马德兰伯伯是这种活动的动力和中枢，他在这一活动中获得他的财富，但是，这仿佛不是他的主要目的，一个简单的商人能这样，是件相当奇特的事。仿佛他为别人想的地方多，为自己想的地方少。一八二○年，大家知道他有一笔六十三万法郎的款子用他个人名义存放在拉菲特①银行里；但是在他为自己留下这六十三万法郎以前，他已为这座城市和穷人用去了一百多万。 
①拉菲特（Laffitte，1767-1844），法国大银行家和政治活动家，奥尔良党人，金融资产阶级代表，政府首脑（1830?831）。他所开设的银行叫拉菲特银行。
医院的经费原是不充裕的，他在那里设了十个床位。滨海蒙特勒伊分上下两城，他住的下城只有一个小学校，校舍已经破败，他起造了两幢，一幢为男孩，一幢为女孩。他拿出自己的钱，津贴两个教员，这项津贴竟比他们微薄的薪金多出两倍；一天，他对一个对这件事表示惊讶的人说：“政府最重要的两种公务员，便是乳母和小学教师。”他又用自己的钱创设了一所贫儿院，这种措施当时在法国还几乎是创举，他又为年老和残废的工人创办了救济金。他的工厂成了一个中心，在厂址附近原有许多一贫如洗的人家，到后来，在那一带却出现了一个崭新的区域。他在那里开设了一所免费药房。
最初，他开始那样做时，有些头脑单纯的人都说：“这是个财迷。”过后，别人看见他在替自己找钱以前却先繁荣地方，那几个头脑单纯的人又说：“这是个野心家。”那种看法好象很对头，因为他信宗教，并且在一定程度上还遵守教规，这在当时是很受人尊敬的。每逢礼拜日，他必按时去参加一次普通弥撒。当地的那位议员，平日一向随时随地留意是否有人和他竞争，因而他立刻对那种宗教信仰起了戒心。那议员在帝国时代当过立法院的成员，他的宗教思想，和一个叫富歇①的经堂神甫（奥特朗托公爵）的思想是一样的。他是那神甫提拔的人，也是他的朋友。他常在人后偷偷嘲笑上帝。但是当他看见这位有钱的工厂主马德兰去做七点钟的普通弥撒时，就仿佛见了一个可能做议员候选人的人，便下定决心要赛过他，于是他供奉一个耶稣会教士做他的忏悔教士，还去做大弥撒和晚祷。野心在当时完全是一种钟楼赛跑②。穷人和慈悲的上帝都受到他们那种恐慌的实惠，因为那位光荣的议员也设了两个床位，一共成了十二个。 
①富歇（Fouché，1759-1820），国民公会代表，曾参与颠覆罗伯斯庇尔，继又帮助拿破仑政变，任帝国政府的警务大臣，受封为公爵。拿破仑失败后投降复辟王朝。
②钟楼赛跑是一种以钟楼为目标的越野赛跑。
但是在一八一九年的一天早晨，城里忽然有人说马德兰伯伯由于省长先生的保荐和他在地方上所起的积极作用，不久就会由国王任命为滨海蒙特勒伊市长了。从前说过这新来的人是“野心家”的那些人听到这个符合大家愿望的消息时，也抓住机会，得意洋洋地喊道：“是吧！我们曾说过什么的吧？”整个滨海蒙特勒伊都轰动了。这消息原来是真的。几天过后，委任令在《通报》上刊出来了。第二天，马德兰伯伯推辞不受。
还是在这一八一九年，用马德兰发明的方法制造出来的产品在工业展览会里陈列出来了，通过评奖委员的报告，国王以荣誉勋章授予这位发明家。在那小城里又有过一番新的轰动。“呵！他要的原来是十字勋章！”马德兰伯伯又推辞了十字勋章。
这人真是个谜。头脑单纯的人，无可奈何，只得说：“总而言之，这是个想往上爬的家伙。”
我们把这人看清楚了，地方受到他许多好处，穷人更是完全依靠他；他是一个那样有用的人，结果大家非尊敬他不可；他又是一个那样和蔼可亲的人，结果大家非爱他不可；尤其是他的那些工人特别爱他，他却用一种郁郁寡欢的庄重态度接受那种敬爱。当他被证实是富翁时，一般“社会贤达”都向他致敬，在城里，大家还称他为马德兰先生，他的那些工人和一般孩子却仍叫他马德兰伯伯，那是一件使他最高兴的事。他的地位越来越高，请帖也就雨一般地落在他的头上了。“社会”要他。滨海蒙特勒伊的那些装腔作势的小客厅的门，当初在他还是个手艺工人时，当然是对他关着的，现在对这位百万富翁，却大开特开了。他们千方百计地笼络他。但他却不为所动。
但这样仍堵不住那些头脑单纯的人的嘴。“那是个无知识的人，一个没受过高尚教育的人。大家都还不知道他是从什么地方钻出来的呢。他不知道在交际场中应当怎么办。他究竟识字不识字，也还没有证明。”
当初别人看见他赚了钱，就说他是“商人”；看见他施舍他的钱，又说他是“野心家”；看见他推谢光荣，说他是个“投机的家伙”；现在，他谢绝社交，大家说：“那是个莽汉。”
一八二○年，是他到滨海蒙特勒伊的第五年，他在那地方所起的积极作用是那样显著，当地人民的期望是那样一致，以致国王又派他做那地方的市长。他仍旧推辞，但是省长不许他推辞，所有的重要人物也都来劝驾，人民群集街头向他请愿，敦促的情况太热烈了，他只好接受。有人注意到当时使他作出决定的最大力量，是人民中一个老妇人所说的一句气愤话。她当时立在他门口，几乎怒不可遏，对他喊道：“一个好市长，就是一个有用的人。在能办好事时难道可以退却吗？”
这是他上升的第三阶段。马德兰伯伯早已变成马德兰先生。马德兰先生现在又成为市长先生了。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 3 Sums deposited with Laffitte
On the other hand, he remained as simple as on the first day. He had gray hair, a serious eye, the sunburned complexion of a laborer, the thoughtful visage of a philosopher. He habitually wore a hat with a wide brim, and a long coat of coarse cloth, buttoned to the chin. He fulfilled his duties as mayor; but, with that exception, he lived in solitude. He spoke to but few people. He avoided polite attentions; he escaped quickly; he smiled to relieve himself of the necessity of talking; he gave, in order to get rid of the necessity for smiling, The women said of him, "What a good-natured bear!" His pleasure consisted in strolling in the fields.
He always took his meals alone, with an open book before him, which he read. He had a well-selected little library. He loved books; books are cold but safe friends. In proportion as leisure came to him with fortune, he seemed to take advantage of it to cultivate his mind. It had been observed that, ever since his arrival at M. sur M.. his language had grown more polished, more choice, and more gentle with every passing year. He liked to carry a gun with him on his strolls, but he rarely made use of it. When he did happen to do so, his shooting was something so infallible as to inspire terror. He never killed an inoffensive animal. He never shot at a little bird.
Although he was no longer young, it was thought that he was still prodigiously strong. He offered his assistance to any one who was in need of it, lifted a horse, released a wheel clogged in the mud, or stopped a runaway bull by the horns. He always had his pockets full of money when he went out; but they were empty on his return. When he passed through a village, the ragged brats ran joyously after him, and surrounded him like a swarm of gnats.
It was thought that he must, in the past, have lived a country life, since he knew all sorts of useful secrets, which he taught to the peasants. He taught them how to destroy scurf on wheat, by sprinkling it and the granary and inundating the cracks in the floor with a solution of common salt; and how to chase away weevils by hanging up orviot in bloom everywhere, on the walls and the ceilings, among the grass and in the houses.
He had "recipes" for exterminating from a field, blight, tares, foxtail, and all parasitic growths which destroy the wheat. He defended a rabbit warren against rats, simply by the odor of a guinea-pig which he placed in it.
One day he saw some country people busily engaged in pulling up nettles; he examined the plants, which were uprooted and already dried, and said: "They are dead. Nevertheless, it would be a good thing to know how to make use of them. When the nettle is young, the leaf makes an excellent vegetable; when it is older, it has filaments and fibres like hemp and flax. Nettle cloth is as good as linen cloth. Chopped up, nettles are good for poultry; pounded, they are good for horned cattle. The seed of the nettle, mixed with fodder, gives gloss to the hair of animals; the root, mixed with salt, produces a beautiful yellow coloring-matter. Moreover, it is an excellent hay, which can be cut twice. And what is required for the nettle? A little soil, no care, no culture. Only the seed falls as it is ripe, and it is difficult to collect it. That is all. With the exercise of a little care, the nettle could be made useful; it is neglected and it becomes hurtful. It is exterminated. How many men resemble the nettle!" He added, after a pause: "Remember this, my friends: there are no such things as bad plants or bad men. There are only bad cultivators."
The children loved him because he knew how to make charming little trifles of straw and cocoanuts.
When he saw the door of a church hung in black, he entered: he sought out funerals as other men seek christenings. Widowhood and the grief of others attracted him, because of his great gentleness; he mingled with the friends clad in mourning, with families dressed in black, with the priests groaning around a coffin. He seemed to like to give to his thoughts for text these funereal psalmodies filled with the vision of the other world. With his eyes fixed on heaven, he listened with a sort of aspiration towards all the mysteries of the infinite, those sad voices which sing on the verge of the obscure abyss of death.
He performed a multitude of good actions, concealing his agency in them as a man conceals himself because of evil actions. He penetrated houses privately, at night; he ascended staircases furtively. A poor wretch on returning to his attic would find that his door had been opened, sometimes even forced, during his absence. The poor man made a clamor over it: some malefactor had been there! He entered, and the first thing he beheld was a piece of gold lying forgotten on some piece of furniture. The "malefactor" who had been there was Father Madeleine.
He was affable and sad. The people said: "There is a rich man who has not a haughty air. There is a happy man who has not a contented air."
Some people maintained that he was a mysterious person, and that no one ever entered his chamber, which was a regular anchorite's cell, furnished with winged hour-glasses and enlivened by cross-bones and skulls of dead men! This was much talked of, so that one of the elegant and malicious young women of M. sur M. came to him one day, and asked: "Monsieur le Maire, pray show us your chamber. It is said to be a grotto." He smiled, and introduced them instantly into this "grotto." They were well punished for their curiosity. The room was very simply furnished in mahogany, which was rather ugly, like all furniture of that sort, and hung with paper worth twelve sous. They could see nothing remarkable about it, except two candlesticks of antique pattern which stood on the chimney-piece and appeared to be silver, "for they were hall-marked," an observation full of the type of wit of petty towns.
Nevertheless, people continued to say that no one ever got into the room, and that it was a hermit's cave, a mysterious retreat, a hole, a tomb.
It was also whispered about that he had "immense" sums deposited with Laffitte, with this peculiar feature, that they were always at his immediate disposal, so that, it was added, M. Madeleine could make his appearance at Laffitte's any morning, sign a receipt, and carry off his two or three millions in ten minutes. In reality, "these two or three millions" were reducible, as we have said, to six hundred and thirty or forty thousand francs.
可是，他的生活还是和当初一样朴素。他有灰白头发，严肃的目光，面色焦黑，象个工人，精神沉郁，象个哲学家。他经常戴一顶宽边帽，穿一身粗呢长礼服，一直扣到颔下。他执行他的市长职务，下班以后便闭门深居。他经常只和少数几个人谈话，他逃避寒喧，遇见人，从侧面行个礼便连忙趋避；他用微笑来避免交谈，用布施来避免微笑。妇人们都说他是“一只多么乖的熊①！”他的消遣方法便是到田野里去散步。 
①法国人说“熊”，是指性情孤僻的人。
他老是一个人吃饭，面前摊开一本书，从事阅读。他有一个精致的小书柜。他爱书籍，书籍是一种冷静可靠的朋友。他有了钱，闲空时间也随着增加了，他好象是利用这些时间来提高自己的修养。自从他来到滨海蒙特勒伊以后，大家觉得他的谈吐一年比一年来得更谦恭、更考究、更文雅了。
他散步时喜欢带一枝长枪，但不常用。偶开一枪，却从无虚发，使人惊叹。他从不打死一只无害的野兽，他从不射击一只小鸟。
他虽已上了年纪，不过据说体力仍是不可思议。他常在必要时予人一臂之助，扶起一匹马，推动一个陷在泥坑里的车轮，握着两只角去拦阻一头逃跑的牡牛。出门时，他的衣袋中总是装满了钱，到回来，又都空了。他从一个村庄经过时，那些衣服破烂的孩子们都欢天喜地跑到他身边，就象一群小飞虫似的围着他。
大家猜想他从前大约过过田野生活，因为他有各种有用的秘诀教给那些农民。他告诉他们用普通盐水喷洒仓屋并冲洗地板缝，就可以消灭蛀麦子的飞娥，在墙上、屋顶上、合壁里、屋子里，处处挂上开着花的奥维奥草，就可以驱除米蛀虫。他有许多方法剔除所有一切寄生在田里伤害麦子的草，如野鸠豆草、黑穗草、鸠豆草、山涧草、狐尾草等。他在兔子窝里放一只巴巴利①小猪，它的臭味就可使耗子不敢来伤害兔子。 
①巴巴利（Baibarie），非洲北部一带的统称。
一天，他看见村里有许多人正忙着拔除荨麻。他望着一堆已经拔出并且枯萎了的荨麻说道：“死了。假使我们知道利用它，这却是一种好东西。荨麻在嫩时，叶子是一种非常好吃的蔬菜。老荨麻也有一种和亚麻或苎麻一样的纤维和经络。荨麻布并不比苎麻布差些。荨麻斩碎了可以喂鸡鸭。磨烂了也可以喂牛羊。荨麻子拌在刍秣里能使动物的毛光润，根拌在盐里可制成一种悦目的黄色颜料。不管怎样，这总是一种可以收割两次的草料。并且荨麻需要什么呢？一点点土，不需要照顾，不需要培养。不过它的籽，一面熟，一面落，不容易收获罢了。我们只须费一点点力，荨麻就成了有用的东西，我们不去管它，它就成了有害的东西了。于是我们铲除它。世上有多少人就和荨麻大同小异。”他沉默了一会，又接下去说：“我的朋友们，记牢这一点，世界上没有坏草，也没有坏人，只有坏的庄稼人。”
孩子们爱他，也还因为他知道用麦秸和椰子壳做成各种有趣的小玩意儿。
他一看见天主堂门口布置成黑色，总走进去。他探访丧礼，正如别人探访洗礼。由于他的性格非常温和，别人丧偶和其他不幸的事都是他所关心的。他常和居丧的朋友、守制的家庭、在柩旁叹息的神甫们混在一处。他仿佛乐于把自己的思想沉浸在那种满含乐土景色的诔歌里。眼睛仰望天空，仿佛在对无极中那些神秘发出心愿，他静听在死亡的深渊边唱出的那种酸楚的歌声。
他秘密地做了许多善事，正如别人秘密地干着坏事一样。晚上，他常乘人不备，走到别人家里，偷偷摸摸地爬上楼梯。一个穷鬼回到他破屋子里，发现他的房门已被人趁他不在时开过了，有时甚至是撬开的。那穷人连声喊道：“有个小偷来过了！”他走进去，他发现的第一件东西，便是丢在家具上的一枚金币。来过的那个“小偷”正是马德兰伯伯。
他为人和蔼而忧郁。一般平民常说：“这才是一个有钱而不骄傲的人，这才是一个幸福而不自满的人。”
有些人还认为他是一个神秘的人，他们硬说别人从来没有进过他的房间，因为他那房间是一间真正的隐修士的密室，里面放着一个有翅膀的沙漏，还装饰着两根交叉放着的死人的股骨和几个骷髅头。这种话传得很广，因而有一天，滨海蒙特勒伊的几个调皮的时髦青年女子来到他家里，向他提出要求：“市长先生，请您把您的房间给我们看看。人家说它是个石洞。”他微微笑了一下，立刻引她们到“石洞”去。她们大失所望。那仅仅是一间陈设着相当难看的桃花心木家具的房间，那种家具总是难看的，墙上裱着值十二个苏一张的纸。除开壁炉上两个旧烛台外，其余的东西都是不值她们一看的，那两个烛台好象是银的，“因为上面有官厅的戳记。”这是种小城市风味十足的见识。
往后，大家仍旧照样传说从没有人到过他那屋子，说那是一个隐士居住的岩穴，一种梦游的地方，一个土洞，一座坟。
大家还叽叽喳喳地说他有“大宗”款子存在拉菲特银行，并且还有这样一个特点，就是他随时都可以立刻提取那些存款，他们还补充说，马德兰先生可能会在一个早晨跑到拉菲特银行，签上一张收据，十分钟之内提走他的两三百万法郎。而实际上，我们已经说过，那“两三百万”已经渐渐减到六十三四万了。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 4 M. Madeleine in Mourning
At the beginning of 1820 the newspapers announced the death of M. Myriel, Bishop of D----, surnamed "Monseigneur Bienvenu," who had died in the odor of sanctity at the age of eighty-two.
The Bishop of D---- --to supply here a detail which the papers omitted-- had been blind for many years before his death, and content to be blind, as his sister was beside him.
Let us remark by the way, that to be blind and to be loved, is, in fact, one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness upon this earth, where nothing is complete. To have continually at one's side a woman, a daughter, a sister, a charming being, who is there because you need her and because she cannot do without you; to know that we are indispensable to a person who is necessary to us; to be able to incessantly measure one's affection by the amount of her presence which she bestows on us, and to say to ourselves, "Since she consecrates the whole of her time to me, it is because I possess the whole of her heart"; to behold her thought in lieu of her face; to be able to verify the fidelity of one being amid the eclipse of the world; to regard the rustle of a gown as the sound of wings; to hear her come and go, retire, speak, return, sing, and to think that one is the centre of these steps, of this speech; to manifest at each instant one's personal attraction; to feel one's self all the more powerful because of one's infirmity; to become in one's obscurity, and through one's obscurity, the star around which this angel gravitates,--few felicities equal this. The supreme happiness of life consists in the conviction that one is loved; loved for one's own sake--let us say rather, loved in spite of one's self; this conviction the blind man possesses. To be served in distress is to be caressed. Does he lack anything? No. One does not lose the sight when one has love. And what love! A love wholly constituted of virtue! There is no blindness where there is certainty. Soul seeks soul, gropingly, and finds it. And this soul, found and tested, is a woman. A hand sustains you; it is hers: a mouth lightly touches your brow; it is her mouth: you hear a breath very near you; it is hers. To have everything of her, from her worship to her pity, never to be left, to have that sweet weakness aiding you, to lean upon that immovable reed, to touch Providence with one's hands, and to be able to take it in one's arms,--God made tangible,--what bliss! The heart, that obscure, celestial flower, undergoes a mysterious blossoming. One would not exchange that shadow for all brightness! The angel soul is there, uninterruptedly there; if she departs, it is but to return again; she vanishes like a dream, and reappears like reality. One feels warmth approaching, and behold! she is there. One overflows with serenity, with gayety, with ecstasy; one is a radiance amid the night. And there are a thousand little cares. Nothings, which are enormous in that void. The most ineffable accents of the feminine voice employed to lull you, and supplying the vanished universe to you. One is caressed with the soul. One sees nothing, but one feels that one is adored. It is a paradise of shadows.
It was from this paradise that Monseigneur Welcome had passed to the other.
The announcement of his death was reprinted by the local journal of M. sur M. On the following day, M. Madeleine appeared clad wholly in black, and with crape on his hat.
This mourning was noticed in the town, and commented on. It seemed to throw a light on M. Madeleine's origin. It was concluded that some relationship existed between him and the venerable Bishop. "He has gone into mourning for the Bishop of D----" said the drawing-rooms; this raised M. Madeleine's credit greatly, and procured for him, instantly and at one blow, a certain consideration in the noble world of M. sur M. The microscopic Faubourg Saint-Germain of the place meditated raising the quarantine against M. Madeleine, the probable relative of a bishop. M. Madeleine perceived the advancement which he had obtained, by the more numerous courtesies of the old women and the more plentiful smiles of the young ones. One evening, a ruler in that petty great world, who was curious by right of seniority, ventured to ask him, "M. le Maire is doubtless a cousin of the late Bishop of D----?"
He said, "No, Madame."
"But," resumed the dowager, "you are wearing mourning for him."
He replied, "It is because I was a servant in his family in my youth."
Another thing which was remarked, was, that every time that he encountered in the town a young Savoyard who was roaming about the country and seeking chimneys to sweep, the mayor had him summoned, inquired his name, and gave him money. The little Savoyards told each other about it: a great many of them passed that way.
一八二一年初，各地报纸都刊出了迪涅主教，“别号卞福汝大人”，米里哀先生逝世的消息。他是在八十二岁的高龄入圣的。
我们在此地补充各地报纸略去的一点。迪涅主教在去世以前几年双目已经失明，但是他以失明为乐，因为他有妹子在他身旁。
让我们顺便说一句，双目失明，并且为人所爱，在这一事事都不圆满的世界上，那可算是一种甘美得出奇的人生幸福。在你的身旁，经常有个和你相依为命的妇人、姑娘、姊妹、可爱的人儿，知道自己对她是决不可少的，而她对自己也是非有不可的，能经常在她和你相处时间的长短上去推测她的感情，并且能向自己说：“她既然把她的全部时间用在我身上，就足以说明我占有了她整个的心”；不能看见她的面目，但能了解她的思想；在与世隔绝的生活中，体会到一个人儿的忠实；感到衣裙的摇曳，如同小鸟振翅的声音；听她来往、进出、说话、歌唱，并且想到自己是这种足音、这些话、这支歌的中心；不时表示自己的愉快，觉得自己越残缺，便越强大；在那种黑暗中，并正因为那种黑暗，自己成了这安琪儿归宿的星球；人生的乐事很少能与此相比。人生至高的幸福，便是感到自己有人爱；有人为你是这个样子而爱你，更进一步说，有人不问你是什么样子而仍旧一心爱你，那种感觉，盲人才有。在那种痛苦中，有人服侍，便是有人抚爱。他还缺少什么呢？不缺少什么。有了爱便说不上失明。并且这是何等的爱！完全是高尚品质构成的爱。有平安的地方便没有瞽瞢。一颗心摸索着在寻求另一颗心，并且得到了它。况且那颗得到了也证实了的心还是一个妇人的心。一只手扶着你，那是她的手；一只嘴拂着你的额头，那是她的嘴；在紧靠着你身旁的地方，你听到一种呼吸的声音，那声音也是她。得到她的一切，从她的信仰直到她的同情，从不和她分离，得到那种柔弱力量的援助，倚仗那根不屈不挠的芦草，亲手触到神明，并且可以把神明抱在怀里，有血有肉的上帝，那是何等的幸福！这颗心，这朵奥妙的仙花，那么神秘地开放了。即令以重见光明作代价，我们也不肯牺牲这朵花的影子。那天使的灵魂便在身旁，时时在身旁；假使她走开，也是为了再转来而走开的；她和梦一样地消失，又和实际一样地重行出现；我们觉得一阵暖气逼近身旁，这就是她来了。我们有说不尽的谧静、愉快和叹赏，我们自己便是黑暗中的光辉。还有万千种无微不至的照顾，许多小事在空虚中便具有重大意义。那种不可磨灭的女性的语声既可以催你入睡，又可以为你代替那失去了的宇宙。你受到了灵魂的爱抚。你什么也瞧不见，但是你感到了她的爱护。这是黑暗中的天堂。
卞福汝主教便是从这个天堂渡到那个天堂去的。
他的噩耗被滨海蒙特勒伊的地方报纸转载出来了。第二天，马德兰先生穿了一身全黑的衣服，帽子上戴了黑纱。
城里的人都注意到他的丧服，议论纷纷。这仿佛多少可以暗示出一点关于马德兰先生的来历。大家得出结论，认为他和这位年高德劭的主教有些瓜葛。那些客厅里的人都说“他为迪涅的主教穿孝”，这就大大提高了马德兰先生的身份，他一举而立即获得滨海蒙特勒伊高贵社会的某种器重。那地方的一个小型的圣日耳曼郊区①想取消从前对马德兰先生的歧视，因为他很可能是那主教的亲戚。从此年老的妇人都对他行更多的屈膝大礼，年少的女子也对他露出更多的笑容，马德兰先生也看出了自己在这些方面的优越地位。一天晚上，那个小小的大交际社会中的一个老妇人，自以为资格老，就有管闲事的权利，不揣冒亲吧？” 
①巴黎附近的圣日耳曼郊区是贵族居住的地方。
他说：“不是的，夫人。”
“但是您不是为他穿丧服吗？”那老寡妇又说。
他回答说：“那是因为我幼年时曾在他家里当过仆人。”
还有一件大家知道的事。每次有通烟囱的流浪少年打那城里经过时，市长先生总要派人叫他来，问他姓名，给他钱。这一情况在那些通烟囱的孩子们里一经传开以后，许多通烟囱的孩子便都要走过那地方。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 5 Vague Flashes on the Horizon
Little by little, and in the course of time, all this opposition subsided. There had at first been exercised against M. Madeleine, in virtue of a sort of law which all those who rise must submit to, blackening and calumnies; then they grew to be nothing more than ill-nature, then merely malicious remarks, then even this entirely disappeared; respect became complete, unanimous, cordial, and towards 1821 the moment arrived when the word "Monsieur le Maire" was pronounced at M. sur M. with almost the same accent as "Monseigneur the Bishop" had been pronounced in D---- in 1815. People came from a distance of ten leagues around to consult M. Madeleine. He put an end to differences, he prevented lawsuits, he reconciled enemies. Every one took him for the judge, and with good reason. It seemed as though he had for a soul the book of the natural law. It was like an epidemic of veneration, which in the course of six or seven years gradually took possession of the whole district.
One single man in the town, in the arrondissement, absolutely escaped this contagion, and, whatever Father Madeleine did, remained his opponent as though a sort of incorruptible and imperturbable instinct kept him on the alert and uneasy. It seems, in fact, as though there existed in certain men a veritable bestial instinct, though pure and upright, like all instincts, which creates antipathies and sympathies, which fatally separates one nature from another nature, which does not hesitate, which feels no disquiet, which does not hold its peace, and which never belies itself, clear in its obscurity, infallible, imperious, intractable, stubborn to all counsels of the intelligence and to all the dissolvents of reason, and which, in whatever manner destinies are arranged, secretly warns the man-dog of the presence of the man-cat, and the man-fox of the presence of the man-lion.
It frequently happened that when M. Madeleine was passing along a street, calm, affectionate, surrounded by the blessings of all, a man of lofty stature, clad in an iron-gray frock-coat, armed with a heavy cane, and wearing a battered hat, turned round abruptly behind him, and followed him with his eyes until he disappeared, with folded arms and a slow shake of the head, and his upper lip raised in company with his lower to his nose, a sort of significant grimace which might be translated by: "What is that man, after all? I certainly have seen him somewhere. In any case, I am not his dupe."
This person, grave with a gravity which was almost menacing, was one of those men who, even when only seen by a rapid glimpse, arrest the spectator's attention.
His name was Javert, and he belonged to the police.
At M. sur M. he exercised the unpleasant but useful functions of an inspector. He had not seen Madeleine's beginnings. Javert owed the post which he occupied to the protection of M. Chabouillet, the secretary of the Minister of State, Comte Angeles, then prefect of police at Paris. When Javert arrived at M. sur M. the fortune of the great manufacturer was already made, and Father Madeleine had become Monsieur Madeleine.
Certain police officers have a peculiar physiognomy, which is complicated with an air of baseness mingled with an air of authority. Javert possessed this physiognomy minus the baseness.
It is our conviction that if souls were visible to the eyes, we should be able to see distinctly that strange thing that each one individual of the human race corresponds to some one of the species of the animal creation; and we could easily recognize this truth, hardly perceived by the thinker, that from the oyster to the eagle, from the pig to the tiger, all animals exist in man, and that each one of them is in a man. Sometimes even several of them at a time.
Animals are nothing else than the figures of our virtues and our vices, straying before our eyes, the visible phantoms of our souls. God shows them to us in order to induce us to reflect. Only since animals are mere shadows, God has not made them capable of education in the full sense of the word; what is the use? On the contrary, our souls being realities and having a goal which is appropriate to them, God has bestowed on them intelligence; that is to say, the possibility of education. Social education, when well done, can always draw from a soul, of whatever sort it may be, the utility which it contains.
This, be it said, is of course from the restricted point of view of the terrestrial life which is apparent, and without prejudging the profound question of the anterior or ulterior personality of the beings which are not man. The visible _I_ in nowise authorizes the thinker to deny the latent _I_. Having made this reservation, let us pass on.
Now, if the reader will admit, for a moment, with us, that in every man there is one of the animal species of creation, it will be easy for us to say what there was in Police Officer Javert.
The peasants of Asturias are convinced that in every litter of wolves there is one dog, which is killed by the mother because, otherwise, as he grew up, he would devour the other little ones.
Give to this dog-son of a wolf a human face, and the result will be Javert.
Javert had been born in prison, of a fortune-teller, whose husband was in the galleys. As he grew up, he thought that he was outside the pale of society, and he despaired of ever re-entering it. He observed that society unpardoningly excludes two classes of men,-- those who attack it and those who guard it; he had no choice except between these two classes; at the same time, he was conscious of an indescribable foundation of rigidity, regularity, and probity, complicated with an inexpressible hatred for the race of bohemians whence he was sprung. He entered the police; he succeeded there. At forty years of age he was an inspector.
During his youth he had been employed in the convict establishments of the South.
Before proceeding further, let us come to an understanding as to the words, "human face," which we have just applied to Javert.
The human face of Javert consisted of a flat nose, with two deep nostrils, towards which enormous whiskers ascended on his cheeks. One felt ill at ease when he saw these two forests and these two caverns for the first time. When Javert laughed,--and his laugh was rare and terrible,--his thin lips parted and revealed to view not only his teeth, but his gums, and around his nose there formed a flattened and savage fold, as on the muzzle of a wild beast. Javert, serious, was a watchdog; when he laughed, he was a tiger. As for the rest, he had very little skull and a great deal of jaw; his hair concealed his forehead and fell over his eyebrows; between his eyes there was a permanent, central frown, like an imprint of wrath; his gaze was obscure; his mouth pursed up and terrible; his air that of ferocious command.
This man was composed of two very simple and two very good sentiments, comparatively; but he rendered them almost bad, by dint of exaggerating them,--respect for authority, hatred of rebellion; and in his eyes, murder, robbery, all crimes, are only forms of rebellion. He enveloped in a blind and profound faith every one who had a function in the state, from the prime minister to the rural policeman. He covered with scorn, aversion, and disgust every one who had once crossed the legal threshold of evil. He was absolute, and admitted no exceptions. On the one hand, he said, "The functionary can make no mistake; the magistrate is never the wrong." On the other hand, he said, "These men are irremediably lost. Nothing good can come from them." He fully shared the opinion of those extreme minds which attribute to human law I know not what power of making, or, if the reader will have it so, of authenticating, demons, and who place a Styx at the base of society. He was stoical, serious, austere; a melancholy dreamer, humble and haughty, like fanatics. His glance was like a gimlet, cold and piercing. His whole life hung on these two words: watchfulness and supervision. He had introduced a straight line into what is the most crooked thing in the world; he possessed the conscience of his usefulness, the religion of his functions, and he was a spy as other men are priests. Woe to the man who fell into his hands! He would have arrested his own father, if the latter had escaped from the galleys, and would have denounced his mother, if she had broken her ban. And he would have done it with that sort of inward satisfaction which is conferred by virtue. And, withal, a life of privation, isolation, abnegation, chastity, with never a diversion. It was implacable duty; the police understood, as the Spartans understood Sparta, a pitiless lying in wait, a ferocious honesty, a marble informer, Brutus in Vidocq.
Javert's whole person was expressive of the man who spies and who withdraws himself from observation. The mystical school of Joseph de Maistre, which at that epoch seasoned with lofty cosmogony those things which were called the ultra newspapers, would not have failed to declare that Javert was a symbol. His brow was not visible; it disappeared beneath his hat: his eyes were not visible, since they were lost under his eyebrows: his chin was not visible, for it was plunged in his cravat: his hands were not visible; they were drawn up in his sleeves: and his cane was not visible; he carried it under his coat. But when the occasion presented itself, there was suddenly seen to emerge from all this shadow, as from an ambuscade, a narrow and angular forehead, a baleful glance, a threatening chin, enormous hands, and a monstrous cudgel.
In his leisure moments, which were far from frequent, he read, although he hated books; this caused him to be not wholly illiterate. This could be recognized by some emphasis in his speech.
As we have said, he had no vices. When he was pleased with himself, he permitted himself a pinch of snuff. Therein lay his connection with humanity.
The reader will have no difficulty in understanding that Javert was the terror of that whole class which the annual statistics of the Ministry of Justice designates under the rubric, Vagrants. The name of Javert routed them by its mere utterance; the face of Javert petrified them at sight.
Such was this formidable man.
Javert was like an eye constantly fixed on M. Madeleine. An eye full of suspicion and conjecture. M. Madeleine had finally perceived the fact; but it seemed to be of no importance to him. He did not even put a question to Javert; he neither sought nor avoided him; he bore that embarrassing and almost oppressive gaze without appearing to notice it. He treated Javert with ease and courtesy, as he did all the rest of the world.
It was divined, from some words which escaped Javert, that he had secretly investigated, with that curiosity which belongs to the race, and into which there enters as much instinct as will, all the anterior traces which Father Madeleine might have left elsewhere. He seemed to know, and he sometimes said in covert words, that some one had gleaned certain information in a certain district about a family which had disappeared. Once he chanced to say, as he was talking to himself, "I think I have him!" Then he remained pensive for three days, and uttered not a word. It seemed that the thread which he thought he held had broken.
Moreover, and this furnishes the necessary corrective for the too absolute sense which certain words might present, there can be nothing really infallible in a human creature, and the peculiarity of instinct is that it can become confused, thrown off the track, and defeated. Otherwise, it would be superior to intelligence, and the beast would be found to be provided with a better light than man.
Javert was evidently somewhat disconcerted by the perfect naturalness and tranquillity of M. Madeleine.
One day, nevertheless, his strange manner appeared to produce an impression on M. Madeleine. It was on the following occasion.
渐渐地，各种敌意都和岁月一同消逝了。起初有一种势力和马德兰先生对抗，那种势力，凡是地位日益增高的人都会遇到的，那便是人心的险狠和谣言的中伤；过后，就只有一些恶意了；再过后，又不过是一些戏弄了；到后来，全都消灭；恭敬的心才转为完整、一致和真挚了；有一个时期，一八二一年前后，滨海蒙特勒伊人民口中的“市长先生”这几个字几乎和一八一五年迪涅人民口中的“主教先生”那几个字同一声调了。周围十法里以内的人都来向马德兰先生求教。他排解纠纷，阻止诉讼，和解敌对双方，每个人都认他为自己正当权利的仲裁人。仿佛他在灵魂方面有一部自然的法典。那好象是一种传染性的尊崇，经过六七年的时间，已经遍及全乡了。
在那个城和那个县里，只有一个人绝对不受传染，无论马德兰伯伯做什么，他总是桀骜不驯的，仿佛有一种无可软化、无可撼动的本能使他警惕，使他不安似的。在某些人心里，好象确有一种和其他本能同样纯洁坚贞的真正的兽性本能，具有这种本能的人会制造同情和恶感，会离间人与人的关系，使他们永难复合；他不迟疑，不慌乱，有言必发，永不认过；他卖弄糊涂的聪明’他坚定、果敢，他对智慧的一切箴言和理智的一切批判无不顽强抗拒，并且无论命运怎样安排，他的那种兽性本能发作时，总要向狗密告猫的来到，向狐狸密告狮子的来到。
常常，马德兰先生恬静和蔼地在街上走过，在受到大家赞叹时，就有一个身材高大，穿一件铁灰色礼服，拿条粗棍，戴顶平边帽的人迎面走来，到了他背后，又忽然转回头，用眼睛盯着他，直到望不见为止；这人还交叉着两条胳膊，缓缓地摇着头，用下嘴唇把上嘴唇直送到鼻端，做出一种别有用意的丑态，意思就是说：“这个人究竟是什么东西呢？……我一定在什么地方见过他。……总而言之，我还没有上他的当。”
这个神色严厉到几乎令人恐怖的人物，便是那一种使人一见心悸的人物。
他叫沙威，是个公安部门的人员。
他在滨海蒙特勒伊担任那些困难而有用的侦察职务。他不认识马德兰的开始阶段的情形。沙威取得这个职位是夏布耶先生保荐的，夏布耶先生是昂格勒斯伯爵任内阁大臣期间的秘书，当时任巴黎警署署长。沙威来到滨海蒙特勒伊是在那位大厂主发财之后，马德兰伯伯已经变成马德兰先生之后。
某些警官有一种与众不同的面目，一种由卑鄙的神情和权威的神情组合起来的面目，沙威便有那样一副面孔，但是没有那种卑鄙的神情。
在我们的信念里，假使认为灵魂是肉眼可以看见的东西，那么，我们便可以清晰地看见一种怪现象，那就是人类中的每个人，都和禽兽中的某一种相类似；我们还很容易发现那种不曾被思想家完全弄清楚的真理，那就是从牡蛎到鹰隼，从猪到虎，一切禽兽的性格也在人的性格里都具备，并且每个人都具有某种动物的性格。有时一个人还可以具有几种动物的性格。
禽兽并非旁的东西，只不过是我们的好品质和坏品质的形象化而已，它们在我们眼前游荡，有如我们灵魂所显出的鬼影。上帝把它们指出来给我们看，要我们自己反省。不过，既然禽兽只是一种暗示，上帝就没有要改造它们的意思；再说，改造禽兽又有什么用呢？我们的灵魂，恰恰相反，那是实际，并且每个灵魂都有它自己的目的，因此上帝才赋予智慧，这就是说，赋予可教育性。社会的良好教育可以从任何类型的灵魂中发展它固有的优点。
这当然只是从狭义的角度、只是就我们这尘世间的现象来谈的，不应当牵涉到那些前生和来生的灵性问题。那些深奥问题不属于人的范畴。有形的我绝不允许思想家否认无形的我。保留了这一点，我们再来谈旁的。
现在，假使大家都和我们一样，暂时承认在任何人身上都有一种禽或兽的本性，我们就易于说明那个保安人员沙威究竟是什么东西了。
阿斯图里亚斯①地方的农民都深信在每一胎小狼里必定有一只狗，可是那只狗一定被母狼害死，否则它长大以后会吃掉其余的小狼。 
①阿斯图里亚斯（Asturias），西班牙古行省。
你把一副人脸加在那狼生的狗头上，那便是沙威。
沙威是在监狱里出世的，他的母亲是一个抽纸牌算命的人，他的父亲是个苦役犯。他成长以后，认为自己是社会以外的人，永远没有进入社会的希望。他看见社会毫不留情地把两种人摆在社会之外：攻击社会的人和保卫社会的人。他只能在这两种人中选择一种，同时他觉得自己有一种不可解的刚毅、规矩、严谨的本质，面对他自身所属的游民阶层，却杂有一种说不出的仇恨。他便当了警察。
他一帆风顺，四十岁上当上了侦察员。
在他青年时代，他在南方的监狱里服务过。
在谈下去之前，让我们先弄清楚刚才我们加在沙威身上的“人脸”这个词。
沙威的人脸上有一个塌鼻子、两个深鼻孔，两大片络腮胡子一直生到鼻孔边，初次看见那两片森林和那两个深窟的人都会感到不愉快。沙威不常笑，但笑时的形状是狰狞可怕的，两片薄嘴唇张开，不但露出他的牙，还露出他的牙床肉，在他鼻子四周也会起一种象猛兽的嘴一样的扁圆粗野的皱纹。郑重时的沙威是猎犬，笑时的沙威是老虎。此外他的头盖骨小，牙床大，头发遮着前额，垂到眉边，两眼间有一条固定的中央皱痕，好象一颗怒星，目光深沉，嘴唇紧合，令人生畏，总之，一副凶恶的凌人气概。
这个人是由两种感情构成的：尊敬官府，仇视反叛。这两种感情本来很简单，也可以说还相当的好，但是他执行过度便难免作恶。在他看来，偷盗、杀人，一切罪行都是反叛的不同形式。凡是在政府有一官半职的人，上自内阁大臣，下至乡村民警，对这些人他都有一种盲目的深厚信仰。对曾经一度触犯法律的人，他一概加以鄙视、疾恨和厌恶。他是走极端的，不承认有例外，一方面他常说：“公务人员不会错，官员永远不会有过失。”另一方面他又说：“这些人都是不可救药的。他们决做不出什么好事来。”有些人思想过激，他们认为人的法律有权随意指定某人为罪犯，在必要时也有权坐实某人的罪状，并且不容社会下层的人申辩，沙威完全同意这种见解。他是坚决、严肃、铁面无私的，他是沉郁的梦想者，他能屈能伸，有如盲从的信徒。他的目光是一把钢锥，寒光刺人心脾。他一生只在“警惕”“侦察”方面下功夫。他用直线式的眼光去理解人世间最曲折的事物；他深信自己的作用，热爱自己的职务；他做暗探，如同别人做神甫一样。落在他手中的人必无幸免！自己的父亲越狱，他也会逮捕；自己的母亲潜逃，他也会告发。他那样做了，还会自鸣得意，如同行了善事一般。同时，他一生刻苦、独居、克己、制欲，从来不曾娱乐过。他对职务是绝对公而忘私的，他理解警察，正如斯巴达人理解斯巴达一样；他是一个无情的侦察者，一个凶顽的诚实人，一个铁石心肠的包探，一个具有布鲁图斯①性格的维多克②。 
①布鲁图斯（Brutus），公元前六世纪罗马帝国执政官，是个公而忘私的典型人物。
②维多克（Vidocq），当时法国的一个著名侦探。
　　沙威的全部气质说明他是一个藏头露尾、贼眼觑人的人。当时以高深的宇宙演化论点缀各种所谓极端派报刊的梅斯特尔玄学派，一定会说沙威是一个象征性的人物。别人看不见他那埋在帽子下的额头，别人看不见他那压在眉毛下的眼睛，别人看不见他那沉在领带里的下颏，别人看不见他那缩在衣袖里的手，别人看不见他那藏在礼服里的拐杖。但在时机到了的时候，他那筋骨暴露的扁额，阴气扑人的眼睛，骇人的下巴，粗大的手，怪模怪样的短棍，都突然从黑影里象伏兵那样全部出现了。
他尽管厌恶书籍，但在偶然得到一点闲空时也常读书，因此他并不完全不通文墨，这是可以从他谈话中喜欢咬文嚼字这一点上看出来。
他一点也没有不良的嗜好，我们已经说过。得意的时候他只闻一点鼻烟。在这一点上，他还带点人性。
有一个阶级，在司法部的统计年表上是被称为“游民”的，我们不难理解为什么沙威是那个阶级的阎王。一提沙威的名字可使他们退避三舍，沙威一露面，可使他们惊愕失色。
以上就是这个恶魔的形象。
沙威好象是一只永远盯在马德兰先生身上的眼睛，一只充满疑惑和猜忌的眼睛。到后来，马德兰先生也看出来了，不过对他来说，这仿佛是件无足轻重的事。他一句话也没有问过沙威，他既不找他，也不避他，他泰然自若地承受那种恼人的、几乎是逼人的目光。他对待沙威，正如对待旁人一样轻松和蔼。
从沙威的口气，我们可以猜出他已暗中调查过马德兰伯伯从前可能在别处留下的一些踪迹。那种好奇心原是他那种族的特性，一半由于本能，一半由于志愿。他仿佛已经知道底蕴，有时他还遮遮掩掩地说，已有人在某地调查过某个消失了的人家的某些情况。一次，他在和自己说话时说过一句这样的话：“我相信，我已经抓着他的把柄了。”那次以后，他一连想了三天，不曾说一句话。好象他以为自己握着的那根线索又中断了。
并且，下面的这点修正也是必要的，因为某些词句的含义往往显得过于绝对，其实人类的想象，也不能真的一无差错，并且本能的特性也正在于它有时也会被外界所扰乱、困惑和击退。否则本能将比智慧优越，禽兽也比人类聪明了。
沙威明明有点被马德兰先生的那种恬静、安闲、行若无事的态度窘困了。
可是，有一天，他那种奇特的行为好象刺激了马德兰先生。这件事的经过是这样的。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 6 Father Fauchelevent
One morning M. Madeleine was passing through an unpaved alley of M. sur M.; he heard a noise, and saw a group some distance away. He approached. An old man named Father Fauchelevent had just fallen beneath his cart, his horse having tumbled down.
This Fauchelevent was one of the few enemies whom M. Madeleine had at that time. When Madeleine arrived in the neighborhood, Fauchelevent, an ex-notary and a peasant who was almost educated, had a business which was beginning to be in a bad way. Fauchelevent had seen this simple workman grow rich, while he, a lawyer, was being ruined. This had filled him with jealousy, and he had done all he could, on every occasion, to injure Madeleine. Then bankruptcy had come; and as the old man had nothing left but a cart and a horse, and neither family nor children, he had turned carter.
The horse had two broken legs and could not rise. The old man was caught in the wheels. The fall had been so unlucky that the whole weight of the vehicle rested on his breast. The cart was quite heavily laden. Father Fauchelevent was rattling in the throat in the most lamentable manner. They had tried, but in vain, to drag him out. An unmethodical effort, aid awkwardly given, a wrong shake, might kill him. It was impossible to disengage him otherwise than by lifting the vehicle off of him. Javert, who had come up at the moment of the accident, had sent for a jack-screw.
M. Madeleine arrived. People stood aside respectfully.
"Help!" cried old Fauchelevent. "Who will be good and save the old man?"
M.Madeleine turned towards those present:--
"Is there a jack-screw to be had?"
"One has been sent for," answered the peasant.
"How long will it take to get it?"
"They have gone for the nearest, to Flachot's place, where there is a farrier; but it makes no difference; it will take a good quarter of an hour."
"A quarter of an hour!" exclaimed Madeleine.
It had rained on the preceding night; the soil was soaked.
The cart was sinking deeper into the earth every moment, and crushing the old carter's breast more and more. It was evident that his ribs would be broken in five minutes more.
"It is impossible to wait another quarter of an hour," said Madeleine to the peasants, who were staring at him.
"We must!"
"But it will be too late then! Don't you see that the cart is sinking?"
"Well!"
"Listen," resumed Madeleine; "there is still room enough under the cart to allow a man to crawl beneath it and raise it with his back. Only half a minute, and the poor man can be taken out. Is there any one here who has stout loins and heart? There are five louis d'or to be earned!"
Not a man in the group stirred.
"Ten louis," said Madeleine.
The persons present dropped their eyes. One of them muttered: "A man would need to be devilish strong. And then he runs the risk of getting crushed!"
"Come," began Madeleine again, "twenty louis."
The same silence.
"It is not the will which is lacking," said a voice.
M. Madeleine turned round, and recognized Javert. He had not noticed him on his arrival.
Javert went on:--
"It is strength. One would have to be a terrible man to do such a thing as lift a cart like that on his back."
Then, gazing fixedly at M. Madeleine, he went on, emphasizing every word that he uttered:--
"Monsieur Madeleine, I have never known but one man capable of doing what you ask."
Madeleine shuddered.
Javert added, with an air of indifference, but without removing his eyes from Madeleine:--
"He was a convict."
"Ah!" said Madeleine.
"In the galleys at Toulon."
Madeleine turned pale.
Meanwhile, the cart continued to sink slowly. Father Fauchelevent rattled in the throat, and shrieked:--
"I am strangling! My ribs are breaking! a screw! something! Ah!"
Madeleine glanced about him.
"Is there, then, no one who wishes to earn twenty louis and save the life of this poor old man?"
No one stirred. Javert resumed:--
"I have never known but one man who could take the place of a screw, and he was that convict."
"Ah! It is crushing me!" cried the old man.
Madeleine raised his head, met Javert's falcon eye still fixed upon him, looked at the motionless peasants, and smiled sadly. Then, without saying a word, he fell on his knees, and before the crowd had even had time to utter a cry, he was underneath the vehicle.
A terrible moment of expectation and silence ensued.
They beheld Madeleine, almost flat on his stomach beneath that terrible weight, make two vain efforts to bring his knees and his elbows together. They shouted to him, "Father Madeleine, come out!" Old Fauchelevent himself said to him, "Monsieur Madeleine, go away! You see that I am fated to die! Leave me! You will get yourself crushed also!" Madeleine made no reply.
All the spectators were panting. The wheels had continued to sink, and it had become almost impossible for Madeleine to make his way from under the vehicle.
Suddenly the enormous mass was seen to quiver, the cart rose slowly, the wheels half emerged from the ruts. They heard a stifled voice crying, "Make haste! Help!" It was Madeleine, who had just made a final effort.
They rushed forwards. The devotion of a single man had given force and courage to all. The cart was raised by twenty arms. Old Fauchelevent was saved.
Madeleine rose. He was pale, though dripping with perspiration. His clothes were torn and covered with mud. All wept. The old man kissed his knees and called him the good God. As for him, he bore upon his countenance an indescribable expression of happy and celestial suffering, and he fixed his tranquil eye on Javert, who was still staring at him.
有一天早晨，马德兰先生经过滨海蒙特勒伊的一条没有铺石块的小街。他听见一阵嘈杂的声音，还远远望见一堆人。他赶到那里。一个叫割风伯伯的老年人刚摔在他的车子下面，因为那拉车的马滑了一交。
这位割风伯伯是当时一贯歧视马德兰先生的那少数几个冤家之一。割风从前当过乡吏，是一个粗通文墨的农民，马德兰初到那里时，他的生意正开始走上逆运。割风眼见这个普通工人日益富裕，而他自己，一个大老板却渐渐衰败下来，他满腔嫉妒，一遇机会，便竭力暗算马德兰。后来他破了产，年纪老了，又只有一辆小车和一匹马，并无家室儿女，为了生活，只好驾车。
那匹马的两条后腿跌伤了，爬不起来，老头子陷在车轮中间。那一交摔得很不巧，整个车子的重量都压在他的胸口上。车上的东西相当重。割风伯伯急得惨叫。别人试着拖他出来，但是没有用。如果乱来，帮助得不得法，一阵摇动还可以送他的命。除非把车子从下面撑起来，就别无他法能把他救出来。
沙威在出事时赶来了，他派了人去找一个千斤顶。
马德兰先生也来了。大家都恭恭敬敬地让出一条路。
“救命呀！”割风老头喊着说，“谁是好孩子？救救老人吧。”
马德兰先生转身向着观众说：
“你们有千斤顶吗？”
“已经有人去找了。”一个农民回答说。
“要多少时候才找得来？”
“是到最近的地方去找的，到福拉肖，那里有个钉马蹄铁的工人，但是无论如何，总得整整一刻钟。”
“一刻钟！”马德兰大声说。
前一晚，下了雨，地浸湿了，那车子正在往地下陷，把那老车夫的胸口越压越紧了。不到五分钟他的肋骨一定会折断。
“等一刻钟，那不行！”马德兰向在场的那些农民说。
“只有等！”
“不过肯定来不及了！你们没看见那车子正在往下陷吗？”
“圣母！”
“听我讲，”马德兰又说，“那车子下面还有地方，可以让一个人爬进去，用背把车子顶起来。只要半分钟就可以把这个可怜的人救出来。这儿有一个有腰劲和良心的人吗？有五个金路易①好赚！” 
①路易，金币名，每枚合二十法郎。
在那堆人里谁都没有动。
“十个路易。”马德兰说。
在场的人都把眼睛低了下去，其中有一个低声说：
“那非得是有神力的人不行。并且弄得不好，连自己也会压死。”
“来吧！”马德兰又说，“二十路易！”
仍旧没有动静。
“他们并不是没有心肝。”一个人的声音说。
马德兰先生转过身，认出了沙威。他来时没有看见他。
沙威继续说：
“他们缺少的是力气。把这样一辆车扛在背上，非有一个特别厉害的人不行。”
随后，他眼睛盯住马德兰先生，一字一字着重地说下去：
“马德兰先生，我从来只认得一个人有能力照您的话去做。”
马德兰吃了一惊。
沙威用一副不在意的神气接着说下去，但是眼睛不离开马德兰。
“那个人从前是个苦役犯。”
“呀！”马德兰说。
“土伦监牢里的苦役犯。”
马德兰面无人色。
那时，那辆车慢慢地继续往下陷。割风伯伯喘着气，吼着说：
“我吐不出气！我的肋骨要断了！来个千斤顶！或者旁的东西！哎哟！”
马德兰往四面看。
“竟没有一个人要赚那二十路易，来救这可怜的老人一命吗？”
在场没有一个人动。沙威又说：
“我从来只认得一个能替代千斤顶的人，就是那个苦役犯。”
“呀！我被压死了！”那老人喊着说。
马德兰抬起头来，正遇到沙威那双鹰眼始终盯在他的脸上，马德兰望着那些不动的农民，苦笑了一下。随后，他一言不发，双膝跪下，观众还没来得及叫，他已到了车子下面了。
有过一阵惊心动魄的静候辰光。
大家看见马德兰几乎平伏在那一堆骇人的东西下面，两次想使肘弯接近膝头，都没有成功。大家向他喊着说：“马德兰伯伯快出来！”那年老的割风本人也对他说：“马德兰先生！请快走开！我命里该死呢，您瞧！让我去吧！您也会压死在这里！”
马德兰不回答。
观众惊惶气塞。车轮又陷下去了一些，马德兰已经没有多大机会从车底出来了。
忽然，大家看见那一大堆东西动摇起来了，车子慢慢上升了，轮子已从泥坑里起来了一半。一种几乎气绝的声音叫道：“赶快！帮忙！”叫的正是马德兰，他刚使尽了他最后一点气力。
大家涌上去。一个人的努力带动了所有的人的力气和勇敢。那辆车子竟被二十条胳膊抬了起来。割风老头得免于难。
马德兰站起来，尽管满头大汗，脸色却是青的。他的衣服撕破了，满身污泥。大家都哭了。那个老头子吻着他的膝头，称他为慈悲的上帝。至于他，他脸上显出了一种说不出的至高至上、快乐无比的惨痛，他把恬静自如的目光注射在沙威的面上，沙威也始终望着他。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 7 Fauchelevent becomes a Gardener in Paris
Fauchelevent had dislocated his kneepan in his fall. Father Madeleine had him conveyed to an infirmary which he had established for his workmen in the factory building itself, and which was served by two sisters of charity. On the following morning the old man found a thousand-franc bank-note on his night-stand, with these words in Father Madeleine's writing: "I purchase your horse and cart." The cart was broken, and the horse was dead. Fauchelevent recovered, but his knee remained stiff. M. Madeleine, on the recommendation of the sisters of charity and of his priest, got the good man a place as gardener in a female convent in the Rue Saint-Antoine in Paris.
Some time afterwards, M. Madeleine was appointed mayor. The first time that Javert beheld M. Madeleine clothed in the scarf which gave him authority over the town, he felt the sort of shudder which a watch-dog might experience on smelling a wolf in his master's clothes. From that time forth he avoided him as much as he possibly could. When the requirements of the service imperatively demanded it, and he could not do otherwise than meet the mayor, he addressed him with profound respect.
This prosperity created at M. sur M. by Father Madeleine had, besides the visible signs which we have mentioned, another symptom which was none the less significant for not being visible. This never deceives. When the population suffers, when work is lacking, when there is no commerce, the tax-payer resists imposts through penury, he exhausts and oversteps his respite, and the state expends a great deal of money in the charges for compelling and collection. When work is abundant, when the country is rich and happy, the taxes are paid easily and cost the state nothing. It may be said, that there is one infallible thermometer of the public misery and riches,--the cost of collecting the taxes. In the course of seven years the expense of collecting the taxes had diminished three-fourths in the arrondissement of M. sur M., and this led to this arrondissement being frequently cited from all the rest by M. de Villele, then Minister of Finance.
Such was the condition of the country when Fantine returned thither. No one remembered her. Fortunately, the door of M. Madeleine's factory was like the face of a friend. She presented herself there, and was admitted to the women's workroom. The trade was entirely new to Fantine; she could not be very skilful at it, and she therefore earned but little by her day's work; but it was sufficient; the problem was solved; she was earning her living.
割风的膝盖骨跌脱了。马德兰伯伯叫人把他抬进疗养室，这疗养室是他为他的工人准备的，就在他的工厂的大楼里，有两个修女在里面服务。第二天早晨，那老头子在床头小桌上发现一张一千法郎的票据和马德兰伯伯亲笔写的一句话：“我买您的车和马。”车子早已碎了，马也早已死了。割风的伤医好以后，膝头却是僵直的。马德兰先生通过那些修女和本堂神甫的介绍，把那老头安插在巴黎圣安东尼区的一个女修道院里做园丁。
过些日子，马德兰先生被任命为市长。沙威第一次看见马德兰先生披上那条表示掌握全城大权的绶带时，不禁感到浑身哆嗦，正如一只狗在它主人衣服底下嗅到了狼味。从那天起，他尽量躲避他。如果公务迫切需要非和市长见面不可，他便恭恭敬敬地和他谈话。
马德兰伯伯在滨海蒙特勒伊所造成的那种繁荣，除了我们已指出的那些明摆着的事实以外，还有另外一种影响，那种影响，表面上虽然看不出，也还是同等重要的。这是一点也不会错的，当人民窘困、工作缺乏、商业凋敝时，纳税人由于手头拮据，一定会拖欠税款，超过限期，政府也一定得耗费许多催缴追收的费用的。在工作很多、地方富裕、人民欢乐时，税收也就会顺利，政府也就会节省开支了。我们可以说收税费用的大小，是衡量人民贫富的一种百无一失的气温表。七年来，滨海蒙特勒伊一县的收税费用已经减了四分之三，因而当时的财政总长维莱尔①先生曾多次提到那一县的情形来和其他县份比较。 
①维莱尔（Villèle，1773-1854），伯爵，法国复辟时期的正统主义者，极端保王派，曾任首相（1822-1828）。　
芳汀回乡时，那地方的情形便是这样。家乡已没有人记得她了。幸而马德兰先生工厂的大门还象个朋友的面孔。她到那里去找工作，被安插在女车间，那种技术对芳汀来说完全是陌生的，她不可能做得很熟练，因此她从一天工作中得来的东西很有限，仅够她的生活费，但问题总算解决了。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 8 Madame Victurnien expends Thirty Francs on Morality
When Fantine saw that she was making her living, she felt joyful for a moment. To live honestly by her own labor, what mercy from heaven! The taste for work had really returned to her. She bought a looking-glass, took pleasure in surveying in it her youth, her beautiful hair, her fine teeth; she forgot many things; she thought only of Cosette and of the possible future, and was almost happy. She hired a little room and furnished on credit on the strength of her future work--a lingering trace of her improvident ways. As she was not able to say that she was married she took good care, as we have seen, not to mention her little girl.
At first, as the reader has seen, she paid the Thenardiers promptly. As she only knew how to sign her name, she was obliged to write through a public letter-writer.
She wrote often, and this was noticed. It began to be said in an undertone, in the women's workroom, that Fantine "wrote letters" and that "she had ways about her."
There is no one for spying on people's actions like those who are not concerned in them. Why does that gentleman never come except at nightfall? Why does Mr. So-and-So never hang his key on its nail on Tuesday? Why does he always take the narrow streets? Why does Madame always descend from her hackney-coach before reaching her house? Why does she send out to purchase six sheets of note paper, when she has a "whole stationer's shop full of it?" etc. There exist beings who, for the sake of obtaining the key to these enigmas, which are, moreover, of no consequence whatever to them, spend more money, waste more time, take more trouble, than would be required for ten good actions, and that gratuitously, for their own pleasure, without receiving any other payment for their curiosity than curiosity. They will follow up such and such a man or woman for whole days; they will do sentry duty for hours at a time on the corners of the streets, under alley-way doors at night, in cold and rain; they will bribe errand-porters, they will make the drivers of hackney-coaches and lackeys tipsy, buy a waiting-maid, suborn a porter. Why? For no reason. A pure passion for seeing, knowing, and penetrating into things. A pure itch for talking. And often these secrets once known, these mysteries made public, these enigmas illuminated by the light of day, bring on catastrophies, duels, failures, the ruin of families, and broken lives, to the great joy of those who have "found out everything," without any interest in the matter, and by pure instinct. A sad thing.
Certain persons are malicious solely through a necessity for talking. Their conversation, the chat of the drawing-room, gossip of the anteroom, is like those chimneys which consume wood rapidly; they need a great amount of combustibles; and their combustibles are furnished by their neighbors.
So Fantine was watched.
In addition, many a one was jealous of her golden hair and of her white teeth.
It was remarked that in the workroom she often turned aside, in the midst of the rest, to wipe away a tear. These were the moments when she was thinking of her child; perhaps, also, of the man whom she had loved.
Breaking the gloomy bonds of the past is a mournful task.
It was observed that she wrote twice a month at least, and that she paid the carriage on the letter. They managed to obtain the address: Monsieur, Monsieur Thenardier, inn-keeper at Montfermeil. The public writer, a good old man who could not fill his stomach with red wine without emptying his pocket of secrets, was made to talk in the wine-shop. In short, it was discovered that Fantine had a child. "She must be a pretty sort of a woman." An old gossip was found, who made the trip to Montfermeil, talked to the Thenardiers, and said on her return: "For my five and thirty francs I have freed my mind. I have seen the child."
The gossip who did this thing was a gorgon named Madame Victurnien, the guardian and door-keeper of every one's virtue. Madame Victurnien was fifty-six, and re-enforced the mask of ugliness with the mask of age. A quavering voice, a whimsical mind. This old dame had once been young--astonishing fact! In her youth, in '93, she had married a monk who had fled from his cloister in a red cap, and passed from the Bernardines to the Jacobins. She was dry, rough, peevish, sharp, captious, almost venomous; all this in memory of her monk, whose widow she was, and who had ruled over her masterfully and bent her to his will. She was a nettle in which the rustle of the cassock was visible. At the Restoration she had turned bigot, and that with so much energy that the priests had forgiven her her monk. She had a small property, which she bequeathed with much ostentation to a religious community. She was in high favor at the episcopal palace of Arras. So this Madame Victurnien went to Montfermeil, and returned with the remark, "I have seen the child."
All this took time. Fantine had been at the factory for more than a year, when, one morning, the superintendent of the workroom handed her fifty francs from the mayor, told her that she was no longer employed in the shop, and requested her, in the mayor's name, to leave the neighborhood.
This was the very month when the Thenardiers, after having demanded twelve francs instead of six, had just exacted fifteen francs instead of twelve.
Fantine was overwhelmed. She could not leave the neighborhood; she was in debt for her rent and furniture. Fifty francs was not sufficient to cancel this debt. She stammered a few supplicating words. The superintendent ordered her to leave the shop on the instant. Besides, Fantine was only a moderately good workwoman. Overcome with shame, even more than with despair, she quitted the shop, and returned to her room. So her fault was now known to every one.
She no longer felt strong enough to say a word. She was advised to see the mayor; she did not dare. The mayor had given her fifty francs because he was good, and had dismissed her because he was just. She bowed before the decision.
芳汀看到自己能够生活，也就有了暂时的快乐。能够老老实实地自食其力，那真是天幸！她确实又有了爱好劳动的心情。她买了一面镜子，欣赏自己的青春、美丽的头发和美丽的牙齿，忘了许多事情，只惦念她的珂赛特和可能有的前途，她几乎成了快乐的人了。她租了一间小屋子，又以将来的工资作担保，买了些家具，这是她那种轻浮习气的残余。
她不能对人说她结过婚，因此她避免谈到她的小女儿，这是我们已经约略提到过的。
起初，我们已经看见，她总按时付款给德纳第家。因为她只知道签名，就不得不找一个代写书信的人写信给他们。
她时常寄信。这就引起旁人的注意。在女车间里，大家开始叽叽喳喳谈论起来了，说芳汀“天天寄信”，说她有一些“怪举动”。
天地间的怪事莫过于侦察别人的一些和自己绝不相干的事了。“为什么那位先生老去找那个棕发姑娘呢？”“为什么某先生到了星期四总不把他的钥匙挂在钉子上呢？”“他为什么总走小街呢？”“为什么那位太太总在到家以前就下马车呢？”
“她的信笺匣盛满了信笺，为什么还要派人去买一扎呢？”诸如此类的话。世间有许多人为了揭开谜底，尽管和他们绝不相干，却肯花费比做十桩善事还要多的金钱、时光和心血。并且，做那种事，不取报酬，只图一时快意，为好奇而好奇。他们可以从早到晚，一连几天地尾随这个男人或那个女人，在街角上、胡同里的门洞下面，在黑夜里冒着寒气冒着雨，窥伺几个钟头，买通眼线，灌醉马车夫和仆役，收买女仆，串通看门人。究竟是为了什么目的？毫无目的，纯粹是一种要看见、要知道、要洞悉隐情的欲望，纯粹是由于要卖弄一下自己那颗消息灵通的心。一旦隐情识破，秘密公开，疑团揭穿，跟着就发生许多祸害、决斗、破产、倾家、生路断绝，而其实这些事对他们来说毫无利害关系，纯粹出自本能，他们只为“发觉了一切”而感到极大的快乐。这是多么痛心的事。
某些人仅仅为了饶舌的需要就不惜刻薄待人。他们的会话，客厅里的促膝谈心，候见室里的飞短流长都好象是那种费柴的壁炉，需要许多燃料，那燃料，便是他们四邻的人。
大家对芳汀注意起来了。
此外，许多妇女还嫉妒她的金发和玉牙。
确实有人看见她在车间里和大家一道时常常转过头去揩眼泪。那正是她惦念她孩子的时刻，也许又同时想起了她爱过的那个人。
摆脱旧恨的萦绕确是一种痛苦的过程。
确实有人发现她每月至少要写两封信，并且老是一个地址，写了还要贴邮票，有人把那地址找来了：“孟费郿客店主人德纳第先生”。那个替她写字的先生是一个不吐尽心中秘密便不能把红酒灌满肚子的老头儿，他们把他邀到酒店里来闲谈。简单地说，他们知道芳汀有个孩子。“她一定是那种女人了。”恰巧有个长舌妇到孟费郿去走了一趟，和德纳第夫妇谈了话，回来时她说：“花了我三十五法郎，我心里畅快了。我看见了那孩子。”
做这件事的长舌妇是个叫维克杜尼昂夫人的母夜叉，她是所有一切人的贞操的守卫和司阍。维克杜尼昂夫人有五十六岁，不但老，而且丑。嗓子颤抖，心思诡戾。那老婆子却有过青春，这真是怪事。在她的妙龄时期，正当九三年，她嫁给一个从隐修院里逃出来的修士，这修士戴上红帽子，从圣伯尔纳的信徒一变而为雅各宾派①。他给她受过不少折磨，她守寡以来，虽然想念亡夫，为人却是无情、粗野、泼辣、锋利、多刺而且几乎有毒。她是一棵受过僧衣挨蹭的荨麻。到复辟时代，她变得很虔诚，由于她信仰上帝的心非常热烈，神甫们也就不再追究她那修士而原谅了她。她有一份小小的财产，已经大吹大擂地捐给一个宗教团体了。她在阿拉斯主教教区里很受人尊敬。这位维克杜尼昂夫人到孟费郿去了一趟，回来时说：“我看见了那孩子。” 
①雅各宾（Jacobin），法国资产阶级革命时期最能团结革命群众、保卫劳动人民利益并和国王及大资本家进行坚决斗争的一派。　
这一切经过很费了些时日。芳汀在那厂里已经一年多了。
一天早晨，车间女管理员交给她五十法郎，说是市长先生交来的，还向她说，她已不是那车间里的人了，并且奉市长先生之命，要她离开孟费郿。
恰巧这又是德纳第妈妈在要求她从六法郎加到十二法郎以后，又强迫她从十二法郎加到十五法郎的那个月。
芳汀窘极了。她不能离开那地方，她还欠了房租和家具费。五十法郎不够了清债务。她吞吞吐吐说了一些求情的话。那女管理员却叫她立刻离开车间。芳汀究竟还只是一个手艺平凡的工人。她受不了那种侮辱，失业还在其次，她只得离开车间，回到自己的住处。她的过失，到现在已是众所周知的了。
她觉得自己连说一个字的勇气都没有。有人劝她去见市长先生，她不敢。市长先生给了她五十法郎，是因为他为人厚道，撵她走是因为他正直。她在这项决定下屈服了”。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 10 Result of the Success
She had been dismissed towards the end of the winter; the summer passed, but winter came again. Short days, less work. Winter: no warmth, no light, no noonday, the evening joining on to the morning, fogs, twilight; the window is gray; it is impossible to see clearly at it. The sky is but a vent-hole. The whole day is a cavern. The sun has the air of a beggar. A frightful season! Winter changes the water of heaven and the heart of man into a stone. Her creditors harrassed her.
Fantine earned too little. Her debts had increased. The Thenardiers, who were not promptly paid, wrote to her constantly letters whose contents drove her to despair, and whose carriage ruined her. One day they wrote to her that her little Cosette was entirely naked in that cold weather, that she needed a woollen skirt, and that her mother must send at least ten francs for this. She received the letter, and crushed it in her hands all day long. That evening she went into a barber's shop at the corner of the street, and pulled out her comb. Her admirable golden hair fell to her knees.
"What splendid hair!" exclaimed the barber.
"How much will you give me for it?" said she.
"Ten francs."
"Cut it off."
She purchased a knitted petticoat and sent it to the Thenardiers. This petticoat made the Thenardiers furious. It was the money that they wanted. They gave the petticoat to Eponine. The poor Lark continued to shiver.
Fantine thought: "My child is no longer cold. I have clothed her with my hair." She put on little round caps which concealed her shorn head, and in which she was still pretty.
Dark thoughts held possession of Fantine's heart.
When she saw that she could no longer dress her hair, she began to hate every one about her. She had long shared the universal veneration for Father Madeleine; yet, by dint of repeating to herself that it was he who had discharged her, that he was the cause of her unhappiness, she came to hate him also, and most of all. When she passed the factory in working hours, when the workpeople were at the door, she affected to laugh and sing.
An old workwoman who once saw her laughing and singing in this fashion said, "There's a girl who will come to a bad end.
She took a lover, the first who offered, a man whom she did not love, out of bravado and with rage in her heart. He was a miserable scamp, a sort of mendicant musician, a lazy beggar, who beat her, and who abandoned her as she had taken him, in disgust.
She adored her child.
The lower she descended, the darker everything grew about her, the more radiant shone that little angel at the bottom of her heart. She said, "When I get rich, I will have my Cosette with me;" and she laughed. Her cough did not leave her, and she had sweats on her back.
One day she received from the Thenardiers a letter couched in the following terms: "Cosette is ill with a malady which is going the rounds of the neighborhood. A miliary fever, they call it. Expensive drugs are required. This is ruining us, and we can no longer pay for them. If you do not send us forty francs before the week is out, the little one will be dead."
She burst out laughing, and said to her old neighbor: "Ah! They are good! Forty francs! the idea! That makes two napoleons! Where do they think I am to get them? These peasants are stupid, truly."
Nevertheless she went to a dormer window in the staircase and read the letter once more. Then she descended the stairs and emerged, running and leaping and still laughing.
Some one met her and said to her, "What makes you so gay?"
She replied: "A fine piece of stupidity that some country people have written to me. They demand forty francs of me. So much for you, you peasants!"
As she crossed the square, she saw a great many people collected around a carriage of eccentric shape, upon the top of which stood a man dressed in red, who was holding forth. He was a quack dentist on his rounds, who was offering to the public full sets of teeth, opiates, powders and elixirs.
Fantine mingled in the group, and began to laugh with the rest at the harangue, which contained slang for the populace and jargon for respectable people. The tooth-puller espied the lovely, laughing girl, and suddenly exclaimed: "You have beautiful teeth, you girl there, who are laughing; if you want to sell me your palettes, I will give you a gold napoleon apiece for them."
"What are my palettes?" asked Fantine.
"The palettes," replied the dental professor, "are the front teeth, the two upper ones."
"How horrible!" exclaimed Fantine.
"Two napoleons!" grumbled a toothless old woman who was present. "Here's a lucky girl!"
Fantine fled and stopped her ears that she might not hear the hoarse voice of the man shouting to her: "Reflect, my beauty! two napoleons; they may prove of service. If your heart bids you, come this evening to the inn of the Tillac d'Argent; you will find me there."
Fantine returned home. She was furious, and related the occurrence to her good neighbor Marguerite: "Can you understand such a thing? Is he not an abominable man? How can they allow such people to go about the country! Pull out my two front teeth! Why, I should be horrible! My hair will grow again, but my teeth! Ah! what a monster of a man! I should prefer to throw myself head first on the pavement from the fifth story! He told me that he should be at the Tillac d'Argent this evening."
"And what did he offer?" asked Marguerite.
"Two napoleons."
"That makes forty francs."
"Yes," said Fantine; "that makes forty francs."
She remained thoughtful, and began her work. At the expiration of a quarter of an hour she left her sewing and went to read the Thenardiers' letter once more on the staircase.
On her return, she said to Marguerite, who was at work beside her:--
"What is a miliary fever? Do you know?"
"Yes," answered the old spinster; "it is a disease."
"Does it require many drugs?"
"Oh! terrible drugs."
"How does one get it?"
"It is a malady that one gets without knowing how."
"Then it attacks children?"
"Children in particular."
"Do people die of it?"
"They may," said Marguerite.
Fantine left the room and went to read her letter once more on the staircase.
That evening she went out, and was seen to turn her steps in the direction of the Rue de Paris, where the inns are situated.
The next morning, when Marguerite entered Fantine's room before daylight,--for they always worked together, and in this manner used only one candle for the two,--she found Fantine seated on her bed, pale and frozen. She had not lain down. Her cap had fallen on her knees. Her candle had burned all night, and was almost entirely consumed. Marguerite halted on the threshold, petrified at this tremendous wastefulness, and exclaimed:--
"Lord! the candle is all burned out! Something has happened."
Then she looked at Fantine, who turned toward her her head bereft of its hair.
Fantine had grown ten years older since the preceding night.
"Jesus!" said Marguerite, "what is the matter with you, Fantine?"
"Nothing," replied Fantine. "Quite the contrary. My child will not die of that frightful malady, for lack of succor. I am content."
So saying, she pointed out to the spinster two napoleons which were glittering on the table.
"Ah! Jesus God!" cried Marguerite. "Why, it is a fortune! Where did you get those louis d'or?"
"I got them," replied Fantine.
At the same time she smiled. The candle illuminated her countenance. It was a bloody smile. A reddish saliva soiled the corners of her lips, and she had a black hole in her mouth.
The two teeth had been extracted.
She sent the forty francs to Montfermeil.
After all it was a ruse of the Thenardiers to obtain money. Cosette was not ill.
Fantine threw her mirror out of the window. She had long since quitted her cell on the second floor for an attic with only a latch to fasten it, next the roof; one of those attics whose extremity forms an angle with the floor, and knocks you on the head every instant. The poor occupant can reach the end of his chamber as he can the end of his destiny, only by bending over more and more.
She had no longer a bed; a rag which she called her coverlet, a mattress on the floor, and a seatless chair still remained. A little rosebush which she had, had dried up, forgotten, in one corner. In the other corner was a butter-pot to hold water, which froze in winter, and in which the various levels of the water remained long marked by these circles of ice. She had lost her shame; she lost her coquetry. A final sign. She went out, with dirty caps. Whether from lack of time or from indifference, she no longer mended her linen. As the heels wore out, she dragged her stockings down into her shoes. This was evident from the perpendicular wrinkles. She patched her bodice, which was old and worn out, with scraps of calico which tore at the slightest movement. The people to whom she was indebted made "scenes" and gave her no peace. She found them in the street, she found them again on her staircase. She passed many a night weeping and thinking. Her eyes were very bright, and she felt a steady pain in her shoulder towards the top of the left shoulder-blade. She coughed a great deal. She deeply hated Father Madeleine, but made no complaint. She sewed seventeen hours a day; but a contractor for the work of prisons, who made the prisoners work at a discount, suddenly made prices fall, which reduced the daily earnings of working-women to nine sous. Seventeen hours of toil, and nine sous a day! Her creditors were more pitiless than ever. The second-hand dealer, who had taken back nearly all his furniture, said to her incessantly, "When will you pay me, you hussy?" What did they want of her, good God! She felt that she was being hunted, and something of the wild beast developed in her. About the same time, Thenardier wrote to her that he had waited with decidedly too much amiability and that he must have a hundred francs at once; otherwise he would turn little Cosette out of doors, convalescent as she was from her heavy illness, into the cold and the streets, and that she might do what she liked with herself, and die if she chose. "A hundred francs," thought Fantine. "But in what trade can one earn a hundred sous a day?"
"Come!" said she, "let us sell what is left."
The unfortunate girl became a woman of the town.
她是在冬季将完时被撵走的。夏季过了，冬季又来。日子短，工作也少些。冬季完全没有热，完全没有光，完全没有中午，紧接着早晨的是夜晚、迷雾、黄昏，窗棂冥黯，什物不辨。天好象是暗室中的透光眼，整日如坐地窖中。太阳也好象是个穷人。愁惨的季节！冬季把天上的水和人的心都变成了冰。她的债主们紧紧催逼她。
芳汀所赚的钱太少了。她的债越背越重。德纳第夫妇没有按时收着钱，便时常写信给她，信的内容使她悲哀，信的要求使她破产。有一天，他们写了一封信给她，说她的小珂赛特在那样冷的天气，还没有一点衣服，她需要一条羊毛裙，母亲应当寄去十个法郎，才能买到。她收到那封信，捏在手里搓了一整天。到了晚上，她走到街角上的一个理发店，取下她的梳子。她那一头令人叹赏的金丝发一直垂到她的腰际。
“好漂亮的头发！”那理发师喊着说。
“您肯出多少钱呢？”她说。
“十法郎。”
“剪吧。”
她买一条绒线编织的裙，寄给了德纳第。
那条裙子把德纳第夫妇弄到怒气冲天。他们要的原是钱。
他们便把裙子给爱潘妮穿。可怜的百灵鸟仍旧临风战栗。
芳汀想道：“我的孩子不会再冷了，我已拿我的头发做她的衣裳。”她自己戴一顶小扁帽，遮住她的光头，她仍旧是美丽的。
芳汀的心里起了一种黯淡的心思。当她看见自己已不能再梳头时，她开始怨恨她四周的一切。她素来是和旁人一样，尊敬马德兰伯伯的，但是，屡次想到撵她走的是他，使她受尽痛苦的也是他，她便连他也恨起来了。并且特别恨他。当工人们立在工厂门口她从那儿经过时，便故意嬉皮笑脸地唱起来。有个年老的女工，一次，看见她那样边唱边笑，说道：“这姑娘不会有好结果的。”
她姘识了一个汉子，一个不相干、她不爱的人，那完全是出自心中的愤懑和存心要胡作非为。那人是一个穷汉，一个流浪音乐师，一个好吃懒做的无赖，他打她，春宵既度，便起了厌恶的心，把她丢了。
她一心钟爱她的孩子。
她越堕落，她四周的一切便越黑暗，那甜美的安琪儿在她心灵深处也就越显得可爱。她常说：“等我发了财，我就可以有我的珂赛特在我身边了。”接着又一阵笑。咳嗽病没有离开她，并且她还盗汗。
一天，她接到德纳第夫妇写来的一封信，信里说：“珂赛特害了一种地方病，叫做猩红热。非有价贵的药不行。这场病把我们的钱都花光了，我们再没有能力付药费了。假使您不在这八天内寄四十法郎来，孩子可完了。”
她放声大笑，向着她的老邻妇说：
“哈！他们真是好人！四十法郎！只要四十法郎！就是两个拿破仑！他们要我到什么地方去找呢？这些乡下人多么蠢！”
但当她走到楼梯上时又拿出那封信，凑近天窗，又念了一遍。
随后，她从楼梯上走下来，向大门外跑，一面跑，一面跳，笑个不停。
有个人碰见她，问她说：
“您有什么事快乐到这种样子？”
她回答说：
“两个乡下佬刚写了一封信给我，和我开玩笑，他们问我要四十法郎。这些乡下佬真行！”
她走过广场，看见许多人围着一辆怪车，车顶上立着一个穿红衣服的人，张牙舞爪，正对着观众们演说。那人是一个兜卖整套牙齿、牙膏、牙粉和药酒的走江湖的牙科医生。
芳汀钻到那堆人里去听演讲，也跟着其余的人笑，他说的话里有江湖话，是说给那些流氓听的，也有俗话，是说给正经人听的。那拔牙的走方郎中见了这个美丽的姑娘张着嘴笑，突然叫起来：
“喂，那位笑嘻嘻的姑娘，您的牙齿真漂亮呀！假使您肯把您的瓷牌卖给我，我每一个出价一个金拿破仑。”
“我的瓷牌？瓷牌是什么？”芳汀问。
“瓷牌，”那位牙科医生回答说，“就是门牙，上排的两个门牙。”
“好吓人！”芳汀大声说。
“两个拿破仑！”旁边的一个没有牙齿的老婆子瘪着嘴说：
“这娘子多大的福气呀！”
芳汀逃走了，扪着自己的耳朵，免得听见那个人的哑嗓子。但是那人仍喊道：“您想想吧，美人！两个拿破仑大有用处呢。假使您愿意，今天晚上，你到银甲板客栈里来，您可以在那里找着我。”
芳汀回到家里，怒不可遏，把经过说给她那好邻居玛格丽特听：“您懂得这种道理吗？那不是个糟糕透顶的人吗？怎么可以让那种人四处走呢？拔掉我的两个门牙！我将变成什么怪样子！头发可以生出来，但是牙齿，呀，那个人妖！我宁肯从六层楼上倒栽葱跳下去！他告诉我说今天晚上，他在银甲板客栈。”
“他出什么价？”玛格丽特问。
“两个拿破仑。”
“就是四十法郎呵。”
“是呀，”芳汀说，“就是四十法郎。”
她出了一会神，跑去工作去了。一刻钟过后，她丢下她的工作，跑到楼梯上又去读德纳第夫妇的那封信。
她转来，向那在她身旁工作的玛格丽特说：
“猩红热是什么东西？您知道吗？”
“我知道，”那个老姑娘回答说，“那是一种病。”
“难道那种病需要很多药吗？”
“呵！需要许多古怪的药。”
“怎么会害那种病的？”
“就这样害的，那种病。”
“孩子也会害那种病吗？”
“孩子最容易害。”
“害了这种病会死吗？”
“很容易。”玛格丽特说。
芳汀走出去，又回到楼梯上，把那封信重念了一遍。
到晚上，她下楼，有人看见她朝着巴黎街走去，那正是有许多客栈的地方。
第二天早晨，天还没亮，玛格丽特走进芳汀的房间（她们每天都这样一同工作，两个人共点一支烛），她看见芳汀坐在床上，面色惨白，冻僵了似的。她还没有睡。她的小圆帽落在膝头上。那支烛点了一整夜，几乎点完了。
玛格丽特停在门边。她见了那种乱七八糟的样子，大惊失色，喊道：
“救主！这支烛点完了！一定出了大事情！”
随后她看见芳汀把她的光头转过来向着她。
芳汀一夜工夫老了十岁。
“耶稣！”玛格丽特说，“您出了什么事，芳汀？”
“没有什么，”芳汀回答说。“这样正好。我的孩子不会死了，那种病，吓坏我了，现在她有救了。我也放了心。”
她一面说，一面指着桌子，把那两个发亮的拿破仑指给那老姑娘看。
“呀，耶稣上帝！”玛格丽特说，“这是一笔横财呵！您从什么地方找到这些金路易的？”
“我弄到手了。”芳汀回答。
同时她微笑着。那支烛正照着她的面孔。那是一种血迹模糊的笑容。一条红口涎挂在她的嘴角上，嘴里一个黑窟窿。
那两颗牙被拔掉了。
她把那四十法郎寄到孟费郿去了。
那却是德纳第夫妇谋财的骗局，珂赛特并没有害病。
芳汀把她的镜子丢到窗子外面。她早已放弃了二楼上的那间小屋子，搬到房顶下的一间用木闩拴着的破楼里去了；有许多房顶下的屋子，顶和地板相交成斜角，并且时时会撞你的头，她的房间便是那样的一间。贫苦人要走到他屋子的尽头，正如他要走到生命的尽头，都非逐渐弯腰不可。她没有床了，只留下一块破布，那便是她的被，地上一条草荐，一把破麦秸椅。她从前养的那棵小玫瑰花，已在屋角里枯萎了，没有人再想到它。在另一屋角里，有个用来盛水的奶油钵，冬天水结了冰，层层冰圈标志着高低的水面，放在那里已经很久了。她早已不怕人耻笑，现在连修饰的心思也没有了。最后的表现，是她常戴着肮脏的小帽上街。也许是没有时间，也许是不经意，她不再缝补她的衣衫了。袜跟破了便拉到鞋子里去，越破便越拉。这可以从那些垂直的折皱上看出来。她用许多一触即裂的零碎竹布拼在她那件破旧的汗衫上。她的债主们和她吵闹不休，使她没有片刻的休息。她在街上时常碰见他们，在她的楼梯上又会时常碰见他们。她常常整夜哭，整夜地想，她的眼睛亮得出奇。并且觉得在左肩胛骨上方的肩膀时常作痛。她时时咳嗽。她恨透了马德兰伯伯，但是不出怨言。她每天缝十七个钟头，但是一个以贱值包揽女囚工作的包工，忽然压低了工资，于是工作不固定女工的每日工资也减到了九个苏。十七个钟头的工作每天九个苏！她的债主们的狠心更是变本加厉。那个几乎把全部家具拿走了的旧货商人不停地向她说：“几时付我钱，贱货？”人家究竟要她怎么样，慈悲的上帝？她觉得自己已无路可走，于是在她心里便起了一种困兽的心情。正当这时，德纳第又有信给她，说他等了许久，已是仁至义尽了，他立刻要一百法郎，否则他就把那小珂赛特撵出去，她大病以后，刚刚复原，他们管不了天有多冷，路有多远，也只好让她去，假使她愿意，死在路边就是了。“一百法郎！”芳汀想道，“但是哪里有每天赚五个法郎的机会呢？”
“管他妈的！”她说，“全卖了吧。”
那苦命人作了公娼。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 11 Christus nos Liberavit
What is this history of Fantine? It is society purchasing a slave.
From whom? From misery.
From hunger, cold, isolation, destitution. A dolorous bargain. A soul for a morsel of bread. Misery offers; society accepts.
The sacred law of Jesus Christ governs our civilization, but it does not, as yet, permeate it; it is said that slavery has disappeared from European civilization. This is a mistake. It still exists; but it weighs only upon the woman, and it is called prostitution.
It weighs upon the woman, that is to say, upon grace, weakness, beauty, maternity. This is not one of the least of man's disgraces.
At the point in this melancholy drama which we have now reached, nothing is left to Fantine of that which she had formerly been.
She has become marble in becoming mire. Whoever touches her feels cold. She passes; she endures you; she ignores you; she is the severe and dishonored figure. Life and the social order have said their last word for her. All has happened to her that will happen to her. She has felt everything, borne everything, experienced everything, suffered everything, lost everything, mourned everything. She is resigned, with that resignation which resembles indifference, as death resembles sleep. She no longer avoids anything. Let all the clouds fall upon her, and all the ocean sweep over her! What matters it to her? She is a sponge that is soaked.
At least, she believes it to be so; but it is an error to imagine that fate can be exhausted, and that one has reached the bottom of anything whatever.
Alas! What are all these fates, driven on pell-mell? Whither are they going? Why are they thus?
He who knows that sees the whole of the shadow.
He is alone. His name is God.
芳汀的故事说明什么呢？说明社会收买了一个奴隶。
向谁收买？向贫苦收买。
向饥寒、孤独、遗弃、贫困收买。令人痛心的买卖。一个人的灵魂交换一块面包。贫苦卖出，社会买进。
耶稣基督的神圣法则统治着我们的文明，但是没有渗透到文明里去。一般人认为在欧洲的文明里已没有奴隶制度。这是一种误解。奴隶制度始终存在，不过只压迫妇女罢了，那便是娼妓制度。
它压迫妇女，就是说压迫柔情，压迫弱质，压迫美貌，压迫母性。这在男子方面绝不是什么微不足道的耻辱。
当这惨剧发展到了现阶段，芳汀已完全不是从前那个人了。她在变成污泥的同时，变成了木石。接触到她的人都感觉得到一股冷气。她以身事人，任你摆布，不问你是什么人，她满脸屈辱和怨愤。生活和社会秩序对她已经下了结论。她已经受到她要受到的一切。她已经感受了一切，容忍了一切，体会了一切，放弃了一切，失去了一切，痛哭过一切。她忍让，她那种忍让之类似冷漠，正如死亡之类似睡眠。她不再逃避什么，也不再怕什么。即使满天的雨水都落在她头上，整个海洋都倾泻在她身上，对她也没有什么关系！她已是一块浸满了水的海绵。
至少她是那么想的，但是如果自以为已经受尽命中的折磨，自以为已经走到什么东西的尽头，那可就想错了。
唉！那种凌乱杂沓、横遭蹂躏的生灵算什么呢？他们的归宿在哪里？为什么会那样？
能够回答这些问题的，他就会看透人间的黑暗。
他是惟一的。他叫做上帝。
Part 1 Book 5 Chapter 13 The Solution of Some Questions connected with the Municipal Police
Javert thrust aside the spectators, broke the circle, and set out with long strides towards the police station, which is situated at the extremity of the square, dragging the wretched woman after him. She yielded mechanically. Neither he nor she uttered a word. The cloud of spectators followed, jesting, in a paroxysm of delight. Supreme misery an occasion for obscenity.
On arriving at the police station, which was a low room, warmed by a stove, with a glazed and grated door opening on the street, and guarded by a detachment, Javert opened the door, entered with Fantine, and shut the door behind him, to the great disappointment of the curious, who raised themselves on tiptoe, and craned their necks in front of the thick glass of the station-house, in their effort to see. Curiosity is a sort of gluttony. To see is to devour.
On entering, Fantine fell down in a corner, motionless and mute, crouching down like a terrified dog.
The sergeant of the guard brought a lighted candle to the table. Javert seated himself, drew a sheet of stamped paper from his pocket, and began to write.
This class of women is consigned by our laws entirely to the discretion of the police. The latter do what they please, punish them, as seems good to them, and confiscate at their will those two sorry things which they entitle their industry and their liberty. Javert was impassive; his grave face betrayed no emotion whatever. Nevertheless, he was seriously and deeply preoccupied. It was one of those moments when he was exercising without control, but subject to all the scruples of a severe conscience, his redoubtable discretionary power. At that moment he was conscious that his police agent's stool was a tribunal. He was entering judgment. He judged and condemned. He summoned all the ideas which could possibly exist in his mind, around the great thing which he was doing. The more he examined the deed of this woman, the more shocked he felt. It was evident that he had just witnessed the commission of a crime. He had just beheld, yonder, in the street, society, in the person of a freeholder and an elector, insulted and attacked by a creature who was outside all pales. A prostitute had made an attempt on the life of a citizen. He had seen that, he, Javert. He wrote in silence.
When he had finished he signed the paper, folded it, and said to the sergeant of the guard, as he handed it to him, "Take three men and conduct this creature to jail."
Then, turning to Fantine, "You are to have six months of it." The unhappy woman shuddered.
"Six months! six months of prison!" she exclaimed. "Six months in which to earn seven sous a day! But what will become of Cosette? My daughter! my daughter! But I still owe the Thenardiers over a hundred francs; do you know that, Monsieur Inspector?"
She dragged herself across the damp floor, among the muddy boots of all those men, without rising, with clasped hands, and taking great strides on her knees.
"Monsieur Javert," said she, "I beseech your mercy. I assure you that I was not in the wrong. If you had seen the beginning, you would have seen. I swear to you by the good God that I was not to blame! That gentleman, the bourgeois, whom I do not know, put snow in my back. Has any one the right to put snow down our backs when we are walking along peaceably, and doing no harm to any one? I am rather ill, as you see. And then, he had been saying impertinent things to me for a long time: `You are ugly! you have no teeth!' I know well that I have no longer those teeth. I did nothing; I said to myself, `The gentleman is amusing himself.' I was honest with him; I did not speak to him. It was at that moment that he put the snow down my back. Monsieur Javert, good Monsieur Inspector! is there not some person here who saw it and can tell you that this is quite true? Perhaps I did wrong to get angry. You know that one is not master of one's self at the first moment. One gives way to vivacity; and then, when some one puts something cold down your back just when you are not expecting it! I did wrong to spoil that gentleman's hat. Why did he go away? I would ask his pardon. Oh, my God! It makes no difference to me whether I ask his pardon. Do me the favor to-day, for this once, Monsieur Javert. Hold! you do not know that in prison one can earn only seven sous a day; it is not the government's fault, but seven sous is one's earnings; and just fancy, I must pay one hundred francs, or my little girl will be sent to me. Oh, my God! I cannot have her with me. What I do is so vile! Oh, my Cosette! Oh, my little angel of the Holy Virgin! what will become of her, poor creature? I will tell you: it is the Thenardiers, inn-keepers, peasants; and such people are unreasonable. They want money. Don't put me in prison! You see, there is a little girl who will be turned out into the street to get along as best she may, in the very heart of the winter; and you must have pity on such a being, my good Monsieur Javert. If she were older, she might earn her living; but it cannot be done at that age. I am not a bad woman at bottom. It is not cowardliness and gluttony that have made me what I am. If I have drunk brandy, it was out of misery. I do not love it; but it benumbs the senses. When I was happy, it was only necessary to glance into my closets, and it would have been evident that I was not a coquettish and untidy woman. I had linen, a great deal of linen. Have pity on me, Monsieur Javert!"
She spoke thus, rent in twain, shaken with sobs, blinded with tears, her neck bare, wringing her hands, and coughing with a dry, short cough, stammering softly with a voice of agony. Great sorrow is a divine and terrible ray, which transfigures the unhappy. At that moment Fantine had become beautiful once more. From time to time she paused, and tenderly kissed the police agent's coat. She would have softened a heart of granite; but a heart of wood cannot be softened.
"Come!" said Javert, "I have heard you out. Have you entirely finished? You will get six months. Now march! The Eternal Father in person could do nothing more."
At these solemn words, "the Eternal Father in person could do nothing more," she understood that her fate was sealed. She sank down, murmuring, "Mercy!"
Javert turned his back.
The soldiers seized her by the arms.
A few moments earlier a man had entered, but no one had paid any heed to him. He shut the door, leaned his back against it, and listened to Fantine's despairing supplications.
At the instant when the soldiers laid their hands upon the unfortunate woman, who would not rise, he emerged from the shadow, and said:--
"One moment, if you please."
Javert raised his eyes and recognized M. Madeleine. He removed his hat, and, saluting him with a sort of aggrieved awkwardness:--
"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor--"
The words "Mr. Mayor" produced a curious effect upon Fantine. She rose to her feet with one bound, like a spectre springing from the earth, thrust aside the soldiers with both arms, walked straight up to M. Madeleine before any one could prevent her, and gazing intently at him, with a bewildered air, she cried:--
"Ah! so it is you who are M. le Maire!"
Then she burst into a laugh, and spit in his face.
M. Madeleine wiped his face, and said:--
"Inspector Javert, set this woman at liberty."
Javert felt that he was on the verge of going mad. He experienced at that moment, blow upon blow and almost simultaneously, the most violent emotions which he had ever undergone in all his life. To see a woman of the town spit in the mayor's face was a thing so monstrous that, in his most daring flights of fancy, he would have regarded it as a sacrilege to believe it possible. On the other hand, at the very bottom of his thought, he made a hideous comparison as to what this woman was, and as to what this mayor might be; and then he, with horror, caught a glimpse of I know not what simple explanation of this prodigious attack. But when he beheld that mayor, that magistrate, calmly wipe his face and say, "Set this woman at liberty," he underwent a sort of intoxication of amazement; thought and word failed him equally; the sum total of possible astonishment had been exceeded in his case. He remained mute.
The words had produced no less strange an effect on Fantine. She raised her bare arm, and clung to the damper of the stove, like a person who is reeling. Nevertheless, she glanced about her, and began to speak in a low voice, as though talking to herself:--
"At liberty! I am to be allowed to go! I am not to go to prison for six months! Who said that? It is not possible that any one could have said that. I did not hear aright. It cannot have been that monster of a mayor! Was it you, my good Monsieur Javert, who said that I was to be set free? Oh, see here! I will tell you about it, and you will let me go. That monster of a mayor, that old blackguard of a mayor, is the cause of all. Just imagine, Monsieur Javert, he turned me out! all because of a pack of rascally women, who gossip in the workroom. If that is not a horror, what is? To dismiss a poor girl who is doing her work honestly! Then I could no longer earn enough, and all this misery followed. In the first place, there is one improvement which these gentlemen of the police ought to make, and that is, to prevent prison contractors from wronging poor people. I will explain it to you, you see: you are earning twelve sous at shirt-making, the price falls to nine sous; and it is not enough to live on. Then one has to become whatever one can. As for me, I had my little Cosette, and I was actually forced to become a bad woman. Now you understand how it is that that blackguard of a mayor caused all the mischief. After that I stamped on that gentleman's hat in front of the officers' cafe; but he had spoiled my whole dress with snow. We women have but one silk dress for evening wear. You see that I did not do wrong deliberately--truly, Monsieur Javert; and everywhere I behold women who are far more wicked than I, and who are much happier. O Monsieur Javert! it was you who gave orders that I am to be set free, was it not? Make inquiries, speak to my landlord; I am paying my rent now; they will tell you that I am perfectly honest. Ah! my God! I beg your pardon; I have unintentionally touched the damper of the stove, and it has made it smoke."
M. Madeleine listened to her with profound attention. While she was speaking, he fumbled in his waistcoat, drew out his purse and opened it. It was empty. He put it back in his pocket. He said to Fantine, "How much did you say that you owed?"
Fantine, who was looking at Javert only, turned towards him:--
"Was I speaking to you?"
Then, addressing the soldiers:--
"Say, you fellows, did you see how I spit in his face? Ah! you old wretch of a mayor, you came here to frighten me, but I'm not afraid of you. I am afraid of Monsieur Javert. I am afraid of my good Monsieur Javert!"
So saying, she turned to the inspector again:--
"And yet, you see, Mr. Inspector, it is necessary to be just. I understand that you are just, Mr. Inspector; in fact, it is perfectly simple: a man amuses himself by putting snow down a woman's back, and that makes the officers laugh; one must divert themselves in some way; and we--well, we are here for them to amuse themselves with, of course! And then, you, you come; you are certainly obliged to preserve order, you lead off the woman who is in the wrong; but on reflection, since you are a good man, you say that I am to be set at liberty; it is for the sake of the little one, for six months in prison would prevent my supporting my child. `Only, don't do it again, you hussy!' Oh! I won't do it again, Monsieur Javert! They may do whatever they please to me now; I will not stir. But to-day, you see, I cried because it hurt me. I was not expecting that snow from the gentleman at all; and then as I told you, I am not well; I have a cough; I seem to have a burning ball in my stomach, and the doctor tells me, `Take care of yourself.' Here, feel, give me your hand; don't be afraid-- it is here."
She no longer wept, her voice was caressing; she placed Javert's coarse hand on her delicate, white throat and looked smilingly at him.
All at once she rapidly adjusted her disordered garments, dropped the folds of her skirt, which had been pushed up as she dragged herself along, almost to the height of her knee, and stepped towards the door, saying to the soldiers in a low voice, and with a friendly nod:--
"Children, Monsieur l'Inspecteur has said that I am to be released, and I am going."
She laid her hand on the latch of the door. One step more and she would be in the street.
Javert up to that moment had remained erect, motionless, with his eyes fixed on the ground, cast athwart this scene like some displaced statue, which is waiting to be put away somewhere.
The sound of the latch roused him. He raised his head with an expression of sovereign authority, an expression all the more alarming in proportion as the authority rests on a low level, ferocious in the wild beast, atrocious in the man of no estate.
"Sergeant!" he cried, "don't you see that that jade is walking off! Who bade you let her go?"
"I," said Madeleine.
Fantine trembled at the sound of Javert's voice, and let go of the latch as a thief relinquishes the article which he has stolen. At the sound of Madeleine's voice she turned around, and from that moment forth she uttered no word, nor dared so much as to breathe freely, but her glance strayed from Madeleine to Javert, and from Javert to Madeleine in turn, according to which was speaking.
It was evident that Javert must have been exasperated beyond measure before he would permit himself to apostrophize the sergeant as he had done, after the mayor's suggestion that Fantine should be set at liberty. Had he reached the point of forgetting the mayor's presence? Had he finally declared to himself that it was impossible that any "authority" should have given such an order, and that the mayor must certainly have said one thing by mistake for another, without intending it? Or, in view of the enormities of which he had been a witness for the past two hours, did he say to himself, that it was necessary to recur to supreme resolutions, that it was indispensable that the small should be made great, that the police spy should transform himself into a magistrate, that the policeman should become a dispenser of justice, and that, in this prodigious extremity, order, law, morality, government, society in its entirety, was personified in him, Javert?
However that may be, when M. Madeleine uttered that word, _I_, as we have just heard, Police Inspector Javert was seen to turn toward the mayor, pale, cold, with blue lips, and a look of despair, his whole body agitated by an imperceptible quiver and an unprecedented occurrence, and say to him, with downcast eyes but a firm voice:--
"Mr. Mayor, that cannot be."
"Why not?" said M. Madeleine.
"This miserable woman has insulted a citizen."
"Inspector Javert," replied the mayor, in a calm and conciliating tone, "listen. You are an honest man, and I feel no hesitation in explaining matters to you. Here is the true state of the case: I was passing through the square just as you were leading this woman away; there were still groups of people standing about, and I made inquiries and learned everything; it was the townsman who was in the wrong and who should have been arrested by properly conducted police."
Javert retorted:--
"This wretch has just insulted Monsieur le Maire."
"That concerns me," said M. Madeleine. "My own insult belongs to me, I think. I can do what I please about it."
"I beg Monsieur le Maire's pardon. The insult is not to him but to the law."
"Inspector Javert," replied M. Madeleine, "the highest law is conscience. I have heard this woman; I know what I am doing."
"And I, Mr. Mayor, do not know what I see."
"Then content yourself with obeying."
"I am obeying my duty. My duty demands that this woman shall serve six months in prison."
M. Madeleine replied gently:--
"Heed this well; she will not serve a single day."
At this decisive word, Javert ventured to fix a searching look on the mayor and to say, but in a tone of voice that was still profoundly respectful:--
"I am sorry to oppose Monsieur le Maire; it is for the first time in my life, but he will permit me to remark that I am within the bounds of my authority. I confine myself, since Monsieur le Maire desires it, to the question of the gentleman. I was present. This woman flung herself on Monsieur Bamatabnois, who is an elector and the proprietor of that handsome house with a balcony, which forms the corner of the esplanade, three stories high and entirely of cut stone. Such things as there are in the world! In any case, Monsieur le Maire, this is a question of police regulations in the streets, and concerns me, and I shall detain this woman Fantine."
Then M. Madeleine folded his arms, and said in a severe voice which no one in the town had heard hitherto:--
"The matter to which you refer is one connected with the municipal police. According to the terms of articles nine, eleven, fifteen, and sixty-six of the code of criminal examination, I am the judge. I order that this woman shall be set at liberty."
Javert ventured to make a final effort.
"But, Mr. Mayor--"
"I refer you to article eighty-one of the law of the 13th of December, 1799, in regard to arbitrary detention."
"Monsieur le Maire, permit me--"
"Not another word."
"But--"
"Leave the room," said M. Madeleine.
Javert received the blow erect, full in the face, in his breast, like a Russian soldier. He bowed to the very earth before the mayor and left the room.
Fantine stood aside from the door and stared at him in amazement as he passed.
Nevertheless, she also was the prey to a strange confusion. She had just seen herself a subject of dispute between two opposing powers. She had seen two men who held in their hands her liberty, her life, her soul, her child, in combat before her very eyes; one of these men was drawing her towards darkness, the other was leading her back towards the light. In this conflict, viewed through the exaggerations of terror, these two men had appeared to her like two giants; the one spoke like her demon, the other like her good angel. The angel had conquered the demon, and, strange to say, that which made her shudder from head to foot was the fact that this angel, this liberator, was the very man whom she abhorred, that mayor whom she had so long regarded as the author of all her woes, that Madeleine! And at the very moment when she had insulted him in so hideous a fashion, he had saved her! Had she, then, been mistaken? Must she change her whole soul? She did not know; she trembled. She listened in bewilderment, she looked on in affright, and at every word uttered by M. Madeleine she felt the frightful shades of hatred crumble and melt within her, and something warm and ineffable, indescribable, which was both joy, confidence and love, dawn in her heart.
When Javert had taken his departure, M. Madeleine turned to her and said to her in a deliberate voice, like a serious man who does not wish to weep and who finds some difficulty in speaking:--
"I have heard you. I knew nothing about what you have mentioned. I believe that it is true, and I feel that it is true. I was even ignorant of the fact that you had left my shop. Why did you not apply to me? But here; I will pay your debts, I will send for your child, or you shall go to her. You shall live here, in Paris, or where you please. I undertake the care of your child and yourself. You shall not work any longer if you do not like. I will give all the money you require. You shall be honest and happy once more. And listen! I declare to you that if all is as you say,--and I do not doubt it,-- you have never ceased to be virtuous and holy in the sight of God. Oh! poor woman."
This was more than Fantine could bear. To have Cosette! To leave this life of infamy. To live free, rich, happy, respectable with Cosette; to see all these realities of paradise blossom of a sudden in the midst of her misery. She stared stupidly at this man who was talking to her, and could only give vent to two or three sobs, "Oh! Oh! Oh!"
Her limbs gave way beneath her, she knelt in front of M. Madeleine, and before he could prevent her he felt her grasp his hand and press her lips to it.
Then she fainted.
沙威分开观众，突出人墙，拖着他后面的那个苦命人，大踏步走向广场那边的警署。她机械地任人处置。他和她都没说一句话。一大群观众，乐到发狂，嘴里胡言乱语，都跟着走。
最大的不幸，是她听到了一大堆肮脏的话。
警署的办公室是一间矮厅，里面有一炉火，有个岗警在看守，还有一扇临街的铁栏玻璃门，沙威走到那里，开了门，和芳汀一道走进去，随后把门关上，使那些好奇的人们大失所望，他们仍旧拥在警署门口那块因保安警察挡着而看不清的玻璃前面，翘足引颈，想看个究竟。好奇是一种食欲。看，便是吞吃。
芳汀进门以后，走去坐在墙角里，不动也不说话，缩成一团，好象一条害怕的母狗。
那警署里的中士拿来一支燃着的烛放在桌上。沙威坐下，从衣袋里抽出一张公文纸，开始写起来。
这样的妇女已由我们的法律交给警察全权处理了。警察对于这类妇女可以任意处罚，为所欲为，并且可以随意褫夺她们所谓的职业和自由那两件不幸的东西。沙威是铁面无情的，他严厉的面容，绝不露一点慌张的颜色。他只是在深沉地运用心思。这正是他独当一面、执行他那种骇人的专断大权的时候，他总是用那种硬心肠的苛刻态度来处理一切。这时他觉得，他的那张警察专用的小凳就是公堂，他斟酌又斟酌，然后下判语。他尽其所能，围绕着他所办的那件大事，搜索他脑子里所有的全部思想。他越考虑那个妓女所作的事就越觉得自己怒不可遏。他刚才看见的明明是桩大罪。他刚才看见，那儿，在街上，一个有财产和选举权的公民所代表的社会，被一个什么也不容的畜生所侮辱、所冲犯了。一个娼妓竟敢冒犯一个绅士。他，沙威，他目击了那样一件事，他一声不响，只管写。
他写完时签上了名，把那张纸折起来，交给那中士，向他说：“带三个人，把这婊子押到牢里去。”随又转向芳汀说：“判你六个月的监禁。”
那苦恼的妇人大吃一惊。
“六个月！六个月的监牢！”她号着说。“六个月，每天赚七个苏！那，珂赛特将怎么办？我的娃娃！我的娃娃！并且我还欠德纳第家一百多法郎，侦察员先生，您知道这个吗？”
她跪在石板上，在众人的靴子所留下的泥浆中，合拢双手，用膝头大步往前拖。
“沙威先生！”她说，“我求您开恩。我担保，我确实没有错处。假使您一开头就看见这件事，您就明白了。我在慈悲的上帝面前发誓，我没有犯错误。是那位老板先生，我又不认识他，他把雪塞在我的背上。难道我们那样好好地走着，一点也没有惹人家，人家倒有把雪塞在我们背上的道理吗？我吓了一跳。我原有一点病，您知道吗？并且他向我罗嗦了好些时候。‘你丑！’‘你没有牙齿！’我早知道我没有牙齿。我并没有做什么。我心里想：‘这位先生寻开心。’我对他规规矩矩，我没有和他说话。他在那样一刹那间把雪塞在我的背上。沙威先生，我的好侦察员先生！难道这儿就没有一个人看见过当时的经过来向您说这是真话吗？我生了气，那也许不应当。您知道在开始做这种生意时是不容易控制自己的。我太冒失了。并且，一把那样冷的东西，乘你不备，塞在你的背上！我不应当弄坏那位先生的帽子。他为什么走了呢？他如果在这里，我会求他饶恕的。唉！我的上帝，求他饶恕，我毫不在乎。今天这一次请您开了恩吧，沙威先生。呵，您不知道这个，在监牢里，每天只能赚七个苏，那不是政府的错处，但是每天只有七个苏，并且请您想想，我有一百法郎要付，不付的话，人家就会把我的小女儿送回来。唉！我的上帝，我不能带她在身边，我做的事多么可耻呵！我的珂赛特，呵，我的慈悲圣母的小天使，她怎么办呢？可怜的小宝贝！我要和您说，德纳第那种开客店的，那种乡下人，是没有道理可讲的。他们非要钱不行。请不要把我关在牢里！请您想想，那是一个小娃娃，他们会在这种最冷的冬天把她丢在大路上，让她去；我的好沙威先生，您对这种事应当可怜可怜呀。假使她大一点，她也可以谋生，可是在她那种年纪，她做不到。老实说，我并不是个坏女人，并不是好吃懒做使我到了这种地步。我喝了酒，那是因为我心里难受。我并不贪喝，但是酒会把人弄糊涂的。从前当我比较快乐时，别人只消看看我的衣柜，一眼就会明白我并不是个污七八糟爱俏的女人。我从前有过换洗衣裳，许多换洗衣裳。可怜可怜我吧，沙威先生！”
她那样弯着身子述说苦情，泪眼昏花，敞着胸，绞着手，干促地咳嗽，低声下气，形同垂死的人。深沉的痛苦是转变穷苦人容貌的一种威猛的神光。当时芳汀忽然变美了。有那么一会儿，她停下来，轻轻地吻着那探子礼服的下摆。一颗石心也会被她说软的，但一颗木头的心是软化不了的。
“好！”沙威说，“你说的我已经听见了。你说完了没有？走吧，现在。你有你的六个月，永生的天父亲自到来也没有办法。”
听见了那种威严的句子“永生的天父亲自到来也没有办法”时，她知道这次的判决是无可挽回的了。她垂头丧气、声嘶喉哽地说：
“开恩呀！”
沙威把背对着她。
兵士们捉住了她的胳膊。
几分钟以前，已有一个人在众人不知不觉之间进来了，他关好门，靠在门上，听到了芳汀的哀求。
正当兵士们把手放在那不肯起立的倒霉妇人身上，他上前一步，从黑影里钻出来说：“请你们等一会！”
沙威抬起眼睛，看见了马德兰先生。他脱下帽子，带着一种不自在的怒容向他致敬：
“失礼了，市长先生……”
市长先生这几个字给了芳汀一种奇特的感觉。她好象从地里跳起的僵尸一样，猛地一下直立起来，张开两臂，把那些士兵推向两旁，他们还没来得及阻挡她，她已直向马德兰先生走去，疯人似的，盯住他喊道：
“哈！市长先生，原来就是你这小子！”
随着，她放声大笑，一口唾沫吐在他脸上。
马德兰先生揩揩脸，说道：
“侦察员沙威，释放这个妇人。”
沙威这时觉得自己要疯了。他在这一刹那间，接二连三，并且几乎是连成一气地感受到他生平从未有过的强烈冲动。看见一个公娼唾市长的面，这种事在他的想象中确是已经荒谬到了无法想象的地步，即使只偶起一念，认为那是可能发生的事，那已可算是犯了大不敬的罪。另一方面，在他思想深处，他已把那妇人的身份和那市长的人格连系起来，起了一种可怕的胡思乱想，因而那种怪诞的罪行的根源，在他看来，又是十分简单的，他想到此地，无比憎恨。同时他看见那位市长，那位长官，平心静气地揩着脸，还说“释放这个妇人”，他简直吓得有点头昏眼花；他脑子不能再想，嘴也不能再动了，那种惊骇已超出他可能接受的限度，他一言不发地立着。
芳汀听了那句话也同样惊骇。她举起她赤裸的胳膊，握紧了那火炉的钮门，好象一个要昏倒的人。同时，她四面望望，又低声地好象自言自语地说起话来。
“释放！让我走！我不去坐六个月的牢！这是谁说出来的？说出这样的话是不可能的。我听错了。一定不会是那鬼市长说的！是您吧，我的好沙威先生，是您要把我放走吧？呵！您瞧！让我告诉您，您就会让我走的。这个鬼市长，这个老流氓市长是一切的祸根。您想想吧，沙威先生，他听了那厂里一些胡说八道的娼妇的话，把我撵了出来。那还不算混蛋！把一个做工做得好好的穷女人撵出去！从那以后，我赚的钱就不够了，一切苦恼也都来了。警署里的先生们本有一件理应改良的事，就是应当禁止监牢里的那些包工来害穷人吃苦。我来向您把这件事说清楚，您听吧。您本来做衬衫，每天赚十二个苏，忽然减到了九个，再也没有办法活下去了。我们总得找出路，我，我有我的小珂赛特，我是被逼得太厉害了才当娼妓的。您现在懂得害人的就是那个害人的忘八市长。我还要说，我在军官咖啡馆的前面踏坏了那位先生的帽子。不过他呢，他拿着雪把我一身衣服全弄坏了。我们这种人，只有一件绸子衣服，特为晚上穿的。您瞧，我从没有故意害过人，确是这样，沙威先生，并且我处处都看见许多女人，她们都比我坏，又都比我快乐。呵，沙威先生，是您说了把我放出去，不是吗？您去查吧，您去问我的房东吧，现在我已按期付房租了，他们自然会告诉您我是老实人。呀！我的上帝。请您原谅，我不留心碰了火炉的钮门，弄到冒烟了。”
马德兰先生全神贯注地听着她的话，正当她说时，他搜了一回背心，掏出他的钱袋，打开来看。它是空的，他又把它插进衣袋，向芳汀说：
“您说您欠人多少钱呀？”
芳汀原只望着沙威，她回转头向着他：
“我是在和你说话吗？”
随后，她又向那些警察说：
“喂，你们这些人看见我怎样把口水吐在他脸上吗？嘿！老奸贼市长，你到此地来吓我，但是我不怕你。我只怕沙威先生。
我只怕我的好沙威先生！”
这样说着，她又转过去朝着那位侦察员。
“既是这样，您瞧，侦察员先生，就应当公平，我知道您是公平的，侦察员先生。老实说，事情是极简单的，一个人闹着玩儿，把一点点雪放到一个女人的背上，这样可以逗那些军官们笑笑，人总应当寻点东西开开心，我们这些东西本来就是给人开心的，有什么稀奇！随后，您，您来了，您自然应当维持秩序，您把那个犯错误的妇人带走，但是，仔细想来，您多么好，您说释放我，那一定是为了那小女孩，因为六个月的监牢，我就不能养活我的孩子了。不过，不好再闹事了呀，贱婆！呵！我不会再闹事了，沙威先生！从今以后，人家可以随便作弄我，我总不会乱动了。只是今天，您知道，我叫了一声，因为那东西使我太受不了，我一点没有防备那位先生的雪，并且，我已向您说过，我的身体不大好，我咳嗽，我的胃里好象有块滚烫的东西，医生吩咐过‘好好保养。’瞧，您摸摸，把您的手伸出来，不用害怕，就是这儿。”
她已不哭了，她的声音是娓娓动听的，她把沙威那只大而粗的手压在她那白嫩的胸脯上，笑眯眯地望着他。
忽然，她急忙整理她身上零乱的衣服，把弄皱了的地方扯平，因为那衣服，当她在地上跪着走时，几乎被拉到膝头上来了。她朝着大门走去，向那些士兵和颜悦色地点着头，柔声说道：
“孩子们，侦察员说过了，放我走，我走了。”
她把手放在门闩上。再走一步，她便到了街上。
沙威一直立着没有动，眼睛望着地，他在这一场合处于一种极不适合的地位，好象一座曾被人移动、正待安置的塑像。
门闩的声音惊醒了他。他抬起头，露出一副俨然不可侵犯的表情，那种表情越是出自职位卑下的人就越加显得可怕，在猛兽的脸上显得凶恶，在下流人的脸上就显得残暴。“中士，”他吼道，“你没看见那骚货要走！谁吩咐了你让她走？”
“我。”马德兰说。
芳汀听了沙威的声音，抖起来了，连忙丢了门闩，好象一个被擒的小偷丢下赃物似的。听了马德兰的声音，她转过来，从这时起，她一字不吐，连呼吸也不敢放肆，目光轮流地从马德兰望到沙威，又从沙威望到马德兰，谁说话，她便望着谁。当然，沙威必须是象我们常说的那样，到了“怒气冲天”才敢在市长有了释放芳汀的指示后还象刚才那样冲撞那中士。难道他竟忘了市长在场吗？难道他在思考之后认为一个“领导”不可能作出那样一种指示吗？难道他认为市长先生之所以支持那个女人，是一种言不由衷的表现吗？或者在这两个钟头里他亲自见到的这桩大事面前，他认为必须抱定最后决心，使小人物变成大人物，使士兵变成官长，使警察变成法官，并在这种非常急迫的场合里，所有秩序、法律、道德、政权、整个社会，都必须由他沙威一个人来体现吗？
总而言之，当马德兰先生说了刚才大家听到的那个“我”字以后，侦察员沙威便转身向着市长先生，面色发青，嘴唇发紫，形容冷峻，目光凶顽，浑身有着一种不可察觉的战栗，并且说也奇怪，他眼睛朝下，但是语气坚决：
“市长先生，那不行。”
“怎样？”马德兰先生说。
“这背时女人侮辱了一位绅士。”
“侦察员沙威，”马德兰先生用一种委婉平和的口音回答说，“听我说。您是个诚实人，不难向您解释清楚。实际情形是这样的。刚才您把这妇人带走时，我正走过那广场，当时也还有成群的人在场，我进行了调查，我全知道了，错的是那位绅士，应当拿他，才合警察公正的精神。”
沙威回答说：
“这贱人刚才侮辱了市长先生。”
“那是我的事，”马德兰先生说，“我想我受的侮辱应当是属于我的，我可以照自己的意见处理。”
“我请市长先生原谅。他受的侮辱并不是属于他的，而是属于法律的。”
“侦察员沙威，”马德兰先生回答说，“最高的法律是良心。
我听了这妇人的谈话。我明白我做的事。”
“但是我，市长先生，我不明白我见到的事。”
“那么，您服从就是。”
“我服从我的职责。我的职责要求这个妇人坐六个月的监。”
马德兰先生和颜悦色地回答说：
“请听清楚这一点。她一天也不会坐。”
沙威听了那句坚决的话，竟敢定睛注视市长，并且和他辩，但是他说话的声音始终是极其恭敬的：
“我和市长先生拌嘴，衷心感到痛苦，这是我生平第一次，但是我请求他准许我提出这一点意见：我是在我的职守范围以内。市长先生既是愿意，我再来谈那位绅士的事。当时我在场，是这个婊子先跳上去打巴马达波先生的，巴马达波先生是选民，并且是公园角上那座石条砌的有阳台的三层漂亮公馆的主人。在这世界上，有些事终究是该注意的！总而言之，市长先生，这件事和我有关，牵涉到一个街道警察的职务问题，我决定要收押芳汀这个妇人。”
马德兰先生叉起两条胳膊，用一种严厉的、在这城里还没有人听见过的声音说道：
“您提的这个问题是个市政警察问题。根据刑法第九、第十一、第十五和第六十六条，我是这个问题的审判人。我命令释放这个妇人。”
沙威还要作最后的努力：
“但是，市长先生……”
“我请您注意一七九九年十二月十三日的法律，关于擅行拘捕问题的第八十一条。”
“市长先生，请允许我……”
“一个字也不必再说。”
“可是……”
“出去！”马德兰先生说。
沙威正面直立，好象一个俄罗斯士兵，接受了这个硬钉子。他向市长先生深深鞠躬，一直弯到地面，出去了。
芳汀赶忙让路，望着他从她面前走过，吓得魂不附体。
同时她也被一种奇怪的撩乱了的心情控制住了。她刚才见到她自己成了两种对立力量的争夺对象。她见到两个掌握她的自由、生命、灵魂、孩子的人在她眼前斗争，那两个人中的一个把她拖向黑暗，一个把她拖向光明，在这场斗争里，她从扩大了的恐怖中看去，仿佛觉得他们是两个巨人，一个说话，好象是她的恶魔，一个说话，好象是她的吉祥天使。天使战胜了恶魔。不过使她从头到脚战栗的也就是那个天使，那个救星，却又恰巧是她所深恶痛绝、素来认为是她一切痛苦的罪魁的那个市长，那个马德兰！正当她狠狠侮辱了他一番之后，他却援救了她！难道她弄错了？难道她该完全改变她的想法？……她莫名其妙，她发抖，她望着，听着，头昏目眩，马德兰先生每说一句话，她都觉得当初的那种仇恨的幢幢黑影在她心里融化，坍塌，代之以融融的不可言喻的欢乐、信心和爱。
沙威出去以后，马德兰先生转身朝着她，好象一个吞声忍泪的长者，向她慢慢说：
“我听到了您的话，您所说的我以前完全不知道。我相信那是真的，我也觉得那是真的。连您离开我车间的事我也不知道。您当初为什么不来找我呢？现在这样吧：我代您还债，我把您的孩子接来，或者您去找她。您以后住在此地，或是巴黎，都听您的便。您的孩子和您都归我负责。您可以不必再工作，假使您愿意。您需要多少钱，我都照给。将来您生活愉快，同时也做个诚实的人。并且，听清楚，我现在就向您说，假使您刚才说的话全是真的（我也并不怀疑），您的一生，在上帝面前，也始终是善良贞洁的。呵！可怜的妇人！”
这已不是那可怜的芳汀能消受得了的。得到珂赛特！脱离这种下贱的生活！自由自在地、富裕快乐诚实地和珂赛特一道过活！她在颠连困苦中忽然看到这种现实的天堂生活显现在她眼前，她将信将疑地望着那个和她谈话的人，她只能在痛哭中发出了两三次“呵！呵！呵！”的声音，她的膝头往下沉，跪在马德兰先生跟前，他还没有来得及提防，已经觉得她拿住了他的手，并且把嘴唇压上去了。
她随即晕过去了。
Part 1 Book 6 Chapter 1 The Beginning of Repose
M. Madeleine had Fantine removed to that infirmary which he had established in his own house. He confided her to the sisters, who put her to bed. A burning fever had 
come on. She passed a part of the night in delirium and raving. At length, however, she fell asleep.
On the morrow, towards midday, Fantine awoke. She heard some one breathing close to her bed; she drew aside the curtain and saw M. Madeleine standing there and looking 
at something over her head. His gaze was full of pity, anguish, and supplication. She followed its direction, and saw that it was fixed on a crucifix which was nailed 
to the wall.
Thenceforth, M. Madeleine was transfigured in Fantine's eyes. He seemed to her to be clothed in light. He was absorbed in a sort of prayer. She gazed at him for a long 
time without daring to interrupt him. At last she said timidly:--
"What are you doing?"
M. Madeleine had been there for an hour. He had been waiting for Fantine to awake. He took her hand, felt of her pulse, and replied:--
"How do you feel?"
"Well, I have slept," she replied; "I think that I am better, It is nothing."
He answered, responding to the first question which she had put to him as though he had just heard it:--
"I was praying to the martyr there on high."
And he added in his own mind, "For the martyr here below."
M. Madeleine had passed the night and the morning in making inquiries. He knew all now. He knew Fantine's history in all its heart-rending details. He went on:--
"You have suffered much, poor mother. Oh! do not complain; you now have the dowry of the elect. It is thus that men are transformed into angels. It is not their fault 
they do not know how to go to work otherwise. You see this hell from which you have just emerged is the first form of heaven. It was necessary to begin there."
He sighed deeply. But she smiled on him with that sublime smile in which two teeth were lacking.
That same night, Javert wrote a letter. The next morning be posted it himself at the office of M. sur M. It was addressed to Paris, and the superscription ran: To 
Monsieur Chabouillet, Secretary of Monsieur le Prefet of Police. As the affair in the station-house had been bruited about, the post-mistress and some other persons who 
saw the letter before it was sent off, and who recognized Javert's handwriting on the cover, thought that he was sending in his resignation.
M.Madeleine made haste to write to the Thenardiers. Fantine owed them one hundred and twenty francs. He sent them three hundred francs, telling them to pay themselves 
from that sum, and to fetch the child instantly to M. sur M., where her sick mother required her presence.
This dazzled Thenardier. "The devil!" said the man to his wife; "don't let's allow the child to go. This lark is going to turn into a milch cow. I see through it. Some 
ninny has taken a fancy to the mother."
He replied with a very well drawn-up bill for five hundred and some odd francs. In this memorandum two indisputable items figured up over three hundred francs,--one for 
the doctor, the other for the apothecary who had attended and physicked Eponine and Azelma through two long illnesses. Cosette, as we have already said, had not been 
ill. It was only a question of a trifling substitution of names. At the foot of the memorandum Thenardier wrote, Received on account, three hundred francs.
M. Madeleine immediately sent three hundred francs more, and wrote, "Make haste to bring Cosette."
"Christi!" said Thenardier, "let's not give up the child."
In the meantime, Fantine did not recover. She still remained in the infirmary.
The sisters had at first only received and nursed "that woman" with repugnance. Those who have seen the bas-reliefs of Rheims will recall the inflation of the lower lip 
of the wise virgins as they survey the foolish virgins. The ancient scorn of the vestals for the ambubajae is one of the most profound instincts of feminine dignity; 
the sisters felt it with the double force contributed by religion. But in a few days Fantine disarmed them. She said all kinds of humble and gentle things, and the 
mother in her provoked tenderness. One day the sisters heard her say amid her fever: "I have been a sinner; but when I have my child beside me, it will be a sign that 
God has pardoned me. While I was leading a bad life, I should not have liked to have my Cosette with me; I could not have borne her sad, astonished eyes. It was for her 
sake that I did evil, and that is why God pardons me. I shall feel the benediction of the good God when Cosette is here. I shall gaze at her; it will do me good to see 
that innocent creature. She knows nothing at all. She is an angel, you see, my sisters. At that age the wings have not fallen off."
M. Madeleine went to see her twice a day, and each time she asked him:--
"Shall I see my Cosette soon?"
He answered:--
"To-morrow, perhaps. She may arrive at any moment. I am expecting her."
And the mother's pale face grew radiant.
"Oh!" she said, "how happy I am going to be!"
We have just said that she did not recover her health. On the contrary, her condition seemed to become more grave from week to week. That handful of snow applied to her 
bare skin between her shoulder-blades had brought about a sudden suppression of perspiration, as a consequence of which the malady which had been smouldering within her 
for many years was violently developed at last. At that time people were beginning to follow the fine Laennec's fine suggestions in the study and treatment of chest 
maladies. The doctor sounded Fantine's chest and shook his head.
M. Madeleine said to the doctor:--
"Well?"
"Has she not a child which she desires to see?" said the doctor.
"Yes."
"Well! Make haste and get it here!"
M. Madeleine shuddered.
Fantine inquired:--
"What did the doctor say?"
M. Madeleine forced himself to smile.
"He said that your child was to be brought speedily. That that would restore your health."
"Oh!" she rejoined, "he is right! But what do those Thenardiers mean by keeping my Cosette from me! Oh! she is coming. At last I behold happiness close beside me!"
In the meantime Thenardier did not "let go of the child," and gave a hundred insufficient reasons for it. Cosette was not quite well enough to take a journey in the 
winter. And then, there still remained some petty but pressing debts in the neighborhood, and they were collecting the bills for them, etc., etc.
"I shall send some one to fetch Cosette!" said Father Madeleine. "If necessary, I will go myself."
He wrote the following letter to Fantine's dictation, and made her sign it:--
"MONSIEUR THENARDIER:--
You will deliver Cosette to this person.
You will be paid for all the little things.
I have the honor to salute you with respect.
"FANTINE."
In the meantime a serious incident occurred. Carve as we will the mysterious block of which our life is made, the black vein of destiny constantly reappears in it.
马德兰先生雇了人把芳汀抬到他自己厂房里的疗养室。他把她交给姆姆们，姆姆们把她安顿在床上。她骤然发了高烧。她在昏迷中大声叫喊，胡言乱语，闹了大半夜，到后来却睡着了。
快到第二天中午，芳汀醒来了，她听见在她床边有人呼吸，她拉起床帷，看见马德兰先生立在那里，望着她头边的一件东西。他的目光充满着怜悯沉痛的神情，他正在一心祈祷。她循着他的视
线望去，看见他正对着悬在墙上的一个耶稣受难像祈祷。
从此马德兰先生在芳汀的心目中是另外一个人了。她觉得他浑身周围有层光。他当时完全沉浸在祈祷里。她望了他许久，不敢惊动他。到后来，她才细声向他说：
“您在那儿做什么？”
马德兰先生立在那地方已一个钟头了。他等待芳汀醒来。
他握着她的手，试了她的脉博，说道：
“您感到怎样？”
“我好，我睡了好一阵，”她说，“我觉得我好一些了，不久就没事了。”
他回答她先头的问题，好象他还听见她在问似的：
“我为天上的那位殉难者祈祷。”
在他心里，他还加了一句：“也为地下的这位殉难者。”
马德兰先生调查了一夜又一个早晨。现在他完全明白了。
他知道了芳汀身世中一切痛心的细情。
他接着说：
“您很受了些痛苦，可怜的慈母。呵！您不用叫苦，现在您已取得做永生极乐之神的资格。这便是人成天使的道路。这并不是人的错处，人不知道有旁的办法。您懂吗？您脱离的那个地狱正是
天堂的第一种形式。应当从那地方走起。”
他深深地叹了一口气。至于她，她带着那种缺了两个牙的绝美的笑容向他微笑。
沙威在当天晚上写了一封信。第二天早晨，他亲自把那封信送到滨海蒙特勒伊邮局。那封信是寄到巴黎去的，上面写着这样的字：“呈警署署长先生的秘书夏布耶先生”。因为警署里的那件事
已经传出去了，邮局的女局长和其他几个人在寄出以前看见了那封信，并从地址上认出了沙威的笔迹，都以为他寄出的是辞职书。
马德兰先生赶紧写了一封信给德纳弟夫妇。芳汀欠他们一百二十法郎。他寄给他们三百法郎，嘱咐他们在那数目里扣还，并且立刻把那孩子送到滨海蒙特勒伊来，因为她的母亲在害病，要看她
。
德纳第喜出望外。“撞到了鬼！”他向他的婆娘说，“我们别放走这孩子。这个小百灵鸟快要变成有奶的牛了。我猜到了。
一定有一个冤桶爱上了她的妈。”
他寄回一张造得非常精密的五百○几个法郎的账单。账单里还附了两张毫无问题的收据，一共三百多法郎，一张是医生开的，一张是药剂师开的，他们诊治过爱潘妮和阿兹玛的两场长病。珂赛
特，我们说了，没有病过。那不过是一件小小的冒名顶替的事罢了。德纳第在账单下面写道：“内收三百法郎。”
马德兰先生立刻又寄去三百法郎，并且写道：“快把珂赛特送来。”
“还了得！”德纳第说，“我们别放走这孩子。”
但是芳汀的病一点没有起色。她始终留在那间养病室里。那些姆姆当初接收并照顾“这姑娘”，心里都有些反感。凡是见过兰斯①地方那些浮雕的人，都记得那些贞女怎样鼓着下嘴唇去看那些
疯处女的神情。贞女对荡妇的那种自古已然的蔑视，是妇德中一种最悠久的本能；那些姆姆们心中的蔑视，更因宗教的关系而倍加浓厚了。但是，不到几天，芳汀便把她们降服了。她有多种多
样的谦恭和蔼的语言，她那慈母心肠更足以使人心软。一天，姆姆们听见她在发烧时说：“我做了个犯罪的人，但等我有了自己的孩子在身边，那就可以证明上帝已经赦免我的罪了，我生活在
罪恶中时，我不愿珂赛特和我在一起，我会受不了她那双惊奇愁苦的眼睛。不过我是为了她才作坏事的，这一点让我得到上帝的赦免吧。珂赛特到了此地时，我就会感到上帝的保佑。那孩子是
没有罪的，我望着她，我就得到了安慰。她什么都不知道。她是一个安琪儿，你们看吧，我的姆姆们，在她那样小小的年纪，翅膀是不会掉的。” 
①兰斯（Reims），法国东北部城市，有一个著名的大天主堂。　
马德兰先生每天去看她两次，每次她都要问他说：
“我不久就可以看见我的珂赛特了吧？”
他老回答她说：
“也许就在明天早晨。她随时都可以到，我正等着她呢。”
于是那母亲的惨白面容也开朗了。
“呵！”她说，“我可就快乐了。”
我们刚才说过，她的病没有起色，并且她的状况仿佛一星期比一星期更沉重了。那一把雪是贴肉塞在她两块肩胛骨中间的，那样突然的一阵冷，立刻停止了她发汗的机能，因而几年以来潜伏在
她体中的病，终于急剧恶化了。当时大家正开始采用劳安内克①杰出的指示，对肺病进行研究和治疗。医生听过芳汀的肺部以后，摇了摇头。 
①劳安内克（LaeBnnec，1781-1826），法国医生，听诊方法的发明者。　
马德兰先生问那医生：
“怎样？”
“她不是有个孩子想看看吗？”医生说。
“是的。”
“那么赶快接她来吧。”
马德兰先生吃了一惊。
芳汀问他说：
“医生说了什么话？”
马德兰先生勉强微笑着。
“他说快把您的孩子接来，您的身体就好了。”
“呵！”她回答说，“他说得对！但是那德纳第家有什么事要留住我的珂赛特呢？呵！她就会来的。现在我总算看见幸福的日子就在我眼前了。”
但是德纳第不肯“放走那孩子”，并且找了各种不成理由的借口。珂赛特有点不舒服，冬季不宜上路，并且在那地方还有一些零用债务急待了清，他正在收取发票等等。
“我可以派个人去接珂赛特，”马德兰伯伯说。“在必要时，我还可以自己去。”
他照着芳汀的口述，写了这样一封信，又叫她签了名：
德纳第先生：
请将珂赛特交来人。
一切零星债款，我负责偿还。
此颂大安。
芳汀
正在这关头，发生了一件大事。我们枉费心机，想凿通人生旅途中的障碍，可是命中的厄运始终是要出现的。
Part 1 Book 6 Chapter 2 How Jean may become Champ
One morning M. Madeleine was in his study, occupied in arranging in advance some pressing matters connected with the mayor's office, in case he should decide to take 
the trip to Montfermeil, when he was informed that Police Inspector Javert was desirous of speaking with him. Madeleine could not refrain from a disagreeable impression 
on hearing this name. Javert had avoided him more than ever since the affair of the police-station, and M. Madeleine had not seen him.
"Admit him," he said.
Javert entered.
M. Madeleine had retained his seat near the fire, pen in hand, his eyes fixed on the docket which he was turning over and annotating, and which contained the trials of 
the commission on highways for the infraction of police regulations. He did not disturb himself on Javert's account. He could not help thinking of poor Fantine, and it 
suited him to be glacial in his manner.
Javert bestowed a respectful salute on the mayor, whose back was turned to him. The mayor did not look at him, but went on annotating this docket.
Javert advanced two or three paces into the study, and halted, without breaking the silence.
If any physiognomist who had been familiar with Javert, and who had made a lengthy study of this savage in the service of civilization, this singular composite of the 
Roman, the Spartan, the monk, and the corporal, this spy who was incapable of a lie, this unspotted police agent--if any physiognomist had known his secret and long-
cherished aversion for M. Madeleine, his conflict with the mayor on the subject of Fantine, and had examined Javert at that moment, he would have said to himself, "What 
has taken place?" It was evident to any one acquainted with that clear, upright, sincere, honest, austere, and ferocious conscience, that Javert had but just gone 
through some great interior struggle. Javert had nothing in his soul which he had not also in his countenance. Like violent people in general, he was subject to abrupt 
changes of opinion. His physiognomy had never been more peculiar and startling. On entering he bowed to M. Madeleine with a look in which there was neither rancor, 
anger, nor distrust; he halted a few paces in the rear of the mayor's arm-chair, and there he stood, perfectly erect, in an attitude almost of discipline, with the 
cold, ingenuous roughness of a man who has never been gentle and who has always been patient; he waited without uttering a word, without making a movement, in genuine 
humility and tranquil resignation, calm, serious, hat in hand, with eyes cast down, and an expression which was half-way between that of a soldier in the presence of 
his officer and a criminal in the presence of his judge, until it should please the mayor to turn round. All the sentiments as well as all the memories which one might 
have attributed to him had disappeared. That face, as impenetrable and simple as granite, no longer bore any trace of anything but a melancholy depression. His whole 
person breathed lowliness and firmness and an indescribable courageous despondency.
At last the mayor laid down his pen and turned half round.
"Well! What is it? What is the matter, Javert?"
Javert remained silent for an instant as though collecting his ideas, then raised his voice with a sort of sad solemnity, which did not, however, preclude simplicity.
"This is the matter, Mr. Mayor; a culpable act has been committed."
"What act?"
"An inferior agent of the authorities has failed in respect, and in the gravest manner, towards a magistrate. I have come to bring the fact to your knowledge, as it is 
my duty to do."
"Who is the agent?" asked M. Madeleine.
"I," said Javert. "You?" "I."
"And who is the magistrate who has reason to complain of the agent?"
"You, Mr. Mayor."
M. Madeleine sat erect in his arm-chair. Javert went on, with a severe air and his eyes still cast down.
"Mr. Mayor, I have come to request you to instigate the authorities to dismiss me."
M. Madeleine opened his mouth in amazement. Javert interrupted him:--
"You will say that I might have handed in my resignation, but that does not suffice. Handing in one's resignation is honorable. I have failed in my duty; I ought to be 
punished; I must be turned out."
And after a pause he added:--
"Mr. Mayor, you were severe with me the other day, and unjustly. Be so to-day, with justice."
"Come, now! Why?" exclaimed M. Madeleine. "What nonsense is this? What is the meaning of this? What culpable act have you been guilty of towards me? What have you done 
to me? What are your wrongs with regard to me? You accuse yourself; you wish to be superseded--"
"Turned out," said Javert.
"Turned out; so it be, then. That is well. I do not understand."
"You shall understand, Mr. Mayor."
Javert sighed from the very bottom of his chest, and resumed, still coldly and sadly:--
"Mr. Mayor, six weeks ago, in consequence of the scene over that woman, I was furious, and I informed against you."
"Informed against me!"
"At the Prefecture of Police in Paris."
M. Madeleine, who was not in the habit of laughing much oftener than Javert himself, burst out laughing now:--
"As a mayor who had encroached on the province of the police?"
"As an ex-convict."
The mayor turned livid.
Javert, who had not raised his eyes, went on:--
"I thought it was so. I had had an idea for a long time; a resemblance; inquiries which you had caused to be made at Faverolles; the strength of your loins; the 
adventure with old Fauchelevant; your skill in marksmanship; your leg, which you drag a little;-- I hardly know what all,--absurdities! But, at all events, I took you 
for a certain Jean Valjean."
"A certain--What did you say the name was?"
"Jean Valjean. He was a convict whom I was in the habit of seeing twenty years ago, when I was adjutant-guard of convicts at Toulon. On leaving the galleys, this Jean 
Valjean, as it appears, robbed a bishop; then he committed another theft, accompanied with violence, on a public highway on the person of a little Savoyard. He 
disappeared eight years ago, no one knows how, and he has been sought, I fancied. In short, I did this thing! Wrath impelled me; I denounced you at the Prefecture!"
M. Madeleine, who had taken up the docket again several moments before this, resumed with an air of perfect indifference:--
"And what reply did you receive?"
"That I was mad."
"Well?"
"Well, they were right."
"It is lucky that you recognize the fact."
"I am forced to do so, since the real Jean Valjean has been found."
The sheet of paper which M. Madeleine was holding dropped from his hand; he raised his head, gazed fixedly at Javert, and said with his indescribable accent:--
"Ah!"
Javert continued:--
"This is the way it is, Mr. Mayor. It seems that there was in the neighborhood near Ailly-le-Haut-Clocher an old fellow who was called Father Champmathieu. He was a 
very wretched creature. No one paid any attention to him. No one knows what such people subsist on. Lately, last autumn, Father Champmathieu was arrested for the theft 
of some cider apples from--Well, no matter, a theft had been committed, a wall scaled, branches of trees broken. My Champmathieu was arrested. He still had the branch 
of apple-tree in his hand. The scamp is locked up. Up to this point it was merely an affair of a misdemeanor. But here is where Providence intervened.
"The jail being in a bad condition, the examining magistrate finds it convenient to transfer Champmathieu to Arras, where the departmental prison is situated. In this 
prison at Arras there is an ex-convict named Brevet, who is detained for I know not what, and who has been appointed turnkey of the house, because of good behavior. Mr. 
Mayor, no sooner had Champmathieu arrived than Brevet exclaims: `Eh! Why, I know that man! He is a fagot! [4] Take a good look at me, my good man! You are Jean 
Valjean!' `Jean Valjean! who's Jean Valjean?' Champmathieu feigns astonishment. `Don't play the innocent dodge,' says Brevet. `You are Jean Valjean! You have been in 
the galleys of Toulon; it was twenty years ago; we were there together.' Champmathieu denies it. Parbleu! You understand. The case is investigated. The thing was well 
ventilated for me. This is what they discovered: This Champmathieu had been, thirty years ago, a pruner of trees in various localities, notably at Faverolles. There all 
trace of him was lost. A long time afterwards he was seen again in Auvergne; then in Paris, where he is said to have been a wheelwright, and to have had a daughter, who 
was a laundress; but that has not been proved. Now, before going to the galleys for theft, what was Jean Valjean? A pruner of trees. Where? At Faverolles. Another fact. 
This Valjean's Christian name was Jean, and his mother's surname was Mathieu. What more natural to suppose than that, on emerging from the galleys, he should have taken 
his mother's name for the purpose of concealing himself, and have called himself Jean Mathieu? He goes to Auvergne. The local pronunciation turns Jean into Chan--he is 
called Chan Mathieu. Our man offers no opposition, and behold him transformed into Champmathieu. You follow me, do you not? Inquiries were made at Faverolles. The 
family of Jean Valjean is no longer there. It is not known where they have gone. You know that among those classes a family often disappears. Search was made, and 
nothing was found. When such people are not mud, they are dust. And then, as the beginning of the story dates thirty years back, there is no longer any one at 
Faverolles who knew Jean Valjean. Inquiries were made at Toulon. Besides Brevet, there are only two convicts in existence who have seen Jean Valjean; they are 
Cochepaille and Chenildieu, and are sentenced for life. They are taken from the galleys and confronted with the pretended Champmathieu. They do not hesitate; he is Jean 
Valjean for them as well as for Brevet. The same age,--he is fifty-four,-- the same height, the same air, the same man; in short, it is he. It was precisely at this 
moment that I forwarded my denunciation to the Prefecture in Paris. I was told that I had lost my reason, and that Jean Valjean is at Arras, in the power of the 
authorities. You can imagine whether this surprised me, when I thought that I had that same Jean Valjean here. I write to the examining judge; he sends for me; 
Champmathieu is conducted to me--"
[4] An ex-convict.
"Well?" interposed M. Madeleine.
Javert replied, his face incorruptible, and as melancholy as ever:--
"Mr. Mayor, the truth is the truth. I am sorry; but that man is Jean Valjean. I recognized him also."
M. Madeleine resumed in, a very low voice:--
"You are sure?"
Javert began to laugh, with that mournful laugh which comes from profound conviction.
"O! Sure!"
He stood there thoughtfully for a moment, mechanically taking pinches of powdered wood for blotting ink from the wooden bowl which stood on the table, and he added:--
"And even now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean, I do not see how I could have thought otherwise. I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayor."
Javert, as he addressed these grave and supplicating words to the man, who six weeks before had humiliated him in the presence of the whole station-house, and bade him 
"leave the room,"--Javert, that haughty man, was unconsciously full of simplicity and dignity,--M. Madeleine made no other reply to his prayer than the abrupt 
question:--
"And what does this man say?"
"Ah! Indeed, Mr. Mayor, it's a bad business. If he is Jean Valjean, he has his previous conviction against him. To climb a wall, to break a branch, to purloin apples, 
is a mischievous trick in a child; for a man it is a misdemeanor; for a convict it is a crime. Robbing and housebreaking--it is all there. It is no longer a question of 
correctional police; it is a matter for the Court of Assizes. It is no longer a matter of a few days in prison; it is the galleys for life. And then, there is the 
affair with the little Savoyard, who will return, I hope. The deuce! there is plenty to dispute in the matter, is there not? Yes, for any one but Jean Valjean. But Jean 
Valjean is a sly dog. That is the way I recognized him. Any other man would have felt that things were getting hot for him; he would struggle, he would cry out--the 
kettle sings before the fire; he would not be Jean Valjean, et cetera. But he has not the appearance of understanding; he says, `I am Champmathieu, and I won't depart 
from that!' He has an astonished air, he pretends to be stupid; it is far better. Oh! the rogue is clever! But it makes no difference. The proofs are there. He has been 
recognized by four persons; the old scamp will be condemned. The case has been taken to the Assizes at Arras. I shall go there to give my testimony. I have been 
summoned."
M. Madeleine had turned to his desk again, and taken up his docket, and was turning over the leaves tranquilly, reading and writing by turns, like a busy man. He turned 
to Javert:--
"That will do, Javert. In truth, all these details interest me but little. We are wasting our time, and we have pressing business on hand. Javert, you will betake 
yourself at once to the house of the woman Buseaupied, who sells herbs at the corner of the Rue Saint-Saulve. You will tell her that she must enter her complaint 
against carter Pierre Chesnelong. The man is a brute, who came near crushing this woman and her child. He must be punished. You will then go to M. Charcellay, Rue 
Montre-de-Champigny. He complained that there is a gutter on the adjoining house which discharges rain-water on his premises, and is undermining the foundations of his 
house. After that, you will verify the infractions of police regulations which have been reported to me in the Rue Guibourg, at Widow Doris's, and Rue du Garraud-Blanc, 
at Madame Renee le Bosse's, and you will prepare documents. But I am giving you a great deal of work. Are you not to be absent? Did you not tell me that you were going 
to Arras on that matter in a week or ten days?"
"Sooner than that, Mr. Mayor."
"On what day, then?"
"Why, I thought that I had said to Monsieur le Maire that the case was to be tried to-morrow, and that I am to set out by diligence to-night."
M. Madeleine made an imperceptible movement.
"And how long will the case last?"
"One day, at the most. The judgment will be pronounced to-morrow evening at latest. But I shall not wait for the sentence, which is certain; I shall return here as soon 
as my deposition has been taken."
"That is well," said M. Madeleine.
And he dismissed Javert with a wave of the hand.
Javert did not withdraw.
"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor," said he.
"What is it now?" demanded M. Madeleine.
"Mr. Mayor, there is still something of which I must remind you."
"What is it?"
"That I must be dismissed."
M. Madeleine rose.
"Javert, you are a man of honor, and I esteem you. You exaggerate your fault. Moreover, this is an offence which concerns me. Javert, you deserve promotion instead of 
degradation. I wish you to retain your post."
Javert gazed at M. Madeleine with his candid eyes, in whose depths his not very enlightened but pure and rigid conscience seemed visible, and said in a tranquil voice:
--
"Mr. Mayor, I cannot grant you that."
"I repeat," replied M. Madeleine, "that the matter concerns me."
But Javert, heeding his own thought only, continued:--
"So far as exaggeration is concerned, I am not exaggerating. This is the way I reason: I have suspected you unjustly. That is nothing. It is our right to cherish 
suspicion, although suspicion directed above ourselves is an abuse. But without proofs, in a fit of rage, with the object of wreaking my vengeance, I have denounced you 
as a convict, you, a respectable man, a mayor, a magistrate! That is serious, very serious. I have insulted authority in your person, I, an agent of the authorities! If 
one of my subordinates had done what I have done, I should have declared him unworthy of the service, and have expelled him. Well? Stop, Mr. Mayor; one word more. I 
have often been severe in the course of my life towards others. That is just. I have done well. Now, if I were not severe towards myself, all the justice that I have 
done would become injustice. Ought I to spare myself more than others? No! What! I should be good for nothing but to chastise others, and not myself! Why, I should be a 
blackguard! Those who say, `That blackguard of a Javert!' would be in the right. Mr. Mayor, I do not desire that you should treat me kindly; your kindness roused 
sufficient bad blood in me when it was directed to others. I want none of it for myself. The kindness which consists in upholding a woman of the town against a citizen, 
the police agent against the mayor, the man who is down against the man who is up in the world, is what I call false kindness. That is the sort of kindness which 
disorganizes society. Good God! it is very easy to be kind; the difficulty lies in being just. Come! if you had been what I thought you, I should not have been kind to 
you, not I! You would have seen! Mr. Mayor, I must treat myself as I would treat any other man. When I have subdued malefactors, when I have proceeded with vigor 
against rascals, I have often said to myself, `If you flinch, if I ever catch you in fault, you may rest at your ease!' I have flinched, I have caught myself in a 
fault. So much the worse! Come, discharged, cashiered, expelled! That is well. I have arms. I will till the soil; it makes no difference to me. Mr. Mayor, the good of 
the service demands an example. I simply require the discharge of Inspector Javert."
All this was uttered in a proud, humble, despairing, yet convinced tone, which lent indescribable grandeur to this singular, honest man.
"We shall see," said M. Madeleine.
And he offered him his hand.
Javert recoiled, and said in a wild voice:--
"Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, but this must not be. A mayor does not offer his hand to a police spy."
He added between his teeth:--
"A police spy, yes; from the moment when I have misused the police. I am no more than a police spy."
Then he bowed profoundly, and directed his steps towards the door.
There he wheeled round, and with eyes still downcast:--
"Mr. Mayor," he said, "I shall continue to serve until I am superseded."
He withdrew. M. Madeleine remained thoughtfully listening to the firm, sure step, which died away on the pavement of the corridor.
一天早晨，马德兰先生正在他办公室里提前处理市府的几件紧急公事，以备随时去孟费郿。那时有人来传达，说侦察员沙威请见。马德兰先生听到那名字，不能不起一种不愉快的感觉，自从发
生警署里那件事后，沙威对他更加躲避得厉害，马德兰也再没有和他会面。
“请他进来。”他说。
沙威进来了。
马德兰先生正靠近壁炉坐着，手里拿着一支笔，眼睛望着一个卷宗，那里是一叠有关公路警察方面几件违警事件的案卷，他一面翻阅，一面批。他完全不理睬沙威。他不能制止自己不去想那可
怜的芳汀，因此觉得对他不妨冷淡。
沙威向那背着他的市长，恭恭敬敬地行了一个礼。市长先生不望他，仍旧批他的公事。
沙威在办公室里走了两三步，又停下来，不敢突破那时的寂静。
假使有个相面的人，熟悉沙威的性格，长期研究过这个为文明服务的野蛮人，这个由罗马人、斯巴达人、寺僧和小军官合成的怪物，这个言必有据的暗探，这个坚定不移的包打听，假使有个相
面人，知道沙威对马德兰先生所怀的夙仇，知道他为了芳汀的事和市长发生过的争执，这时又来观察沙威，他心里一定要问：“发生了什么事？”凡是认识这个心地正直、爽朗、诚挚、耿介、
严肃、凶猛的人的，都能一眼看出沙威刚从一场激烈的思想斗争里出来。沙威绝不能有点事藏在心里而不露在面上。他正象那种粗暴的人，可以突然改变主张。他的神情从来没有比当时那样更
奇特的了。他走进门时，向马德兰先生鞠了个躬，目光里既没有夙仇，也没有怒容，也没有戒心，他在市长圈椅后面几步的地方停下来；现在他笔挺地立着，几乎是一种立正的姿势，态度粗野
、单纯、冷淡，真是一个从不肯和颜悦色而始终能忍耐到底的人；他不说话也不动，在一种真诚的谦卑和安定的忍让里，静候市长先生乐意转过身来的时刻。他这时保持一种平和、庄重的样子
，帽子拿在手里，眼睛望着地下，脸上的表情，有点象在长官面前的兵士，又有点象在法官面前的罪犯。别人以为他可能有的那一切情感和故态全不见了。在他那副坚硬简朴如花岗石的面孔上
，只有一种沉郁的愁容。他整个的人所表现的是一种驯服、坚定、无可言喻的勇于受戮的神情。
到后来，市长先生把笔放下，身体转过了一半：
“说吧！有什么事，沙威？”
沙威没有立即回答，好象得先集中思想。随后他放开嗓子，用一种忧郁而仍不失为淳朴的声音说：
“就是，市长先生，有一桩犯罪的事。”
“怎样的经过？”
“一个下级警官，对于长官有了极严重的失敬行为。我特地来把这事向您说明，因为这是我的责任。”
“那警官是谁？”马德兰先生问。
“是我。”沙威说。
“您？”
“我。”
“谁又是那个要控告警官的长官呢？”
“您，市长先生。”
写德兰先生在他的圈椅上挺直了身体。沙威说下去，态度严肃，眼睛始终朝下：
“市长先生，我来请求您申请上级，免我的职。”
不胜惊讶的马德兰先生张开嘴。沙威连忙抢着说：“您也许会说，我尽可以辞职，但是那样还是不够的。辞职是件有面子的事。我失职了，我应当受处罚。我应当被革职。”
停了一会，他又接着说：
“市长先生，那一天您对我是严厉的，但是不公道，今天，您应当公公道道地对我严厉一番。”
“呀！为什么呢？”马德兰先生大声说，“这个哑谜从何说起呢？这是什么意思？您在什么地方有过对我失敬的错误？您对我做了什么事？您对我有什么不对的地方？您来自首，您要辞职……
”
“革职。”沙威说。
“革职，就算革职。很好。但是我不懂。”
“您马上就会懂的，市长先生。”
沙威从他胸底叹了一口气，又始终冷静而忧郁地说：“市长先生，六个星期以前，那个姑娘的事发生之后，我很气愤，便揭发了您。”
“揭发！”
“向巴黎警署揭发的。”
马德兰先生素来不比沙威笑得多，这次却也笑起来了。
“揭发我以市长干涉警务吗？”
“揭发您是旧苦役犯。”
市长面色发青了。
沙威并没有抬起眼睛，他继续说：
“我当初是那样想的。我心里早已疑惑了。模样儿相象，您又派人到法维洛勒去打听过消息，您的那种腰劲，割风伯伯的那件事，您枪法的准确，您那只有点拖沓的腿，我也不知道还有些什么
，真是傻！总而言之，我把您认作一个叫冉阿让的人了。”
“叫什么？您说的是个什么名字？”
“冉阿让。那是二十年前我在土伦做副监狱官时见过的一个苦役犯。那冉阿让从监狱里出来时，仿佛在一个主教家里偷过东西，随后又在一条公路上，手里拿着凶器，抢劫过一个通烟囱的孩子
。八年以来，不知道是怎么回事，他影踪全无，可是政府仍在缉拿他。我，当初以为……我终于做了那件事！一时的气愤使我下了决心，我便在警署揭发了您。”
马德兰先生早已拿起了他的卷宗，他用一种毫不关心的口气说：
“那么，别人怎样回答您呢？”
“他们说我疯了。”
“那么，怎样呢？”
“那么，他们说对了。”
“幸而您肯承认。”
“我只得承认，因为真正的冉阿让已经被捕了。”
马德兰先生拿在手里的文件落了下来，他抬起头来，眼睛盯着沙威，用一种无可形容的口气说着“啊！”
沙威往下说：
“就是这么回事，市长先生。据说，靠近埃里高钟楼那边的一个地方，有个汉子，叫做商马第伯伯。是一个穷到极点的家伙。大家都没有注意。那种人究竟靠什么维持生活，谁也不知道。最近
，就在今年秋天，那个商马第伯伯在一个人的家里，谁的家？我忘了，这没有关系！商马第伯伯在那人家偷了制酒的苹果，被捕了。那是一桩窃案，跳了墙，并且折断了树枝。他们把我说的这
个商马第逮住了。他当时手里还拿着苹果枝。他们把这个坏蛋关起来。直到那时，那还只是件普通的刑事案件。以下的事才真是苍天有眼呢。那里的监牢，太不成，地方裁判官先生想得对，他
把商马第押送到阿拉斯，因为阿拉斯有省级监狱。在阿拉斯的监狱里，有个叫布莱卫的老苦役犯，他为什么坐牢，我不知道，因为他的表现好，便派了他做那间狱室的看守。市长先生，商马第
刚到狱里，布莱卫便叫道：‘怪事！我认识这个人。他是根“干柴”①。喂！你望着我。你是冉阿让。’‘冉阿让！谁呀，谁叫冉阿让？’商马第假装奇怪。‘不用装腔，’布莱卫说，‘你是
冉阿让，你在土伦监狱里呆过。到现在已经二十年了。那时我们在一道的。’商马第不承认。天老爷！您懂吧。大家深入了解。一定要追究这件怪事。得到的资料是：商马第，大约在三十年前
，在几个地方，特别是在法维洛勒，当过修树枝工人。从那以后，线索断了。经过了许多年，有人在奥弗涅遇见过他，嗣后，在巴黎又有人遇见过这人，据说他在巴黎做造车工人，并且有过一
个洗衣姑娘，但是那些经过是没有被证实的；最后，到了本地。所以，在犯特种窃案入狱以前，冉阿让是做什么事的人呢？修树枝工人。什么地方？法维洛勒。另外一件事。这个阿让当初用他
的洗礼名‘让’做自己的名字，而他的母亲姓马第。出狱以后，他用母亲的姓做自己的姓，以图掩饰，并且自称为让马第，世上还有比这更自然的事吗？他到了奥弗涅。那地方，‘让’读作‘
商’。大家叫他作商马第。我们的这个人听其自然，于是变成商马第了。您听得懂，是吗？有人到法维洛勒去调查过。冉阿让的家已不在那里了。没有人知道那人家在什么地方。您知道，在那
种阶级里，常有这样全家灭绝的情况。白费了一番调查，没有下落。那种人，如果不是烂泥，便是灰尘。并且这些经过是在三十年前发生的，在法维洛勒，从前认识冉阿让的人已经没有了。于
是到土伦去调查。除布莱卫以外，还有两个看见过冉阿让的苦役犯。两个受终身监禁的囚犯，一个叫戈什巴依，一个叫舍尼杰。他们把那两个犯人从牢里提出，送到那里去。叫他们去和那个冒
名商马第的人对证。他们毫不迟疑。他们和布莱卫一样，说他是冉阿让。年龄相同，他有五十六岁，身材相同，神气相同，就是那个人了，就是他。我正是在那时，把揭发您的公事寄到了巴黎
的警署。他们回复我，说我神志不清，说冉阿让好好被关押在阿拉斯。您想得到这件事使我很惊奇，我还以为在此地拿住了冉阿让本人呢，我写了信给那位裁判官。他叫我去，他们把那商马第
带给我看……” 
①干柴，旧苦役犯。棗原注。　　
“怎样呢？”马德兰先生打断他说。
沙威摆着他那副坚定而忧郁的面孔答道：
“市长先生，真理总是真理。我很失望。叫冉阿让的确是那人。我也认出了他。”
马德兰先生用一种很低的声音接着说：
“您以为可靠吗？”
沙威笑了出来，是人在深信不疑时流露出来的那种惨笑。
“呵，可靠之至！”
他停了一会，若有所思，机械地在桌子上的木杯里，捏着一小撮吸墨水的木屑，继又接下去说：
“现在我已看见了那个真冉阿让，不过我还是不了解：从前我怎么会那么想的。我请您原谅，市长先生。”
六个星期以前，马德兰先生在警署里当着众人侮辱过他，并且向他说过“出去！”而他现在居然能向他说出这样一句央求而沉重的话，沙威，这个倨傲的人，他自己不知道他确是一个十分淳朴
、具有高贵品质的人。马德兰先生只用了这样一个突如其来的问题回答他的请求：
“那个人怎么说呢？”
“呀！圣母，市长先生，事情不妙呵。假使那真是冉阿让，那里就有累犯罪。爬过一道墙，折断一根树枝，摸走几个苹果，这对小孩只是种顽皮的行动，对一个成人只是种小过失；对一个苦役
犯却是种罪了。私入人家和行窃的罪都有了，那已不是违警问题，而是高等法院的问题了。那不是几天的羁押问题，而是终身苦役的问题了。并且还有那通烟囱孩子的事，我希望将来也能提出
来。见鬼！有得闹呢，不是吗？当然，假使不是冉阿让而是另外一个人。但是冉阿让是个鬼头鬼脑的东西。我也是从那一点看出他来的。假使是另外一个人，他一定会觉得这件事很棘手，一定
会急躁，一定会大吵大闹，热锅上的蚂蚁哪得安顿，他决不会肯做冉阿让，必然要东拉西扯。可是他，好象什么也不懂，他说：‘我是商马第，我坚持我是商马第！’他的神气好象很惊讶，他
装傻，那样自然妥当些。呵！那坏蛋真灵巧。不过不相干，各种证据都在。他已被四个人证实了，那老滑头总得受处分。他已被押到阿拉斯高等法院。我要去作证。
我已被指定了。”
马德兰先生早已回到他的办公桌上，重新拿着他的卷宗，斯斯文文地翻着，边念边写，好象一个忙人，他转身向着沙威：“够了，沙威，我对这些琐事不大感兴趣。我们浪费了我们的时间，我
们还有许多紧急公事。沙威，您立刻到圣索夫街去一趟，在那转角地方有一个卖草的好大娘，叫毕索比。您到她家去，告诉她要她来控告那个马车夫皮埃尔·什纳龙，那人是个蛮汉，他几乎压
死了那大娘和她的孩子。他理应受罚。您再到孟脱德尚比尼街，夏色雷先生家去一趟。他上诉说他邻家的檐沟把雨水灌到他家，冲坏了他家的墙脚。过后，您去吉布街多利士寡妇家和加洛－白
朗街勒波塞夫人家，去把别人向我检举的一些违警事件了解一下，作好报告送来。不过我给您办的事太多了。您不是要离开此地吗？您不是向我说过在八天或十天之内，您将为那件事去阿拉斯
一趟吗？……”
“还得早一点走，市长先生。”
“那么，哪天走？”
“我好象已向市长先生说过，那件案子明天开审，我今晚就得搭公共马车走。”
马德兰先生极其轻微的动了一下，旁人几乎不能察觉。
“这件案子得多少时间才能结束？”
“至多一天。判决书至迟在明天晚上便可以公布。但是我不打算等到公布判决书，那是毫无问题的。我完成了证人的任务，便立刻回到此地来。”
“那很好。”马德兰先生说。
他做了一个手势，叫沙威退去。
沙威不走。
“请原谅，市长先生。”他说。
“还有什么？”马德兰先生问。
“市长先生，还剩下一件事，得重行提醒您。”
“哪件事？”
“就是我应当革职。”
马德兰立起身来。
“沙威，您是一个值得尊敬的人，我钦佩您。您过分强调您的过失了。况且那种冒犯，也还是属于我个人的。沙威，您应当晋级，不应当降级。我的意见是您还得守住您的岗位。”
沙威望着马德兰先生，在他那对天真的眸子里，我们仿佛可以看见那种刚强、纯洁、却又不甚了了的神情。他用一种平静的声音说：
“市长先生，我不能同意。”
“我再向您说一遍，”马德兰先生反驳，“这是我的事。”
但是沙威只注意他个人意见，继续说道：
“至于说到过分强调，我一点也没有过分强调。我是这样理解的。我毫无根据地怀疑过您。这还不要紧。我们这些人原有权怀疑别人，虽然疑到上级是越权行为。但是不根据事实，起于一时的
气愤，存心报复，我便把您一个可敬的人，一个市长，一个长官，当作苦役犯告发了！这是严重的。非常严重的。我，一个法权机构中的警务人员，侮辱了您就是侮辱了法权。假使我的下属做
了我所做的这种事，我就会宣告他不称职，并且革他的职。不对吗？……哦，市长先生，还有一句话。我生平对人要求严格。对旁人要求严格，那是合理的。我做得对。现在，假使我对自己要
求不严格，那么，我以前所做的合理的事全变为不合理的了。难道我应当例外吗？不应当，肯定不应当！我岂不成了只善于惩罚旁人，而不惩罚自己的人了！那样我未免太可怜了！那些说‘沙
威这流氓’的人就会振振有词了。市长先生，我不希望您以好心待我，当您把您的那种好心对待别人时，我已经够苦了。我不喜欢那一套。放纵一个冒犯士绅的公娼，放纵一个冒犯市长的警务
人员、一个冒犯上级的低级人员的这种好心，在我眼里，只是恶劣的好心。社会腐败，正是那种好心造成的。我的上帝！做好人容易，做正直的人才难呢。哼！假使您是我从前猜想的那个人，
我决不会以好心待您！会有您受的！市长先生，我应当以待人之道待我自己。当我镇压破坏分子，当我严惩匪徒，我常对自己说：‘你，假使你出岔子，万一我逮住了你的错处，你就得小心！
’现在我出了岔子，我逮住了自己的过错，活该！来吧，开除，斥退，革职！全好。我有两条胳膊，我可以种地，我无所谓。市长先生，为了整饬纪律，应当作个榜样。我要求干脆革了侦察员
沙威的职。”
那些话全是用一种谦卑、颓丧、自负、自信的口吻说出来的，这给了那个诚实的怪人一种说不出的奇特、伟大的气概。
“我们将来再谈吧。”马德兰先生说。
他把手伸给他。
沙威退缩，并用一种粗野的声音说：
“请您原谅，市长先生，这使不得。一个市长不应当和奸细握手。”
他从齿缝中发出声来说：
“奸细，是呀，我滥用警权，我已只是个奸细了。”
于是他深深行了个礼，向着门走去。
走到门口，他又转过来，两眼始终朝下：
“市长先生，”他说，“在别人来接替我以前，我还是负责的。”
他出去了。马德兰先生心旌摇曳，听着他那种稳重坚定的步伐在长廊的石板上越去越远。
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 1 Sister Simplice
The incidents the reader is about to peruse were not all known at M. sur M. But the small portion of them which became known left such a memory in that town that a serious gap would exist in this book if we did not narrate them in their most minute details. Among these details the reader will encounter two or three improbable circumstances, which we preserve out of respect for the truth.
On the afternoon following the visit of Javert, M. Madeleine went to see Fantine according to his wont.
Before entering Fantine's room, he had Sister Simplice summoned.
The two nuns who performed the services of nurse in the infirmary, Lazariste ladies, like all sisters of charity, bore the names of Sister Perpetue and Sister Simplice.
Sister Perpetue was an ordinary villager, a sister of charity in a coarse style, who had entered the service of God as one enters any other service. She was a nun as other women are cooks. This type is not so very rare. The monastic orders gladly accept this heavy peasant earthenware, which is easily fashioned into a Capuchin or an Ursuline. These rustics are utilized for the rough work of devotion. The transition from a drover to a Carmelite is not in the least violent; the one turns into the other without much effort; the fund of ignorance common to the village and the cloister is a preparation ready at hand, and places the boor at once on the same footing as the monk: a little more amplitude in the smock, and it becomes a frock. Sister Perpetue was a robust nun from Marines near Pontoise, who chattered her patois, droned, grumbled, sugared the potion according to the bigotry or the hypocrisy of the invalid, treated her patients abruptly, roughly, was crabbed with the dying, almost flung God in their faces, stoned their death agony with prayers mumbled in a rage; was bold, honest, and ruddy.
Sister Simplice was white, with a waxen pallor. Beside Sister Perpetue, she was the taper beside the candle. Vincent de Paul has divinely traced the features of the Sister of Charity in these admirable words, in which he mingles as much freedom as servitude: "They shall have for their convent only the house of the sick; for cell only a hired room; for chapel only their parish church; for cloister only the streets of the town and the wards of the hospitals; for enclosure only obedience; for gratings only the fear of God; for veil only modesty." This ideal was realized in the living person of Sister Simplice: she had never been young, and it seemed as though she would never grow old. No one could have told Sister Simplice's age. She was a person--we dare not say a woman--who was gentle, austere, well-bred, cold, and who had never lied. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile; but she was more solid than granite. She touched the unhappy with fingers that were charmingly pure and fine. There was, so to speak, silence in her speech; she said just what was necessary, and she possessed a tone of voice which would have equally edified a confessional or enchanted a drawing-room. This delicacy accommodated itself to the serge gown, finding in this harsh contact a continual reminder of heaven and of God. Let us emphasize one detail. Never to have lied, never to have said, for any interest whatever, even in indifference, any single thing which was not the truth, the sacred truth, was Sister Simplice's distinctive trait; it was the accent of her virtue. She was almost renowned in the congregation for this imperturbable veracity. The Abbe Sicard speaks of Sister Simplice in a letter to the deaf-mute Massieu. However pure and sincere we may be, we all bear upon our candor the crack of the little, innocent lie. She did not. Little lie, innocent lie--does such a thing exist? To lie is the absolute form of evil. To lie a little is not possible: he who lies, lies the whole lie. To lie is the very face of the demon. Satan has two names; he is called Satan and Lying. That is what she thought; and as she thought, so she did. The result was the whiteness which we have mentioned--a whiteness which covered even her lips and her eyes with radiance. Her smile was white, her glance was white. There was not a single spider's web, not a grain of dust, on the glass window of that conscience. On entering the order of Saint Vincent de Paul, she had taken the name of Simplice by special choice. Simplice of Sicily, as we know, is the saint who preferred to allow both her breasts to be torn off rather than to say that she had been born at Segesta when she had been born at Syracuse-- a lie which would have saved her. This patron saint suited this soul.
Sister Simplice, on her entrance into the order, had had two faults which she had gradually corrected: she had a taste for dainties, and she liked to receive letters. She never read anything but a book of prayers printed in Latin, in coarse type. She did not understand Latin, but she understood the book.
This pious woman had conceived an affection for Fantine, probably feeling a latent virtue there, and she had devoted herself almost exclusively to her care.
M. Madeleine took Sister Simplice apart and recommended Fantine to her in a singular tone, which the sister recalled later on.
On leaving the sister, he approached Fantine.
Fantine awaited M. Madeleine's appearance every day as one awaits a ray of warmth and joy. She said to the sisters, "I only live when Monsieur le Maire is here."
She had a great deal of fever that day. As soon as she saw M. Madeleine she asked him:--
"And Cosette?"
He replied with a smile:--
"Soon."
M. Madeleine was the same as usual with Fantine. Only he remained an hour instead of half an hour, to Fantine's great delight. He urged every one repeatedly not to allow the invalid to want for anything. It was noticed that there was a moment when his countenance became very sombre. But this was explained when it became known that the doctor had bent down to his ear and said to him, "She is losing ground fast."
Then he returned to the town-hall, and the clerk observed him attentively examining a road map of France which hung in his study. He wrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil.
我们将要读到的那些事，在滨海蒙特勒伊并没有全部被人知道，但是已经流传开了的那一点，在那城里却留下了深刻的印象；假使我们不详详细细地记述下来，就会成为本书的一大漏洞。
在那些细微的情节里，读者将遇见两三处似乎不可能真有其事的经过，但是我们为了尊重事实，仍旧保存下来。
在沙威走访的那个下午，马德兰先生仍照常去看芳汀。
他在进入芳汀的病房以前，已找人去请散普丽斯姆姆了。
在疗养室服务的两个修女叫佩尔佩迪姆姆和散普丽斯姆姆，她们和所有其他做慈善事业的姆姆们一样，都是遣使会的修女。
佩尔佩迪姆姆是个极普通的农村姑娘，为慈善服务，颇形粗俗，皈依上帝，也不过等于就业。她做教徒，正如别人当厨娘一样。那种人绝不稀罕。各种教会的修道院都乐于收容那种粗笨的乡间土货，一举手而变成嘉布遣会修士或圣于尔絮勒会修女。那样的乡村气质可以替宗教做些粗重的工作。从一个牧童变成一个圣衣会修士，毫无不合适的地方；从这一个变成那一个，不会有多大困难，乡村和寺院同是蒙昧无知的，它们的共同基础是早已存在的，因此乡民一下就可以和寺僧平起平坐。罩衫放宽一点，便成了僧衣。那佩尔佩迪姆姆是个体粗力壮的修女，生在蓬图瓦兹附近的马灵城，一口土音，喜欢多话，呶呶不休，依照病人信神或假冒为善的程度来斟酌汤药中的白糖分量，时常唐突病人，和临终的人闹闲气，几乎把上帝摔在他们的脸上，气冲冲地对着垂死的人乱念祈祷文，鲁莽、诚实、朱砂脸。
散普丽斯姆姆却和白蜡一样白。她在佩尔佩迪姆姆身旁，就好象牛脂烛旁的细蜡烛。味增爵在下面这几句名言里已经神妙地把一些作慈善事业的姆姆的面目刻画出来了，并且把她们的自由和劳役融成了一片：“她们的修道院只是病院，静修室只是一间租来的屋子，圣殿只是她们那教区的礼拜堂，回廊只是城里的街道和医院里的病房，围墙只是服从，铁栅栏只是对上帝的畏惧，面幕只是和颜悦色。”散普丽斯姆姆完全体现了那种理想。谁也看不出散普丽斯姆姆的年纪，她从不曾有过青春，似乎也永远不会老。那是个安静、严肃、友好、冷淡，从来不曾说过谎的人，我们不敢说她是个妇人。她和蔼到近于脆弱，坚强到好比花岗石。她用她那纤细白暂的手指接触病人。在她的言语中，我们可以说，有寂静，她只说必要的话，并且她嗓子的声音可以建起一个忏悔座，又同时可以美化一个客厅。那种细腻和她的粗呢裙袍有相得益彰的妙用，它给人的粗野的感觉，倒使人时时想到天国和上帝。还有件小事应当着重指出。她从不曾说谎，从不曾为任何目的、或无目的地说过一句不实在的、不是真正实在的话，这一点便是散普丽斯姆姆突出的性格，也是她美德中的特点。她因那种无可动摇的诚信，在教会里几乎是有口皆碑的。西伽尔教士在给聋哑的马西欧的一封信里谈到过散普丽斯姆姆。无论我们是怎样诚挚、忠实、纯洁，在我们的良心上，大家总有一些小小的、不足为害的谎话的裂痕。而她呢，丝毫没有。小小的谎话，不足为害的谎话，那种事存在吗？说谎是绝对的恶。说一点点谎都是不行的；说一句谎话等于说全部谎话；说谎是魔鬼的真面目；撒旦有两个名字，他叫撒旦，又叫谎话。这就是她所想的。并且她怎样想，就怎样作。因此她有我们说过的那种白色，那白色的光辉把她的嘴唇和眼睛全笼罩起来了。她的笑容是白的，她的目光是白的。在那颗良心的水晶体上没有一点灰尘、一丝蜘蛛网。她在皈依味增爵时，便特地选了散普丽斯做名字。我们知道西西里的散普丽斯是个圣女，她是生在锡腊库扎的，假使她肯说谎，说她是生在塞吉斯特的，就可以救自己一命，但是她宁肯让人除去她的双乳，也不肯说谎。这位圣女正和散普丽斯姆姆的心灵完全一样。
散普丽斯姆姆在加入教会时，原有两个弱点，现在她已逐渐克服了；她从前爱吃甜食，喜欢别人寄信给她。她素来只读一本拉丁文的大字祈祷书。她不懂拉丁文，但是懂那本书。
那位虔诚的贞女和芳汀情意相投了，她也许感到了那种内心的美德，因此她几乎是竭诚照顾芳汀。
马德兰先生把散普丽斯姆姆引到一边，用一种奇特的声音嘱咐她照顾芳汀，那位姆姆直到后来才回忆起那种声音的奇特。
他离开了那位姆姆，又走到芳汀的身边。
芳汀每天等待马德兰先生的出现，好象等待一种温暖和欢乐的光。她常向那些姆姆说：
“市长先生不来，我真活不成。”
那一天，她的体温很高。她刚看见马德兰先生，便问他：
“珂赛特呢？”
他带着笑容回答：
“快来了。”
马德兰先生对芳汀还是和平日一样。不过平日他只待半个钟头，这一天，却待了一个钟头，芳汀大为高兴。他再三嘱咐大家，不要让病人缺少任何东西。大家注意到他的神色在某一时刻显得非常沉郁。后来大家知道那医生曾附在他耳边说过“她的体力大减”，也就明白他神色沉郁的原因了。
随后，他回到市政府，办公室的侍者看见他正细心研究挂在他办公室里的一张法国公路图。他还用铅笔在一张纸上写了几个数字。
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 2 The Perspicacity of Master Scaufflaire
From the town-hall he betook himself to the extremity of the town, to a Fleming named Master Scaufflaer, French Scaufflaire, who let out "horses and cabriolets as desired."
In order to reach this Scaufflaire, the shortest way was to take the little-frequented street in which was situated the parsonage of the parish in which M. Madeleine resided. The cure was, it was said, a worthy, respectable, and sensible man. At the moment when M. Madeleine arrived in front of the parsonage there was but one passer-by in the street, and this person noticed this: After the mayor had passed the priest's house he halted, stood motionless, then turned about, and retraced his steps to the door of the parsonage, which had an iron knocker. He laid his hand quickly on the knocker and lifted it; then he paused again and stopped short, as though in thought, and after the lapse of a few seconds, instead of allowing the knocker to fall abruptly, he placed it gently, and resumed his way with a sort of haste which had not been apparent previously.
M. Madeleine found Master Scaufflaire at home, engaged in stitching a harness over.
"Master Scaufflaire," he inquired, "have you a good horse?"
"Mr. Mayor," said the Fleming, "all my horses are good. What do you mean by a good horse?"
"I mean a horse which can travel twenty leagues in a day."
"The deuce!" said the Fleming. "Twenty leagues!"
"Yes."
"Hitched to a cabriolet?"
"Yes."
"And how long can he rest at the end of his journey?"
"He must be able to set out again on the next day if necessary."
"To traverse the same road?"
"Yes."
"The deuce! the deuce! And it is twenty leagues?"
M. Madeleine drew from his pocket the paper on which he had pencilled some figures. He showed it to the Fleming. The figures were 5, 6, 8 1/2.
"You see," he said, "total, nineteen and a half; as well say twenty leagues."
"Mr. Mayor," returned the Fleming, "I have just what you want. My little white horse--you may have seen him pass occasionally; he is a small beast from Lower Boulonnais. He is full of fire. They wanted to make a saddle-horse of him at first. Bah! He reared, he kicked, he laid everybody flat on the ground. He was thought to be vicious, and no one knew what to do with him. I bought him. I harnessed him to a carriage. That is what he wanted, sir; he is as gentle as a girl; he goes like the wind. Ah! indeed he must not be mounted. It does not suit his ideas to be a saddle-horse. Every one has his ambition. `Draw? Yes. Carry? No.' We must suppose that is what he said to himself."
"And he will accomplish the trip?"
"Your twenty leagues all at a full trot, and in less than eight hours. But here are the conditions."
"State them."
"In the first place. you will give him half an hour's breathing spell midway of the road; he will eat; and some one must be by while he is eating to prevent the stable boy of the inn from stealing his oats; for I have noticed that in inns the oats are more often drunk by the stable men than eaten by the horses."
"Some one will be by."
"In the second place--is the cabriolet for Monsieur le Maire?"
"Yes."
"Does Monsieur le Maire know how to drive?"
"Yes."
"Well, Monsieur le Maire will travel alone and without baggage, in order not to overload the horse?"
"Agreed."
"But as Monsieur le Maire will have no one with him, he will be obliged to take the trouble himself of seeing that the oats are not stolen."
"That is understood."
"I am to have thirty francs a day. The days of rest to be paid for also--not a farthing less; and the beast's food to be at Monsieur le Maire's expense."
M. Madeleine drew three napoleons from his purse and laid them on the table.
"Here is the pay for two days in advance."
"Fourthly, for such a journey a cabriolet would be too heavy, and would fatigue the horse. Monsieur le Maire must consent to travel in a little tilbury that I own."
"I consent to that."
"It is light, but it has no cover."
"That makes no difference to me."
"Has Monsieur le Maire reflected that we are in the middle of winter?"
M. Madeleine did not reply. The Fleming resumed:--
"That it is very cold?"
M. Madeleine preserved silence.
Master Scaufflaire continued:--
"That it may rain?"
M. Madeleine raised his head and said:--
"The tilbury and the horse will be in front of my door to-morrow morning at half-past four o'clock."
"Of course, Monsieur le Maire," replied Scaufflaire; then, scratching a speck in the wood of the table with his thumb-nail, he resumed with that careless air which the Flemings understand so well how to mingle with their shrewdness:--
"But this is what I am thinking of now: Monsieur le Maire has not told me where he is going. Where is Monsieur le Maire going?"
He had been thinking of nothing else since the beginning of the conversation, but he did not know why he had not dared to put the question.
"Are your horse's forelegs good?" said M. Madeleine.
"Yes, Monsieur le Maire. You must hold him in a little when going down hill. Are there many descends between here and the place whither you are going?"
"Do not forget to be at my door at precisely half-past four o'clock to-morrow morning," replied M. Madeleine; and he took his departure.
The Fleming remained "utterly stupid," as he himself said some time afterwards.
The mayor had been gone two or three minutes when the door opened again; it was the mayor once more.
He still wore the same impassive and preoccupied air.
"Monsieur Scaufflaire," said he, "at what sum do you estimate the value of the horse and tilbury which you are to let to me,-- the one bearing the other?"
"The one dragging the other, Monsieur le Maire," said the Fleming, with a broad smile.
"So be it. Well?"
"Does Monsieur le Maire wish to purchase them or me?"
"No; but I wish to guarantee you in any case. You shall give me back the sum at my return. At what value do you estimate your horse and cabriolet?"
"Five hundred francs, Monsieur le Maire."
"Here it is."
M. Madeleine laid a bank-bill on the table, then left the room; and this time he did not return.
Master Scaufflaire experienced a frightful regret that he had not said a thousand francs. Besides the horse and tilbury together were worth but a hundred crowns.
The Fleming called his wife, and related the affair to her. "Where the devil could Monsieur le Maire be going?" They held counsel together. "He is going to Paris," said the wife. "I don't believe it," said the husband.
M. Madeleine had forgotten the paper with the figures on it, and it lay on the chimney-piece. The Fleming picked it up and studied it. "Five, six, eight and a half? That must designate the posting relays." He turned to his wife:--
"I have found out."
"What?"
"It is five leagues from here to Hesdin, six from Hesdin to Saint-Pol, eight and a half from Saint-Pol to Arras. He is going to Arras."
Meanwhile, M. Madeleine had returned home. He had taken the longest way to return from Master Scaufflaire's, as though the parsonage door had been a temptation for him, and he had wished to avoid it. He ascended to his room, and there he shut himself up, which was a very simple act, since he liked to go to bed early. Nevertheless, the portress of the factory, who was, at the same time, M. Madeleine's only servant, noticed that the latter's light was extinguished at half-past eight, and she mentioned it to the cashier when he came home, adding:--
"Is Monsieur le Maire ill? I thought he had a rather singular air."
This cashier occupied a room situated directly under M. Madeleine's chamber. He paid no heed to the portress's words, but went to bed and to sleep. Towards midnight he woke up with a start; in his sleep he had heard a noise above his head. He listened; it was a footstep pacing back and forth, as though some one were walking in the room above him. He listened more attentively, and recognized M. Madeleine's step. This struck him as strange; usually, there was no noise in M. Madeleine's chamber until he rose in the morning. A moment later the cashier heard a noise which resembled that of a cupboard being opened, and then shut again; then a piece of furniture was disarranged; then a pause ensued; then the step began again. The cashier sat up in bed, quite awake now, and staring; and through his window-panes he saw the reddish gleam of a lighted window reflected on the opposite wall; from the direction of the rays, it could only come from the window of M. Madeleine's chamber. The reflection wavered, as though it came rather from a fire which had been lighted than from a candle. The shadow of the window-frame was not shown, which indicated that the window was wide open. The fact that this window was open in such cold weather was surprising. The cashier fell asleep again. An hour or two later he waked again. The same step was still passing slowly and regularly back and forth overhead.
The reflection was still visible on the wall, but now it was pale and peaceful, like the reflection of a lamp or of a candle. The window was still open.
This is what had taken place in M. Madeleine's room.
从市政府出来，他走到城尽头一个佛兰德人的家里。那人叫斯戈弗拉爱，变成法文便是斯戈弗莱尔，他有马匹出租。车子也可以随意租用。
去那斯戈弗莱尔家，最近的路，是走一条行人稀少的街，马德兰先生住的那一区的本堂神甫的住宅便在那条街上。据说，那神甫为人正直可敬，善于决疑。正当马德兰先生走到那神甫住宅门前时，街上只有一个行人，那行人看见了这样一件事：市长先生走过那神甫的住宅以后，停住脚，立了一会，又转回头，直走到神甫住宅的那扇不大不小、有个铁锤的门口。他连忙提起铁锤，继又提着不动，突然停顿下来，仿佛在想什么，几秒钟过后，他又把那铁锤轻轻放下，不让它发出声音，再循原路走去，形状急促，那是他以前不曾有过的情形。
马德兰先生找着了斯戈弗莱尔师父，他正在家修补鞁具。
“斯戈弗莱尔师父，”他问道，“您有匹好马吗？”
“市长先生，”那个佛兰德人说，“我的马全是好的。您所谓好马是怎样的好马呢？”
“我的意思是说一匹每天能走二十法里的马。”
“见鬼！”那个佛兰德人说，“二十法里！”
“是的。”
“要套上车吗？”
“要的。”
“走过以后，它有多少时间休息？”
“它总应当能够第二天又走，如果必要的话。”
“走原来的那段路程吗？”
“是的。”
“见鬼！活见鬼！是二十法里吗？”
马德兰先生从衣袋里把他用铅笔涂了些数字的那张纸拿出来。他把它递给那佛兰德人看。那几个数字是5，6，812。
“您看，”他说，“总共是十九又二分之一，那就等于二十。”
“市长先生，”佛兰德人又说，“您的事，我可以办到。我的那匹小白马，有时您应当看见它走过的。那是一匹下布洛涅种的小牲口。火气正旺。起初，有人想把它当成一匹坐骑。呀！它发烈性，它把所有的人都摔在地上。大家都把它当个坏种，不知道怎么办。我把它买了来。叫它拉车。先生，那才是它愿意干的呢，它简直和娘儿们一样温存，走得象风一样快。呀！真的，不应当骑在它的背上。它不愿意当坐骑。各有各的志愿。拉车，可以，骑，不行；我们应当相信它对自己曾说过那样的话。”
“它能跑这段路吗？”
“您那二十法里，一路小跑，不到八个钟头便到了。但是我有几个条件。”
“请说。”
“第一，您一定要让它在半路上吐一个钟头的气；它得吃东西，它吃东西时，还得有人在旁边看守，免得客栈里的用人偷它的荞麦；因为我留心过，客栈里那些佣人吞没了的荞麦比马吃下去的还多。”
“一定有人看守。”
“第二……车子是给市长先生本人坐吗？”
“是的。”
“市长先生能驾车吗？”
“能。”
“那么，市长先生不可以带人同走，也不可以带行李，免得马受累。”
“同意。”
“但是市长先生既不带人，那就非自己看守荞麦不可啊。”
“说到做到。”
“我每天要三十法郎。停着不走的日子也一样算。少一文都不行，并且牲口的食料也归市长先生出。”
马德兰先生从他的钱包里拿出三个拿破仑放在桌子上。
“这儿先付两天。”
“第四，走这样的路程，篷车太重了，马吃不消。市长先生必须同意，用我的那辆小车上路。”
“我同意。”
“轻是轻的，但是敞篷的呢。”
“我不在乎。”
“市长先生考虑过没有？我们是在冬季里呀。”
马德兰先生不作声。那佛兰德人接着又说：
“市长先生想到过天气很冷吗？”
马德兰先生仍不开口。斯戈弗莱尔接着说：
“又想到过天可能下雨吗？”
马德兰先生抬起头来说：
“这小车和马在明天早晨四点半钟一定要在我的门口等。”
“听见了，市长先生，”斯戈弗莱尔回答，一面又用他大拇指的指甲刮着桌面上的一个迹印，一面用佛兰德人最善于混在他们狡猾里的那种漠不关心的神气说：“我现在才想到一件事。市长先生没有告诉我要到什么地方去。市长先生到什么地方去呢？”
从交谈一开始，他就没有想到过旁的事，但是他不知道他以前为什么不敢问。
“您的马的前腿得力吗？”马德兰先生说。
“得力，市长先生。在下坡时，您稍微勒住它一下。您去的地方有许多坡吗？”
“不要忘记明天早晨准四点半钟在我的门口等。”马德兰先生回答说。
于是他出去了。
那佛兰德人，正象他自己在过了些时候说的，“傻得和畜生似的”楞住了。
市长先生走后两三分钟，那扇门又开了，进来的仍是市长先生。
他仍旧有那种心情缭乱而力自镇静的神气。
“斯戈弗莱尔师父，”他说，“您租给我的那匹马和那辆车子，您估计值多少钱呢，车子带马的话？”
“马带车子，市长先生。”那佛兰德人呵呵大笑地说。
“好吧。值多少钱呢？”
“难道市长先生想买我的车和马吗？”
“不买。但是我要让您有种担保，以备万一有危险。我回来时，您把钱还我就是了。依您估价车和马值多少钱呢？”
“五百法郎，市长先生。”
“这就是。”
马德兰先生放了一张钞票在桌子上，走了，这次却没有再回头。
斯戈弗莱尔深悔没有说一千法郎。实际上，那匹马和那辆车子总共只值三百法郎。
佛兰德人把他的妻唤来，又把经过告诉了她。市长先生可能到什么鬼地方去呢？他们讨论起来。“他要去巴黎。”那妇人说。“我想不是的。”丈夫说。马德兰先生把写了数字的那张纸忘在壁炉上了。那佛兰德人把那张纸拿来研究。“五，六，八又二分之一？这应当是记各站的里程的。”他转身向着他的妻。
“我找出来了。”“怎样呢？”“从此地到爱司丹五法里，从爱司丹到圣波尔六法里，从圣波尔到阿拉斯八法里半。他去阿拉斯。”
这时，马德兰先生已经到了家。
他从斯戈弗莱尔师父家回去时，走了一条最长的路，仿佛那神甫住宅的大门对他是一种诱惑，因而要避开它似的。他上楼到了自己屋子里，关上房门，那是件最简单不过的事，因为他平日素来乐于早睡。马德兰先生唯一的女仆便是这工厂的门房，当晚，她看见他的灯在八点半钟便熄了，出纳员回厂，她把这情形告诉他说：
“难道市长先生害了病吗？我觉得他的神色有点不正常。”
那出纳员恰恰住在马德兰先生下面的房间里。他丝毫没有注意那门房说的话，他睡他的，并且睡着了。
快到半夜时，他忽然醒过来；他在睡梦中听见在他头上有响声。他注意听。好象有人在他上面屋子里走路，是来回走动的步履声。他再仔细听，便听出了那是马德兰先生的脚步。他感到诧异，平日在起身以前，马德兰先生的房间里素来是没有声音的。过了一会，那出纳员又听见一种开橱关橱的声音。随后，有人搬动了一件家具，一阵寂静之后，那脚步声又开始了。出纳员坐了起来，完全醒了，张开眼睛望，他通过自己的玻璃窗看见对面墙上有从另一扇窗子里射出的红光。从那光线的方向，可以看出那只能是马德兰先生的卧室的窗子。墙上的反光还不时颤动，好象是一种火焰的反射，而不是光的反射。窗格的影子没有显出来，这说明那扇窗子是完全敞开的。当时天气正冷，窗子却开着，真是怪事。出纳员又睡去了。一两个钟头过后，他又醒过来。同样缓而匀的步履声始终在他的头上来来去去。
反光始终映在墙上，不过现在比较黯淡平稳，好象是一盏灯或一支烛的反射了。窗子却仍旧开着。
下面便是当晚在马德兰先生房间里发生的事。
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 3 A Tempest in a Skull
The reader has, no doubt, already divined that M. Madeleine is no other than Jean Valjean.
We have already gazed into the depths of this conscience; the moment has now come when we must take another look into it. We do so not without emotion and trepidation. There is nothing more terrible in existence than this sort of contemplation. The eye of the spirit can nowhere find more dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man; it can fix itself on no other thing which is more formidable, more complicated, more mysterious, and more infinite. There is a spectacle more grand than the sea; it is heaven: there is a spectacle more grand than heaven; it is the inmost recesses of the soul.
To make the poem of the human conscience, were it only with reference to a single man, were it only in connection with the basest of men, would be to blend all epics into one superior and definitive epic. Conscience is the chaos of chimeras, of lusts, and of temptations; the furnace of dreams; the lair of ideas of which we are ashamed; it is the pandemonium of sophisms; it is the battlefield of the passions. Penetrate, at certain hours, past the livid face of a human being who is engaged in reflection, and look behind, gaze into that soul, gaze into that obscurity. There, beneath that external silence, battles of giants, like those recorded in Homer, are in progress; skirmishes of dragons and hydras and swarms of phantoms, as in Milton; visionary circles, as in Dante. What a solemn thing is this infinity which every man bears within him, and which he measures with despair against the caprices of his brain and the actions of his life!
Alighieri one day met with a sinister-looking door, before which he hesitated. Here is one before us, upon whose threshold we hesitate. Let us enter, nevertheless.
We have but little to add to what the reader already knows of what had happened to Jean Valjean after the adventure with Little Gervais. From that moment forth he was, as we have seen, a totally different man. What the Bishop had wished to make of him, that he carried out. It was more than a transformation; it was a transfiguration.
He succeeded in disappearing, sold the Bishop's silver, reserving only the candlesticks as a souvenir, crept from town to town, traversed France, came to M. sur M., conceived the idea which we have mentioned, accomplished what we have related, succeeded in rendering himself safe from seizure and inaccessible, and, thenceforth, established at M. sur M., happy in feeling his conscience saddened by the past and the first half of his existence belied by the last, he lived in peace, reassured and hopeful, having henceforth only two thoughts,--to conceal his name and to sanctify his life; to escape men and to return to God.
These two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind that they formed but a single one there; both were equally absorbing and imperative and ruled his slightest actions. In general, they conspired to regulate the conduct of his life; they turned him towards the gloom; they rendered him kindly and simple; they counselled him to the same things. Sometimes, however, they conflicted. In that case, as the reader will remember, the man whom all the country of M. sur M. called M. Madeleine did not hesitate to sacrifice the first to the second--his security to his virtue. Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his prudence, he had preserved the Bishop's candlesticks, worn mourning for him, summoned and interrogated all the little Savoyards who passed that way, collected information regarding the families at Faverolles, and saved old Fauchelevent's life, despite the disquieting insinuations of Javert. It seemed, as we have already remarked, as though he thought, following the example of all those who have been wise, holy, and just, that his first duty was not towards himself.
At the same time, it must be confessed, nothing just like this had yet presented itself.
Never had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man whose sufferings we are narrating, engaged in so serious a struggle. He understood this confusedly but profoundly at the very first words pronounced by Javert, when the latter entered his study. At the moment when that name, which he had buried beneath so many layers, was so strangely articulated, he was struck with stupor, and as though intoxicated with the sinister eccentricity of his destiny; and through this stupor he felt that shudder which precedes great shocks. He bent like an oak at the approach of a storm, like a soldier at the approach of an assault. He felt shadows filled with thunders and lightnings descending upon his head. As he listened to Javert, the first thought which occurred to him was to go, to run and denounce himself, to take that Champmathieu out of prison and place himself there; this was as painful and as poignant as an incision in the living flesh. Then it passed away, and he said to himself, "We will see! We will see!" He repressed this first, generous instinct, and recoiled before heroism.
It would be beautiful, no doubt, after the Bishop's holy words, after so many years of repentance and abnegation, in the midst of a penitence admirably begun, if this man had not flinched for an instant, even in the presence of so terrible a conjecture, but had continued to walk with the same step towards this yawning precipice, at the bottom of which lay heaven; that would have been beautiful; but it was not thus. We must render an account of the things which went on in this soul, and we can only tell what there was there. He was carried away, at first, by the instinct of self-preservation; he rallied all his ideas in haste, stifled his emotions, took into consideration Javert's presence, that great danger, postponed all decision with the firmness of terror, shook off thought as to what he had to do, and resumed his calmness as a warrior picks up his buckler.
He remained in this state during the rest of the day, a whirlwind within, a profound tranquillity without. He took no "preservative measures," as they may be called. Everything was still confused, and jostling together in his brain. His trouble was so great that he could not perceive the form of a single idea distinctly, and he could have told nothing about himself, except that he had received a great blow.
He repaired to Fantine's bed of suffering, as usual, and prolonged his visit, through a kindly instinct, telling himself that he must behave thus, and recommend her well to the sisters, in case he should be obliged to be absent himself. He had a vague feeling that he might be obliged to go to Arras; and without having the least in the world made up his mind to this trip, he said to himself that being, as he was, beyond the shadow of any suspicion, there could be nothing out of the way in being a witness to what was to take place, and he engaged the tilbury from Scaufflaire in order to be prepared in any event.
He dined with a good deal of appetite.
On returning to his room, he communed with himself.
He examined the situation, and found it unprecedented; so unprecedented that in the midst of his revery he rose from his chair, moved by some inexplicable impulse of anxiety, and bolted his door. He feared lest something more should enter. He was barricading himself against possibilities.
A moment later he extinguished his light; it embarrassed him.
lt seemed to him as though he might be seen.
By whom?
Alas! That on which he desired to close the door had already entered; that which he desired to blind was staring him in the face,-- his conscience.
His conscience; that is to say, God.
Nevertheless, he deluded himself at first; he had a feeling of security and of solitude; the bolt once drawn, he thought himself impregnable; the candle extinguished, he felt himself invisible. Then he took possession of himself: he set his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hand, and began to meditate in the dark.
"Where do I stand? Am not I dreaming? What have I heard? Is it really true that I have seen that Javert, and that he spoke to me in that manner? Who can that Champmathieu be? So he resembles me! Is it possible? When I reflect that yesterday I was so tranquil, and so far from suspecting anything! What was I doing yesterday at this hour? What is there in this incident? What will the end be? What is to be done?"
This was the torment in which he found himself. His brain had lost its power of retaining ideas; they passed like waves, and he clutched his brow in both hands to arrest them.
Nothing but anguish extricated itself from this tumult which overwhelmed his will and his reason, and from which he sought to draw proof and resolution.
His head was burning. He went to the window and threw it wide open. There were no stars in the sky. He returned and seated himself at the table.
The first hour passed in this manner.
Gradually, however, vague outlines began to take form and to fix themselves in his meditation, and he was able to catch a glimpse with precision of the reality,--not the whole situation, but some of the details. He began by recognizing the fact that, critical and extraordinary as was this situation, he was completely master of it.
This only caused an increase of his stupor.
Independently of the severe and religious aim which he had assigned to his actions, all that he had made up to that day had been nothing but a hole in which to bury his name. That which he had always feared most of all in his hours of self-communion, during his sleepless nights, was to ever hear that name pronounced; he had said to himself, that that would be the end of all things for him; that on the day when that name made its reappearance it would cause his new life to vanish from about him, and--who knows?-- perhaps even his new soul within him, also. He shuddered at the very thought that this was possible. Assuredly, if any one had said to him at such moments that the hour would come when that name would ring in his ears, when the hideous words, Jean Valjean, would suddenly emerge from the darkness and rise in front of him, when that formidable light, capable of dissipating the mystery in which he had enveloped himself, would suddenly blaze forth above his head, and that that name would not menace him, that that light would but produce an obscurity more dense, that this rent veil would but increase the mystery, that this earthquake would solidify his edifice, that this prodigious incident would have no other result, so far as he was concerned, if so it seemed good to him, than that of rendering his existence at once clearer and more impenetrable, and that, out of his confrontation with the phantom of Jean Valjean, the good and worthy citizen Monsieur Madeleine would emerge more honored, more peaceful, and more respected than ever--if any one had told him that, he would have tossed his head and regarded the words as those of a madman. Well, all this was precisely what had just come to pass; all that accumulation of impossibilities was a fact, and God had permitted these wild fancies to become real things!
His revery continued to grow clearer. He came more and more to an understanding of his position.
It seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some inexplicable dream, and that he found himself slipping down a declivity in the middle of the night, erect, shivering, holding back all in vain, on the very brink of the abyss. He distinctly perceived in the darkness a stranger, a man unknown to him, whom destiny had mistaken for him, and whom she was thrusting into the gulf in his stead; in order that the gulf might close once more, it was necessary that some one, himself or that other man, should fall into it: he had only let things take their course.
The light became complete, and he acknowledged this to himself: That his place was empty in the galleys; that do what he would, it was still awaiting him; that the theft from little Gervais had led him back to it; that this vacant place would await him, and draw him on until he filled it; that this was inevitable and fatal; and then he said to himself, "that, at this moment, be had a substitute; that it appeared that a certain Champmathieu had that ill luck, and that, as regards himself, being present in the galleys in the person of that Champmathieu, present in society under the name of M. Madeleine, he had nothing more to fear, provided that he did not prevent men from sealing over the head of that Champmathieu this stone of infamy which, like the stone of the sepulchre, falls once, never to rise again."
All this was so strange and so violent, that there suddenly took place in him that indescribable movement, which no man feels more than two or three times in the course of his life, a sort of convulsion of the conscience which stirs up all that there is doubtful in the heart, which is composed of irony, of joy, and of despair, and which may be called an outburst of inward laughter.
He hastily relighted his candle.
"Well, what then?" he said to himself; "what am I afraid of? What is there in all that for me to think about? I am safe; all is over. I had but one partly open door through which my past might invade my life, and behold that door is walled up forever! That Javert, who has been annoying me so long; that terrible instinct which seemed to have divined me, which had divined me-- good God! and which followed me everywhere; that frightful hunting-dog, always making a point at me, is thrown off the scent, engaged elsewhere, absolutely turned from the trail: henceforth he is satisfied; he will leave me in peace; he has his Jean Valjean. Who knows? it is even probable that he will wish to leave town! And all this has been brought about without any aid from me, and I count for nothing in it! Ah! but where is the misfortune in this? Upon my honor, people would think, to see me, that some catastrophe had happened to me! After all, if it does bring harm to some one, that is not my fault in the least: it is Providence which has done it all; it is because it wishes it so to be, evidently. Have I the right to disarrange what it has arranged? What do I ask now? Why should I meddle? It does not concern me; what! I am not satisfied: but what more do I want? The goal to which I have aspired for so many years, the dream of my nights, the object of my prayers to Heaven,--security,--I have now attained; it is God who wills it; I can do nothing against the will of God, and why does God will it? In order that I may continue what I have begun, that I may do good, that I may one day be a grand and encouraging example, that it may be said at last, that a little happiness has been attached to the penance which I have undergone, and to that virtue to which I have returned. Really, I do not understand why I was afraid, a little while ago, to enter the house of that good cure, and to ask his advice; this is evidently what he would have said to me: It is settled; let things take their course; let the good God do as he likes!"
Thus did he address himself in the depths of his own conscience, bending over what may be called his own abyss; he rose from his chair, and began to pace the room: "Come," said he, "let us think no more about it; my resolve is taken!" but he felt no joy.
Quite the reverse.
One can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea than one can the sea from returning to the shore: the sailor calls it the tide; the guilty man calls it remorse; God upheaves the soul as he does the ocean.
After the expiration of a few moments, do what he would, he resumed the gloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke and he who listened, saying that which he would have preferred to ignore, and listened to that which he would have preferred not to hear, yielding to that mysterious power which said to him: "Think!" as it said to another condemned man, two thousand years ago, "March on!"
Before proceeding further, and in order to make ourselves fully understood, let us insist upon one necessary observation.
It is certain that people do talk to themselves; there is no living being who has not done it. It may even be said that the word is never a more magnificent mystery than when it goes from thought to conscience within a man, and when it returns from conscience to thought; it is in this sense only that the words so often employed in this chapter, he said, he exclaimed, must be understood; one speaks to one's self, talks to one's self, exclaims to one's self without breaking the external silence; there is a great tumult; everything about us talks except the mouth. The realities of the soul are none the less realities because they are not visible and palpable.
So he asked himself where he stood. He interrogated himself upon that "settled resolve." He confessed to himself that all that he had just arranged in his mind was monstrous, that "to let things take their course, to let the good God do as he liked," was simply horrible; to allow this error of fate and of men to be carried out, not to hinder it, to lend himself to it through his silence, to do nothing, in short, was to do everything! that this was hypocritical baseness in the last degree! that it was a base, cowardly, sneaking, abject, hideous crime!
For the first time in eight years, the wretched man had just tasted the bitter savor of an evil thought and of an evil action.
He spit it out with disgust.
He continued to question himself. He asked himself severely what he had meant by this, "My object is attained!" He declared to himself that his life really had an object; but what object? To conceal his name? To deceive the police? Was it for so petty a thing that he had done all that he had done? Had he not another and a grand object, which was the true one--to save, not his person, but his soul; to become honest and good once more; to be a just man? Was it not that above all, that alone, which he had always desired, which the Bishop had enjoined upon him--to shut the door on his past? But he was not shutting it! great God! he was re-opening it by committing an infamous action! He was becoming a thief once more, and the most odious of thieves! He was robbing another of his existence, his life, his peace, his place in the sunshine. He was becoming an assassin. He was murdering, morally murdering, a wretched man. He was inflicting on him that frightful living death, that death beneath the open sky, which is called the galleys. On the other hand, to surrender himself to save that man, struck down with so melancholy an error, to resume his own name, to become once more, out of duty, the convict Jean Valjean, that was, in truth, to achieve his resurrection, and to close forever that hell whence he had just emerged; to fall back there in appearance was to escape from it in reality. This must be done! He had done nothing if he did not do all this; his whole life was useless; all his penitence was wasted. There was no longer any need of saying, "What is the use?" He felt that the Bishop was there, that the Bishop was present all the more because he was dead, that the Bishop was gazing fixedly at him, that henceforth Mayor Madeleine, with all his virtues, would be abominable to him, and that the convict Jean Valjean would be pure and admirable in his sight; that men beheld his mask, but that the Bishop saw his face; that men saw his life, but that the Bishop beheld his conscience. So he must go to Arras, deliver the false Jean Valjean, and denounce the real one. Alas! that was the greatest of sacrifices, the most poignant of victories, the last step to take; but it must be done. Sad fate! he would enter into sanctity only in the eyes of God when he returned to infamy in the eyes of men.
"Well, said he, "let us decide upon this; let us do our duty; let us save this man." He uttered these words aloud, without perceiving that he was speaking aloud.
He took his books, verified them, and put them in order. He flung in the fire a bundle of bills which he had against petty and embarrassed tradesmen. He wrote and sealed a letter, and on the envelope it might have been read, had there been any one in his chamber at the moment, To Monsieur Laffitte, Banker, Rue d'Artois, Paris. He drew from his secretary a pocket-book which contained several bank-notes and the passport of which he had made use that same year when he went to the elections.
Any one who had seen him during the execution of these various acts, into which there entered such grave thought, would have had no suspicion of what was going on within him. Only occasionally did his lips move; at other times he raised his head and fixed his gaze upon some point of the wall, as though there existed at that point something which he wished to elucidate or interrogate.
When he had finished the letter to M. Laffitte, he put it into his pocket, together with the pocket-book, and began his walk once more.
His revery had not swerved from its course. He continued to see his duty clearly, written in luminous letters, which flamed before his eyes and changed its place as he altered the direction of his glance:--
"Go! Tell your name! Denounce yourself!"
In the same way he beheld, as though they had passed before him in visible forms, the two ideas which had, up to that time, formed the double rule of his soul,--the concealment of his name, the sanctification of his life. For the first time they appeared to him as absolutely distinct, and he perceived the distance which separated them. He recognized the fact that one of these ideas was, necessarily, good, while the other might become bad; that the first was self-devotion, and that the other was personality; that the one said, my neighbor, and that the other said, myself; that one emanated from the light, and the other from darkness.
They were antagonistic. He saw them in conflict. In proportion as he meditated, they grew before the eyes of his spirit. They had now attained colossal statures, and it seemed to him that he beheld within himself, in that infinity of which we were recently speaking, in the midst of the darkness and the lights, a goddess and a giant contending.
He was filled with terror; but it seemed to him that the good thought was getting the upper hand.
He felt that he was on the brink of the second decisive crisis of his conscience and of his destiny; that the Bishop had marked the first phase of his new life, and that Champmathieu marked the second. After the grand crisis, the grand test.
But the fever, allayed for an instant, gradually resumed possession of him. A thousand thoughts traversed his mind, but they continued to fortify him in his resolution.
One moment he said to himself that he was, perhaps, taking the matter too keenly; that, after all, this Champmathieu was not interesting, and that he had actually been guilty of theft.
He answered himself: "If this man has, indeed, stolen a few apples, that means a month in prison. It is a long way from that to the galleys. And who knows? Did he steal? Has it been proved? The name of Jean Valjean overwhelms him, and seems to dispense with proofs. Do not the attorneys for the Crown always proceed in this manner? He is supposed to be a thief because he is known to be a convict."
In another instant the thought had occurred to him that, when he denounced himself, the heroism of his deed might, perhaps, be taken into consideration, and his honest life for the last seven years, and what he had done for the district, and that they would have mercy on him.
But this supposition vanished very quickly, and he smiled bitterly as he remembered that the theft of the forty sous from little Gervais put him in the position of a man guilty of a second offence after conviction, that this affair would certainly come up, and, according to the precise terms of the law, would render him liable to penal servitude for life.
He turned aside from all illusions, detached himself more and more from earth, and sought strength and consolation elsewhere. He told himself that he must do his duty; that perhaps he should not be more unhappy after doing his duty than after having avoided it; that if he allowed things to take their own course, if he remained at M. sur M., his consideration, his good name, his good works, the deference and veneration paid to him, his charity, his wealth, his popularity, his virtue, would be seasoned with a crime. And what would be the taste of all these holy things when bound up with this hideous thing? while, if he accomplished his sacrifice, a celestial idea would be mingled with the galleys, the post, the iron necklet, the green cap, unceasing toil, and pitiless shame.
At length he told himself that it must be so, that his destiny was thus allotted, that he had not authority to alter the arrangements made on high, that, in any case, he must make his choice: virtue without and abomination within, or holiness within and infamy without.
The stirring up of these lugubrious ideas did not cause his courage to fail, but his brain grow weary. He began to think of other things, of indifferent matters, in spite of himself.
The veins in his temples throbbed violently; he still paced to and fro; midnight sounded first from the parish church, then from the town-hall; he counted the twelve strokes of the two clocks, and compared the sounds of the two bells; he recalled in this connection the fact that, a few days previously, he had seen in an ironmonger's shop an ancient clock for sale, upon which was written the name, Antoine-Albin de Romainville.
He was cold; he lighted a small fire; it did not occur to him to close the window.
In the meantime he had relapsed into his stupor; he was obliged to make a tolerably vigorous effort to recall what had been the subject of his thoughts before midnight had struck; he finally succeeded in doing this.
"Ah! yes," he said to himself, "I had resolved to inform against myself."
And then, all of a sudden, he thought of Fantine.
"Hold!" said he, "and what about that poor woman?"
Here a fresh crisis declared itself.
Fantine, by appearing thus abruptly in his revery, produced the effect of an unexpected ray of light; it seemed to him as though everything about him were undergoing a change of aspect: he exclaimed:--
"Ah! but I have hitherto considered no one but myself; it is proper for me to hold my tongue or to denounce myself, to conceal my person or to save my soul, to be a despicable and respected magistrate, or an infamous and venerable convict; it is I, it is always I and nothing but I: but, good God! all this is egotism; these are diverse forms of egotism, but it is egotism all the same. What if I were to think a little about others? The highest holiness is to think of others; come, let us examine the matter. The _I_ excepted, the _I_ effaced, the _I_ forgotten, what would be the result of all this? What if I denounce myself? I am arrested; this Champmathieu is released; I am put back in the galleys; that is well-- and what then? What is going on here? Ah! here is a country, a town, here are factories, an industry, workers, both men and women, aged grandsires, children, poor people! All this I have created; all these I provide with their living; everywhere where there is a smoking chimney, it is I who have placed the brand on the hearth and meat in the pot; I have created ease, circulation, credit; before me there was nothing; I have elevated, vivified, informed with life, fecundated, stimulated, enriched the whole country-side; lacking me, the soul is lacking; I take myself off, everything dies: and this woman, who has suffered so much, who possesses so many merits in spite of her fall; the cause of all whose misery I have unwittingly been! And that child whom I meant to go in search of, whom I have promised to her mother; do I not also owe something to this woman, in reparation for the evil which I have done her? If I disappear, what happens? The mother dies; the child becomes what it can; that is what will take place, if I denounce myself. If I do not denounce myself? come, let us see how it will be if I do not denounce myself."
After putting this question to himself, he paused; he seemed to undergo a momentary hesitation and trepidation; but it did not last long, and he answered himself calmly:--
"Well, this man is going to the galleys; it is true, but what the deuce! he has stolen! There is no use in my saying that he has not been guilty of theft, for he has! I remain here; I go on: in ten years I shall have made ten millions; I scatter them over the country; I have nothing of my own; what is that to me? It is not for myself that I am doing it; the prosperity of all goes on augmenting; industries are aroused and animated; factories and shops are multiplied; families, a hundred families, a thousand families, are happy; the district becomes populated; villages spring up where there were only farms before; farms rise where there was nothing; wretchedness disappears, and with wretchedness debauchery, prostitution, theft, murder; all vices disappear, all crimes: and this poor mother rears her child; and behold a whole country rich and honest! Ah! I was a fool! I was absurd! what was that I was saying about denouncing myself? I really must pay attention and not be precipitate about anything. What! because it would have pleased me to play the grand and generous; this is melodrama, after all; because I should have thought of no one but myself, the idea! for the sake of saving from a punishment, a trifle exaggerated, perhaps, but just at bottom, no one knows whom, a thief, a good-for-nothing, evidently, a whole country-side must perish! a poor woman must die in the hospital! a poor little girl must die in the street! like dogs; ah, this is abominable! And without the mother even having seen her child once more, almost without the child's having known her mother; and all that for the sake of an old wretch of an apple-thief who, most assuredly, has deserved the galleys for something else, if not for that; fine scruples, indeed, which save a guilty man and sacrifice the innocent, which save an old vagabond who has only a few years to live at most, and who will not be more unhappy in the galleys than in his hovel, and which sacrifice a whole population, mothers, wives, children. This poor little Cosette who has no one in the world but me, and who is, no doubt, blue with cold at this moment in the den of those Thenardiers; those peoples are rascals; and I was going to neglect my duty towards all these poor creatures; and I was going off to denounce myself; and I was about to commit that unspeakable folly! Let us put it at the worst: suppose that there is a wrong action on my part in this, and that my conscience will reproach me for it some day, to accept, for the good of others, these reproaches which weigh only on myself; this evil action which compromises my soul alone; in that lies self-sacrifice; in that alone there is virtue."
He rose and resumed his march; this time, he seemed to be content. Diamonds are found only in the dark places of the earth; truths are found only in the depths of thought. It seemed to him, that, after having descended into these depths, after having long groped among the darkest of these shadows, he had at last found one of these diamonds, one of these truths, and that he now held it in his hand, and he was dazzled as he gazed upon it.
"Yes," he thought, "this is right; I am on the right road; I have the solution; I must end by holding fast to something; my resolve is taken; let things take their course; let us no longer vacillate; let us no longer hang back; this is for the interest of all, not for my own; I am Madeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to the man who is Jean Valjean! I am no longer he; I do not know that man; I no longer know anything; it turns out that some one is Jean Valjean at the present moment; let him look out for himself; that does not concern me; it is a fatal name which was floating abroad in the night; if it halts and descends on a head, so much the worse for that head."
He looked into the little mirror which hung above his chimney-piece, and said:--
"Hold! it has relieved me to come to a decision; I am quite another man now."
He proceeded a few paces further, then he stopped short.
"Come!" he said, "I must not flinch before any of the consequences of the resolution which I have once adopted; there are still threads which attach me to that Jean Valjean; they must be broken; in this very room there are objects which would betray me, dumb things which would bear witness against me; it is settled; all these things must disappear."
He fumbled in his pocket, drew out his purse, opened it, and took out a small key; he inserted the key in a lock whose aperture could hardly be seen, so hidden was it in the most sombre tones of the design which covered the wall-paper; a secret receptacle opened, a sort of false cupboard constructed in the angle between the wall and the chimney-piece; in this hiding-place there were some rags-- a blue linen blouse, an old pair of trousers, an old knapsack, and a huge thorn cudgel shod with iron at both ends. Those who had seen Jean Valjean at the epoch when he passed through D---- in October, 1815, could easily have recognized all the pieces of this miserable outfit.
He had preserved them as he had preserved the silver candlesticks, in order to remind himself continually of his starting-point, but he had concealed all that came from the galleys, and he had allowed the candlesticks which came from the Bishop to be seen.
He cast a furtive glance towards the door, as though he feared that it would open in spite of the bolt which fastened it; then, with a quick and abrupt movement, he took the whole in his arms at once, without bestowing so much as a glance on the things which he had so religiously and so perilously preserved for so many years, and flung them all, rags, cudgel, knapsack, into the fire.
He closed the false cupboard again, and with redoubled precautions, henceforth unnecessary, since it was now empty, he concealed the door behind a heavy piece of furniture, which he pushed in front of it.
After the lapse of a few seconds, the room and the opposite wall were lighted up with a fierce, red, tremulous glow. Everything was on fire; the thorn cudgel snapped and threw out sparks to the middle of the chamber.
As the knapsack was consumed, together with the hideous rags which it contained, it revealed something which sparkled in the ashes. By bending over, one could have readily recognized a coin,--no doubt the forty-sou piece stolen from the little Savoyard.
He did not look at the fire, but paced back and forth with the same step.
All at once his eye fell on the two silver candlesticks, which shone vaguely on the chimney-piece, through the glow.
"Hold!" he thought; "the whole of Jean Valjean is still in them. They must be destroyed also."
He seized the two candlesticks.
There was still fire enough to allow of their being put out of shape, and converted into a sort of unrecognizable bar of metal.
He bent over the hearth and warmed himself for a moment. He felt a sense of real comfort. "How good warmth is!" said he.
He stirred the live coals with one of the candlesticks.
A minute more, and they were both in the fire.
At that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him shouting: "Jean Valjean! Jean Valjean!"
His hair rose upright: he became like a man who is listening to some terrible thing.
"Yes, that's it! finish!" said the voice. "Complete what you are about! Destroy these candlesticks! Annihilate this souvenir! Forget the Bishop! Forget everything! Destroy this Champmathieu, do! That is right! Applaud yourself! So it is settled, resolved, fixed, agreed: here is an old man who does not know what is wanted of him, who has, perhaps, done nothing, an innocent man, whose whole misfortune lies in your name, upon whom your name weighs like a crime, who is about to be taken for you, who will be condemned, who will finish his days in abjectness and horror. That is good! Be an honest man yourself; remain Monsieur le Maire; remain honorable and honored; enrich the town; nourish the indigent; rear the orphan; live happy, virtuous, and admired; and, during this time, while you are here in the midst of joy and light, there will be a man who will wear your red blouse, who will bear your name in ignominy, and who will drag your chain in the galleys. Yes, it is well arranged thus. Ah, wretch!"
The perspiration streamed from his brow. He fixed a haggard eye on the candlesticks. But that within him which had spoken had not finished. The voice continued:--
"Jean Valjean, there will be around you many voices, which will make a great noise, which will talk very loud, and which will bless you, and only one which no one will hear, and which will curse you in the dark. Well! listen, infamous man! All those benedictions will fall back before they reach heaven, and only the malediction will ascend to God."
This voice, feeble at first, and which had proceeded from the most obscure depths of his conscience, had gradually become startling and formidable, and he now heard it in his very ear. It seemed to him that it had detached itself from him, and that it was now speaking outside of him. He thought that he heard the last words so distinctly, that he glanced around the room in a sort of terror.
"Is there any one here?" he demanded aloud, in utter bewilderment.
Then he resumed, with a laugh which resembled that of an idiot:--
"How stupid I am! There can be no one!"
There was some one; but the person who was there was of those whom the human eye cannot see.
He placed the candlesticks on the chimney-piece.
Then he resumed his monotonous and lugubrious tramp, which troubled the dreams of the sleeping man beneath him, and awoke him with a start.
This tramping to and fro soothed and at the same time intoxicated him. It sometimes seems, on supreme occasions, as though people moved about for the purpose of asking advice of everything that they may encounter by change of place. After the lapse of a few minutes he no longer knew his position.
He now recoiled in equal terror before both the resolutions at which he had arrived in turn. The two ideas which counselled him appeared to him equally fatal. What a fatality! What conjunction that that Champmathieu should have been taken for him; to be overwhelmed by precisely the means which Providence seemed to have employed, at first, to strengthen his position!
There was a moment when he reflected on the future. Denounce himself, great God! Deliver himself up! With immense despair he faced all that he should be obliged to leave, all that he should be obliged to take up once more. He should have to bid farewell to that existence which was so good, so pure, so radiant, to the respect of all, to honor, to liberty. He should never more stroll in the fields; he should never more hear the birds sing in the month of May; he should never more bestow alms on the little children; he should never more experience the sweetness of having glances of gratitude and love fixed upon him; he should quit that house which he had built, that little chamber! Everything seemed charming to him at that moment. Never again should he read those books; never more should he write on that little table of white wood; his old portress, the only servant whom he kept, would never more bring him his coffee in the morning. Great God! instead of that, the convict gang, the iron necklet, the red waistcoat, the chain on his ankle, fatigue, the cell, the camp bed all those horrors which he knew so well! At his age, after having been what he was! If he were only young again! but to be addressed in his old age as "thou" by any one who pleased; to be searched by the convict-guard; to receive the galley-sergeant's cudgellings; to wear iron-bound shoes on his bare feet; to have to stretch out his leg night and morning to the hammer of the roundsman who visits the gang; to submit to the curiosity of strangers, who would be told: "That man yonder is the famous Jean Valjean, who was mayor of M. sur M."; and at night, dripping with perspiration, overwhelmed with lassitude, their green caps drawn over their eyes, to remount, two by two, the ladder staircase of the galleys beneath the sergeant's whip. Oh, what misery! Can destiny, then, be as malicious as an intelligent being, and become as monstrous as the human heart?
And do what he would, he always fell back upon the heartrending dilemma which lay at the foundation of his revery: "Should he remain in paradise and become a demon? Should he return to hell and become an angel?"
What was to be done? Great God! what was to be done?
The torment from which he had escaped with so much difficulty was unchained afresh within him. His ideas began to grow confused once more; they assumed a kind of stupefied and mechanical quality which is peculiar to despair. The name of Romainville recurred incessantly to his mind, with the two verses of a song which he had heard in the past. He thought that Romainville was a little grove near Paris, where young lovers go to pluck lilacs in the month of April.
He wavered outwardly as well as inwardly. He walked like a little child who is permitted to toddle alone.
At intervals, as he combated his lassitude, he made an effort to recover the mastery of his mind. He tried to put to himself, for the last time, and definitely, the problem over which he had, in a manner, fallen prostrate with fatigue: Ought he to denounce himself? Ought he to hold his peace? He could not manage to see anything distinctly. The vague aspects of all the courses of reasoning which had been sketched out by his meditations quivered and vanished, one after the other, into smoke. He only felt that, to whatever course of action he made up his mind, something in him must die, and that of necessity, and without his being able to escape the fact; that he was entering a sepulchre on the right hand as much as on the left; that he was passing through a death agony,-- the agony of his happiness, or the agony of his virtue.
Alas! all his resolution had again taken possession of him. He was no further advanced than at the beginning.
Thus did this unhappy soul struggle in its anguish. Eighteen hundred years before this unfortunate man, the mysterious Being in whom are summed up all the sanctities and all the sufferings of humanity had also long thrust aside with his hand, while the olive-trees quivered in the wild wind of the infinite, the terrible cup which appeared to Him dripping with darkness and overflowing with shadows in the depths all studded with stars.
读者一定已经猜到马德兰先生便是冉阿让。
我们已向那颗良心的深处探望过，现在是再探望的时刻了。我们这样做，不能不受感动，也不能没有恐惧，因为这种探望比任何事情都更加触目惊心。精神的眼睛，除了在人的心里，再没有旁的地方可以见到更多的异彩、更多的黑暗；再没有比那更可怕、更复杂、更神秘、更变化无穷的东西。世间有一种比海洋更大的景象，那便是天空；还有一种比天空更大的景象，那便是内心活动。
赞美人心，纵使只涉及一个人，只涉及人群中最微贱的一个，也得熔冶一切歌颂英雄的诗文于一炉，赋成一首优越成熟的英雄颂。人心是妄念、贪欲和阴谋的污池，梦想的舞台，丑恶意念的渊薮，诡诈的都会，欲望的战场。在某些时候你不妨从一个运用心思的人的阴沉面容深入到他的皮里去，探索他的心情，穷究他的思绪。在那种外表的寂静下就有荷马史诗中那种巨灵的搏斗，密尔顿①诗中那种龙蛇的混战，但丁诗中那种幻象的萦绕。人心是广漠寥廓的天地，人在面对良心、省察胸中抱负和日常行动时往往黯然神伤！ 
①密尔顿（Milton，1608一1674），英国著名诗人。
但丁有一天曾经谈到过一扇险恶的门，他在那门前犹豫过。现在在我们的面前也有那么一扇门，我们也在它门口迟延不进。我们还是进去吧。
读者已经知道冉阿让从小瑞尔威那次事件发生后的情形，除此以外，我们要补述的事已经不多。从那时起，我们知道，他已是另外一个人了。那位主教所期望于他的，他都已躬行实践了。那不仅是种转变，而是再生。
他居然做到销声匿迹，他变卖了主教的银器，只留了那两个烛台作为纪念，从这城溜到那城，穿过法兰西，来到滨海蒙特勒伊，发明了我们说过的那种新方法，造就了我们谈过的那种事业，做到自己使人无可捉摸，无可接近，卜居在滨海蒙特勒伊，一面追念那些伤怀的往事，一面庆幸自己难得的余生，可以弥补前半生的缺憾；他生活安逸，有保障，有希望，他只有两种心愿：埋名，立德；远避人世，皈依上帝。
这两种心愿在他的精神上已紧密结合成为一种心愿了。两种心愿不相上下，全是他念念不忘、行之惟恐不力的；他一切行动，无论大小，都受这两种心愿的支配。平时，在指导他日常行动时，这两种心愿是并行不悖的；使他深藏不露，使他乐于为善，质朴无华；这两种心愿所起的作用完全一致。可是有时也不免发生矛盾。在不能两全时，我们记得，整个滨海蒙特勒伊称为马德兰先生的那个人，决不为后者牺牲前者，决不为自己的安全牺牲品德，他在取舍之间毫不犹豫。因此，他能不顾危险，毅然决然保存了主教的烛台，并且为他服丧，把所有过路的通烟囱孩子唤来询问，调查法维洛勒的家庭情况，并且甘心忍受沙威的那种难堪的隐语，救了割风老头的生命。我们已注意到，他的思想，仿佛取法于一切圣贤忠恕之士，认为自己首要的天职并不在于为己。
可是，必须指出，类似的情形还从来没有发生。这个不幸的人的种种痛苦，我们虽然谈了一些，但是支配着他的那两种心愿，还从来不曾有过这样严重的矛盾。沙威走进他的办公室，刚说了最初那几句话，他已模糊然而深切地认识了这一事件的严重性。当他那深埋密隐的名字被人那样突然提到时，他大为惊骇，好象被他那离奇的恶运冲昏了似的；并且在惊骇的过程中，起了一阵大震动前的小颤抖；他埋头曲项，好象暴风雨中的一株栎树，冲锋以前的一个士兵。他感到他头上来了满天乌云，雷电即将交作。听着沙威说话，他最初的意念便是要去，要跑去，去自首，把那商马第从牢狱里救出来，而自受监禁；那样想是和椎心刺骨一样苦楚创痛的；随后，那种念头过去了，他对自己说：“想想吧！想想吧！”他抑制了最初的那种慷慨心情，在英雄主义面前退缩了。
他久已奉行那主教的圣言，经过了多年的忏悔和忍辱，他修身自赎，也有了值得乐观的开端，到现在，他在面临那咄咄逼人的逆境时，如果仍能立即下定决心，直赴天国所在的深渊，毫不反顾，那又是多么豪放的一件事；那样做，固然豪放，但他并没有那样做。我们必须认清楚他心中的种种活动，我们能说的也只是那里的实际情况。最初支配他的是自卫的本能；他连忙把自己的多种思想集中起来，抑制冲动，注意眼前的大祸害沙威，恐怖的心情使他决定暂时不作任何决定，胡乱地想着他应当采取的办法，力持镇定，好象一个武士拾起他的盾一样。
那一天余下的时间，他便是这种样子，内心思潮起伏，外表恬静自如；他只采取一种所谓的“自全方法”。一切还是混乱的，并且在他的脑子里互相冲突，心情的骚乱使他看不清任何思想的形态；对自己他什么也说不上来，只知道刚刚受到了猛烈的打击。他照常到芳汀的病榻旁边去，延长了晤谈的时间，那也只是出自为善的本性，觉得应当如此而已。他又把她好好托付给姆姆们，以防万一。他胡乱猜想，也许非到阿拉斯去走一趟不可了，其实他对那种远行，还完全没有决定，他心想他绝没有遭到别人怀疑的危险，倒不妨亲自去看看那件事的经过，因此他订下了斯戈弗莱尔的车子，以备不时之需。
他用了晚餐，胃口还很好。
他回到自己房里，开始考虑。
他研究当时的处境，觉得真是离奇，闻所未闻。离奇到使他在心思紊乱之中起了一种几乎不可言喻的急躁情绪，他从椅子上跳起来，去把房门闩上。他恐怕还会有什么东西进来。
他严阵以待可能发生的事。
过了一会，他吹熄了烛。烛光使他烦懑。
他仿佛觉得有人看见他。
有人，谁呢？
咳！他想要摒诸门外的东西终于进来了，他要使它看不见，它却偏望着他。这就是他的良心。
他的良心，就是上帝。
可是，起初，他还欺骗自己；他自以为身边没有旁人，不会发生意外；既然已经闩上门，便不会有人能动他；熄了烛，便不会有人能看见他。那么他是属于自己的了；他把双肘放在桌子上，头靠在手里，在黑暗里思索起来。
“我怎么啦？”“我不是在作梦吧？”“他对我说了些什么？”
“难道我真看见了那沙威，他真向我说了那样一番话吗？”“那个商马第究竟是什么人呢？”“他真象我吗？”“那是可能的吗？”
“昨天我还那样安静，也绝没有想到有什么事要发生！”“昨天这个时候我在干些什么？”“这件事里有些什么问题？”“将怎样解决呢？”“怎么办？”
他的心因有着那样的烦恼而感到困惑。他的脑子也已失去了记忆的能力，他的思想，波涛似的，起伏翻腾。他双手捧着头，想使思潮停留下来。
那种纷乱使他的意志和理智都不得安宁，他想从中理出一种明确的见解和一定的办法，但是他获得的，除苦恼外一无所有。
他的头热极了。他走到窗前，把窗子整个推开。天上没有星。他又回来坐在桌子旁边。
第一个钟头便这样过去了。
渐渐地，这时一些模糊的线索在他的沉思中开始形成固定下来了，他还不能看清整个问题的全貌，但已能望见一些局部的情况，并且，如同观察实际事物似的，相当清晰了。
他开始认清了这样一点，尽管当时情况是那样离奇紧急，他自己还完全能居于主动地位。
他的惊恐越来越大了。
直到目前为止，他所作所为仅仅是在掘一个窟窿，以便掩藏他的名字，这和他行动所向往的严正虔诚的标准并不相干。当他扪心自问时，当他黑夜思量时，他发现他向来最怕的，便是有一天听见别人提到那个名字；他时常想到，那样就是他一切的终结；那个名字一旦重行出现，他的新生命就在他的四周毁灭，并且，谁知道？也许他的新灵魂也在他的心里毁灭。每当他想到那样的事是完全可能发生时，他就会颤抖起来。假使当时有人向他说将来有一天，那个名字会在他耳边轰鸣，冉阿让那几个丑恶不堪的字会忽然从黑暗中跳出来，直立在他前面；那种揭穿他秘密的强烈的光会突然在他头上闪耀；不过那人同时又说，这个名字不会威胁他，那种光还可能使他的隐情更加深密，那条撕开了的面纱也可能增加此中的神秘，那种地震可能巩固他的屋宇，那种非常的变故得出的结果，假使他本人觉得那样不坏的话，便会使他的生存更加光明，同时也更难被人识破，并且这位仁厚高尚的士绅马德兰先生，由于那个伪冉阿让的出现，相形之下，反会比以前任何时候显得更加崇高，更加平静，也更加受人尊敬……假使当时有人向他说了这一类的话，他一定摇头，认为是无稽之谈。可是！这一切刚才恰巧发生了，这一大堆不可能的事竟成为事实了，上帝已允许把那些等于痴人说梦的事变成了真正的事！
他的梦想继续明朗起来。他对自己的地位越看越清楚了。
他仿佛觉得他刚从一场莫名其妙的梦里醒过来，又看见自己正在黑夜之中，从一个斜坡滑向一道绝壁的最边上；他站着发抖，处于一种进退两难的地位。他清清楚楚地看见一个不相识的人，一个陌生人的黑影，命运把那人当作他自己，要把他推下那深坑。为了填塞那深坑，就必须有一个人落下去，他自己也许就是那个人。
他只好听其自然。
事情已经完全明白了，他这样认识：他在监牢里的位子还是空着的，躲也无用，那位子始终在那里等着他，抢小瑞尔威的事又要把他送到那里去，那个空位子一直在等着他，拖他，直到他进去的那一天，这是无法避免、命中注定的。随后，他又向自己说，这时他已有了个替身，那个叫商马第的活该倒霉，至于他，从今以后，可以让那商马第的身体去坐监，自己则冒马德兰先生的名生存于社会，只要他不阻止别人把那个和墓石一样、一落永不再起的罪犯的烙印印在那商马第的头上，他再也没有什么可以害怕的事了。
这一切都是那样强烈，那样奇特，致使他心中忽然起了一种不可言喻的冲动，那种冲动，是没有一个人能在一生中感到两三次以上的，那是良心的一种激发，把心中的暖昧全部激发起来，其中含有讥刺、欢乐和失望，我们可以称之为内心的一种狂笑。
他又连忙点起了他的蜡烛。
“什么！”他向自己说道，“我怕什么？我何必那样去想呢？我已经得救了。一切都安排好了。我原来只剩下一扇半开的门，从那门里，我的过去随时可以混到我的生命里来，现在那扇门已经堵塞了！永远堵塞了！沙威那个生来可怕的东西，那头凶恶的猎狗，多少年来，时时使我心慌，他好象已识破了我，确实识破了我，天呵！并且无处不尾随着我，随时都窥伺着我，现在却被击退了，到别处忙去了，绝对走入歧途了！他从此心满意足，让我逍遥自在了，他逮住了他的冉阿让！谁知道，也许他还要离开这座城市呢！况且这一经过与我无关！我丝毫不曾过问！呀，不过这里有些什么不妥的呢！等会儿看见我的人，说老实话，还以为我碰到了什么倒霉事呢！总而言之，假使有人遭殃，那完全不是我的过错。主持一切的是上天。显然是天意如此！我有什么权利扰乱上天的安排呢？我现在还要求什么？我还要管什么闲事？那和我不相干。怎么！我不满意！我究竟需要什么？多年来我要达到的目的，我在黑夜里的梦想，我向上天祷祝的愿望棗安全棗我已经得到了。要这样办的是上帝。我绝不应当反抗上帝的意旨。并且上天为什么要这样呢？为了要使我能继续我已开始了的工作，使我能够行善，使我将来成为一个能起鼓舞作用的伟大模范，使我能说我那种茹苦含辛、改邪归正的美德到底得了一点善果！我实在不懂，我刚才为什么不敢到那个诚实的神甫家里去，认他做一个听忏悔的教士，把一切情形都告诉他，请求他的意见，他说的当然会是同样的一些话。决定了，听其自然！接受慈悲上帝的安排！”
他在他心灵深处那样自言自语，我们可以说他在俯视他自己的深渊。他从椅子上立起身来，在房间里走来走去。“不必再想了，”他说。“决计这么办！”但是他丝毫不感到快乐。
他反而感到不安。
人不能阻止自己回头再想自己的见解，正如不能阻止海水流回海岸。对海员说，那叫做潮流；对罪人说，那叫做侮恨。
上帝使人心神不定，正如起伏的海洋。
过了一会，他白费了劲，又回到那种沉闷的对答里去自说自听，说他所不愿说，听他所不愿听的话，屈服在一种神秘的力量下面，这一神秘力量向他说“想！”正如两千年前向另一个就刑的人说“走！”一样。
我们暂时不必谈得太远，为了全面了解，我们得先进行一种必要的观察。
人向自己说话，那是确有其事，有思想活动的人都有过这种经验。并且我们可以说，语言在人的心里，从思想到良心，又从良心回到思想是一种灿烂无比的神秘。在这一章里，时常提到“他说，他喊道”这样的字眼，我们只应从上面所说的那种意义去理解它们。人向自己述说，向自己讲解，向自己叫喊，身外的寂静却依然如故。有一种大声的喧哗，除口以外一切都在我们的心里说话。心灵的存在并不因其完全无形无体而减少其真实性。
于是他问自己究竟是怎么回事。他从那“既定办法”上进行问答。他向自己供认，刚才他在心里作出的那种计划是荒谬的。“听其自然，接受慈悲上帝的安排”，纯粹是丑恶可耻的。让那天定的和人为的乖误进行到底，而不加以阻止，噤口不言，毫无表示，那样正是积极参与了一切乖误的活动，那是最卑鄙、丧失人格的伪善行为！是卑污、怯懦、阴险、无耻、丑恶的罪行！
八年来，那个不幸的人初次尝到一种坏思想和坏行为的苦味。
他心中作恶，一口吐了出来。
他继续反躬自问。他严厉地责问自己，所谓“我的目的已经达到！”那究竟是什么意思。他承认自己生在人间，确有一种目的。但是什么目的呢？隐藏自己的名字吗？蒙蔽警察吗？难道他所做的一切事业，仅仅是为了那一点点小事吗？难道他没有另外一个远大的、真正的目的吗？救他的灵魂，而不是救他的躯体。重做诚实仁善的人。做一个有天良的人！难道那不是对他一生的抱负和主教对他的期望的唯一重要的事情吗？斩断已往的历史？但是他并不是在斩断，伟大的上帝，而是在做一件丑事并把它延续下去！他又在作贼了，并且是最丑恶的贼！他偷盗另一个人的生活、性命、安宁和在阳光下的位子！他正在做杀人的勾当！他杀人，从精神方面杀害一个可怜的人！他害他受那种惨酷的活死刑，大家叫做苦牢的那种过露天生活的死刑。从反面着想，去自首，救出那个蒙不白之冤的人，恢复自己的真面目，尽自己的责任，重做苦役犯冉阿让，那才真正是洗心革面、永远关上自己所由出的那扇地狱之门！外表是重入地狱，实际上却是出地狱！他必须那样做！他如果不那样做，便是什么也没有做！他活着也是枉然，他的忏悔也全是白费，他以后只能说：“活着有什么意义？”他觉得那主教和他在一道，主教死了，但却更在眼前，主教的眼睛盯着他不动，从今以后，那个德高望重的马德兰市长在他的眼里将成为一个面目可憎的人，而那个苦役犯冉阿让却成了纯洁可亲的人。人们只看见他的外表，主教却看见他的真面目。人们只看见他的生活，主教却看见他的良心，因此他必须去阿拉斯，救出那个假冉阿让，揭发这个真冉阿让！多么悲惨的命运！这是最伟大的牺牲，最惨痛的胜利，最后的难关；但是非这样不可。悲惨的身世！在世人眼中他只有重蒙羞辱，才能够达到上帝眼中的圣洁！
“那么，”他说，“走这条路吧，尽我的天职！救出那个人！”
他大声地说了那些话，自己并不觉得。
他拿起他的那些书，检查以后，又把它们摆整齐。他把一些告急的小商人写给他的债券，整扎的一齐丢在火里。他写了一封信，盖了章，假使当时有人在他房里，便可以看见信封上写的是“巴黎　阿图瓦街　银行经理拉菲特先生”。
他从一张书桌里取出一个皮夹，里面有几张钞票和他那年参加选举用的身份证。
看见他这样一面沉痛地思考一面完成那些杂事的人，一定可以想见他心里的打算。不过有时他的嘴唇频频启闭，另外一些时候他抬头望着墙上随便哪一点，好象恰巧在那一点上他有需要了解或询问的东西。
他写完了给拉菲特先生的那封信以后，便把信和那皮夹一同插在衣袋里，又开始走起来。
他的萦想一点没有转变方向。他清清楚楚地看见他应做的事已用几个有光的字写出来了，这些字在他眼前发出火焰，持久不灭，并且随着他的视线移动：“去！说出你的姓名！自首！”
同时他又看见自己一向认为处世原则的那两种心愿“埋名”“立德”，好象有了显著的形状，在他眼前飘动。他生平第一次感到那两种愿望是绝不相容的，同时他看出了划分它们的界线。他认识到那两种愿望中的一种是好的，另外一种却可以成为坏事；前者济世，后者谋己；一个说“为人”，一个说“为我”；一个来自光明，一个来自黑暗。
它们互相斗争，他看着它们斗争。他一面想，它们也一面在他智慧的眼前扩大起来；现在它们有了巨大的身材；他仿佛看见在他自己心里，在我们先前提到的那种广漠辽阔的天地里，在黑暗和微光中，有一个女神和一个女魔，正在酣战。
他异常恐惧，但是他觉得善的思想胜利了。
他觉得他接近了自己良心和命运的另一次具有决定性的时刻；主教标志他新生命的第一阶段，商马第标志它的第二阶段。严重的危机之后，又继以严重的考验。
到这时，他胸中平息了一会的烦懑又渐渐起来了。万千思绪穿过他的脑海，但是更加巩固了他的决心。
他一时曾对自己说过：“他对这件事也许应付得太草率了，究其实，商马第也并不在乎他这样作的，总而言之，他曾偷过东西。”
他回答自己说：“假使那个人果真偷过几个苹果，那也不过是一个月的监禁问题。这和苦役大不相同。并且谁知道他偷了没有？证实了没有？冉阿让这个名字压在他头上，好象就可以不需要证据了。钦命检察官岂不常常那样做吗？大家以为他是盗贼，只是因为知道他做过苦役犯。”
在另一刹那，他又想到，在他自首以后，人家也许会重视他在这一行动中表现的英勇，考虑到他七年来的诚实生活和他在地方上起过的作用因而赦免他。
但是那种假想很快就消失了，他一面苦笑，一面想到他既抢过小瑞尔威的四十个苏，人家就可以加他以累犯的罪名，那件案子一定会发作，并且依据法律明白规定的条文，可以使他服终身苦役。
他丢开一切幻想，逐渐放弃了他对这个世界的留恋，想到别处去找安慰和力量。他向自己说他应当尽他的天职；他在尽了天职以后，也许并不见得会比逃避天职更痛苦些；假使他“听其自然”，假使他待在滨海蒙特勒伊不动，他的尊荣、他的好名誉、他的善政、他受到的敬重尊崇、他的慈善事业、他的财富、他的名望、他的德行都会被一种罪恶所污染；那一切圣洁的东西和那种丑恶的东西搀杂在一起，还有什么意义！反之，假使他完成自我牺牲，入狱，受木柱上的捶楚，背枷，戴绿帽，做没有休息的苦工，受无情的羞辱，倒还
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 4 Forms assumed by Suffering during Sleep
Three o'clock in the morning had just struck, and he had been walking thus for five hours, almost uninterruptedly, when he at length allowed himself to drop into his chair.
There he fell asleep and had a dream.
This dream, like the majority of dreams, bore no relation to the situation, except by its painful and heart-rending character, but it made an impression on him. This nightmare struck him so forcibly that he wrote it down later on. It is one of the papers in his own handwriting which he has bequeathed to us. We think that we have here reproduced the thing in strict accordance with the text.
Of whatever nature this dream may be, the history of this night would be incomplete if we were to omit it: it is the gloomy adventure of an ailing soul.
Here it is. On the envelope we find this line inscribed, "The Dream I had that Night."
"I was in a plain; a vast, gloomy plain, where there was no grass. It did not seem to me to be daylight nor yet night.
"I was walking with my brother, the brother of my childish years, the brother of whom, I must say, I never think, and whom I now hardly remember.
"We were conversing and we met some passers-by. We were talking of a neighbor of ours in former days, who had always worked with her window open from the time when she came to live on the street. As we talked we felt cold because of that open window.
"There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He was entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse which was earth color. The man had no hair; we could see his skull and the veins on it. In his hand he held a switch which was as supple as a vine-shoot and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed and said nothing to us.
"My brother said to me, `Let us take to the hollow road.'
"There existed a hollow way wherein one saw neither a single shrub nor a spear of moss. Everything was dirt-colored, even the sky. After proceeding a few paces, I received no reply when I spoke: I perceived that my brother was no longer with me.
"I entered a village which I espied. I reflected that it must be Romainville. (Why Romainville?)[5]
[5] This parenthesis is due to Jean Valjean.
"The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered a second street. Behind the angle formed by the two streets, a man was standing erect against the wall. I said to this Man:--
"`What country is this? Where am I?' The man made no reply. I saw the door of a house open, and I entered.
"The first chamber was deserted. I entered the second. Behind the door of this chamber a man was standing erect against the wall. I inquired of this man, `Whose house is this? Where am I?' The man replied not.
"The house had a garden. I quitted the house and entered the garden. The garden was deserted. Behind the first tree I found a man standing upright. I said to this man, `What garden is this? Where am I?' The man did not answer.
"I strolled into the village, and perceived that it was a town. All the streets were deserted, all the doors were open. Not a single living being was passing in the streets, walking through the chambers or strolling in the gardens. But behind each angle of the walls, behind each door, behind each tree, stood a silent man. Only one was to be seen at a time. These men watched me pass.
"I left the town and began to ramble about the fields.
"After the lapse of some time I turned back and saw a great crowd coming up behind me. I recognized all the men whom I had seen in that town. They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in a hurry, yet they walked faster than I did. They made no noise as they walked. In an instant this crowd had overtaken and surrounded me. The faces of these men were earthen in hue.
"Then the first one whom I had seen and questioned on entering the town said to me:--
"`Whither are you going! Do you not know that you have been dead this long time?'
"I opened my mouth to reply, and I perceived that there was no one near me."
He woke. He was icy cold. A wind which was chill like the breeze of dawn was rattling the leaves of the window, which had been left open on their hinges. The fire was out. The candle was nearing its end. It was still black night.
He rose, he went to the window. There were no stars in the sky even yet.
From his window the yard of the house and the street were visible. A sharp, harsh noise, which made him drop his eyes, resounded from the earth.
Below him he perceived two red stars, whose rays lengthened and shortened in a singular manner through the darkness.
As his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep, "Hold!" said he, "there are no stars in the sky. They are on earth now."
But this confusion vanished; a second sound similar to the first roused him thoroughly; he looked and recognized the fact that these two stars were the lanterns of a carriage. By the light which they cast he was able to distinguish the form of this vehicle. It was a tilbury harnessed to a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the trampling of the horse's hoofs on the pavement.
"What vehicle is this?" he said to himself. "Who is coming here so early in the morning?"
At that moment there came a light tap on the door of his chamber.
He shuddered from head to foot, and cried in a terrible voice:--
"Who is there?"
Some one said:--
"I, Monsieur le Maire."
He recognized the voice of the old woman who was his portress.
"Well!" he replied, "what is it?"
"Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o'clock in the morning."
"What is that to me?"
"The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire."
"What cabriolet?"
"The tilbury."
"What tilbury?"
"Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury?"
"No," said he.
"The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur le Maire."
"What coachman?"
"M. Scaufflaire's coachman."
"M. Scaufflaire?"
That name sent a shudder over him, as though a flash of lightning had passed in front of his face.
"Ah! yes," he resumed; "M. Scaufflaire!"
If the old woman could have seen him at that moment, she would have been frightened.
A tolerably long silence ensued. He examined the flame of the candle with a stupid air, and from around the wick he took some of the burning wax, which he rolled between his fingers. The old woman waited for him. She even ventured to uplift her voice once more:--
"What am I to say, Monsieur le Maire?"
"Say that it is well, and that I am coming down."
早晨三点刚刚敲过，他那样几乎不停地走来走去，已有五个钟头了。后来，他倒在椅子上。
他在那上面睡着了，还做了一个梦。
那梦，和大多数的梦一样，只是和一些惨痛莫名的情况有关连，但是他仍然受了感动。那场恶梦狠狠地打击了他，使他后来把它记了下来。这是他亲笔写好留下来的一张纸。我们认为应在此把这一内容依照原文录下。
无论那个梦是什么，假使我们略过不提，那一夜的经过便不完全。那是一个害着心病的人的一段辛酸的故事。
下面便是。在那信封上有这样一行字：“我在那晚作的梦。”
我到了田野间。那是一片荒凉辽阔、寸草不生的田野。我既不觉得那是白天，也不觉得是黑夜。
我和我的哥，我童年时的哥，一同散步；这个哥，我应当说，是我从来没有想起，而且几乎忘了的。
我们在闲谈，又碰见许多人走过。我们谈到从前的一个女邻居，这个女邻居，自从她住在那条街上，便时常开着窗子工作。我们谈着谈着，竟因那扇开着的窗子而觉得冷起来了。
田野间没有树。
我们看见一个人在我们身边走过。那人赤身露体，浑身灰色，骑着一匹土色的马。那人没有头发；我们看见他的秃顶和顶上的血管。他手里拿着一条鞭子，象葡萄藤那样软，又象铁那么重。那骑士走了过去，一句话也没有和我们说。
我哥向我说：“我们从那条凹下去的路走吧。”那里有一条凹下去的路，路上没有一根荆棘，也没有一丝青苔。一切全是土色的，连天也一样。走了几步以后，我说话，却没有人应我，我发现我的哥已不和我在一道了。
我望见一个村子，便走进去。我想那也许是罗曼维尔。（为什么是罗曼维尔呢？）① 
①括弧是冉阿让加的。棗原注。
我走进的第一条街，没有人，我又走进第二条街。在转角的地方，有个人靠墙立着。我向那人说：“这是什么地方？我到了哪里？”
那人不回答。我看见一扇开着的墙门，我便走进去。第一间屋子是空的。我走进第二间。在那扇门的后面，有个人靠墙立着。我问那人：“这房子是谁的？我是在什么地方？”那人不回答。那房子里有一个园子。
我走出房子，走进园子。园子是荒凉的。在第一株树的后面，我看见一个人立着。我向那人说：“这是什么园子？我在什么地方？”那人不回答。
我信步在那村子里走着，我发现那是个城。所有的街道都是荒凉的，所有的门都是开着的。没有一个人在街上经过，也没有人在房里走或是在园里散步。但在每一个墙角上、每扇门后面、每株树的背后，都立着一个不开口的人。每次总只有一个，那些人都望着我走过去。
我出了城，在田里走。
过了一会，我回转头，看见一大群人跟在我后面走来。我认出了那些人，全是我在那城里看见过的。他们的相貌是奇形怪状的。他们好象并不急于赶路，但他们都比我走得快。他们走的时候，一点声音也没有。一下子，那群人追上了我，把我围了起来。那些人的面色都是土色的。
于是，我在进城时最初见到并向他问过话的那个人向我说：
“您往哪儿去？难道您不知道您早就死了吗？”
我张开嘴，正要答话，但是我看见四周绝没有一个人。
他醒过来，冻僵了。一阵和晨风一样冷的风把窗板吹得在开着的窗门臼里直转。火已经灭了。蜡烛也快点完了。仍旧是黑夜。
他立起来，向着窗子走去，天上始终没有星。
从他的窗口，可以望见那所房子的天井和街道。地上忽然发出一种干脆而结实的响声，他便朝下望。
他看见在他下面有两颗红星，它们的光在黑影里忽展忽缩，形状奇怪。
由于他的思想仍半沉在梦境里，他在想：“奇怪！天上没有星，它们现在到地上来了。”
这时，他才从梦中渐渐清醒过来，一声和第一次相同的响声把他完全惊醒了，他注意看，这才看出那两颗星原来是一辆车子上的挂灯。从那两盏挂灯射出的光里，他可以看出那辆车子的形状。那是一辆小车，驾着一匹白马。他先头听见的便是马蹄踏地的响声。
“这是什么车子？”他向自己说，“谁这样一清早就来了？”
这时，有个人在他房门上轻轻敲了一下。
他从头到脚打了一个寒噤，怪声叫道：
“谁呀？”
有个人回答：
“是我，市长先生。”
他听出那老妇人棗他的门房的嗓子。
“什么事？”他又问。
“市长先生，快早晨五点了。”
“这告诉我干什么？”
“市长先生，车子来了。”
“什么车子？”
“小车。”
“什么小车？”
“难道市长先生没有要过一辆小车吗？”
“没有。”他说。
“那车夫说他是来找市长先生的。”
“哪个车夫？”
“斯戈弗莱尔先生的车夫。”
“斯戈弗莱尔先生？”
那个名字使他大吃一惊，好象有道电光在他的面前闪过。
“呀！对了！”他回答说，“斯戈弗莱尔先生。”
当时那老妇人如果看见了他，她一定会被他吓坏的。
他一声不响，停了好一阵。他呆呆地望着那支蜡烛的火焰，又从烛心旁边取出一点火热的蜡，在指间抟着。那老妇人等了一阵，才壮起胆子，高声问道：
“市长先生，我应当怎样回复呢？”
“您说好的，我就下来。”
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 5 Hindrances
The posting service from Arras to M. sur M. was still operated at this period by small mail-wagons of the time of the Empire. These mail-wagons were two-wheeled cabriolets, upholstered inside with fawn-colored leather, hung on springs, and having but two seats, one for the postboy, the other for the traveller. The wheels were armed with those long, offensive axles which keep other vehicles at a distance, and which may still be seen on the road in Germany. The despatch box, an immense oblong coffer, was placed behind the vehicle and formed a part of it. This coffer was painted black, and the cabriolet yellow.
These vehicles, which have no counterparts nowadays, had something distorted and hunchbacked about them; and when one saw them passing in the distance, and climbing up some road to the horizon, they resembled the insects which are called, I think, termites, and which, though with but little corselet, drag a great train behind them. But they travelled at a very rapid rate. The post-wagon which set out from Arras at one o'clock every night, after the mail from Paris had passed, arrived at M. sur M. a little before five o'clock in the morning.
That night the wagon which was descending to M. sur M. by the Hesdin road, collided at the corner of a street, just as it was entering the town, with a little tilbury harnessed to a white horse, which was going in the opposite direction, and in which there was but one person, a man enveloped in a mantle. The wheel of the tilbury received quite a violent shock. The postman shouted to the man to stop, but the traveller paid no heed and pursued his road at full gallop.
"That man is in a devilish hurry!" said the postman.
The man thus hastening on was the one whom we have just seen struggling in convulsions which are certainly deserving of pity.
Whither was he going? He could not have told. Why was he hastening? He did not know. He was driving at random, straight ahead. Whither? To Arras, no doubt; but he might have been going elsewhere as well. At times he was conscious of it, and he shuddered. He plunged into the night as into a gulf. Something urged him forward; something drew him on. No one could have told what was taking place within him; every one will understand it. What man is there who has not entered, at least once in his life, into that obscure cavern of the unknown?
However, he had resolved on nothing, decided nothing, formed no plan, done nothing. None of the actions of his conscience had been decisive. He was, more than ever, as he had been at the first moment.
Why was he going to Arras?
He repeated what he had already said to himself when he had hired Scaufflaire's cabriolet: that, whatever the result was to be, there was no reason why he should not see with his own eyes, and judge of matters for himself; that this was even prudent; that he must know what took place; that no decision could be arrived at without having observed and scrutinized; that one made mountains out of everything from a distance; that, at any rate, when he should have seen that Champmathieu, some wretch, his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow him to go to the galleys in his stead; that Javert would indeed be there; and that Brevet, that Chenildieu, that Cochepaille, old convicts who had known him; but they certainly would not recognize him;--bah! what an idea! that Javert was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth; that all conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Champmathieu, and that there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures; that accordingly there was no danger.
That it was, no doubt, a dark moment, but that he should emerge from it; that, after all, he held his destiny, however bad it might be, in his own hand; that he was master of it. He clung to this thought.
At bottom, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go to Arras.
Nevertheless, he was going thither.
As he meditated, he whipped up his horse, which was proceeding at that fine, regular, and even trot which accomplishes two leagues and a half an hour.
In proportion as the cabriolet advanced, he felt something within him draw back.
At daybreak he was in the open country; the town of M. sur M. Lay far behind him. He watched the horizon grow white; he stared at all the chilly figures of a winter's dawn as they passed before his eyes, but without seeing them. The morning has its spectres as well as the evening. He did not see them; but without his being aware of it, and by means of a sort of penetration which was almost physical, these black silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister quality to the violent state of his soul.
Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which sometimes border on the highway, he said to himself, "And yet there are people there within who are sleeping!"
The trot of the horse, the bells on the harness, the wheels on the road, produced a gentle, monotonous noise. These things are charming when one is joyous, and lugubrious when one is sad.
It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin. He halted in front of the inn, to allow the horse a breathing spell, and to have him given some oats.
The horse belonged, as Scaufflaire had said, to that small race of the Boulonnais, which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough neck and shoulders, but which has a broad chest, a large crupper, thin, fine legs, and solid hoofs--a homely, but a robust and healthy race. The excellent beast had travelled five leagues in two hours, and had not a drop of sweat on his loins.
He did not get out of the tilbury. The stableman who brought the oats suddenly bent down and examined the left wheel.
"Are you going far in this condition?" said the man.
He replied, with an air of not having roused himself from his revery:--
"Why?"
"Have you come from a great distance?" went on the man.
"Five leagues."
"Ah!"
"Why do you say, `Ah?'"
The man bent down once more, was silent for a moment, with his eyes fixed on the wheel; then he rose erect and said:--
"Because, though this wheel has travelled five leagues, it certainly will not travel another quarter of a league."
He sprang out of the tilbury.
"What is that you say, my friend?"
"I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagues without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Just see here!"
The wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered by the mail-wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub, so that the nut no longer held firm.
"My friend," he said to the stableman, "is there a wheelwright here?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Do me the service to go and fetch him."
"He is only a step from here. Hey! Master Bourgaillard!"
Master Bourgaillard, the wheelwright, was standing on his own threshold. He came, examined the wheel and made a grimace like a surgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken.
"Can you repair this wheel immediately?"
"Yes, sir."
"When can I set out again?"
"To-morrow."
"To-morrow!"
"There is a long day's work on it. Are you in a hurry, sir?"
"In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an hour at the latest."
"Impossible, sir."
"I will pay whatever you ask."
"Impossible."
"Well, in two hours, then."
"Impossible to-day. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur will not be able to start before to-morrow morning."
"The matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it?"
"How so?"
"You are a wheelwright?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again at once."
"A spare wheel?"
"Yes."
"I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels make a pair. Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard."
"In that case, sell me a pair of wheels."
"Not all wheels fit all axles, sir."
"Try, nevertheless."
"It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels. We are but a poor country here."
"Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?"
The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury was a hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders.
"You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I had one, I would not let it to you!"
"Well, sell it to me, then."
"I have none."
"What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see."
"We live in a poor country. There is, in truth," added the wheelwright, "an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois of the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on the thirty-sixth of the month--never, that is to say. I might let that to you, for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must not see it pass--and then, it is a calash; it would require two horses."
"I will take two post-horses."
"Where is Monsieur going?"
"To Arras."
"And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day?"
"Yes, of course."
"By taking two post-horses?"
"Why not?"
"Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four o'clock to-morrow morning?"
"Certainly not."
"There is one thing to be said about that, you see, by taking post-horses-- Monsieur has his passport?"
"Yes."
"Well, by taking post-horses, Monsieur cannot reach Arras before to-morrow. We are on a cross-road. The relays are badly served, the horses are in the fields. The season for ploughing is just beginning; heavy teams are required, and horses are seized upon everywhere, from the post as well as elsewhere. Monsieur will have to wait three or four hours at the least at every relay. And, then, they drive at a walk. There are many hills to ascend."
"Come then, I will go on horseback. Unharness the cabriolet. Some one can surely sell me a saddle in the neighborhood."
"Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle?"
"That is true; you remind me of that; he will not bear it."
"Then--"
"But I can surely hire a horse in the village?"
"A horse to travel to Arras at one stretch?"
"Yes."
"That would require such a horse as does not exist in these parts. You would have to buy it to begin with, because no one knows you. But you will not find one for sale nor to let, for five hundred francs, or for a thousand."
"What am I to do?"
"The best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man, and set out on your journey to-morrow."
"To-morrow will be too late."
"The deuce!"
"Is there not a mail-wagon which runs to Arras? When will it pass?"
"To-night. Both the posts pass at night; the one going as well as the one coming."
"What! It will take you a day to mend this wheel?"
"A day, and a good long one."
"If you set two men to work?"
"If I set ten men to work."
"What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes?"
"That could be done with the spokes, not with the hub; and the felly is in a bad state, too."
"Is there any one in this village who lets out teams?"
"No."
"Is there another wheelwright?"
The stableman and the wheelwright replied in concert, with a toss of the head.
"No."
He felt an immense joy.
It was evident that Providence was intervening. That it was it who had broken the wheel of the tilbury and who was stopping him on the road. He had not yielded to this sort of first summons; he had just made every possible effort to continue the journey; he had loyally and scrupulously exhausted all means; he had been deterred neither by the season, nor fatigue, nor by the expense; he had nothing with which to reproach himself. If he went no further, that was no fault of his. It did not concern him further. It was no longer his fault. It was not the act of his own conscience, but the act of Providence.
He breathed again. He breathed freely and to the full extent of his lungs for the first time since Javert's visit. It seemed to him that the hand of iron which had held his heart in its grasp for the last twenty hours had just released him.
It seemed to him that God was for him now, and was manifesting Himself.
He said himself that he had done all he could, and that now he had nothing to do but retrace his steps quietly.
If his conversation with the wheelwright had taken place in a chamber of the inn, it would have had no witnesses, no one would have heard him, things would have rested there, and it is probable that we should not have had to relate any of the occurrences which the reader is about to peruse; but this conversation had taken place in the street. Any colloquy in the street inevitably attracts a crowd. There are always people who ask nothing better than to become spectators. While he was questioning the wheelwright, some people who were passing back and forth halted around them. After listening for a few minutes, a young lad, to whom no one had paid any heed, detached himself from the group and ran off.
At the moment when the traveller, after the inward deliberation which we have just described, resolved to retrace his steps, this child returned. He was accompanied by an old woman.
"Monsieur," said the woman, "my boy tells me that you wish to hire a cabriolet."
These simple words uttered by an old woman led by a child made the perspiration trickle down his limbs. He thought that he beheld the hand which had relaxed its grasp reappear in the darkness behind him, ready to seize him once more.
He answered:--
"Yes, my good woman; I am in search of a cabriolet which I can hire."
And he hastened to add:--
"But there is none in the place."
"Certainly there is," said the old woman.
"Where?" interpolated the wheelwright.
"At my house," replied the old woman.
He shuddered. The fatal hand had grasped him again.
The old woman really had in her shed a sort of basket spring-cart. The wheelwright and the stable-man, in despair at the prospect of the traveller escaping their clutches, interfered.
"It was a frightful old trap; it rests flat on the axle; it is an actual fact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs; the rain came into it; the wheels were rusted and eaten with moisture; it would not go much further than the tilbury; a regular ramshackle old stage-wagon; the gentleman would make a great mistake if he trusted himself to it," etc., etc.
All this was true; but this trap, this ramshackle old vehicle, this thing, whatever it was, ran on its two wheels and could go to Arras.
He paid what was asked, left the tilbury with the wheelwright to be repaired, intending to reclaim it on his return, had the white horse put to the cart, climbed into it, and resumed the road which he had been travelling since morning.
At the moment when the cart moved off, he admitted that he had felt, a moment previously, a certain joy in the thought that he should not go whither he was now proceeding. He examined this joy with a sort of wrath, and found it absurd. Why should he feel joy at turning back? After all, he was taking this trip of his own free will. No one was forcing him to it.
And assuredly nothing would happen except what he should choose.
As he left Hesdin, he heard a voice shouting to him: "Stop! Stop!" He halted the cart with a vigorous movement which contained a feverish and convulsive element resembling hope.
It was the old woman's little boy.
"Monsieur," said the latter, "it was I who got the cart for you."
"Well?"
"You have not given me anything."
He who gave to all so readily thought this demand exorbitant and almost odious.
"Ah! it's you, you scamp?" said he; "you shall have nothing."
He whipped up his horse and set off at full speed.
He had lost a great deal of time at Hesdin. He wanted to make it good. The little horse was courageous, and pulled for two; but it was the month of February, there had been rain; the roads were bad. And then, it was no longer the tilbury. The cart was very heavy, and in addition, there were many ascents.
He took nearly four hours to go from Hesdin to Saint-Pol; four hours for five leagues.
At Saint-Pol he had the horse unharnessed at the first inn he came to and led to the stable; as he had promised Scaufflaire, he stood beside the manger while the horse was eating; he thought of sad and confusing things.
The inn-keeper's wife came to the stable.
"Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast?"
"Come, that is true; I even have a good appetite."
He followed the woman, who had a rosy, cheerful face; she led him to the public room where there were tables covered with waxed cloth.
"Make haste!" said he; "I must start again; I am in a hurry."
A big Flemish servant-maid placed his knife and fork in all haste; he looked at the girl with a sensation of comfort.
"That is what ailed me," he thought; "I had not breakfasted."
His breakfast was served; he seized the bread, took a mouthful, and then slowly replaced it on the table, and did not touch it again.
A carter was eating at another table; he said to this man:--
"Why is their bread so bitter here?"
The carter was a German and did not understand him.
He returned to the stable and remained near the horse.
An hour later he had quitted Saint-Pol and was directing his course towards Tinques, which is only five leagues from Arras.
What did he do during this journey? Of what was he thinking? As in the morning, he watched the trees, the thatched roofs, the tilled fields pass by, and the way in which the landscape, broken at every turn of the road, vanished; this is a sort of contemplation which sometimes suffices to the soul, and almost relieves it from thought. What is more melancholy and more profound than to see a thousand objects for the first and the last time? To travel is to be born and to die at every instant; perhaps, in the vaguest region of his mind, be did make comparisons between the shifting horizon and our human existence: all the things of life are perpetually fleeing before us; the dark and bright intervals are intermingled; after a dazzling moment, an eclipse; we look, we hasten, we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing; each event is a turn in the road, and, all at once, we are old; we feel a shock; all is black; we distinguish an obscure door; the gloomy horse of life, which has been drawing us halts, and we see a veiled and unknown person unharnessing amid the shadows.
Twilight was falling when the children who were coming out of school beheld this traveller enter Tinques; it is true that the days were still short; he did not halt at Tinques; as he emerged from the village, a laborer, who was mending the road with stones, raised his head and said to him:--
"That horse is very much fatigued."
The poor beast was, in fact, going at a walk.
"Are you going to Arras?" added the road-mender.
"Yes."
"If you go on at that rate you will not arrive very early."
He stopped his horse, and asked the laborer:--
"How far is it from here to Arras?"
"Nearly seven good leagues."
"How is that? the posting guide only says five leagues and a quarter."
"Ah!" returned the road-mender, "so you don't know that the road is under repair? You will find it barred a quarter of an hour further on; there is no way to proceed further."
"Really?"
"You will take the road on the left, leading to Carency; you will cross the river; when you reach Camblin, you will turn to the right; that is the road to Mont-Saint-Eloy which leads to Arras."
"But it is night, and I shall lose my way."
"You do not belong in these parts?"
"No."
"And, besides, it is all cross-roads; stop! sir," resumed the road-mender; "shall I give you a piece of advice? your horse is tired; return to Tinques; there is a good inn there; sleep there; you can reach Arras to-morrow."
"I must be there this evening."
"That is different; but go to the inn all the same, and get an extra horse; the stable-boy will guide you through the cross-roads."
He followed the road-mender's advice, retraced his steps, and, half an hour later, he passed the same spot again, but this time at full speed, with a good horse to aid; a stable-boy, who called himself a postilion, was seated on the shaft of the cariole.
Still, he felt that he had lost time.
Night had fully come.
They turned into the cross-road; the way became frightfully bad; the cart lurched from one rut to the other; he said to the postilion:--
"Keep at a trot, and you shall have a double fee."
In one of the jolts, the whiffle-tree broke.
"There's the whiffle-tree broken, sir," said the postilion; "I don't know how to harness my horse now; this road is very bad at night; if you wish to return and sleep at Tinques, we could be in Arras early to-morrow morning."
He replied, "Have you a bit of rope and a knife?"
"Yes, sir."
He cut a branch from a tree and made a whiffle-tree of it.
This caused another loss of twenty minutes; but they set out again at a gallop.
The plain was gloomy; low-hanging, black, crisp fogs crept over the hills and wrenched themselves away like smoke: there were whitish gleams in the clouds; a strong breeze which blew in from the sea produced a sound in all quarters of the horizon, as of some one moving furniture; everything that could be seen assumed attitudes of terror. How many things shiver beneath these vast breaths of the night!
He was stiff with cold; he had eaten nothing since the night before; he vaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain in the neighborhood of D----, eight years previously, and it seemed but yesterday.
The hour struck from a distant tower; he asked the boy:--
"What time is it?"
"Seven o'clock, sir; we shall reach Arras at eight; we have but three leagues still to go."
At that moment, he for the first time indulged in this reflection, thinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him sooner: that all this trouble which he was taking was, perhaps, useless; that he did not know so much as the hour of the trial; that he should, at least, have informed himself of that; that he was foolish to go thus straight ahead without knowing whether he would be of any service or not; then he sketched out some calculations in his mind: that, ordinarily, the sittings of the Court of Assizes began at nine o'clock in the morning; that it could not be a long affair; that the theft of the apples would be very brief; that there would then remain only a question of identity, four or five depositions, and very little for the lawyers to say; that he should arrive after all was over.
The postilion whipped up the horses; they had crossed the river and left Mont-Saint-Eloy behind them.
The night grew more profound.
当时，从阿拉斯到滨海蒙特勒伊的邮政仍使用着帝国时代的那种小箱车。那箱车是种两轮小车，内壁装了橙黄色的革，车身悬在螺旋式的弹簧上，只有两个位子，一个是给邮差坐的，一个是备乘客坐的。车轮上面装有那种妨害人的长毂，使旁的车子和它必须保持一定的距离，今日在德国的道路上还可以看见那种车子。邮件箱是一只长方形的大匣子，装在车子的后部，和车身连成一体。箱子是黑漆的，车身则是黄漆。
那种车子有一种说不出的佝偻丑态，在今日已没有什么东西和它相似的了；我们远远望见那种车子走过，或见它在地平线上沿路匍匐前进，它们正象，我想是，大家称作白蚁的那种有白色细腰、拖着庞大臀部的昆虫。但是它们走得相当快。那种箱车在每天晚上一点，在来自巴黎的邮车到了以后，便从阿拉斯出发，快到早晨五点时，便到了滨海蒙特勒伊。
那天晚上，经爱司丹去滨海蒙特勒伊的箱车，在正进城时，在一条街的转角处，撞上了一辆从对面来的小车，那小车是由一匹白马拉的，里面只有一个围着斗篷的人。小车的车轮受了一下颇猛的撞击，邮差叫那人停下来，但是那驾车的人不听，照旧快步趱赶，继续他的行程。
“这真是个鬼一样性急的人！”那邮差说。
那个匆忙到那种程度的人，便是我们刚才看见在狠命挣扎、确实值得怜悯的那个人。
他去什么地方？他不能说。他为什么匆忙？他不知道。他毫无目的地向前走。什么方向呢？想必是阿拉斯，但是他也许还要到别处去。有时，他觉得他会那样作，他不禁战栗起来。他沉没在那种黑夜里，如同沉没在深渊中一样。有样东西在推他，有样东西在拖他。他心里的事，这时大概没有人能说出来，但将来大家全会了解的。在一生中谁一次也不曾进入那种渺茫的幽窟呢？
况且他完全没有拿定主意，完全没有下定决心，完全没有选定，一点没有准备。他内心的一切活动全不是确定的。他完完全全是起初的那个样子。
他为什么去阿拉斯？
他心里一再重复着他在向斯戈弗莱尔定车子时曾向自己说过的那些话：“不论结果是什么，也绝不妨亲眼去看一下，亲自去判断那些事”；“为谨慎起见，也应当了解一下经过情形”；“没有观察研究，就作不出任何决定”；“离得远了，总不免遇事夸张，一旦看见了商马第这个无赖，自己的良心也许会大大地轻松下来，也就可以让他去代替自己受苦刑”；“沙威当然会在那里，还有那些老苦役犯布莱卫、舍尼杰、戈什巴依，从前虽然认识他，但现在决不会认出他”；“啐！胡想！”“沙威还完全睡在鼓里呢”；“一切猜想和一切怀疑，都集中在商马第身上，并且猜想和怀疑都是最顽固的东西”；“因此绝没有危险”。
那当然还是不幸的时刻，但是他不会受牵累；总之，无论他的命运会怎样险恶，他总还把它捏住在自己的手中；他是他命运的主人。他坚持那种想法。
实际上，说句真话，他更喜欢能不去阿拉斯。
可是他去了。
他一面思前想后，一面鞭马，那马稳步踏实，向前趱进，每小时要走二法里半。
车子越前进，他的心却越后退。
破晓时，他已到了平坦的乡间，滨海蒙特勒伊城已经远远落在他的后面。他望着天边在发白；他望着，却不看见，冬季天明时分的各种寒冷景象，一一在他眼前掠过。早晨和黄昏一样，有它的各种幻影。他并没有看见它们，但是那些树木和山丘的黑影，象穿过他的身体似的，在他不知不觉之中，使他那紧张的心情更增添一种无可言喻的凄凉。
他每经过一所孤零零的有时靠近路旁的房子，便向自己说：“那里肯定还有人睡在床上！”
马蹄、铜铃、车轮，一路上合成了柔和单调的声音。那些东西，在快乐的人听来非常悦耳，但伤心人却感到无限苍凉。
他到爱司丹时天已经大亮了。他在一家客栈门前停下来，让马喘口气，又叫人给他拿来荞麦。
那匹马，斯戈弗莱尔已经说过，是布洛涅种的小马，头部和腹部都太大，颈太短，但是胸部开展，臀部宽阔，腿干而细，脚劲坚实，貌不扬而体格强健；那头出色的牲口，在两个钟头之内，走了五法里，并且臀上没有一滴汗珠。
他没有下车。那送荞麦来喂马的马夫忽然蹲下去，检查那左边的轮子。
“您打算这样走远路吗？”那人说。
他几乎还在萦梦中，回答说：
“怎么呢？”
“您是从远处来的吗？”那小伙计又问。
“离此地五法里。”
“哎呀！”
“您为什么说‘哎呀’？”
那小伙计又弯下腰去，停了一会不响，仔细看那轮子，随后，立起来说道：
“就是因为这轮子刚才走了五法里路，也许没有错，但是现在它决走不了一法里的四分之一了。”
他从车上跳下来。
“您说什么，我的朋友？”
“我说您走了五法里路，而您却没有连人带马滚到大路边上的沟里去，那真是上帝显灵。您自己瞧吧。”
那轮子确实受了重伤。那辆邮政箱车撞断了两根轮辐，并且把那轮毂也撞破了一块，螺旋已经站不稳了。
“我的朋友，”他向那马房伙计说，“这里有车匠吗？”
“当然有的，先生。”
“请您帮我个忙，去找他来。”
“他就在那面，才两步路。喂！布加雅师父！”
车匠布加雅师父正在他门口，他走来检查了那车轮，装出一副丑脸，正象个研究一条断腿的外科医师。
“您能立刻把这轮子修好吗？”
“行，先生。”
“我在什么时候可以再上路呢？”
“明天。”
“明天！”
“这里有足足一整天的活呢。先生有急事吗？”
“非常急。我最晚也非在一个钟头以内上路不可。”
“不可能，先生。”
“您要多少钱，我都照给。”
“不可能。”
“那么，两个钟头以内。”
“今天是不行的了。我必须重新做两根轮辐和一个轮毂。
先生在明天以前是走不成的了。”
“我的事不能等到明天。要是不修那轮子，您另换一个，可以吗？”
“怎么换？”
“您是车匠师父吗？”
“当然，先生。”
“难道您没有一个轮子卖给我吗？我立刻就可以走了。”
“一个备用的轮子吗？”
“是呀。”
“我没有替您这轮车准备好轮子。轮子总是一对对配好的。两个轮子不是偶然碰上就能成双成对的。”
“既是这样，卖一对轮子给我。”
“先生，轮子不是和任何车辆都能配合的。”
“不妨试试。”
“不中用，先生。我只有小牛车轮子出卖，我们这里是个小地方。”
“您有没有一辆坐车租给我呢？”
那位车匠师父一眼就看出他那辆小车是租来的。他耸了耸肩。
“人家把车子租给您，您可真照顾得好！我有也不租给您。”
“那么，卖给我呢？”
“我没有卖。”
“什么！一辆破车也没有吗？您看得出，我不是难说话的。”
“我们是个小地方。在那边车棚里，”那车匠接着说，“我有一辆旧的软兜车，是城里的一位绅士交给我保管的，他要到每个月的三十六号①才用一次。我完全可以把它租给您，那和我有什么相干？但是切不可让那位绅士看见它走过；而且，那是一辆软兜车，非有两匹马不行。” 
①等于说“从来不用”。　
　“我可以用邮局的马。”
“先生去什么地方？”
“去阿拉斯。”
“而且先生今天就要到吗？”
“是呀。”
“用邮局的马？”
“为什么不呢？”
“假使先生在今天夜里的四点钟到，可以不可以呢？”
“决不可以。”
“就是，您知道，有件事要说，用邮局的马的话……先生有护照吗？”
“有。”
“那么，用邮局的马的话，先生也不能在明天以前到达阿拉斯。我们是在一条支路上。换马站的工作做得很坏，马都在田里。犁田的季节已经开始了。大家都需要壮马，邮局和旁的地方都一样在四处找马。先生在每个换马站都至少得等上三四个钟头。并且只能慢慢地走。有许多斜坡要爬。”
“唉，我骑着马去吧。请您把车子解下来。在这地方我总买得到一套鞍子吧。”
“当然买得到。但是这匹马肯受鞍子吗？”
“真的，您提醒了我。这马不肯受鞍子。”
“那么……”
“在这村子里，我总可以找得到一匹出租的马吧。”
“一匹一口气走到阿拉斯的马吗？”
“对了。”
“您非得有一匹在我们这地方找不着的那种马才行。首先，您得买，因为我们不认识您。但是既没有卖的，也没有租的，五百法郎，一千法郎，都不中用。您找不到一匹那样的马。”
“怎么办？”
“最好是这样，老实人说老实话，我来修您的轮子，您等到明天再走。”
“明天太迟了。”
“圣母！”
“此地没有去阿拉斯的邮车吗？它在什么时候走过？”
“今晚。那两辆箱车，一上一下，都走夜路。”
“怎么！您非得有一天工夫才能修好那轮子吗？”
“一天，并且是整整的一天！”
“用两个工人呢？”
“用十个也不成！”
“如果我们用绳子把那两条轮辐绑起来呢？”
“绑轮辐，可以，绑轮毂，不行。并且轮箍也坏了。”
“城里有出租车子的人吗？”
“没有。”
“另外还有车匠吗？”
那马夫和车匠师父同时摇着头答道：
“没有。”
他感到一种极大的快乐。
上天从中布置，那是显然的了。折断车轮，使他中途停顿，那正是天意。他对这初次的昭示，还不折服，他刚才已竭尽全力想找出继续前进的可能性，他已忠诚地、细心地想尽了一切方法，他在时令、劳顿、费用面前都没有退缩，他没有丝毫可谴责自己的地方。假使他不再走远，那已不关他的事。那已不是他的过失，不是他的良心问题，而是天意。
他吐了一口气。自从沙威访问以后，他第一次舒畅地、长长地吐了口气。他仿佛觉得，二十个钟头以来紧握着他心的那只铁手刚才已经松下来了。
他仿佛觉得现在上帝是袒护他的了，并且表明了旨意。
他向自己说他已尽了他的全力，现在只好心安理得地转身回去。
假使他和那车匠的谈话是在客栈中的一间屋子里进行而没有旁人在场，没有旁人听到他们的谈话，事情也许会就此停顿下来，我们将要读到的那些波折也就无从谈起了，但是那次谈话是在街上进行的。街上的交接总免不了要引来一些围着看热闹的观众，随时随地都有那种专门爱看热闹的人。当他在问那车匠时，有些来往过路的人便在他们周围停了下来。其中有个年轻孩子，当时也没人注意他，他听了几分钟以后离开那群人跑了。
这位赶路人在经过了我们刚才所说的那些思想活动以后，正打算原路踅回头，那孩子回来了。还有一个老妇人跟着他。
“先生，”老妇人说，“我的孩子告诉我，说您想租一辆车子。”
出自那孩子带来的老妇人口中的这句简单的话，立刻使他汗流浃背。他仿佛看见那只已经放了他的手又出现在他背后的黑影里，准备再抓住他。
他回答：
“是的，好妈妈，我要找一辆出租的车子。”
他又连忙加上一句：
“不过这地方没有车子。”
“有。”那妇人说。
“哪儿会有？”车匠问。
“在我家里。”老妇人回答。
他吃了一惊。那只讨命的手又抓住他了。
老妇人在一个车棚下确有一辆柳条车。车匠和那客栈里的用人，看见自己的买卖做不成，大不高兴，岔着说些诸如此类的话：
“那是辆吓坏人的破车”，“它是直接安在轴上的”，“那些坐板的确是用些皮带子挂在车子里面的”，“里面漏水”，“轮子都锈了，并且都因潮湿锈坏了”，“它不见得能比这辆小车走得更远”，“一辆真正的破车！”，“这位先生如果去坐那种车子，才上当呢”。
那些话全是事实，但是那辆破车，那辆朽车，那东西，无论如何，总能在它的两只轮子上面滚动，并且能滚到阿拉斯。
他付了她要的租金，把那辆小车留在车匠家里，让他去修，约定回头再来取，把那匹白马套在车上，上了车，又走上他已走了一早晨的那条路。
当那车子开始起动时，他心里承认，刚才他想到他不用再到他要去的那地方，那一刻工夫是多么的轻松愉快。他气愤愤地检查那种愉快心情，觉得有些荒谬。向后退转，为什么要愉快呢？无论如何，他走不走都有自由。谁也没有强迫他。
况且他决不会碰到他不想碰到的事。
他正走出爱司丹，有个人的声音在对他喊叫：“停！停！”他用一种敏捷的动作停了车，在那动作里似乎又有一种急躁紧张、类似希望的意味。
是那老妇人的孩子。
“先生，”他说，“是我替您找来这辆车子的。”
“那又怎么样呢？”
“您什么也还没有给我。”
无处不施舍。并且那样乐于施舍的他，这时却觉得那种奢望是逾分的，并且是丑恶的。
“呀！是吗，小妖怪？”他说，“你什么也得不着！”
他鞭着马，一溜烟走了。
他在爱司丹耽误太久了，他想追上时间。那匹小马很得劲，拉起车来一匹可以当两匹，不过当时正是二月天气，下了雨，路也坏。并且，那已经不是那辆小车，这辆车实在难拉，而且又很重。还得上许多坡。
他几乎费了四个钟头，才从爱司丹走到圣波尔。四个钟头五法里。
进了圣波尔，他在最先见到的客栈里解下了马，叫人把它带到马房。在马吃粮时，他照他答应斯戈弗莱尔的去做，立在槽边。他想到一些伤心而漫无头绪的事。
那客栈的老板娘来到马房里。
“先生不吃午饭吗？”
“哈，真是，”他说，“我很想吃。”
他跟着那个面貌鲜润的快乐妇人走。她把他带进一间矮厅，厅里有些桌子，桌上铺着漆布台巾。
“请快一点，”他又说，“我还要赶路。我有急事。”
一个佛兰德胖侍女连忙摆上餐具。他望着那姑娘，有了点舒畅的感受。
“我原来为这件事不好受，”他想，“我没有吃早饭。”
吃的东西拿来了。他急忙拿起一块面包，咬了一大口，随后又慢慢地把它放在桌子上，不再动它了。
有个车夫在另外一张桌上吃东西。他向那个人说：
“他们这儿的面包为什么会这样苦巴巴的？”
那车夫是个德国人，没有听见。
他又回到马棚里，立在马的旁边。
一个钟头过后，他离开了圣波尔，向丹克进发，丹克离阿拉斯还有五法里。
在那一程路上，他做了些什么呢？想到些什么呢？象早晨一样，他望着树木、房屋的草顶、犁好的田一一在他的眼前显现消逝，每转一个弯，原来的景物忽又渺无踪影。那种欣赏有时是能使心神快慰的，也几乎能使人忘怀一切。生平第一次，也是最后一次，他望着万千景色，再没有什么比这更黯然销魂的了！旅行就是随时生又随时死。也许他正处在他精神上最朦胧的状态中，他在拿那些变幻无常的景致来比拟人生。人生的万事万物都在我们眼前随时消失，黑暗光明，交错相替；光辉灿烂之后，忽又天地晦冥；人们望着，忙着，伸出手抓住那些掠过的东西；每件事都是道路的拐角；倏忽之间，人已衰老。我们蓦然觉得一切都黑了，我们看见一扇幽暗的门，当年供我们驰骋的那匹暗色的生命之马停下来了，我们看见一个面目模糊、素不相识的人在黑暗中卸下了它的辔头。
将近黄昏时，一些放学的孩子望见那位旅人进了丹克。真的，那正是一年中日短夜长的季节。他在丹克没有停留。当他驰出那乡镇，一个在路上铺石子的路工抬起头来说：
“这马真够累了。”
那可怜的牲口确也只能慢慢地走了。
“您去阿拉斯吗？”那个路工又说。
“是的。”
“象您这样子走去，恐怕您不会到得太早吧。”
他勒住马，问那路工：
“从此地到阿拉斯还有多少路？”
“差不多整整还有七法里。”
“哪里的话？邮政手册上只标了五法里又四分之一。”
“呀！”那路工接着说，“您不知道我们正在修路吗？您从此地起走一刻钟，就会看见路断了。没有法子再走过去。”
“真的吗？”
“您可以向左转，走那条到加兰西去的路，过河，等您到了康白朗，再向右转，便是从圣爱洛山到阿拉斯的那条路。”
“可是天快黑了，我会走错路。”
“您不是本地人吗？”
“不是。”
“您又不熟悉，又全是岔路。这样吧，先生，”那路工接着说，“您要我替您出个主意吗？您的马累了，您回到丹克去。那里有家好客栈。在那里过了夜，明天再去阿拉斯。”
“我必须今晚到达阿拉斯。”
“那是另一回事了。那么，您仍到那客栈走一趟，加上一匹边马。马夫还可以引您走小路。”
他接受了那路工的建议，退转回去，半个钟头以后，他再走过那地方，但是加了一匹壮马，快步跑过去了。一个马夫坐在车辕上领路。
可是他觉得时间已给耽误了。
天已经完全黑了。
他们走进岔路。路坏极了。车子从这条辙里落到那条辙里。他向那向导说：
“再照先头那样快步跑，酒资加倍。”
车子落在一个坑里，把车前拴挽带的那条横木震断了。
“先生，”那向导说，“横木断了。我不知怎样套我的马，这条路在晚上太难走了，假使您愿回到丹克去睡，明天清早我们可以到阿拉斯。”
他回答说：
“你有根绳子和一把刀吗？”
“有，先生。”
他砍了一根树枝，做了一根拴挽带的横杆。
那样又耽误了二十分钟，但是他们跑着出发了。
平原是惨暗的。低垂的浓雾，象烟一样在山岗上交绕匍匐。浮云中映出微白的余辉。阵阵的狂风从海上吹来，在地平线上的每个角落发出了一片仿佛有人在拖动家具的声音。凡是隐隐可见的一切都显出恐怖的景象。多少东西在那夜气的广被中惴惴战栗！
他受到了寒气的侵袭。从昨夜起，他还一直没有吃东西。他隐约回忆起从前在迪涅城外旷野上夜行的情景。那已是八年前的事了，想来却好象是在昨天。
他听到远处的钟声，问那年轻人说：
“什么时候了？”
“七点了，先生。八点钟我们可以到达阿拉斯。我们只有三法里了。”
这时，他才第一次这样想，他觉得很奇怪，为什么他以前不曾这样想：他费了这么大的劲，也许只是徒劳往返，他连开庭的时间也还不知道；至少他应当先打听一下，只这样往前走而不知道究竟有无好处，确实有些孟浪。随后他心里又这样计算：平时法庭开审，常在早晨九点；这件案子不会需要多长时间的；偷苹果的事，很快就可以结束的；余下的只是怎样证明他是谁的问题了；陈述过四五件证据后律师们也就没有多少话可说；等到他到场，已经全部结案了。
那向导鞭着马。他们过了河，圣爱洛山落在他们后面了。
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 6 Sister Simplice put to the Proof
But at that moment Fantine was joyous.
She had passed a very bad night; her cough was frightful; her fever had doubled in intensity; she had had dreams: in the morning, when the doctor paid his visit, she was delirious; he assumed an alarmed look, and ordered that he should be informed as soon as M. Madeleine arrived.
All the morning she was melancholy, said but little, and laid plaits in her sheets, murmuring the while, in a low voice, calculations which seemed to be calculations of distances. Her eyes were hollow and staring. They seemed almost extinguished at intervals, then lighted up again and shone like stars. It seems as though, at the approach of a certain dark hour, the light of heaven fills those who are quitting the light of earth.
Each time that Sister Simplice asked her how she felt, she replied invariably, "Well. I should like to see M. Madeleine."
Some months before this, at the moment when Fantine had just lost her last modesty, her last shame, and her last joy, she was the shadow of herself; now she was the spectre of herself. Physical suffering had completed the work of moral suffering. This creature of five and twenty had a wrinkled brow, flabby cheeks, pinched nostrils, teeth from which the gums had receded, a leaden complexion, a bony neck, prominent shoulder-blades, frail limbs, a clayey skin, and her golden hair was growing out sprinkled with gray. Alas! how illness improvises old-age!
At mid-day the physician returned, gave some directions, inquired whether the mayor had made his appearance at the infirmary, and shook his head.
M. Madeleine usually came to see the invalid at three o'clock. As exactness is kindness, he was exact.
About half-past two, Fantine began to be restless. In the course of twenty minutes, she asked the nun more than ten times, "What time is it, sister?"
Three o'clock struck. At the third stroke, Fantine sat up in bed; she who could, in general, hardly turn over, joined her yellow, fleshless hands in a sort of convulsive clasp, and the nun heard her utter one of those profound sighs which seem to throw off dejection. Then Fantine turned and looked at the door.
No one entered; the door did not open.
She remained thus for a quarter of an hour, her eyes riveted on the door, motionless and apparently holding her breath. The sister dared not speak to her. The clock struck a quarter past three. Fantine fell back on her pillow.
She said nothing, but began to plait the sheets once more.
Half an hour passed, then an hour, no one came; every time the clock struck, Fantine started up and looked towards the door, then fell back again.
Her thought was clearly perceptible, but she uttered no name, she made no complaint, she blamed no one. But she coughed in a melancholy way. One would have said that something dark was descending upon her. She was livid and her lips were blue. She smiled now and then.
Five o'clock struck. Then the sister heard her say, very low and gently, "He is wrong not to come to-day, since I am going away to-morrow."
Sister Simplice herself was surprised at M. Madeleine's delay.
In the meantime, Fantine was staring at the tester of her bed. She seemed to be endeavoring to recall something. All at once she began to sing in a voice as feeble as a breath. The nun listened. This is what Fantine was singing:--
"Lovely things we will buy As we stroll the faubourgs through. Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue, I love my love, corn-flowers are blue.
"Yestere'en the Virgin Mary came near my stove, in a broidered mantle clad, and said to me, `Here, hide 'neath my veil the child whom you one day begged from me. Haste to the city, buy linen, buy a needle, buy thread.'
"Lovely things we will buy As we stroll the faubourgs through.
"Dear Holy Virgin, beside my stove I have set a cradle with ribbons decked. God may give me his loveliest star; I prefer the child thou hast granted me. `Madame, what shall I do with this linen fine?'--`Make of it clothes for thy new-born babe.'
"Roses are pink and corn-flowers are blue, I love my love, and corn-flowers are blue.
"`Wash this linen.'--`Where?'--`In the stream. Make of it, soiling not, spoiling not, a petticoat fair with its bodice fine, which I will embroider and fill with flowers.'--`Madame, the child is no longer here; what is to be done?'--`Then make of it a winding-sheet in which to bury me.'
"Lovely things we will buy As we stroll the faubourgs through, Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue, I love my love, corn-flowers are blue."
This song was an old cradle romance with which she had, in former days, lulled her little Cosette to sleep, and which had never recurred to her mind in all the five years during which she had been parted from her child. She sang it in so sad a voice, and to so sweet an air, that it was enough to make any one, even a nun, weep. The sister, accustomed as she was to austerities, felt a tear spring to her eyes.
The clock struck six. Fantine did not seem to hear it. She no longer seemed to pay attention to anything about her.
Sister Simplice sent a serving-maid to inquire of the portress of the factory, whether the mayor had returned, and if he would not come to the infirmary soon. The girl returned in a few minutes.
Fantine was still motionless and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.
The servant informed Sister Simplice in a very low tone, that the mayor had set out that morning before six o'clock, in a little tilbury harnessed to a white horse, cold as the weather was; that he had gone alone, without even a driver; that no one knew what road he had taken; that people said he had been seen to turn into the road to Arras; that others asserted that they had met him on the road to Paris. That when he went away he had been very gentle, as usual, and that he had merely told the portress not to expect him that night.
While the two women were whispering together, with their backs turned to Fantine's bed, the sister interrogating, the servant conjecturing, Fantine, with the feverish vivacity of certain organic maladies, which unite the free movements of health with the frightful emaciation of death, had raised herself to her knees in bed, with her shrivelled hands resting on the bolster, and her head thrust through the opening of the curtains, and was listening. All at once she cried:--
"You are speaking of M. Madeleine! Why are you talking so low? What is he doing? Why does he not come?"
Her voice was so abrupt and hoarse that the two women thought they heard the voice of a man; they wheeled round in affright.
"Answer me!" cried Fantine.
The servant stammered:--
"The portress told me that he could not come to-day."
"Be calm, my child," said the sister; "lie down again."
Fantine, without changing her attitude, continued in a loud voice, and with an accent that was both imperious and heart-rending:--
"He cannot come? Why not? You know the reason. You are whispering it to each other there. I want to know it."
The servant-maid hastened to say in the nun's ear, "Say that he is busy with the city council."
Sister Simplice blushed faintly, for it was a lie that the maid had proposed to her.
On the other hand, it seemed to her that the mere communication of the truth to the invalid would, without doubt, deal her a terrible blow, and that this was a serious matter in Fantine's present state. Her flush did not last long; the sister raised her calm, sad eyes to Fantine, and said, "Monsieur le Maire has gone away."
Fantine raised herself and crouched on her heels in the bed: her eyes sparkled; indescribable joy beamed from that melancholy face.
"Gone!" she cried; "he has gone to get Cosette."
Then she raised her arms to heaven, and her white face became ineffable; her lips moved; she was praying in a low voice.
When her prayer was finished, "Sister," she said, "I am willing to lie down again; I will do anything you wish; I was naughty just now; I beg your pardon for having spoken so loud; it is very wrong to talk loudly; I know that well, my good sister, but, you see, I am very happy: the good God is good; M. Madeleine is good; just think! he has gone to Montfermeil to get my little Cosette."
She lay down again, with the nun's assistance, helped the nun to arrange her pillow, and kissed the little silver cross which she wore on her neck, and which Sister Simplice had given her.
"My child," said the sister, "try to rest now, and do not talk any more."
Fantine took the sister's hand in her moist hands, and the latter was pained to feel that perspiration.
"He set out this morning for Paris; in fact, he need not even go through Paris; Montfermeil is a little to the left as you come thence. Do you remember how he said to me yesterday, when I spoke to him of Cosette, Soon, soon? He wants to give me a surprise, you know! he made me sign a letter so that she could be taken from the Thenardiers; they cannot say anything, can they? they will give back Cosette, for they have been paid; the authorities will not allow them to keep the child since they have received their pay. Do not make signs to me that I must not talk, sister! I am extremely happy; I am doing well; I am not ill at all any more; I am going to see Cosette again; I am even quite hungry; it is nearly five years since I saw her last; you cannot imagine how much attached one gets to children, and then, she will be so pretty; you will see! If you only knew what pretty little rosy fingers she had! In the first place, she will have very beautiful hands; she had ridiculous hands when she was only a year old; like this! she must be a big girl now; she is seven years old; she is quite a young lady; I call her Cosette, but her name is really Euphrasie. Stop! this morning I was looking at the dust on the chimney-piece, and I had a sort of idea come across me, like that, that I should see Cosette again soon. Mon Dieu! how wrong it is not to see one's children for years! One ought to reflect that life is not eternal. Oh, how good M. le Maire is to go! it is very cold! it is true; he had on his cloak, at least? he will be here to-morrow, will he not? to-morrow will be a festival day; to-morrow morning, sister, you must remind me to put on my little cap that has lace on it. What a place that Montfermeil is! I took that journey on foot once; it was very long for me, but the diligences go very quickly! He will be here to-morrow with Cosette: how far is it from here to Montfermeil?"
The sister, who had no idea of distances, replied, "Oh, I think that be will be here to-morrow."
"To-morrow! to-morrow!" said Fantine, "I shall see Cosette to-morrow! you see, good sister of the good God, that I am no longer ill; I am mad; I could dance if any one wished it."
A person who had seen her a quarter of an hour previously would not have understood the change; she was all rosy now; she spoke in a lively and natural voice; her whole face was one smile; now and then she talked, she laughed softly; the joy of a mother is almost infantile.
"Well," resumed the nun, "now that you are happy, mind me, and do not talk any more."
Fantine laid her head on her pillow and said in a low voice: "Yes, lie down again; be good, for you are going to have your child; Sister Simplice is right; every one here is right."
And then, without stirring, without even moving her head, she began to stare all about her with wide-open eyes and a joyous air, and she said nothing more.
The sister drew the curtains together again, hoping that she would fall into a doze. Between seven and eight o'clock the doctor came; not hearing any sound, he thought Fantine was asleep, entered softly, and approached the bed on tiptoe; he opened the curtains a little, and, by the light of the taper, he saw Fantine's big eyes gazing at him.
She said to him, "She will be allowed to sleep beside me in a little bed, will she not, sir?"
The doctor thought that she was delirious. She added:--
"See! there is just room."
The doctor took Sister Simplice aside, and she explained matters to him; that M. Madeleine was absent for a day or two, and that in their doubt they had not thought it well to undeceive the invalid, who believed that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil; that it was possible, after all, that her guess was correct: the doctor approved.
He returned to Fantine's bed, and she went on:--
"You see, when she wakes up in the morning, I shall be able to say good morning to her, poor kitten, and when I cannot sleep at night, I can hear her asleep; her little gentle breathing will do me good."
"Give me your hand," said the doctor.
She stretched out her arm, and exclaimed with a laugh:--
"Ah, hold! in truth, you did not know it; I am cured; Cosette will arrive to-morrow."
The doctor was surprised; she was better; the pressure on her chest had decreased; her pulse had regained its strength; a sort of life had suddenly supervened and reanimated this poor, worn-out creature.
"Doctor," she went on, "did the sister tell you that M. le Maire has gone to get that mite of a child?"
The doctor recommended silence, and that all painful emotions should be avoided; he prescribed an infusion of pure chinchona, and, in case the fever should increase again during the night, a calming potion. As he took his departure, he said to the sister:--
"She is doing better; if good luck willed that the mayor should actually arrive to-morrow with the child, who knows? there are crises so astounding; great joy has been known to arrest maladies; I know well that this is an organic disease, and in an advanced state, but all those things are such mysteries: we may be able to save her."
可是这时，芳汀却正在欢乐中。
她那一夜原来过得很不舒服。剧烈地咳嗽，体温更高，她做了一夜的梦。医生早晨来检查时，她还正说着胡话。医生的脸色有些紧张，吩咐大家说，等到马德兰先生回来了，便立刻去通知他。
在那整个早晨，她精神委靡，不多说话，两手只把那被单捏出一条条小褶纹，嘴里低声念着一些数字，仿佛是在计算里程。她的眼睛已经深陷而且不能转动了，眼神也几乎没有了。但有时又忽然充满光彩，耀如明星。仿佛在某种惨痛的时刻临近时，上天的光特来照临那些被尘世的光所离弃了的人们一样。
每当散普丽斯姆姆问她觉得怎样时，她总照例回答：
“还好。我想看看马德兰先生。”
几个月前，在芳汀刚刚失去她最后的贞操、最后的羞耻、最后的欢乐时，她还算得上是自己的影子，现在她只是自己的幽灵了。生理上的疾病加深了精神上的创伤。这个二十五岁的人儿已皱纹满额，两颊浮肿，鼻孔萎削，牙齿松弛，面色铁青，颈骨毕露，肩胛高耸，四肢枯槁，肤色灰白，新生的金发丝也杂有白毛了。可怜！病苦催人老！
到中午，医生又来了，他开了药方，问马德兰先生来过疗养室没有，并连连摇头。
马德兰先生照例总在三点钟来看这病人的。因为守时是一种仁爱，他总是守时的。
将近两点半钟，芳汀焦急起来了。二十分钟之内，她向那信女连问了十次：
“我的姆姆，什么时候了？”
三点钟敲了。敲到第三下，平时几乎不能在床上转动的芳汀竟坐起来了。她焦灼万分，紧紧捏着自己的那双又瘦又黄的手。信女还听见她发了一声长叹，仿佛吐出了满腔的积郁。芳汀转过头去，望着门。
没有人进来，门外毫无动静。
她这样待了一刻钟，眼睛盯在门上，不动，好象也不呼吸。那姆姆不敢和她说话。礼拜堂报着三点一刻。芳汀又倒在枕头上了。
她没有说一句话，仍旧折她的被单。
半个钟头过去了，接着一个钟头又过去了。没有人来。每次钟响，芳汀便坐起来，望着门，继又倒下去。
我们明白她的心情，但是她绝不曾提起任何一个人的名字，不怨天，不尤人。不过她咳得惨不忍闻。我们可以说已有一种阴气在向她进袭。她面色灰黑，嘴唇发青。但她不时还在微笑。
五点敲过了，那姆姆听见她低声慢气说道：
“既然我明天要走了，他今天便不应该不来呵！”
连散普丽斯姆姆也因马德兰先生的迟到而感到惊奇。
这时，芳汀望着她的帐顶，她的神气象是在追忆一件往事。忽然，她唱了起来，歌声微弱，就象嘘气一样。信女在一旁静听。下面便是芳汀唱的歌：
我们顺着城郊去游戏，
要买好些最美丽的东西。
矢车菊，朵朵蓝，玫瑰花儿红又香，
矢车菊，朵朵蓝，我爱我的小心肝。
童贞圣母马利亚，
昨天穿着绣花衣，来到炉边向我提：
“从前有一天，你曾向我要个小弟弟，
小弟弟，如今就在我的面纱里。”
“快去城里买细布，
买了针线还要买针箍。”
我们顺着城郊去游戏，
要买好些最美丽的东西。
“童贞圣母你慈悲，
瞧这炉边的摇篮上，各色丝带全齐备；
即使上帝赐我星星最最美，
我也只爱你给我的小宝贝。”
“大嫂，要这细布做什么？”
“替我新生的宝宝做衣被。”
矢车菊，朵朵蓝，玫瑰花儿红又香，
矢车菊，朵朵蓝，我爱我的小心肝。
“请把这块细布洗干净。”
“哪里洗？”“河里洗。
还有他的兜兜布，不要弄脏不要弄破，
我要做条漂亮裙，我要满满绣花朵。
”“孩子不在了，大嫂，怎么办？”
“替我自己做块裹尸布。”
我们顺着城郊去游戏，
要买好些最美丽的东西。
矢车菊，朵朵蓝，玫瑰花儿红又香，
矢车菊，朵朵蓝，我爱我的小心肝。
这歌是一首旧时的摇篮曲，从前她用来催她的小珂赛特入睡的，她五年不见那孩子了，便也没有再想。现在她用那样幽怨的声音，唱着那样柔和的歌曲，真令人心酸，连信女也几乎要哭出来。那个一贯严肃的姆姆也觉得要流泪了。
钟敲了六点。芳汀好象没有听见。对四周的事物她仿佛已不注意了。
散普丽斯姆姆派了一个侍女去找那看守厂门的妇人，问她马德兰先生回来了没有，会不会立即到疗养室来。几分钟过后，那侍女回来了。
芳汀始终不动，似乎在细想她的心事。
那侍女声音很低地向散普丽斯姆姆说，市长先生不顾那样冷的天气，竟在清早六点钟以前，乘着一辆白马拉的小车，独自一人走了，连车夫也没有，大家都不知道他是朝哪个方向走的，有些人看见他转向去阿拉斯的那条路，有些人又说在去巴黎的路上确实碰见他。他动身时，和平时一样，非常和蔼，只和那看门的妇人说过今晚不必等他。
正当那两个妇人背朝着芳汀的床、正在一问一猜互相耳语时，芳汀爬了起来，跪在床上，两只手握紧了拳头，撑在长枕上，把头伸在帐缝里听，她忽然产生了一种病态的急躁，兴奋起来，于是完全象个健康的人一样，一点也看不出她因重病而危在旦夕。她忽然叫道：
“你们在那儿谈马德兰先生！你们说话为什么那样低？他在干什么？他为什么不来？”
她的声音是那样突兀、那样粗暴，以致那两个妇人以为听见了什么男子说话的声音，她们转过身来，大为惊讶。
“回答嘛！”芳汀喊着说。
那侍女吞吞吐吐地说：
“那看门的大妈说他今天不能来。”
“我的孩子。”那姆姆说，“放安静些，睡下去吧。”
芳汀不改变姿势，用一种又急躁又惨痛的口气高声说：“他不能来？为什么？你们知道原因。你们两人私下谈着。
我也要知道。”
那侍女连忙在女信徒的耳边说道：“回答她说，他正在开市政会议。”
散普丽斯姆姆的面孔微微地红了一下，那侍女教她的是种谎话。另一方面，她又好象很明白，如果向病人说真话，一定会给她一种强烈的刺激，处在芳汀的那种状况下，那是受不了的。她脸红，立刻又平复了。那姆姆抬起她那双镇静而愁郁的眼睛，望着芳汀说：
“马德兰先生走了。”
芳汀竖起身子，坐在自己的脚跟上，眼睛炯炯发光。从她那愁容里放射出一阵从来不曾有过的喜色。
“走了！”她喊着说。“他去找珂赛特去了。”
于是她举起双手，指向天空，她的面容完全是无可形容的。她的嘴唇频频启合，她在低声祈祷。
当她祈祷完时：
“姆姆，”她说，“我很愿意唾下去，无论你们说什么，我全听从；刚才我太粗暴了，我求您原谅我那样大声说话，大声说话是非常不好的，我很明白；但是，我的姆姆，您看吧，我是非常开心的。慈悲的上帝是慈悲的，马德兰先生也是慈悲的，您想想吧，他到孟费郿去找我的珂赛特去了。”
她又躺了下去，帮着那姆姆整理枕头，吻着自己颈上散普丽斯姆姆给她的那只小银十字架。
“我的孩子，”姆姆说，“现在稍稍休息一下吧，别再说话了。”
芳汀把那姆姆的手握在自己潮润的手里，姆姆触到了汗液，深感不快。
“他今天早晨动身去巴黎了。其实他用不着经过巴黎。孟费郿稍许靠近到这儿来的路的左边。我昨天和他谈到珂赛特时，他向我说：‘快来了，快来了。’您还记得他是怎样对我说的吗？他要乘我不备，让我惊喜一场呢。您知道吗？他写了一封信，为了到德纳第家去带她回来，又叫我签了字。他们没有什么话可说的了，不是吗？他们会把珂赛特交来。他们的账已经清了。清了账还扣留孩子，法律不允许吧。我的姆姆，别做手势禁止我说话。我是快乐到极点了，我非常舒服，我完全没有病了，我将再和珂赛特会面，我还觉得饿极了。快五年了，我没有看见她。您，您想不到，那些孩子们，多么使您惦念呵！而且她是多么可爱，您就会看见！您哪里知道，她的小指头是那样鲜红漂亮的！首先，她的手是非常美丽的。在一岁时她的手丑得可笑。情况就是这样！现在她应当长大了。她已经七岁了，已经是个小姐了。我叫她做珂赛特，其实她的名字是欧福拉吉。听吧，今天早晨，我望着壁炉上的灰尘，我就有了种想法，不久我就可以和珂赛特会面了。我的上帝！一年一年地不看见自己的孩子，这多不应该呵！人们应当好好想想，生命不是永久的！呀！市长先生走了，他的心肠多么好！真的，天气很冷吗？他总穿了斗篷吧？他明天就会到这里。不是吗？明天是喜庆日。明天早晨，我的姆姆，请您提醒我戴那顶有花边的小帽子。孟费郿，那是个大地方。从前我是从那条路一路走来的。对我来说真够远的。但是公共马车走得很快。他明天就会和珂赛特一同在这里了。从这里到孟费郿有多少里路？”
姆姆对于里程完全外行，她回答说：
“呵！我想他明天总能到这里吧。”
“明天！明天！”芳汀说，“我明天可以和珂赛特见面了！您看，慈悲上帝的慈悲姆姆，我已经没有病了。我发疯了。假使你们允许的话，我可以跳舞呢。”
在一刻钟以前看见过她的人一定会莫名其妙。她现在脸色红润，说话的声音伶俐自如，满面只是笑容了。有时，她一面笑，一面又低声自言自语。慈母的欢乐几乎是和孩子的欢乐一样的。
“那么，”那信女又说，“您现在快乐了，听我的话，不要再说话了。”
芳汀把头放在枕头上，轻轻对自己说：“是的，你睡吧，乖乖的，你就会得到你的孩子了。散普丽斯姆姆说得有理。这儿的人个个都有理。”
于是她不动弹，不摇头，只用她一双睁大了的眼睛向四处望，神情愉快，不再说话了。
那姆姆把她的床帷重行放下，希望她可以稍稍睡一会。
七点多钟，医生来了。屋子里寂静无声，他以为芳汀睡着了，他轻轻走进来，踮着脚尖走近床边。他把床帷掀开一点，在植物油灯的微光中，他看见芳汀一双宁静的大眼睛正望着他。她向他说：“先生，不是吗？你们可以允许我，让她睡在我旁边的一张小床上。”
那医生以为她说胡话。她又说：
“您瞧，这里恰好有一个空地方。”
医生把散普丽斯姆姆引到一边，她才把那经过说清楚：马德兰先生在一两天之内不能来，病人以为市长先生去孟费郿了，大家既然还不明白真相，便认为不应当道破她的错觉，况且她也可能猜对了。那医生也以为然。
他再走近芳汀的床，她又说：
“就是，您知道，当那可怜的娃娃早晨醒来时，我可以向她说早安，夜里，我不睡，我可以听她睡。她那种温和柔弱的呼吸使我听了心里多舒服。”
“把您的手伸给我。”医生说。
她伸出她的胳膊，又大声笑着说：
“呀！对了！的确，真的，您还不知道！我的病已经好了。
珂赛特明天就会来到。”
那医生大为惊讶。她确是好了一些。郁闷减轻了。脉也强了。一种突如其来的生命使这垂死的可怜人忽然兴奋起来。
“医生先生，”她又说，“这位姆姆告诉过您市长先生已去领小宝宝了吗？”
医生嘱咐要安静，并且要避免一切伤心的刺激。他开了药方，冲服纯奎宁，万一夜里体温增高，便服一种镇静剂。他临走时向姆姆说：“好一些了。假使托天之福，市长先生果真明天和那孩子一同到了，谁知道呢？病势的变化是那样不可测，我们见过多次极大的欢乐可以一下把病止住。我明明知道这是一种内脏的病，而且已很深了，但是这些事是那样不可解！也许我们可以把她救回来。”
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 7 The Traveller on his Arrival takes Precautions for Departure
It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening when the cart, which we left on the road, entered the porte-cochere of the Hotel de la Poste in Arras; the man whom we have been following up to this moment alighted from it, responded with an abstracted air to the attentions of the people of the inn, sent back the extra horse, and with his own hands led the little white horse to the stable; then he opened the door of a billiard-room which was situated on the ground floor, sat down there, and leaned his elbows on a table; he had taken fourteen hours for the journey which he had counted on making in six; he did himself the justice to acknowledge that it was not his fault, but at bottom, he was not sorry.
The landlady of the hotel entered.
"Does Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require supper?"
He made a sign of the head in the negative.
"The stableman says that Monsieur's horse is extremely fatigued."
Here he broke his silence.
"Will not the horse be in a condition to set out again to-morrow morning?"
"Oh, Monsieur! he must rest for two days at least."
He inquired:--
"Is not the posting-station located here?"
"Yes, sir."
The hostess conducted him to the office; he showed his passport, and inquired whether there was any way of returning that same night to M. sur M. by the mail-wagon; the seat beside the post-boy chanced to be vacant; he engaged it and paid for it. "Monsieur," said the clerk, "do not fail to be here ready to start at precisely one o'clock in the morning."
This done, he left the hotel and began to wander about the town.
He was not acquainted with Arras; the streets were dark, and he walked on at random; but he seemed bent upon not asking the way of the passers-by. He crossed the little river Crinchon, and found himself in a labyrinth of narrow alleys where he lost his way. A citizen was passing along with a lantern. After some hesitation, he decided to apply to this man, not without having first glanced behind and in front of him, as though he feared lest some one should hear the question which he was about to put.
"Monsieur," said he, "where is the court-house, if you please."
"You do not belong in town, sir?" replied the bourgeois, who was an oldish man; "well, follow me. I happen to be going in the direction of the court-house, that is to say, in the direction of the hotel of the prefecture; for the court-house is undergoing repairs just at this moment, and the courts are holding their sittings provisionally in the prefecture."
"Is it there that the Assizes are held?" he asked.
"Certainly, sir; you see, the prefecture of to-day was the bishop's palace before the Revolution. M. de Conzie, who was bishop in '82, built a grand hall there. It is in this grand hall that the court is held."
On the way, the bourgeois said to him:--
"If Monsieur desires to witness a case, it is rather late. The sittings generally close at six o'clock."
When they arrived on the grand square, however, the man pointed out to him four long windows all lighted up, in the front of a vast and gloomy building.
"Upon my word, sir, you are in luck; you have arrived in season. Do you see those four windows? That is the Court of Assizes. There is light there, so they are not through. The matter must have been greatly protracted, and they are holding an evening session. Do you take an interest in this affair? Is it a criminal case? Are you a witness?"
He replied:--
"I have not come on any business; I only wish to speak to one of the lawyers."
"That is different," said the bourgeois. "Stop, sir; here is the door where the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase."
He conformed to the bourgeois's directions, and a few minutes later he was in a hall containing many people, and where groups, intermingled with lawyers in their gowns, were whispering together here and there.
It is always a heart-breaking thing to see these congregations of men robed in black, murmuring together in low voices, on the threshold of the halls of justice. It is rare that charity and pity are the outcome of these words. Condemnations pronounced in advance are more likely to be the result. All these groups seem to the passing and thoughtful observer so many sombre hives where buzzing spirits construct in concert all sorts of dark edifices.
This spacious hall, illuminated by a single lamp, was the old hall of the episcopal palace, and served as the large hall of the palace of justice. A double-leaved door, which was closed at that moment, separated it from the large apartment where the court was sitting.
The obscurity was such that he did not fear to accost the first lawyer whom he met.
"What stage have they reached, sir?" he asked.
"It is finished," said the lawyer.
"Finished!"
This word was repeated in such accents that the lawyer turned round.
"Excuse me sir; perhaps you are a relative?"
"No; I know no one here. Has judgment been pronounced?"
"Of course. Nothing else was possible."
"To penal servitude?"
"For life."
He continued, in a voice so weak that it was barely audible:--
"Then his identity was established?"
"What identity?" replied the lawyer."There was no identity to be established. The matter was very simple. The woman had murdered her child; the infanticide was proved; the jury threw out the question of premeditation, and she was condemned for life."
"So it was a woman?" said he.
"Why, certainly. The Limosin woman. Of what are you speaking?"
"Nothing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the hall is still lighted?"
"For another case, which was begun about two hours ago.
"What other case?"
"Oh! this one is a clear case also. It is about a sort of blackguard; a man arrested for a second offence; a convict who has been guilty of theft. I don't know his name exactly. There's a bandit's phiz for you! I'd send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone."
"Is there any way of getting into the court-room, sir?" said he.
"I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However, the hearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out, and when the hearing is resumed, you might make an effort."
"Where is the entrance?"
"Through yonder large door."
The lawyer left him. In the course of a few moments he had experienced, almost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other, all possible emotions. The words of this indifferent spectator had, in turn, pierced his heart like needles of ice and like blades of fire. When he saw that nothing was settled, he breathed freely once more; but he could not have told whether what he felt was pain or pleasure.
He drew near to many groups and listened to what they were saying. The docket of the session was very heavy; the president had appointed for the same day two short and simple cases. They had begun with the infanticide, and now they had reached the convict, the old offender, the "return horse." This man had stolen apples, but that did not appear to be entirely proved; what had been proved was, that he had already been in the galleys at Toulon. It was that which lent a bad aspect to his case. However, the man's examination and the depositions of the witnesses had been completed, but the lawyer's plea, and the speech of the public prosecutor were still to come; it could not be finished before midnight. The man would probably be condemned; the attorney-general was very clever, and never missed his culprits; he was a brilliant fellow who wrote verses.
An usher stood at the door communicating with the hall of the Assizes. He inquired of this usher:--
"Will the door be opened soon, sir?"
"It will not be opened at all," replied the usher.
"What! It will not be opened when the hearing is resumed? Is not the hearing suspended?"
"The hearing has just been begun again," replied the usher, "but the door will not be opened again."
"Why?"
"Because the hall is full."
"What! There is not room for one more?"
"Not another one. The door is closed. No one can enter now."
The usher added after a pause: "There are, to tell the truth, two or three extra places behind Monsieur le President, but Monsieur le President only admits public functionaries to them."
So saying, the usher turned his back.
He retired with bowed head, traversed the antechamber, and slowly descended the stairs, as though hesitating at every step. It is probable that he was holding counsel with himself. The violent conflict which had been going on within him since the preceding evening was not yet ended; and every moment he encountered some new phase of it. On reaching the landing-place, he leaned his back against the balusters and folded his arms. All at once he opened his coat, drew out his pocket-book, took from it a pencil, tore out a leaf, and upon that leaf he wrote rapidly, by the light of the street lantern, this line: M. Madeleine, Mayor of M. sur M.; then he ascended the stairs once more with great strides, made his way through the crowd, walked straight up to the usher, handed him the paper, and said in an authoritative manner:--
"Take this to Monsieur le President."
The usher took the paper, cast a glance upon it, and obeyed.
我们在前面曾经谈到一辆车子和乘车人在路上的情形。当这车子走进阿拉斯邮政旅馆时，已快到晚上八点钟了。乘车人从车上下来，他漫不经心地回答旅馆中人的殷勤招呼，打发走了那匹新补充的马，又亲自把那匹小白马牵到马棚里去；随后他推开楼下弹子房的门，坐在屋子里，两肘支在桌子上。这段路程，他原想在六小时以内完成的，竟费去了十四小时。他扪心自问，这不是他的过错；然而究其实，他并没有因此而感到焦急。
旅馆的老板娘走进来。
“先生在这里过夜吗？先生用晚餐吗？”
他摇摇头。
“马夫来说先生的马很累了！”
这时他才开口说话。
“难道这匹马明天不能走吗？”
“呵！先生！它至少也得有两天的休息才能走。”
他又问道：
“这里不是邮局吗？”
“是的，先生。”
老板娘把他引到邮局去，他拿出他的身份证，问当天晚上可有方法乘邮箱车回滨海蒙特勒伊，邮差旁边的位子恰空着，他便定了这位子，并付了旅费。
“先生，”那局里的人说，“请准在早晨一点钟到这里来乘车出发。”
事情办妥以后，他便出了旅馆，向城里走去。
他从前没有到过阿拉斯，街上一片漆黑，他信步走去。同时他仿佛打定主意，不向过路人问路。他走过了那条克兰松小河，在一条小街的窄巷里迷失了方向。恰巧有个绅士提着大灯笼走过。他迟疑了一会，决计去问这绅士，在问之先，还向前后张望，好象怕人听见他将发出的问题。
“先生，”他说，“劳您驾，法院在什么地方？”
“您不是本地人吗，先生？”那个年纪相当老的绅士回答，“那么，跟我来吧。我正要到法院那边去，就是说，往省公署那边去。法院正在修理，因此暂时改在省公署里开审。”
“刑事案件也在那边开审吗？”他问。
“一定是的，先生。您知道今天的省公署便是革命以前的主教院。八二年的主教德·贡吉埃先生在那里面盖了一间大厅。就在那厅里开庭。”
绅士边走边向他说：
“假使先生您要看审案，时间少许迟了点。平常他们总是在六点钟退庭的。”
但是，当他们走到大广场，绅士把一幢黑黢黢的大厦指给他看时，正面的四扇长窗里却还有灯光。
“真的，先生。您正赶上，您运气好。您看见这四扇窗子吗？这便是刑庭。里面有灯光。这说明事情还没有办完。案子一定拖迟了，因此正开着晚庭。您关心这件案子吗？是一桩刑事案吗？您要出庭作证吗？”
他回答：
“我并不是为了什么案子来的，不过我有句话要和一个律师谈谈。”
“这当然有所不同。您看，先生，这边便是大门。有卫兵的那地方。您沿着大楼梯上去就是了。”
他按照绅士的指点做去，几分钟以后，便走进了一间大厅，厅里有许多人，有些人三五成群，围着穿长袍的律师们在低声谈话。
看见这些成群的黑衣人立在公堂门前低声耳语，那总是件令人寒心的事。从这些人的嘴里说出来的话，是很少有善意和恻隐之心的，他们口中吐出的多半是早已拟好的判决词。一堆堆的人，使这心神不定的观察者联想到许多蜂窠，窠里全是些嗡嗡作响的妖魔，正在共同营造着各式各样的黑暗的楼阁。
在这间广阔的厅堂里，只点着一盏灯，这厅，从前是主教院的外客厅，现在作为法庭的前厅。一扇双合门正关着，门里便是刑庭所在的大斤。
前厅异常阴暗，因此他放胆随便找了个律师，便问：
“先生，”他说，“案子进行到什么程度了？”
“已经审完了。”律师说。
“审完了！”
他这句话说得非常重，律师听了，转身过来。
“对不起，先生，您也许是家属吧？”
“不是的。我在这里没有熟人。判了罪吗？”
“当然。非这样不可。”
“判了强迫劳役吗？”
“终身强迫劳役。”
他又用一种旁人几乎听不见的微弱声音说：
“那么，已经证实了罪人的正身吗？”
“什么正身？并没有正身问题需要证实。这案子很简单，这妇人害死了自己的孩子，杀害婴孩罪被证明了，陪审团没有追查是否蓄意谋害，判了她无期徒刑。”
“那么是个妇人吗？”他说。
“当然是个妇人。莉莫赞姑娘。那么，您和我谈的是什么案子？”
“没有什么。但是既然完结了，大厅里怎样还是亮的呢？”
“这是为了另外一件案子，开审已经快两个钟头了。”
“另外一件什么案子？”
“呵！这一件也简单明了。一个无赖，一个累犯，一个苦役犯，又犯了盗窃案。我已记不大清楚他的名字了。他那面孔，真象土匪。仅仅那副面孔已够使我把他送进监狱了。”
“先生，”他问道，“有方法到大厅里去吗？”
“我想实在没有法子了。听众非常拥挤。现在正是休息，有些人出来了。等到继续开审时，您可以去试一试。”
“从什么地方进去？”
“从这扇大门。”
律师离开了他。他一时烦乱达于极点，万千思绪，几乎一齐涌上心头。这个不相干的人所说的话象冰针火舌似的轮番刺进他的心里。当他见到事情还没有结束就吐了一口气，但是他不明白，他感受到的是满足还是悲哀。
他走近几处人群，听他们谈话。由于这一时期案件非常多，庭长便在这一天里排了两件简短的案子。起初是那件杀害婴孩案，现在则正在审讯这个苦役犯，这个累犯，这“回头马”。这个人偷了些苹果，但是没有确实证据，被证实了的，只是他曾在土伦坐过牢。这便使他的案情严重了。此外，对他本人的讯问和证人们的陈述都已完毕，但律师还没有进行辩护，检察官也还没有提起公诉。这些事总得到后半夜才能完结。这个人很可能被判刑，检察官很行，他控告的人，从无“幸免”，他还是个寻诗觅句的才子。
有个执达吏立在进入刑庭的门旁。他问那执达吏：
“先生，快开门了吗？”
“不会开门。”执达吏说。
“怎么！继续开审时不开门吗？现在不是休息吗？”
“现在已继续开审了一些时候了，”执达吏回答，“但是门不会开。”
“为什么？”
“因为已经坐满了。”
“怎么！一个位子也没有了吗？”
“一个也没有了。门已经关上。不再让人进去了。”
执达吏停了一会又说：
“在庭长先生的背后还有两三个位子，但是庭长先生只允许公家的官员进去坐。”
执达吏说了这句话，便转过背去了。
他低着头退回去，穿过前厅，慢慢走下楼梯，好象步步迟疑。也许他在独自思量吧。前一天夜里在他心里发动的那场激烈斗争还没有结束，还随时要起一些新变化。他走到楼梯转角，依着栏杆，叉起两臂。忽然，他解开衣襟，取出皮夹，抽出一支铅笔，撕了一张纸，在回光灯的微光下急忙写了这样一行字：“滨海蒙特勒伊市长马德兰先生”。他又迈着大步跨上楼梯，挤过人堆，直向那执达吏走去，把那张纸交给他，慎重地向他说：“请把这送给庭长先生。”
执达吏接了那张纸，瞟了一眼，便遵命照办了。
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 8 An Entrance by Favor
Although he did not suspect the fact, the mayor of M. sur M. Enjoyed a sort of celebrity. For the space of seven years his reputation for virtue had filled the whole of Bas Boulonnais; it had eventually passed the confines of a small district and had been spread abroad through two or three neighboring departments. Besides the service which he had rendered to the chief town by resuscitating the black jet industry, there was not one out of the hundred and forty communes of the arrondissement of M. sur M. which was not indebted to him for some benefit. He had even at need contrived to aid and multiply the industries of other arrondissements. It was thus that he had, when occasion offered, supported with his credit and his funds the linen factory at Boulogne, the flax-spinning industry at Frevent, and the hydraulic manufacture of cloth at Boubers-sur-Canche. Everywhere the name of M. Madeleine was pronounced with veneration. Arras and Douai envied the happy little town of M. sur M. its mayor.
The Councillor of the Royal Court of Douai, who was presiding over this session of the Assizes at Arras, was acquainted, in common with the rest of the world, with this name which was so profoundly and universally honored. When the usher, discreetly opening the door which connected the council-chamber with the court-room, bent over the back of the President's arm-chair and handed him the paper on which was inscribed the line which we have just perused, adding: "The gentleman desires to be present at the trial," the President, with a quick and deferential movement, seized a pen and wrote a few words at the bottom of the paper and returned it to the usher, saying, "Admit him."
The unhappy man whose history we are relating had remained near the door of the hall, in the same place and the same attitude in which the usher had left him. In the midst of his revery he heard some one saying to him, "Will Monsieur do me the honor to follow me?" It was the same usher who had turned his back upon him but a moment previously, and who was now bowing to the earth before him. At the same time, the usher handed him the paper. He unfolded it, and as he chanced to be near the light, he could read it.
"The President of the Court of Assizes presents his respects to M. Madeleine."
He crushed the paper in his hand as though those words contained for him a strange and bitter aftertaste.
He followed the usher.
A few minutes later he found himself alone in a sort of wainscoted cabinet of severe aspect, lighted by two wax candles, placed upon a table with a green cloth. The last words of the usher who had just quitted him still rang in his ears: "Monsieur, you are now in the council-chamber; you have only to turn the copper handle of yonder door, and you will find yourself in the court-room, behind the President's chair." These words were mingled in his thoughts with a vague memory of narrow corridors and dark staircases which he had recently traversed.
The usher had left him alone. The supreme moment had arrived. He sought to collect his faculties, but could not. It is chiefly at the moment when there is the greatest need for attaching them to the painful realities of life, that the threads of thought snap within the brain. He was in the very place where the judges deliberated and condemned. With stupid tranquillity he surveyed this peaceful and terrible apartment, where so many lives had been broken, which was soon to ring with his name, and which his fate was at that moment traversing. He stared at the wall, then he looked at himself, wondering that it should be that chamber and that it should be he.
He had eaten nothing for four and twenty hours; he was worn out by the jolts of the cart, but he was not conscious of it. It seemed to him that he felt nothing.
He approached a black frame which was suspended on the wall, and which contained, under glass, an ancient autograph letter of Jean Nicolas Pache, mayor of Paris and minister, and dated, through an error, no doubt, the 9th of June, of the year II., and in which Pache forwarded to the commune the list of ministers and deputies held in arrest by them. Any spectator who had chanced to see him at that moment, and who had watched him, would have imagined, doubtless, that this letter struck him as very curious, for he did not take his eyes from it, and he read it two or three times. He read it without paying any attention to it, and unconsciously. He was thinking of Fantine and Cosette.
As he dreamed, he turned round, and his eyes fell upon the brass knob of the door which separated him from the Court of Assizes. He had almost forgotten that door. His glance, calm at first, paused there, remained fixed on that brass handle, then grew terrified, and little by little became impregnated with fear. Beads of perspiration burst forth among his hair and trickled down upon his temples.
At a certain moment he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of authority mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and which does so well convey, "Pardieu! who compels me to this?" Then he wheeled briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had entered in front of him, went to it, opened it, and passed out. He was no longer in that chamber; he was outside in a corridor, a long, narrow corridor, broken by steps and gratings, making all sorts of angles, lighted here and there by lanterns similar to the night taper of invalids, the corridor through which he had approached. He breathed, he listened; not a sound in front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as though pursued.
When he had turned many angles in this corridor, he still listened. The same silence reigned, and there was the same darkness around him. He was out of breath; he staggered; he leaned against the wall. The stone was cold; the perspiration lay ice-cold on his brow; he straightened himself up with a shiver.
Then, there alone in the darkness, trembling with cold and with something else, too, perchance, he meditated.
He had meditated all night long; he had meditated all the day: he heard within him but one voice, which said, "Alas!"
A quarter of an hour passed thus. At length he bowed his head, sighed with agony, dropped his arms, and retraced his steps. He walked slowly, and as though crushed. It seemed as though some one had overtaken him in his flight and was leading him back.
He re-entered the council-chamber. The first thing he caught sight of was the knob of the door. This knob, which was round and of polished brass, shone like a terrible star for him. He gazed at it as a lamb might gaze into the eye of a tiger.
He could not take his eyes from it. From time to time he advanced a step and approached the door.
Had he listened, he would have heard the sound of the adjoining hall like a sort of confused murmur; but he did not listen, and he did not hear.
Suddenly, without himself knowing how it happened, he found himself near the door; he grasped the knob convulsively; the door opened.
He was in the court-room.
滨海蒙特勒伊市长素有声望，那是他自己不曾想到的。七年来，他的名声早已传遍了下布洛涅，后来更超越了这小小地区，传到邻近的两三个省去。他除了在城内起了振兴烧料细工工业的重大作用外，在滨海蒙特勒伊县的一百八十一个镇中，没有一镇不曾受过他的照顾。在必要时，他还能帮助和发展其他县的工业。他以他的信用贷款和基金在情况需要时随时支援过布洛涅的珍珠罗厂、弗雷旺的铁机麻纱厂和匍白的水力织布厂。无论什么地方，提到马德兰先生这个名字，大家总是肃然起敬的。阿拉斯和杜埃都羡慕滨海蒙特勒伊有这样一位市长，说这是个幸运的小城。
这次在阿拉斯任刑庭主席的是杜埃的御前参赞，他和旁人一样，也知道这个无处不尊、无人不敬的名字。执达吏轻轻开了从会议室通到公堂的门，在庭长的围椅后面伛着腰，递上我们刚才念过的那张纸说“这位先生要求旁听”，庭长肃然动容，拿起一支笔，在那张纸的下端写了几个字，交给执达吏，向他说：
“请进。”
我们讲着他的历史的这个伤心人立在大厅门旁，他立的地位和态度，一直和那执达吏先头离开他时一样。他在梦魂萦绕中听到一个人向他说：“先生肯赏光让我带路吗？”这正是刚才把背向着他的那个执达吏，现在向他鞠躬直达地面了。执达吏又同时把那张纸递给他。他把它展开，当时他恰立在灯旁，他读道：
“刑庭庭长谨向马德兰先生致敬。”
他揉着这张纸，仿佛这几个字给了他一种奇苦的余味。
他跟着执达吏走去。
几分钟后，他走进一间会议室，独自立在里面，四壁装饰辉煌，气象森严，一张绿呢台子上燃着两支烛。执达吏在最后离开他时所说的那些话还一直留在他的耳边：“先生，您现在是在会议室里，您只须转动这门上的铜钮，您就到了公堂里，庭长先生的围椅后面。”这些话和他刚才穿过的那些狭窄回廊以及黑暗扶梯所留下的回忆，在他的思想里都混在一起了。
执达吏把他独自留下。紧急关头到了。他想集中精神想想，但是做不到。尤其是在我们急于想把思想里的线索和痛心的现实生活联系起来时，它们偏会在我们的脑子里断裂。他恰巧到了这些审判官平时商议和下判决书的地方。他静静地呆望着这间寂静骇人的屋子，想到几多生命是在这里断送的，他自己的名字不久也将从这里轰传开去，他这会儿也要在这里过关，他望望墙壁，又望望自己，感到惊奇，居然会有这间屋子，又会有他这个人。
他不吃东西，已超过了二十四个钟头，车子的颠簸已使他疲惫不堪，不过他并不觉得，好象他什么事都已感觉不到。
他走近挂在墙上的一个黑镜框，镜框的玻璃后面有一封陈旧的信，是巴黎市长兼部长让·尼古拉·帕希亲笔写的，信上的日期是二年①六月九日，这日期一定是写错了的，在这封信里，帕希把他们拘禁的部长和议员的名单通告了这一镇。假使有人能在这时看见并注意马德兰，一定会认为这封信使马德兰特别感兴趣，因为他的眼睛没有离开它，并且念了两三遍。他自己没有注意到也没有觉得他是在念这封信。他当时想到的却是芳汀和珂赛特。 
①共和二年，即一七九四年。
　　他一面沉思一面转过身子，他的视线触到了门上的铜钮，门那边便是刑庭了。他起先几乎忘记了这扇门。他的目光，起初平静地落到门上，随后便盯住那铜钮，他感到惊愕，静静地望着，渐渐起了恐怖。一滴滴汗珠从他头发里流出来，直流到鬓边。
有那么一会儿，他用一种严肃而又含有顽抗意味的神情作出一种无法形容的姿势，意思就是说（并且说得那样正确）：“见鬼！谁逼着我不成？”他随即一下转过身去，看见他先前进来的那扇门正在他面前，他走去开了门，一步就跨出去了。他已不在屋子里了，他到了外面，在一道回廊里；这是一道长而狭的回廊，许多台阶，几个小窗口，弯弯曲曲，一路上点着几盏类似病房里通宵点着的回光灯，这正是他来时经过的那条回廊。他吐了一口气，又仔细听了一阵，他背后没有动静，他前面也没有动静，他开始溜走，象有人追他似的。
他溜过了长廊的几处弯角，又停下来听。在他四周，仍和刚才那样寂静，那样昏暗。他呼吸促迫，站立不稳，连忙靠在墙上。石块是冷的，他额上的汗也象冰似的，他把身子站直，一面却打着寒战。
他独自一人立在那里，立在黑暗中，感到冷不可耐，也许还因别的事而浑身战栗，他又寻思起来。
他已想了一整夜，他已想了一整天，他仅听见一个声音在他心里说：“唉！”
这样过了一刻钟。结果，他低下头，悲伤地叹着气，垂着两只手，又走回来。他慢慢地走着，不胜负荷似的。好象有人在他潜逃的时候追上了他，硬把他拖回来一样。
他又走进那间会议室。他看见的第一件东西便是门钮。门钮形状浑圆，铜质光滑，在他眼前闪闪发光，好象一颗骇人的星。他望着它，如同羔羊见了猛虎的眼睛。
他的眼睛无法离开它。
他一步一停，向着门走去。
假使他听，他会听见隔壁厅里的声音，象一种嘈杂的低语声。但是他没有听，也听不见。
忽然，连他自己也不知道他是怎样到了门边。他紧张万分地握住那门钮，门开了。
他已到了公堂里面。
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 9 A Place where Convictions are in Process of Formation
He advanced a pace, closed the door mechanically behind him, and remained standing, contemplating what he saw.
It was a vast and badly lighted apartment, now full of uproar, now full of silence, where all the apparatus of a criminal case, with its petty and mournful gravity in the midst of the throng, was in process of development.
At the one end of the hall, the one where he was, were judges, with abstracted air, in threadbare robes, who were gnawing their nails or closing their eyelids; at the other end, a ragged crowd; lawyers in all sorts of attitudes; soldiers with hard but honest faces; ancient, spotted woodwork, a dirty ceiling, tables covered with serge that was yellow rather than green; doors blackened by handmarks; tap-room lamps which emitted more smoke than light, suspended from nails in the wainscot; on the tables candles in brass candlesticks; darkness, ugliness, sadness; and from all this there was disengaged an austere and august impression, for one there felt that grand human thing which is called the law, and that grand divine thing which is called justice.
No one in all that throng paid any attention to him; all glances were directed towards a single point, a wooden bench placed against a small door, in the stretch of wall on the President's left; on this bench, illuminated by several candles, sat a man between two gendarmes.
This man was the man.
He did not seek him; he saw him; his eyes went thither naturally, as though they had known beforehand where that figure was.
He thought he was looking at himself, grown old; not absolutely the same in face, of course, but exactly similar in attitude and aspect, with his bristling hair, with that wild and uneasy eye, with that blouse, just as it was on the day when he entered D----, full of hatred, concealing his soul in that hideous mass of frightful thoughts which he had spent nineteen years in collecting on the floor of the prison.
He said to himself with a shudder, "Good God! shall I become like that again?"
This creature seemed to be at least sixty; there was something indescribably coarse, stupid, and frightened about him.
At the sound made by the opening door, people had drawn aside to make way for him; the President had turned his head, and, understanding that the personage who had just entered was the mayor of M. sur M., he had bowed to him; the attorney-general, who had seen M. Madeleine at M. Sur M., whither the duties of his office had called him more than once, recognized him and saluted him also: he had hardly perceived it; he was the victim of a sort of hallucination; he was watching.
Judges, clerks, gendarmes, a throng of cruelly curious heads, all these he had already beheld once, in days gone by, twenty-seven years before; he had encountered those fatal things once more; there they were; they moved; they existed; it was no longer an effort of his memory, a mirage of his thought; they were real gendarmes and real judges, a real crowd, and real men of flesh and blood: it was all over; he beheld the monstrous aspects of his past reappear and live once more around him, with all that there is formidable in reality.
All this was yawning before him.
He was horrified by it; he shut his eyes, and exclaimed in the deepest recesses of his soul, "Never!"
And by a tragic play of destiny which made all his ideas tremble, and rendered him nearly mad, it was another self of his that was there! all called that man who was being tried Jean Valjean.
Under his very eyes, unheard-of vision, he had a sort of representation of the most horrible moment of his life, enacted by his spectre.
Everything was there; the apparatus was the same, the hour of the night, the faces of the judges, of soldiers, and of spectators; all were the same, only above the President's head there hung a crucifix, something which the courts had lacked at the time of his condemnation: God had been absent when he had been judged.
There was a chair behind him; he dropped into it, terrified at the thought that he might be seen; when he was seated, he took advantage of a pile of cardboard boxes, which stood on the judge's desk, to conceal his face from the whole room; he could now see without being seen; he had fully regained consciousness of the reality of things; gradually he recovered; he attained that phase of composure where it is possible to listen.
M. Bamatabois was one of the jurors.
He looked for Javert, but did not see him; the seat of the witnesses was hidden from him by the clerk's table, and then, as we have just said, the hall was sparely lighted.
At the moment of this entrance, the defendant's lawyer had just finished his plea.
The attention of all was excited to the highest pitch; the affair had lasted for three hours: for three hours that crowd had been watching a strange man, a miserable specimen of humanity, either profoundly stupid or profoundly subtle, gradually bending beneath the weight of a terrible likeness. This man, as the reader already knows, was a vagabond who had been found in a field carrying a branch laden with ripe apples, broken in the orchard of a neighbor, called the Pierron orchard. Who was this man? an examination had been made; witnesses had been heard, and they were unanimous; light had abounded throughout the entire debate; the accusation said: "We have in our grasp not only a marauder, a stealer of fruit; we have here, in our hands, a bandit, an old offender who has broken his ban, an ex-convict, a miscreant of the most dangerous description, a malefactor named Jean Valjean, whom justice has long been in search of, and who, eight years ago, on emerging from the galleys at Toulon, committed a highway robbery, accompanied by violence, on the person of a child, a Savoyard named Little Gervais; a crime provided for by article 383 of the Penal Code, the right to try him for which we reserve hereafter, when his identity shall have been judicially established. He has just committed a fresh theft; it is a case of a second offence; condemn him for the fresh deed; later on he will be judged for the old crime." In the face of this accusation, in the face of the unanimity of the witnesses, the accused appeared to be astonished more than anything else; he made signs and gestures which were meant to convey No, or else he stared at the ceiling: he spoke with difficulty, replied with embarrassment, but his whole person, from head to foot, was a denial; he was an idiot in the presence of all these minds ranged in order of battle around him, and like a stranger in the midst of this society which was seizing fast upon him; nevertheless, it was a question of the most menacing future for him; the likeness increased every moment, and the entire crowd surveyed, with more anxiety than he did himself, that sentence freighted with calamity, which descended ever closer over his head; there was even a glimpse of a possibility afforded; besides the galleys, a possible death penalty, in case his identity were established, and the affair of Little Gervais were to end thereafter in condemnation. Who was this man? what was the nature of his apathy? was it imbecility or craft? Did he understand too well, or did he not understand at all? these were questions which divided the crowd, and seemed to divide the jury; there was something both terrible and puzzling in this case: the drama was not only melancholy; it was also obscure.
The counsel for the defence had spoken tolerably well, in that provincial tongue which has long constituted the eloquence of the bar, and which was formerly employed by all advocates, at Paris as well as at Romorantin or at Montbrison, and which to-day, having become classic, is no longer spoken except by the official orators of magistracy, to whom it is suited on account of its grave sonorousness and its majestic stride; a tongue in which a husband is called a consort, and a woman a spouse; Paris, the centre of art and civilization; the king, the monarch; Monseigneur the Bishop, a sainted pontiff; the district-attorney, the eloquent interpreter of public prosecution; the arguments, the accents which we have just listened to; the age of Louis XIV., the grand age; a theatre, the temple of Melpomene; the reigning family, the august blood of our kings; a concert, a musical solemnity; the General Commandant of the province, the illustrious warrior, who, etc.; the pupils in the seminary, these tender levities; errors imputed to newspapers, the imposture which distills its venom through the columns of those organs; etc. The lawyer had, accordingly, begun with an explanation as to the theft of the apples,--an awkward matter couched in fine style; but Benigne Bossuet himself was obliged to allude to a chicken in the midst of a funeral oration, and he extricated himself from the situation in stately fashion. The lawyer established the fact that the theft of the apples had not been circumstantially proved. His client, whom he, in his character of counsel, persisted in calling Champmathieu, had not been seen scaling that wall nor breaking that branch by any one. He had been taken with that branch (which the lawyer preferred to call a bough) in his possession; but he said that he had found it broken off and lying on the ground, and had picked it up. Where was there any proof to the contrary? No doubt that branch had been broken off and concealed after the scaling of the wall, then thrown away by the alarmed marauder; there was no doubt that there had been a thief in the case. But what proof was there that that thief had been Champmathieu? One thing only. His character as an ex-convict. The lawyer did not deny that that character appeared to be, unhappily, well attested; the accused had resided at Faverolles; the accused had exercised the calling of a tree-pruner there; the name of Champmathieu might well have had its origin in Jean Mathieu; all that was true,-- in short, four witnesses recognize Champmathieu, positively and without hesitation, as that convict, Jean Valjean; to these signs, to this testimony, the counsel could oppose nothing but the denial of his client, the denial of an interested party; but supposing that he was the convict Jean Valjean, did that prove that he was the thief of the apples? that was a presumption at the most, not a proof. The prisoner, it was true, and his counsel, "in good faith," was obliged to admit it, had adopted "a bad system of defence." He obstinately denied everything, the theft and his character of convict. An admission upon this last point would certainly have been better, and would have won for him the indulgence of his judges; the counsel had advised him to do this; but the accused had obstinately refused, thinking, no doubt, that he would save everything by admitting nothing. It was an error; but ought not the paucity of this intelligence to be taken into consideration? This man was visibly stupid. Long-continued wretchedness in the galleys, long misery outside the galleys, had brutalized him, etc. He defended himself badly; was that a reason for condemning him? As for the affair with Little Gervais, the counsel need not discuss it; it did not enter into the case. The lawyer wound up by beseeching the jury and the court, if the identity of Jean Valjean appeared to them to be evident, to apply to him the police penalties which are provided for a criminal who has broken his ban, and not the frightful chastisement which descends upon the convict guilty of a second offence.
The district-attorney answered the counsel for the defence. He was violent and florid, as district-attorneys usually are.
He congratulated the counsel for the defence on his "loyalty," and skilfully took advantage of this loyalty. He reached the accused through all the concessions made by his lawyer. The advocate had seemed to admit that the prisoner was Jean Valjean. He took note of this. So this man was Jean Valjean. This point had been conceded to the accusation and could no longer be disputed. Here, by means of a clever autonomasia which went back to the sources and causes of crime, the district-attorney thundered against the immorality of the romantic school, then dawning under the name of the Satanic school, which had been bestowed upon it by the critics of the Quotidienne and the Oriflamme; he attributed, not without some probability, to the influence of this perverse literature the crime of Champmathieu, or rather, to speak more correctly, of Jean Valjean. Having exhausted these considerations, he passed on to Jean Valjean himself. Who was this Jean Valjean? Description of Jean Valjean: a monster spewed forth, etc. The model for this sort of description is contained in the tale of Theramene, which is not useful to tragedy, but which every day renders great services to judicial eloquence. The audience and the jury "shuddered." The description finished, the district-attorney resumed with an oratorical turn calculated to raise the enthusiasm of the journal of the prefecture to the highest pitch on the following day: And it is such a man, etc., etc., etc., vagabond, beggar, without means of existence, etc., etc., inured by his past life to culpable deeds, and but little reformed by his sojourn in the galleys, as was proved by the crime committed against Little Gervais, etc., etc.; it is such a man, caught upon the highway in the very act of theft, a few paces from a wall that had been scaled, still holding in his hand the object stolen, who denies the crime, the theft, the climbing the wall; denies everything; denies even his own identity! In addition to a hundred other proofs, to which we will not recur, four witnesses recognize him--Javert, the upright inspector of police; Javert, and three of his former companions in infamy, the convicts Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille. What does he offer in opposition to this overwhelming unanimity? His denial. What obduracy! You will do justice, gentlemen of the jury, etc., etc. While the district-attorney was speaking, the accused listened to him open-mouthed, with a sort of amazement in which some admiration was assuredly blended. He was evidently surprised that a man could talk like that. From time to time, at those "energetic" moments of the prosecutor's speech, when eloquence which cannot contain itself overflows in a flood of withering epithets and envelops the accused like a storm, he moved his head slowly from right to left and from left to right in the sort of mute and melancholy protest with which he had contented himself since the beginning of the argument. Two or three times the spectators who were nearest to him heard him say in a low voice, "That is what comes of not having asked M. Baloup." The district-attorney directed the attention of the jury to this stupid attitude, evidently deliberate, which denoted not imbecility, but craft, skill, a habit of deceiving justice, and which set forth in all its nakedness the "profound perversity" of this man. He ended by making his reserves on the affair of Little Gervais and demanding a severe sentence.
At that time, as the reader will remember, it was penal servitude for life.
The counsel for the defence rose, began by complimenting Monsieur l'Avocat-General on his "admirable speech," then replied as best he could; but he weakened; the ground was evidently slipping away from under his feet.
他走上一步，机械地反手把门拉上，立着估量他目前的情况。
这是一间圆厅，灯光惨暗，容积颇大，时而喧嚣四起，时而寂静无声，一整套处理刑事案件的机器，正带着庸俗、愁惨的隆重气派，在群众中间活动。
在厅的一端，他所在的这一端，一些神情疏懒、穿着破袍的陪审官正啃着手指甲或闭着眼皮；另一端，一些衣服褴褛的群众，一些姿态各异的律师，一些面容诚实而凶狠的士兵；污渍的旧板壁，肮脏的天花板，几张铺着哔叽的桌子，这哔叽，与其说是绿的，还不如说是黄的；几扇门上都有黑色的手渍。几张咖啡馆常用的那种光少烟多的植物油灯挂在壁板上的钉子上，桌上的铜烛台里插了几支蜡烛，这里是阴暗、丑陋、沉闷的；从这一切中产生了一种威仪严肃的印象，因为就在这里，大家感受到那种人间的威力和上苍的威力，也就是所谓的法律和正义。
在这群人里，谁也不曾注意他。所有的目光都集中在唯一的一点上，那就是在庭长左方、沿墙靠着一扇小门的那条木凳上。那条凳被几支烛照着，在两个法警间坐着一个人。
这人，便是那个人了。
马德兰并不曾寻找他，却又一下就看见了他。他的眼睛不期然而然地望到了那里，仿佛他事先早知道了那人所在的地方。
他以为看见了自己，不过较老一些，面貌当然不是绝对相似，但是神情和外表却完全一模一样，一头乱竖着的头发，一双横蛮惶惑的眸子，一件布衫，正象他进迪涅城那天的模样，满面恨容，好象要把他费了十九年时间在牢内铺路石上攒起来的怨毒全闷在心中一样。
他打了个寒噤，向自己说：
“我的上帝！难道我又要变成这个样子吗？”
这人看去至少有六十岁光景。他有一种说不出的粗鲁、执拗和惊惶的样子。
门一响，大家都靠紧，为他让出一条路，庭长把头转过去，望见刚进来的人物正是滨海蒙特勒伊的市长先生，便向他行了个礼。检察官从前因公到滨海蒙特勒伊去过多次，早已认识马德兰先生，也同样向他行了个礼。他呢，不大注意，他头昏目眩，只呆呆地望着。
几个审判官，一个记录员，一些法警，一群幸灾乐祸赶热闹的面孔，凡此种种，他在二十七年前都曾见过一次。这些魔鬼，现在他又遇见了，它们正在躜动，他们确实存在。这已不是他回忆中的景象，不是他思想上的幻影，而是一些真正的法警，真正的审判官，真正的听众，一些有血有肉的人。事情已经发展到这一地步，他见到往日的那些触目惊心的景象以及实际事物所能引起的一切恐怖，又在他的四周再次出现，再次活动。
这一切东西都在他面前张牙舞爪。
他心胆俱裂，闭上了眼睛，从他心灵的最深处喊道：“决不！”
造物弄人，演成悲局，使他神魂震悚，烦乱欲狂，并且坐在那里的那个人，又恰是他自己的化身！那个受审判的人，大家都叫他做冉阿让！
他的影子在他眼前扮演他生命中最可怕的一页，这种情景，真是闻所未闻。
一切都在这里出现了，同样的布置，同样的灯光，审判官、法警和观众的面目也大致相同。不过在庭长的上方，有一个耶稣受难像，这是在他从前受判决的时代公堂上缺少的东西。足见他当年受审判时上帝并不在场。
他背后有一张椅子，他颓然落下，如坐针毡，惟恐别人看见他。坐下以后，他利用审判官公案上的一堆卷宗，遮着自己的脸，使全厅的人都看不见他。现在他可以看别人，而别人看不见他了。他渐渐安定下来，他已经完全回到现实的感受中来，心情的镇定已使他达到能听的程度。
巴马达波先生是陪审员之一。
他在找沙威，但是不见他。证人席被记录员的桌子遮着了。并且，我们刚才说过，厅里的灯光是暗淡的。
他进门时，被告的律师正说完他的辩词。全场空气已到了最紧张的程度，这件案子开审已有三个钟头了。在这三个钟头里，大家眼望着一个人，一个陌生人，一个穷极无聊、极其糊涂或极其狡猾的东西，在一种骇人听闻的真情实况的重压下一步步折伏下去。这个人，我们已经知道，是个流浪汉，被别人发现在田野中，拿着一根有熟苹果的树枝，这树枝是从附近一个叫别红园的围墙里的苹果树上折下来的。这个人究竟是谁？已经作了一番调查，证人们刚才也都发了言，众口一词，讨论中真相大白。控词里说：“我们逮捕的不仅是个偷水果的小偷，不仅是个贼，我们手里抓获的是一个匪徒，一个违反原判、擅离指定住址的累犯，一个旧苦役犯，一个最危险的暴徒，一个久已通缉在案名叫冉阿让的奸贼，八年前，从土伦牢狱里出来时，又曾手持凶器，在大路上抢劫过一个叫小瑞尔威的通烟囱的孩子，罪关刑律第三百八十三条，一俟该犯经过正式证明，确系冉阿让，当即根据上述条文另行追究。他最近又重行犯罪。这是一次再犯。请先处罚他的新罪，容后提审旧案。”被告在这种控词前，在证人们的一致的意见前，瞠目结舌，不知所对。他摇头顿脚表示否认，或是两眼朝天。他口吃，答话困难，但是他整个人，从头到脚，都表示不服。在这一排排摆开阵式、向他溺战的聪明人面前，他简直是个傻子，简直是个陷入了重围的野人。可是目前正是威胁他未来生活的紧急关头，他的嫌疑越到后来越大，全体观众望着这种极尽诬陷、逐渐向他紧逼的判决词，比起他自己来还更担忧些。还有一层可虑的事，假使他被证实确是冉阿让，小瑞尔威的事将来也得判罪，那么，除监禁以外，还有处死的可能。这究竟是个什么人呢？他那副冥顽不灵的表情是什么性质的呢？是愚蠢还是狡狯？是懂得很清楚还是完全不懂？对这些问题听众各执一辞，陪审团的意见仿佛也不一致。这件疑案，既惊人也捉弄人，不但暖昧不明，而且茫无头绪。
那个辩护士谈得相当好，他那种外省的语句，从前无论在巴黎也好，在罗莫朗坦或蒙勃里松也好，凡是律师都习惯采用，早已成为律师们的词藻，但今天这种语句已成古典的了，它那种持重的声调、庄严的气派，正适合公堂上的那些公家发言人，所以现在只有他们还偶然用用；譬如称丈夫为“良人”，妻子为“内助”，巴黎为“艺术和文化的中心”，国王为“元首”，主教先生为“元圣”，检察官为“辩才无碍的锄奸大士”，律师的辩词称“刚才洗耳恭听过的高论”，路易十四的世纪为“大世纪”，剧场为“墨尔波墨涅殿”，在朝的王室为“我先王的圣血”，音乐会为“雍和大典”，统辖一省的将军为“驰名的壮士某”，教士培养所里的小徒弟为“娇僧”，责令某报该负责的错误为“在刊物篇幅中散布毒素的花言巧语”等等。这律师一开始，便从偷苹果这件事上表示意见，要说得文雅，那确是个难题；不过贝尼涅·博须埃在一篇祭文里，也曾谈到过一只母鸡，而他竟能说得洋洋洒洒，不为所困。这律师认定偷苹果的事没有具体的事实证明。他以辩护人的资格，坚称他的主顾为商马第，他说并没有人看见他亲自跳墙或攀折树枝。别人抓住他时，他手里拿着那根树枝（这律师比较喜欢称树枝为树桠），但是他说他看见它在地上，才拾起来的。反证在什么地方呢？这树枝显然被人偷折，那小偷爬到墙外后，又因心虚便把它丢在地上。贼显然有一个。但是谁能证明这作贼的便是商马第呢？只有一件事，他从前当过苦役犯。律师并不否认这件看来很不幸已被证实的事，被告在法维洛勒住过，被告在那里做过修树枝工人，商马第这个名字源出让·马第是很可能的，这一切都是确实的，并且有四个证人，他们都一眼就认出了商马第便是苦役犯冉阿让。律师对这些线索、这些作证，只能拿他主顾的否认、一种有目的的否认来搪塞；但是即使认定他确是苦役犯冉阿让，这样就能证明他是偷苹果的贼吗？充其量这也只是种猜测而不是证据。被告确实用了“一种拙劣的自卫方法”，他的辩护人“本着良心”也应当承认这一点。他坚决否认一切，否认行窃，也否认当过苦役犯。他如果肯承认第二点，毫无疑问，一定会妥当些，他也许还可以赢得各陪审官的宽恕；律师也曾向他提出过这种意见，但是被告坚拒不从，他以为概不承认便可挽救一切。这是一种错误，不过，难道我们不应当去考虑他智力薄弱的一点？这人显然是个痴子。狱中长期的苦楚，出狱后长期的穷困，已使他变成神经呆笨的人了，律师说着说着，说他不善于为自己辩护，这能成为判罪的理由吗？至于小瑞尔威的事，律师不用讨论，这毫不属于本案范围。最后，律师请求陪审团和法庭，假使他们确认这人是冉阿让，也只能按警章处罚他擅离指定住址，不能按镇压累犯的苦役犯的严刑加以处理。
检察官反驳了辩护律师。他和平时其他的检察官一样，说得慷慨激昂，才华横逸。
他对辩护律师的“忠诚”表示祝贺，并且巧妙地利用了他的忠诚。他从这律师让步的几点上向被告攻击。律师仿佛已经同意被告便是冉阿让。他把这句话记录下来。那么，这个人确是冉阿让了。在控词里，这已被肯定下来不容否认的了。做到这一点，检察长便用一种指桑骂槐的巧妙手法追寻这种罪恶的根源和缘由，怒气冲天地痛斥浪漫派的不道德，当时浪漫派正在新兴时期，《王旗报》和《每日新闻》的批评家们都称它为“撒旦派”！检察官把商马第（说冉阿让还更妥当些）的犯法行为归咎于这种邪侈文学的影响，说得也颇象煞有介事。发挥尽致以后，他转到冉阿让本人身上。冉阿让是什么东西呢？他刻画冉阿让是个狗彘不如的怪物，等等。这种描写的范例在德拉门①的语录里可以看到，对悲剧没有用处，但它每天使法庭上的舌战确实生色不少。听众和陪审团都“为之股栗”。检察官刻画完毕以后，为了获得明天《省府公报》的高度表扬，又指手画脚地说下去：“并且他是这样一种人，等等，等等，等等，流氓，光棍，没有生活能力，等等，等等，生平惯于为非作歹，坐了牢狱也不曾大改，抢劫小瑞尔威这件事便足以证明，等等，等等，他是这样一个人，行了窃，被人在公路上当场拿获，离开一堵爬过的墙只几步，手里还拿着赃物，人赃俱获，还要抵赖，行窃爬墙，一概抵赖，甚至连自己的姓名也抵赖，自己的身份来历也抵赖！我们有说不尽的证据，这也都不必再提了，除这以外，还有四个证人认识他，沙威，侦察员沙威和他从前的三个贼朋友，苦役犯布莱卫、舍尼杰和戈什巴依。他们一致出来作证，他用什么来对付这种雷霆万钧之力呢？抵赖。多么顽固！请诸位陪审员先生主持正义，等等，等等。”检察官发言时，被告张着口听，惊讶之中不无钦佩之意。他看见一个人竟这样能说会道，当然要大吃一惊。在控诉发挥得最“得劲”时，这人辩才横溢，不能自己，恶言蜚语，层出不穷，如同把被告围困在疾风暴雨之中一样，这个犯人不时慢慢地摇着头，由右到左，又由左到右，这便是他在辩论进行中所表示的一种忍气吞声的抗议。离他最近的那几个旁听人听见他低声说了两三次“这都是因为没有问巴陆先生！”检察官请陪审团注意他的这种戆态，这明明是假装的，这并不表示他愚蠢，而是表示他巧黠、奸诈和蒙蔽法官的一贯作法，这就把这个人的“劣根性”揭露无遗了。最后他声明保留小瑞尔威的问题，要求严厉判处。 
①德拉门（Théraméne），公元前五世纪雅典暴君。
这就是说，我们记得，暂时处以终身苦役。
被告律师起来，首先祝贺了“检察官先生”的“高论”，接着又尽力辩驳，但是他泄了气。他脚跟显然站不稳了。
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 10 The System of Denials
The moment for closing the debate had arrived. The President had the accused stand up, and addressed to him the customary question, "Have you anything to add to your defence?"
The man did not appear to understand, as he stood there, twisting in his hands a terrible cap which he had.
The President repeated the question.
This time the man heard it. He seemed to understand. He made a motion like a man who is just waking up, cast his eyes about him, stared at the audience, the gendarmes, his counsel, the jury, the court, laid his monstrous fist on the rim of woodwork in front of his bench, took another look, and all at once, fixing his glance upon the district-attorney, he began to speak. It was like an eruption. It seemed, from the manner in which the words escaped from his mouth,-- incoherent, impetuous, pell-mell, tumbling over each other,-- as though they were all pressing forward to issue forth at once. He said:--
"This is what I have to say. That I have been a wheelwright in Paris, and that it was with Monsieur Baloup. It is a hard trade. In the wheelwright's trade one works always in the open air, in courtyards, under sheds when the masters are good, never in closed workshops, because space is required, you see. In winter one gets so cold that one beats one's arms together to warm one's self; but the masters don't like it; they say it wastes time. Handling iron when there is ice between the paving-stones is hard work. That wears a man out quickly One is old while he is still quite young in that trade. At forty a man is done for. I was fifty-three. I was in a bad state. And then, workmen are so mean! When a man is no longer young, they call him nothing but an old bird, old beast! I was not earning more than thirty sous a day. They paid me as little as possible. The masters took advantage of my age-- and then I had my daughter, who was a laundress at the river. She earned a little also. It sufficed for us two. She had trouble, also; all day long up to her waist in a tub, in rain, in snow. When the wind cuts your face, when it freezes, it is all the same; you must still wash. There are people who have not much linen, and wait until late; if you do not wash, you lose your custom. The planks are badly joined, and water drops on you from everywhere; you have your petticoats all damp above and below. That penetrates. She has also worked at the laundry of the Enfants-Rouges, where the water comes through faucets. You are not in the tub there; you wash at the faucet in front of you, and rinse in a basin behind you. As it is enclosed, you are not so cold; but there is that hot steam, which is terrible, and which ruins your eyes. She came home at seven o'clock in the evening, and went to bed at once, she was so tired. Her husband beat her. She is dead. We have not been very happy. She was a good girl, who did not go to the ball, and who was very peaceable. I remember one Shrove-Tuesday when she went to bed at eight o'clock. There, I am telling the truth; you have only to ask. Ah, yes! how stupid I am! Paris is a gulf. Who knows Father Champmathieu there? But M. Baloup does, I tell you. Go see at M. Baloup's; and after all, I don't know what is wanted of me."
The man ceased speaking, and remained standing. He had said these things in a loud, rapid, hoarse voice, with a sort of irritated and savage ingenuousness. Once he paused to salute some one in the crowd. The sort of affirmations which he seemed to fling out before him at random came like hiccoughs, and to each he added the gesture of a wood-cutter who is splitting wood. When he had finished, the audience burst into a laugh. He stared at the public, and, perceiving that they were laughing, and not understanding why, he began to laugh himself.
It was inauspicious.
The President, an attentive and benevolent man, raised his voice.
He reminded "the gentlemen of the jury" that "the sieur Baloup, formerly a master-wheelwright, with whom the accused stated that he had served, had been summoned in vain. He had become bankrupt, and was not to be found." Then turning to the accused, he enjoined him to listen to what he was about to say, and added: "You are in a position where reflection is necessary. The gravest presumptions rest upon you, and may induce vital results. Prisoner, in your own interests, I summon you for the last time to explain yourself clearly on two points. In the first place, did you or did you not climb the wall of the Pierron orchard, break the branch, and steal the apples; that is to say, commit the crime of breaking in and theft? In the second place, are you the discharged convict, Jean Valjean-- yes or no?"
The prisoner shook his head with a capable air, like a man who has thoroughly understood, and who knows what answer he is going to make. He opened his mouth, turned towards the President, and said:--
"In the first place--"
Then he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held his peace.
"Prisoner," said the district-attorney, in a severe voice; "pay attention. You are not answering anything that has been asked of you. Your embarrassment condemns you. It is evident that your name is not Champmathieu; that you are the convict, Jean Valjean, concealed first under the name of Jean Mathieu, which was the name of his mother; that you went to Auvergne; that you were born at Faverolles, where you were a pruner of trees. It is evident that you have been guilty of entering, and of the theft of ripe apples from the Pierron orchard. The gentlemen of the jury will form their own opinion."
The prisoner had finally resumed his seat; he arose abruptly when the district-attorney had finished, and exclaimed:--
"You are very wicked; that you are! This what I wanted to say; I could not find words for it at first. I have stolen nothing. I am a man who does not have something to eat every day. I was coming from Ailly; I was walking through the country after a shower, which had made the whole country yellow: even the ponds were overflowed, and nothing sprang from the sand any more but the little blades of grass at the wayside. I found a broken branch with apples on the ground; I picked up the branch without knowing that it would get me into trouble. I have been in prison, and they have been dragging me about for the last three months; more than that I cannot say; people talk against me, they tell me, `Answer!' The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow, and says to me in a low voice, `Come, answer!' I don't know how to explain; I have no education; I am a poor man; that is where they wrong me, because they do not see this. I have not stolen; I picked up from the ground things that were lying there. You say, Jean Valjean, Jean Mathieu! I don't know those persons; they are villagers. I worked for M. Baloup, Boulevard de l'Hopital; my name is Champmathieu. You are very clever to tell me where I was born; I don't know myself: it's not everybody who has a house in which to come into the world; that would be too convenient. I think that my father and mother were people who strolled along the highways; I know nothing different. When I was a child, they called me young fellow; now they call me old fellow; those are my baptismal names; take that as you like. I have been in Auvergne; I have been at Faverolles. Pardi. Well! can't a man have been in Auvergne, or at Faverolles, without having been in the galleys? I tell you that I have not stolen, and that I am Father Champmathieu; I have been with M. Baloup; I have had a settled residence. You worry me with your nonsense, there! Why is everybody pursuing me so furiously?"
The district-attorney had remained standing; he addressed the President:--
"Monsieur le President, in view of the confused but exceedingly clever denials of the prisoner, who would like to pass himself off as an idiot, but who will not succeed in so doing,-- we shall attend to that,--we demand that it shall please you and that it shall please the court to summon once more into this place the convicts Brevet, Cochepaille, and Chenildieu, and Police-Inspector Javert, and question them for the last time as to the identity of the prisoner with the convict Jean Valjean."
"I would remind the district-attorney," said the President, "that Police-Inspector Javert, recalled by his duties to the capital of a neighboring arrondissement, left the court-room and the town as soon as he had made his deposition; we have accorded him permission, with the consent of the district-attorney and of the counsel for the prisoner."
"That is true, Mr. President," responded the district-attorney. "In the absence of sieur Javert, I think it my duty to remind the gentlemen of the jury of what he said here a few hours ago. Javert is an estimable man, who does honor by his rigorous and strict probity to inferior but important functions. These are the terms of his deposition: `I do not even stand in need of circumstantial proofs and moral presumptions to give the lie to the prisoner's denial. I recognize him perfectly. The name of this man is not Champmathieu; he is an ex-convict named Jean Valjean, and is very vicious and much to be feared. It is only with extreme regret that he was released at the expiration of his term. He underwent nineteen years of penal servitude for theft. He made five or six attempts to escape. Besides the theft from Little Gervais, and from the Pierron orchard, I suspect him of a theft committed in the house of His Grace the late Bishop of D---- I often saw him at the time when I was adjutant of the galley-guard at the prison in Toulon. I repeat that I recognize him perfectly.'"
This extremely precise statement appeared to produce a vivid impression on the public and on the jury. The district-attorney concluded by insisting, that in default of Javert, the three witnesses Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille should be heard once more and solemnly interrogated.
The President transmitted the order to an usher, and, a moment later, the door of the witnesses' room opened. The usher, accompanied by a gendarme ready to lend him armed assistance, introduced the convict Brevet. The audience was in suspense; and all breasts heaved as though they had contained but one soul.
The ex-convict Brevet wore the black and gray waistcoat of the central prisons. Brevet was a person sixty years of age, who had a sort of business man's face, and the air of a rascal. The two sometimes go together. In prison, whither fresh misdeeds had led him, he had become something in the nature of a turnkey. He was a man of whom his superiors said, "He tries to make himself of use." The chaplains bore good testimony as to his religious habits. It must not be forgotten that this passed under the Restoration.
"Brevet," said the President, "you have undergone an ignominious sentence, and you cannot take an oath."
Brevet dropped his eyes.
"Nevertheless," continued the President, "even in the man whom the law has degraded, there may remain, when the divine mercy permits it, a sentiment of honor and of equity. It is to this sentiment that I appeal at this decisive hour. If it still exists in you,--and I hope it does,--reflect before replying to me: consider on the one hand, this man, whom a word from you may ruin; on the other hand, justice, which a word from you may enlighten. The instant is solemn; there is still time to retract if you think you have been mistaken. Rise, prisoner. Brevet, take a good look at the accused, recall your souvenirs, and tell us on your soul and conscience, if you persist in recognizing this man as your former companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean?"
Brevet looked at the prisoner, then turned towards the court.
"Yes, Mr. President, I was the first to recognize him, and I stick to it; that man is Jean Valjean, who entered at Toulon in 1796, and left in 1815. I left a year later. He has the air of a brute now; but it must be because age has brutalized him; he was sly at the galleys: I recognize him positively."
"Take your seat," said the President. "Prisoner, remain standing."
Chenildieu was brought in, a prisoner for life, as was indicated by his red cassock and his green cap. He was serving out his sentence at the galleys of Toulon, whence he had been brought for this case. He was a small man of about fifty, brisk, wrinkled, frail, yellow, brazen-faced, feverish, who had a sort of sickly feebleness about all his limbs and his whole person, and an immense force in his glance. His companions in the galleys had nicknamed him I-deny-God (Je-nie Dieu, Chenildieu).
The President addressed him in nearly the same words which he had used to Brevet. At the moment when he reminded him of his infamy which deprived him of the right to take an oath, Chenildieu raised his head and looked the crowd in the face. The President invited him to reflection, and asked him as he had asked Brevet, if he persisted in recognition of the prisoner.
Chenildieu burst out laughing.
"Pardieu, as if I didn't recognize him! We were attached to the same chain for five years. So you are sulking, old fellow?"
"Go take your seat," said the President.
The usher brought in Cochepaille. He was another convict for life, who had come from the galleys, and was dressed in red, like Chenildieu, was a peasant from Lourdes, and a half-bear of the Pyrenees. He had guarded the flocks among the mountains, and from a shepherd he had slipped into a brigand. Cochepaille was no less savage and seemed even more stupid than the prisoner. He was one of those wretched men whom nature has sketched out for wild beasts, and on whom society puts the finishing touches as convicts in the galleys.
The President tried to touch him with some grave and pathetic words, and asked him, as he had asked the other two, if he persisted, without hesitation or trouble, in recognizing the man who was standing before him.
"He is Jean Valjean," said Cochepaille. "He was even called Jean-the-Screw, because he was so strong."
Each of these affirmations from these three men, evidently sincere and in good faith, had raised in the audience a murmur of bad augury for the prisoner,--a murmur which increased and lasted longer each time that a fresh declaration was added to the proceeding.
The prisoner had listened to them, with that astounded face which was, according to the accusation, his principal means of defence; at the first, the gendarmes, his neighbors, had heard him mutter between his teeth: "Ah, well, he's a nice one!" after the second, he said, a little louder, with an air that was almost that of satisfaction, "Good!" at the third, he cried, "Famous!"
The President addressed him:--
"Have you heard, prisoner? What have you to say?"
He replied:--
"I say, `Famous!'"
An uproar broke out among the audience, and was communicated to the jury; it was evident that the man was lost.
"Ushers," said the President, "enforce silence! I am going to sum up the arguments."
At that moment there was a movement just beside the President; a voice was heard crying:--
"Brevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! look here!"
All who heard that voice were chilled, so lamentable and terrible was it; all eyes were turned to the point whence it had proceeded. A man, placed among the privileged spectators who were seated behind the court, had just risen, had pushed open the half-door which separated the tribunal from the audience, and was standing in the middle of the hall; the President, the district-attorney, M. Bamatabois, twenty persons, recognized him, and exclaimed in concert:--
"M. Madeleine!"
宣告辩论终结的时候到了。庭长叫被告立起来，向他提出这照例有的问题：“您还有什么替自己辩护的话要补充吗？”
这个人，立着，拿着一顶破烂不堪的小帽子在手里转动，好象没有听见。
庭长把这问题重说了一遍。
这一次，这人听见了。他仿佛听懂了，如梦初醒似的动了一下，睁开眼睛向四面望，望着听众、法警、他的律师、陪审员、公堂，把他那个巨大的拳头放在他凳前的木栏杆上，再望了一望。忽然，他两眼紧盯着检察官，开始说话了，这仿佛是种爆裂。他那些拉杂、急迫、夹兀、紊乱的话破口而出，好象每一句都忙着想同时一齐挤出来似的。他说：
“我有这些话要说。我在巴黎做过造车工人，并且是在巴陆先生家中。那是种辛苦的手艺。做车的人做起工来，总是在露天下，院子里，只有在好东家的家里才在棚子里；但是从不会在有门窗的车间里，因为地方要得多，你们懂吧。冬天，大家冷得捶自己的胳膊，为了使自己暖一点；但是东家总不许，他们说，那样会耽误时间。地上冻冰时，手里还拿着铁，够惨的了。好好的人也得垮。做那种手艺，小伙子也都成了小老头儿。到四十岁便完了。我呢，我那时已经五十三岁，受尽了罪。还有那老伙伴，一个个全是狠巴巴的！一个好好的人，年纪大了，他们便叫你做老冬瓜，老畜生！每天我已只能赚三十个苏了，那些东家却还在我的年纪上用心思，尽量减少我的工钱。此外，我从前还有一个女儿，她在河里洗衣服，在这方面她也赚点钱。我们两个人，日子还过得去。她也是够受罪的了。不管下雨下雪，风刮你的脸，她也得从早到晚，把半个身子浸在洗衣桶里；结冰时也一样，非洗不成；有些人没有多一点的换洗衣服，送来洗，便等着换；她不洗吧，就没有活计做了，洗衣板上又全是缝，四处漏水，溅你一身。她的裙子里里外外全是湿的。水朝里面浸。她在红娃娃洗衣厂里工作过，在那厂里，水是从龙头里流出来的。洗衣的人不用水桶，只对着面前的龙头洗，再送到背后的槽里去漂净。因为是在屋子里，身上也就不怎么冷了。可是那里面的水蒸汽可吓坏人，它会把你的眼睛也弄瞎。她晚上七点钟回来。很快就去睡了，她困得厉害。她的丈夫老爱打她。现在她已死了。我们没有过过快活日子。那是一个好姑娘，不上跳舞会，性子也安静。我记得在一个狂欢节的晚上，她八点钟便去睡了。就这样。我说的全是真话。你们去问就是了。呀，是呀，问。我多么笨！巴黎是个无底洞。谁还认识商马第伯伯呢？可是我把巴陆先生告诉你们。你们到巴陆先生家去问吧。除此以外，我不知道你们还要我做什么。”
这个人不开口了，照旧立着。他大声疾呼地说完了那段话，声音粗野、强硬、嘶哑，态度急躁、鲁莽而天真。一次，他停了嘴，向听众中的一个人打招呼。他对着大众信口乱扯，说到态度认真起来时，他的声音就象打噎，而且还加上个樵夫劈柴的手势。他说完以后，听众哄堂大笑。他望着大家，看见人家笑，他莫名其妙，也大笑起来。
这是一种悲惨的场面。
庭长是个细心周到的人，他大声发言了。
他重行提醒“各位陪审员先生”，说“被告说他从前在巴陆车匠师父家里工作过，这些话都用不着提了。巴陆君早已亏了本走了，下落不明。”随后他转向被告，要他注意听他说话，并补充说：
“您现在的处境非慎重考虑不可了，您有极其重大的嫌疑，可能引起极严重的后果。被告，为了您的利益，我最后一次关照您，请您爽爽快快说明两件事：第一，您是不是爬过别红园的墙，折过树枝，偷过苹果，就是说，犯过越墙行窃的罪？第二，您是不是那个释放了的苦役犯冉阿让？”
被告用一种自信的神气摇着头，好象一个懂得很透彻也知道怎样回答的人。他张开口，转过去对着庭长说：
“首先……”
随后他望着自己的帽子，又望着天花板，可是不开口。
“被告，”检察官用一种严厉的声音说，“您得注意，人家问您的话，您全不回答。您这样慌张，就等于不打自招。您明明不是商马第，首先您明明是利用母亲的名字作掩护，改叫让·马第的那个苦役犯冉阿让，您到过奥弗涅，您生在法维洛勒，您在那里做过修树枝工人。您明明爬过别红园的墙，偷过熟苹果。各位陪审员先生，请斟酌。”
被告本已坐下去了，检察官说完以后，他忽然立起来，大声喊道：
“您真黑心，您！这就是我刚才要说的话。先头我没有想出来。我一点东西都没有偷。我不是每天有饭吃的人。那天我从埃里走来，落了一阵大雨，我经过一个地方，那里被雨水冲刷，成了一片黄泥浆，洼地里的水四处乱流，路边的沙子里也只露出些小草片，我在地上寻得一根断了的树枝，上面有些苹果，我便拾起了那树枝，并没有想到会替我惹起麻烦。我在牢里已待了三个月，又被人家这儿那儿带来带去。除了这些，我没有什么好说的；你们和我过不去，你们对我说：‘快回答！’这位兵士是个好人，他摇着我的胳膊，细声细气向我说：‘回答吧。’我不知道怎样解释，我，我没有文化，我是个穷人。你们真不该不把事情弄清楚。我没有偷。我拾的东西是原来就在地上的。你们说什么冉阿让，让·马第！这些人我全不认识。他们是乡下人。我在医院路巴陆先生家里工作过。我叫商马第。你们说得出我是在什么地方生的，算你们有本领。我自己都不知道。世上并不是每个人从娘胎里出来就是有房子的。那样太方便了。我想我的父亲和我的母亲都是些四处找活做的人。并且我也不知道。当我还是个孩子时，人家叫我小把戏，现在，大家叫我老头儿。这些就是我的洗礼名。随便你们怎样叫吧。我到过奥弗涅，我到过法维洛勒，当然！怎么呢？难道一个人没有进过监牢就不能到奥弗涅，不能到法维洛勒去吗？我告诉你们，我没有偷过东西，我是商马第伯伯。我在巴陆先生家里工作过，并且在他家里住过。听了你们这些胡说，我真不耐烦！
为什么世上的人全象怨鬼一样来逼我呢！”
检察官仍立着，他向庭长说：
“庭长先生，这被告想装痴狡赖，但是我们预先警告他，他逃不了，根据他这种闪烁狡猾已极的抵赖，我们请求庭长和法庭再次传讯犯人布莱卫、戈什巴依、舍尼杰和侦察员沙威，作最后一次的讯问，要他们证明这被告是否冉阿让。”
“我请检察官先生注意，”庭长说，“侦察员沙威因为在邻县的县城有公务，在作证以后便立刻离开了公堂，并且离开了本城。我们允许他走了。检察官先生和被告律师都表示同意的。”
“这是对的，庭长先生，”检察官接着说，“沙威君既不在这里，我想应把他刚才在此地所说的话，向各位陪审员先生重述一遍。沙威是一个大家尊敬的人，为人刚毅、谨严、廉洁，担任这种下层的重要任务非常称职，这便是他在作证时留下的话：‘我用不着什么精神上的猜度或物质上的证据来揭破被告的伪供。我千真万确地认识他。这个人不叫商马第，他是从前一个非常狠毒、非常凶猛的名叫冉阿让的苦役犯。他服刑期满被释，我们认为是极端失当的。他因犯了大窃案受过十九年的苦刑。他企图越狱，达五六次之多。除小瑞尔威窃案和别红园窃案外，我还怀疑他在已故的迪涅主教大人家里犯过盗窃行为。当我在土伦当副监狱官时，我常看见他。我再说一遍，我千真万确地认识他。’”
这种精确无比的宣言，在听众和陪审团里，看来已产生一种深刻的印象。检察官念完以后，又坚请（沙威虽已不在）再次认真传讯布莱卫、舍尼杰和戈什巴依三个证人。
庭长把传票交给一个执达吏，过一会，证人室的门开了。在一个警卫的保护下，执达吏把犯人布莱卫带来了。听众半疑半信，心全跳着，好象大家仅共有一个灵魂。
老犯人布莱卫穿件中央监狱的灰黑色褂子。布莱卫是个六十左右的人，面目象个企业主，神气象流氓，有时是会有那种巧合的。他不断干坏事，以致身陷狱中，变成看守一类的东西，那些头目都说：“这人想找机会讨好。”到狱中布道的神甫们也证明他在宗教方面的一些好习惯。我们不该忘记这是复辟时代的事。
“布莱卫，”庭长说，“您受过一种不名誉的刑罚，您不应当宣誓……”
布莱卫把眼睛低下去。
“可是，”庭长接着说，“神恩允许的时候，即使是一个受过法律贬黜的人，他心里也还可以留下一点爱名誉、爱平等的情感。在这紧急的时刻，我所期望的也就是这种情感。假使您心里还有这样的情感，我想是有的，那么，在回答我以前，您先仔细想想，您的一句话，一方面可以断送这个人，一方面也可以使法律发出光辉。这个时刻是庄严的，假使您认为先前说错了，您还来得及收回您的话。被告，立起来。布莱卫，好好地望着这被告，回想您从前的事情，再凭您的灵魂和良心告诉我们，您是否确实认为这个人就是您从前监狱里的朋友冉阿让。”
布莱卫望了望被告，又转向法庭说：
“是的，庭长先生。我第一个说他是冉阿让，我现在还是这么说。这个人是冉阿让。一七九六年进土伦，一八一五年出来。我是后一年出来的。他现在的样子象傻子，那么，也许是年纪把他变傻了，在狱里时他早已是那么阴阳怪气的。我的的确确认识他。”
“您去坐下，”庭长说，“被告，站着不要动。”
舍尼杰也被带进来了，红衣绿帽，一望便知是个终身苦役犯。他原在土伦监狱里服刑。是为了这件案子才从狱中提出来的。他是个五十左右的人，矮小、敏捷、皱皮满面，黄瘦、厚颜、暴躁，在他的四肢和整个身躯里有种孱弱的病态，但目光里却有一种非常的力量。他狱里的伙伴给了他一个绰号叫“日尼杰”①。 
①“日尼杰”（JeCnieCDieu）和“舍尼杰”（Chenildieu）音相近。但却有“我否认上帝”的意思。
庭长向他说的话和他刚才向布莱卫说过的那些话，大致相同。他说他做过不名誉的事，已经丧失了宣誓的资格，舍尼杰在这时却照旧抬起头来，正正地望着观众。庭长教他集中思想，象先头问布莱卫一样，问他是否还认识被告。
舍尼杰放声大笑。
“当然！我认识不认识他！我们吊在一根链子上有五年。
你赌气吗，老朋友？”
“您去坐下。”庭长说。
执达吏领着戈什巴依来了。这个受着终身监禁的囚犯，和舍尼杰一样，也是从狱中提出来的，也穿一件红衣，他是卢尔德地方的乡下人，比利牛斯山里几乎近于野人的人。他在山里看守过牛羊，从牧人变成了强盗。和这被告相比，戈什巴依的蛮劲并不在他之下，而愚痴却在他之上。世间有些不幸的人，先由自然环境造成野兽，再由人类社会造成囚犯，直到老死，戈什巴依便是这里面的一个。
庭长先说了些庄严动人的话，想感动他，又用先头问那两个人的话问他，是不是能毫无疑问地、毫不含胡地坚决认为自己认识这个立在他面前的人。
“这是冉阿让，”戈什巴依说，“我们还叫他做千斤顶，因为他气力大。”
这三个人的肯定，明明是诚恳的，凭良心说的，在听众中引起了一阵阵乱哄哄的耳语声，每多一个人作出了肯定的回答，那种哄动的声音也就越强，越延长，这是一种不祥的预兆。至于被告，他听他们说着，面上露出惊讶的样子，照控诉词上说，这是他主要的自卫方法。第一个证人说完话时，他旁边的法警听见他咬紧牙齿低声抱怨道：“好呀！有了一个了。”第二个说完时他又说，声音稍微大了一点，几乎带着得意的神气：
“好！”第三个说完时他喊了出来：“真出色！”
庭长问他：
“被告，您听见了。您还有什么可说的？”
他回答：
“我说‘真出色！’”
听众中起了一片嘈杂的声音，陪审团也几乎受到影响。这人明明是断送了。
“执达吏，”庭长说，“教大家静下来，我立刻要宣告辩论终结。”
这时，庭长的左右有人动起来。大家听到一个人的声音喊道：
“布莱卫，舍尼杰，戈什巴依！看这边。”
听见这声音的人，寒毛全竖起来了，这声音太凄惨骇人了。大家的眼睛全转向那一方。一个坐在法官背后，优待席里的旁听者刚立起来，推开了法官席和律师席中间的那扇矮栏门，立到大厅的中间来了。庭长、检察官、巴马达波先生，其他二十个人，都认识他，齐声喊道：
“马德兰先生！”
Part 1 Book 7 Chapter 11 Champmathieu more and more Astonished
It was he, in fact. The clerk's lamp illumined his countenance. He held his hat in his hand; there was no disorder in his clothing; his coat was carefully buttoned; he was very pale, and he trembled slightly; his hair, which had still been gray on his arrival in Arras, was now entirely white: it had turned white during the hour he had sat there.
All heads were raised: the sensation was indescribable; there was a momentary hesitation in the audience, the voice had been so heart-rending; the man who stood there appeared so calm that they did not understand at first. They asked themselves whether he had indeed uttered that cry; they could not believe that that tranquil man had been the one to give that terrible outcry.
This indecision only lasted a few seconds. Even before the President and the district-attorney could utter a word, before the ushers and the gendarmes could make a gesture, the man whom all still called, at that moment, M. Madeleine, had advanced towards the witnesses Cochepaille, Brevet, and Chenildieu.
"Do you not recognize me?" said he.
All three remained speechless, and indicated by a sign of the head that they did not know him. Cochepaille, who was intimidated, made a military salute. M. Madeleine turned towards the jury and the court, and said in a gentle voice:--
"Gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released! Mr. President, have me arrested. He is not the man whom you are in search of; it is I: I am Jean Valjean."
Not a mouth breathed; the first commotion of astonishment had been followed by a silence like that of the grave; those within the hall experienced that sort of religious terror which seizes the masses when something grand has been done.
In the meantime, the face of the President was stamped with sympathy and sadness; he had exchanged a rapid sign with the district-attorney and a few low-toned words with the assistant judges; he addressed the public, and asked in accents which all understood:--
"Is there a physician present?"
The district-attorney took the word:--
"Gentlemen of the jury, the very strange and unexpected incident which disturbs the audience inspires us, like yourselves, only with a sentiment which it is unnecessary for us to express. You all know, by reputation at least, the honorable M. Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M.; if there is a physician in the audience, we join the President in requesting him to attend to M. Madeleine, and to conduct him to his home."
M.Madeleine did not allow the district-attorney to finish; he interrupted him in accents full of suavity and authority. These are the words which he uttered; here they are literally, as they were written down, immediately after the trial by one of the witnesses to this scene, and as they now ring in the ears of those who heard them nearly forty years ago:--
"I thank you, Mr. District-Attorney, but I am not mad; you shall see; you were on the point of committing a great error; release this man! I am fulfilling a duty; I am that miserable criminal. I am the only one here who sees the matter clearly, and I am telling you the truth. God, who is on high, looks down on what I am doing at this moment, and that suffices. You can take me, for here I am: but I have done my best; I concealed myself under another name; I have become rich; I have become a mayor; I have tried to re-enter the ranks of the honest. It seems that that is not to be done. In short, there are many things which I cannot tell. I will not narrate the story of my life to you; you will hear it one of these days. I robbed Monseigneur the Bishop, it is true; it is true that I robbed Little Gervais; they were right in telling you that Jean Valjean was a very vicious wretch. Perhaps it was not altogether his fault. Listen, honorable judges! a man who has been so greatly humbled as I have has neither any remonstrances to make to Providence, nor any advice to give to society; but, you see, the infamy from which I have tried to escape is an injurious thing; the galleys make the convict what he is; reflect upon that, if you please. Before going to the galleys, I was a poor peasant, with very little intelligence, a sort of idiot; the galleys wrought a change in me. I was stupid; I became vicious: I was a block of wood; I became a firebrand. Later on, indulgence and kindness saved me, as severity had ruined me. But, pardon me, you cannot understand what I am saying. You will find at my house, among the ashes in the fireplace, the forty-sou piece which I stole, seven years ago, from little Gervais. I have nothing farther to add; take me. Good God! the district-attorney shakes his head; you say, 'M. Madeleine has gone mad!' you do not believe me! that is distressing. Do not, at least, condemn this man! What! these men do not recognize me! I wish Javert were here; he would recognize me."
Nothing can reproduce the sombre and kindly melancholy of tone which accompanied these words.
He turned to the three convicts, and said:--
"Well, I recognize you; do you remember, Brevet?"
He paused, hesitated for an instant, and said:--
"Do you remember the knitted suspenders with a checked pattern which you wore in the galleys?"
Brevet gave a start of surprise, and surveyed him from head to foot with a frightened air. He continued:--
"Chenildieu, you who conferred on yourself the name of `Jenie-Dieu,' your whole right shoulder bears a deep burn, because you one day laid your shoulder against the chafing-dish full of coals, in order to efface the three letters T. F. P., which are still visible, nevertheless; answer, is this true?"
"It is true," said Chenildieu.
He addressed himself to Cochepaille:--
"Cochepaille, you have, near the bend in your left arm, a date stamped in blue letters with burnt powder; the date is that of the landing of the Emperor at Cannes, March 1, 1815; pull up your sleeve!"
Cochepaille pushed up his sleeve; all eyes were focused on him and on his bare arm.
A gendarme held a light close to it; there was the date.
The unhappy man turned to the spectators and the judges with a smile which still rends the hearts of all who saw it whenever they think of it. It was a smile of triumph; it was also a smile of despair.
"You see plainly," he said, "that I am Jean Valjean."
In that chamber there were no longer either judges, accusers, nor gendarmes; there was nothing but staring eyes and sympathizing hearts. No one recalled any longer the part that each might be called upon to play; the district-attorney forgot he was there for the purpose of prosecuting, the President that he was there to preside, the counsel for the defence that he was there to defend. It was a striking circumstance that no question was put, that no authority intervened. The peculiarity of sublime spectacles is, that they capture all souls and turn witnesses into spectators. No one, probably, could have explained what he felt; no one, probably, said to himself that he was witnessing the splendid outburst of a grand light: all felt themselves inwardly dazzled.
It was evident that they had Jean Valjean before their eyes. That was clear. The appearance of this man had sufficed to suffuse with light that matter which had been so obscure but a moment previously, without any further explanation: the whole crowd, as by a sort of electric revelation, understood instantly and at a single glance the simple and magnificent history of a man who was delivering himself up so that another man might not be condemned in his stead. The details, the hesitations, little possible oppositions, were swallowed up in that vast and luminous fact.
It was an impression which vanished speedily, but which was irresistible at the moment.
"I do not wish to disturb the court further," resumed Jean Valjean. "I shall withdraw, since you do not arrest me. I have many things to do. The district-attorney knows who I am; he knows whither I am going; he can have me arrested when he likes."
He directed his steps towards the door. Not a voice was raised, not an arm extended to hinder him. All stood aside. At that moment there was about him that divine something which causes multitudes to stand aside and make way for a man. He traversed the crowd slowly. It was never known who opened the door, but it is certain that he found the door open when he reached it. On arriving there he turned round and said:--
"I am at your command, Mr. District-Attorney."
Then he addressed the audience:--
"All of you, all who are present--consider me worthy of pity, do you not? Good God! When I think of what I was on the point of doing, I consider that I am to be envied. Nevertheless, I should have preferred not to have had this occur."
He withdrew, and the door closed behind him as it had opened, for those who do certain sovereign things are always sure of being served by some one in the crowd.
Less than an hour after this, the verdict of the jury freed the said Champmathieu from all accusations; and Champmathieu, being at once released, went off in a state of stupefaction, thinking that all men were fools, and comprehending nothing of this vision.
的确就是他。记录员的灯光正照着他的脸。他手里拿着帽子，他的服装没有一点不整齐的地方，他的礼服是扣得规规矩矩的。他的脸，异常惨白，身体微微发抖。他的头发在刚到阿拉斯时还是斑白的，现在全白了。他在这儿过了一个钟头，头发全变白了。
大家的头全竖起来。那种紧张心情是无可形容的，听众一时全愣住了。这个人的声音那样凄戾，而他自己却又那样镇静，以致起初，大家都不知道是怎样一回事。大家心里都在问是谁喊了这么一声。大家都不能想象发出这种骇人的叫声的便是这个神色泰然自若的人。
这种惊疑只延续了几秒钟。庭长和检察官还不曾来得及说一句话，法警和执达吏也还不曾来得及做一个动作，这个人，大家在这时还称为马德兰先生的这个人，已走到证人布莱卫、戈什巴依和舍尼杰的面前了。
“你们不认识我吗？”他说。
他们三个人都不知所措，摇着头，表示一点也不认识他。
马德兰先生转身向着那些陪审员和法庭人员，委婉地说：“诸位陪审员先生，请释放被告。庭长先生，请拘禁我。你们要逮捕的人不是他，是我。我是冉阿让。”
大家都屏息无声。最初的惊动过后，继以坟墓般的寂静。当时在场的人都被一种带宗教意味的敬畏心情所慑服了，这种心情，每逢非常人作出非常举动时是会发生的。
这时，庭长的脸上显出了同情和愁苦的神气。他和检察官丢了个眼色，又和那些陪审顾问低声说了几句话。他向着听众，用一种大家都了解的口吻问道：
“这里有医生吗？”
检察官发言：
“诸位陪审员先生，这种意外、突兀、惊扰大众的事，使我产生一种不必说明的感想，诸位想必也有同感。诸位全都认识这位可敬的滨海蒙特勒伊市长，马德兰先生，至少也听说过他的大名。假使听众中有位医生，我们同意庭长先生的建议，请他出来照顾马德兰先生，并且伴送他回去。”
马德兰先生丝毫不让检察官说完。他用一种十分温良而又十分刚强的口吻打断了他的话。下面便是他的发言，这是当日在场的一个旁听者在退堂后立刻记下来的，一字一句都不曾改动；听到这些话的人，至今快四十年了，现在还觉得余音在耳呢。
“我谢谢您，检察官先生，我神经并没有错乱。您会知道的。您几乎要犯极大的错误。快快释放这个人吧，我尽我的本分，我是这个不幸的罪人。我在这里是唯一了解真实情况的人，我说的也是真话。我现在做的事，这上面的上帝看得很清楚，这样也就够了。您可以逮捕我，我既然已经到了这里。我曾经努力为善，我隐藏在一个名字的后面，我发了财，我做到了市长；我原想回到善良的人的队伍里。看来是行不通了。总而言之，有许多事我现在还不能说，我并不想把我一生的事全告诉你们，有一天大家总会知道的。我偷过那位主教先生的东西，这是真的；我抢过小瑞尔威，这也是真的。别人告诉您说冉阿让是个非常凶的坏人，这话说得有理。过错也许不完全是他一个人的。请听我说，各位审判官先生，象我这样一个贱人，原不应当对上帝有所指责，也不应当对社会作何忠告。但是，请你们注意，我从前想洗雪的那种羞辱，确是一种有害的东西。牢狱制造囚犯。假使你们愿意，请你们在这上面多多思考。在入狱以前，我是乡下一个很不聪明的穷人，一个很笨的人，牢狱改变了我。我从前笨，后来凶；我从前是块木头，后来成了引火的干柴。再到后来，宽容和仁爱救了我，正如从前严酷断送了我一样。但是请原谅，你们是听不懂我说的这些话的。在我家里壁炉的灰里，你们可以找到一个值四十个苏的银币，那是七年前我抢了小瑞尔威的。我再没有什么旁的话要说。押起我来吧。我的上帝！检察官先生，您摇着头说：‘马德兰先生疯了。’您不相信我！这真苦了我。无论如何，您总不至于判这个人的罪吧！什么！这些人全不认我！沙威可惜不在这里，他会认出我来的，他。”
没有什么话可以把他那种悲切仁厚的酸楚口吻表达出来。
他转过去对着那三个囚犯：
“好吧，我认识你们，我！布莱卫！您记得吗？……”
他停下来，迟疑了一会，又说道：
“你还记得你从前在狱里用的那条编织的方格子花背带吗？”
布莱卫骇然大吃一惊，把他从头一直打量到脚。他继续说：“舍尼杰，你替你自己起了个诨名叫日尼杰。你的右肩上全是很深的火伤疤，因为有一天你把你的肩膀靠在一大盆红炭上，想消灭TFP三个字母，但是没有烧去。回答，是不是有过这回事？”
“有过。”舍尼杰说。
他又向戈什巴依说：
“戈什巴依，在你左肘弯的旁边有个日期，字是蓝的，是用烧粉刺成的。这日期便是皇上从戛纳登陆的日子，一八一五年三月一日。把你的袖子卷上去。”
戈什巴依卷起他的衣袖，他前后左右的人都伸长了颈子盯在他的光胳膊上。有一个法警拿了一盏灯来，那上面确有这个日期。
这不幸的人转过来朝着听众，又转过去朝着审判官，他那笑容叫当日在场目击的人至今回想起来还会觉得难受。那是胜利时刻的笑容，也是绝望时刻的笑容。
“你们现在明白了，”他说，“我就是冉阿让。”
在这圆厅里，已经无所谓审判官，无所谓原告，无所谓法警，只有发呆的眼睛和悲痛的心。大家都想不起自己要做的事，检察官已忘了他原在那里检举控诉，庭长也忘了自己原在那里主持审判，被告辩护人也忘了自己原在那里辩护。感人最深的是没有任何人提出任何问题，也没有任何人执行任务。最卓绝的景象能摄取所有的人的心灵，使全体证人变为观众。这时，也许没有一个人能确切了解自己的感受，当然也没有一个人想到他当时看到的是一种强烈的光辉的照耀，可是大家都感到自己的心腑已被照亮了。
立在众人眼前的是冉阿让，这已很显明了。这简直是光的辐射。这个人的出现已足使方才还那样迷离的案情大白。以后也用不着任何说明，这群人全都好象受到闪电般迅速的启示，并且立即懂得，也一眼看清楚了这个舍身昭雪冤情的人的简单壮丽的历史。他曾经历过的种种小事、种种迟疑、可能有过的小小抗拒心情，全在这种光明磊落的浩气中消逝了。
这种印象固然一下就过去了，但是在那一刹那间是锐不可当的。
“我不愿意再扰乱公堂，”冉阿让接着说，“你们既然不逮捕我，我就走了。我还有好几件事要办。检察官先生知道我是谁，他知道我要去什么地方，他随时都可以派人逮捕我。”
他向着出口走去。谁也没有开口，谁也没有伸出胳膊来阻拦他。大家都向两旁分立。他在当时有一种说不出的神威，使群众往后退，并且排着队让他过去，他缓缓地一步一步穿过人群。永远没有人知道谁推开了门，但是他走到门前，门确是开了。他到了门边，回转身来说：
“检察官先生，我静候您的处理。”
随后他又向听众说：
“你们在这里的每个人，你们觉得我可怜，不是吗？我的上帝！当我想到我刚才正是在做这件事时，我觉得自己是值得羡慕的。但是我更希望最好是这些事都不曾发生过。”
他出去了，门又自动关上，如同刚才它自动开开一样，作风正大的人总可以在群众中找到为他服务的人。
不到一个钟头，陪审团的决议撤消了对商马第的全部控告，立即被释放的商马第惊奇到莫名其妙地走了，以为在场的人全是疯子，他一点也不了解他所见到的是怎么一回事。
Part 1 Book 8 Chapter 1 In what Mirror M. Madeleine contemplates his Hair
The day had begun to dawn. Fantine had passed a sleepless and feverish night, filled with happy visions; at daybreak she fell asleep. Sister Simplice, who had been watching with her, availed herself of this slumber to go and prepare a new potion of chinchona. The worthy sister had been in the laboratory of the infirmary but a few moments, bending over her drugs and phials, and scrutinizing things very closely, on account of the dimness which the half-light of dawn spreads over all objects. Suddenly she raised her head and uttered a faint shriek. M. Madeleine stood before her; he had just entered silently.
"Is it you, Mr. Mayor?" she exclaimed.
He replied in a low voice:--
"How is that poor woman?"
"Not so bad just now; but we have been very uneasy."
She explained to him what had passed: that Fantine had been very ill the day before, and that she was better now, because she thought that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil to get her child. The sister dared not question the mayor; but she perceived plainly from his air that he had not come from there.
"All that is good," said he; "you were right not to undeceive her."
"Yes," responded the sister; "but now, Mr. Mayor, she will see you and will not see her child. What shall we say to her?"
He reflected for a moment.
"God will inspire us," said he.
"But we cannot tell a lie," murmured the sister, half aloud.
It was broad daylight in the room. The light fell full on M. Madeleine's face. The sister chanced to raise her eyes to it.
"Good God, sir!" she exclaimed; "what has happened to you? Your hair is perfectly white!"
"White!" said he.
Sister Simplice had no mirror. She rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out the little glass which the doctor of the infirmary used to see whether a patient was dead and whether he no longer breathed. M. Madeleine took the mirror, looked at his hair, and said:--
"Well!"
He uttered the word indifferently, and as though his mind were on something else.
The sister felt chilled by something strange of which she caught a glimpse in all this.
He inquired:--
"Can I see her?"
"Is not Monsieur le Maire going to have her child brought back to her?" said the sister, hardly venturing to put the question.
"Of course; but it will take two or three days at least."
"If she were not to see Monsieur le Maire until that time," went on the sister, timidly, "she would not know that Monsieur le Maire had returned, and it would be easy to inspire her with patience; and when the child arrived, she would naturally think Monsieur le Maire had just come with the child. We should not have to enact a lie."
M. Madeleine seemed to reflect for a few moments; then he said with his calm gravity:--
"No, sister, I must see her. I may, perhaps, be in haste."
The nun did not appear to notice this word "perhaps," which communicated an obscure and singular sense to the words of the mayor's speech. She replied, lowering her eyes and her voice respectfully:--
"In that case, she is asleep; but Monsieur le Maire may enter."
He made some remarks about a door which shut badly, and the noise of which might awaken the sick woman; then he entered Fantine's chamber, approached the bed and drew aside the curtains. She was asleep. Her breath issued from her breast with that tragic sound which is peculiar to those maladies, and which breaks the hearts of mothers when they are watching through the night beside their sleeping child who is condemned to death. But this painful respiration hardly troubled a sort of ineffable serenity which overspread her countenance, and which transfigured her in her sleep. Her pallor had become whiteness; her cheeks were crimson; her long golden lashes, the only beauty of her youth and her virginity which remained to her, palpitated, though they remained closed and drooping. Her whole person was trembling with an indescribable unfolding of wings, all ready to open wide and bear her away, which could be felt as they rustled, though they could not be seen. To see her thus, one would never have dreamed that she was an invalid whose life was almost despaired of. She resembled rather something on the point of soaring away than something on the point of dying.
The branch trembles when a hand approaches it to pluck a flower, and seems to both withdraw and to offer itself at one and the same time. The human body has something of this tremor when the instant arrives in which the mysterious fingers of Death are about to pluck the soul.
M. Madeleine remained for some time motionless beside that bed, gazing in turn upon the sick woman and the crucifix, as he had done two months before, on the day when he had come for the first time to see her in that asylum. They were both still there in the same attitude-- she sleeping, he praying; only now, after the lapse of two months, her hair was gray and his was white.
The sister had not entered with him. He stood beside the bed, with his finger on his lips, as though there were some one in the chamber whom he must enjoin to silence.
She opened her eyes, saw him, and said quietly, with a smile:--
"And Cosette?"
曙光初露。芳汀发了一夜烧，并且失眠，可是这一夜却充满了种种快乐的幻象，到早晨，她睡着了。守夜的散普丽斯姆姆乘她睡着时，便又跑去预备了一份奎宁水。这位勤恳的姆姆待在疗养室的药房里已经好一会了，她弯着腰，仔细看她那些药品和药瓶，因为天还没有大亮，有层迷雾蒙着这些东西。她忽然转过身来，细声叫了一下。马德兰先生出现在她的面前。
他刚静悄悄地走了进来。
“是您，市长先生！”她叫道。
他低声回答说：
“那可怜的妇人怎样了？”
“现在还好。我们很担了番心呢！”
她把经过情形告诉他，她说这一晚芳汀的状况很不好，现在已经好些，因为她以为市长先生到孟费郿去领她的孩子了。姆姆不敢问市长先生，但是她看神气，知道他不是从那里来的。
“这样很好，”他说，“您没有道破她的幻想，做得妥当。”
“是的，”姆姆接着说，“但是现在，市长先生，她就会看见您，却看不见她的孩子，我们将怎样向她说呢？”
他呆呆地想了一会。
“上帝会启发我们的。”他说。
“可是我们总不能说谎。”姆姆吞吞吐吐地细声说。
屋子里已大亮了。阳光正照着马德兰先生的脸。姆姆无意中抬起头来。
“我的上帝，先生啊！”她叫道，“您遇见了什么事？您的头发全白了！”
“白了！”他说。
散普丽斯姆姆从来没有镜子，她到一个药囊里去搜，取出一面小镜子，这镜子是病房里的医生用来检验病人是否已经气绝身亡的。
马德兰先生拿了这面镜子，照着他的头发，说了声“怪事！”
他随口说了这句话，仿佛他还在想着旁的事。
姆姆觉得离奇不可解，登时冷了半截。
他说：
“我可以看她吗？”
“市长先生不打算把她孩子领回来吗？”姆姆说，她连这样一句话也几乎不敢问。
“我当然会把她领回来，但是至少非得有两三天的工夫不可。”
“假使她在孩子来之前见不到市长先生，”姆姆战战兢兢地说，“她就不会知道市长先生已经回来了，我们便容易安她的心；等到孩子到了，她自然会认为市长先生是和孩子一同来的。我们便不用说谎了。”
马德兰先生好象思量了一会，随后他又带着他那种镇静沉重的态度说：
“不行，我的姆姆，我应当去看看她。我的时间也许不多了。”
“也许”两个字给了马德兰先生的话一种深奥奇特的意味，不过这女信徒好象没有注意到。她低着眼睛恭恭敬敬地回答：
“既是这样，市长先生进去就是，她正在休息。”
那扇门启闭不大灵，他怕有声音惊醒病人，他细心旋开，走进了芳汀的屋子，走到床前，把床帷稍微掀开一点。她正睡着。她胸中嘘出的呼吸声叫人听了心痛，那种声音是害着那种病的人所特有的，也是叫那些在夜间守护着无可挽救而仍然睡着的孩子的慈母们所不忍听的。但是在她脸上，有一种无可形容的安闲态度，使她在睡眠中显得另有一番神色，那种苦痛的呼吸并不怎么影响她。她的面容已由黄变白，两颊却绯红。她那两对纤长的金黄睫毛是从她童贞时期和青春时期留下的唯一的美色了，尽管是垂闭着的，却还频频颤动。她全身也都颤抖着，那种颤动别人是只能感到而看不见的、有如行将助她飞去的翅膀，欲展不展，待飞且住似的。看到她这种神态，我们永远不会相信躺在那里的竟是一个濒危的病人。与其说她象个命在旦夕的人，毋宁说她象个振翅待飞的鸟。
我们伸手采花时，花枝总半迎半拒地颤动着。鬼手摄人灵魂时，人的身体也有一种类似的战栗。
马德兰先生在床边呆呆地立了一会，望望病人，又望望那耶稣受难像，正如两个月前他初次到这屋子里来看她时的情景一样。那时他们俩，正和今日一样，一个熟睡，一个祈祷；不过现在，经过了两个月的光阴，她的头发已转成灰色，而他的头发则变成雪白的了。
姆姆没有和他一同进来。他立在床边，一个手指压在嘴上，仿佛他不这样做，屋子里就会有人要出声气似的。
她睁开眼睛，看见了他，带着微笑，安闲地说：
“珂赛特呢？”
Part 1 Book 8 Chapter 2 Fantine Happy
She made no movement of either surprise or of joy; she was joy itself. That simple question, "And Cosette?" was put with so profound a faith, with so much certainty, with such a complete absence of disquiet and of doubt, that he found not a word of reply. She continued:--
"I knew that you were there. I was asleep, but I saw you. I have seen you for a long, long time. I have been following you with my eyes all night long. You were in a glory, and you had around you all sorts of celestial forms."
He raised his glance to the crucifix.
"But," she resumed, "tell me where Cosette is. Why did not you place her on my bed against the moment of my waking?"
He made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able to recall.
Fortunately, the doctor had been warned, and he now made his appearance. He came to the aid of M. Madeleine.
"Calm yourself, my child," said the doctor; "your child is here."
Fantine's eyes beamed and filled her whole face with light. She clasped her hands with an expression which contained all that is possible to prayer in the way of violence and tenderness.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "bring her to me!"
Touching illusion of a mother! Cosette was, for her, still the little child who is carried.
"Not yet," said the doctor, "not just now. You still have some fever. The sight of your child would agitate you and do you harm. You must be cured first."
She interrupted him impetuously:--
"But I am cured! Oh, I tell you that I am cured! What an ass that doctor is! The idea! I want to see my child!"
"You see," said the doctor, "how excited you become. So long as you are in this state I shall oppose your having your child. It is not enough to see her; it is necessary that you should live for her. When you are reasonable, I will bring her to you myself."
The poor mother bowed her head.
"I beg your pardon, doctor, I really beg your pardon. Formerly I should never have spoken as I have just done; so many misfortunes have happened to me, that I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I understand you; you fear the emotion. I will wait as long as you like, but I swear to you that it would not have harmed me to see my daughter. I have been seeing her; I have not taken my eyes from her since yesterday evening. Do you know? If she were brought to me now, I should talk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I should desire to see my daughter, who has been brought to me expressly from Montfermeil? I am not angry. I know well that I am about to be happy. All night long I have seen white things, and persons who smiled at me. When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette. I have no longer any fever; I am well. I am perfectly conscious that there is nothing the matter with me any more; but I am going to behave as though I were ill, and not stir, to please these ladies here. When it is seen that I am very calm, they will say, `She must have her child.'"
M. Madeleine was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She turned towards him; she was making a visible effort to be calm and "very good," as she expressed it in the feebleness of illness which resembles infancy, in order that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make no difficulty about bringing Cosette to her. But while she controlled herself she could not refrain from questioning M. Madeleine.
"Did you have a pleasant trip, Monsieur le Maire? Oh! how good you were to go and get her for me! Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the journey well? Alas! she will not recognize me. She must have forgotten me by this time, poor darling! Children have no memories. They are like birds. A child sees one thing to-day and another thing to-morrow, and thinks of nothing any longer. And did she have white linen? Did those Thenardiers keep her clean? How have they fed her? Oh! if you only knew how I have suffered, putting such questions as that to myself during all the time of my wretchedness. Now, it is all past. I am happy. Oh, how I should like to see her! Do you think her pretty, Monsieur le Maire? Is not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in that diligence! Could she not be brought for just one little instant? She might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me; you are the master; it could be so if you chose!"
He took her hand. "Cosette is beautiful," he said, "Cosette is well. You shall see her soon; but calm yourself; you are talking with too much vivacity, and you are throwing your arms out from under the clothes, and that makes you cough."
In fact, fits of coughing interrupted Fantine at nearly every word.
Fantine did not murmur; she feared that she had injured by her too passionate lamentations the confidence which she was desirous of inspiring, and she began to talk of indifferent things.
"Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on pleasure parties in summer. Are the Thenardiers prosperous? There are not many travellers in their parts. That inn of theirs is a sort of a cook-shop."
M. Madeleine was still holding her hand, and gazing at her with anxiety; it was evident that he had come to tell her things before which his mind now hesitated. The doctor, having finished his visit, retired. Sister Simplice remained alone with them.
But in the midst of this pause Fantine exclaimed:--
"I hear her! mon Dieu, I hear her!"
She stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held her breath, and began to listen with rapture.
There was a child playing in the yard--the child of the portress or of some work-woman. It was one of those accidents which are always occurring, and which seem to form a part of the mysterious stage-setting of mournful scenes. The child--a little girl-- was going and coming, running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her voice. Alas! in what are the plays of children not intermingled. It was this little girl whom Fantine heard singing.
"Oh!" she resumed, "it is my Cosette! I recognize her voice."
The child retreated as it had come; the voice died away. Fantine listened for a while longer, then her face clouded over, and M. Madeleine heard her say, in a low voice: "How wicked that doctor is not to allow me to see my daughter! That man has an evil countenance, that he has."
But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She continued to talk to herself, with her head resting on the pillow: "How happy we are going to be! We shall have a little garden the very first thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the garden. She must know her letters by this time. I will make her spell. She will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then she will take her first communion. Ah! When will she take her first communion?"
She began to reckon on her fingers.
"One, two, three, four--she is seven years old. In five years she will have a white veil, and openwork stockings; she will look like a little woman. O my good sister, you do not know how foolish I become when I think of my daughter's first communion!"
She began to laugh.
He had released Fantine's hand. He listened to her words as one listens to the sighing of the breeze, with his eyes on the ground, his mind absorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she ceased speaking, and this caused him to raise his head mechanically. Fantine had become terrible.
She no longer spoke, she no longer breathed; she had raised herself to a sitting posture, her thin shoulder emerged from her chemise; her face, which had been radiant but a moment before, was ghastly, and she seemed to have fixed her eyes, rendered large with terror, on something alarming at the other extremity of the room.
"Good God!" he exclaimed; "what ails you, Fantine?"
She made no reply; she did not remove her eyes from the object which she seemed to see. She removed one hand from his arm, and with the other made him a sign to look behind him.
He turned, and beheld Javert.
她既没有惊讶的动作，也没有欢乐的动作，她便是欢乐的本身。她提出“珂赛特呢？”这个简单问题时，她的信心是那样真诚、那样坚定、那样绝无一丝疑虑，致使他不知道怎样回答才好。
她继续说：
“我知道您到那里去过了。我睡着了，但是我看见了您。我早已看见了您。我的眼睛跟着您走了一整夜。一道神光围绕着您，在您的前后左右有各式各样的天仙。”
他抬起眼睛望着那个耶稣受难像。
“不过，”她又说，“请您告诉我珂赛特在哪里？为什么我醒来时，没有把她放在我的床上呢？”
他机械地回答了几句，过后他从来没有回忆起他当时说的是什么。
幸而有人通知了医生，他赶来了。他来帮助马德兰先生。“我的孩子，”医生说，“好好安静下来，您的孩子在这里了。”
芳汀顿时两眼炯炯发光，喜溢眉宇。双手合十，这种神情具有祈祷所能包含的最强烈而同时又最柔和的一切情感。
“呵，”她喊道，“把她抱来给我吧！”
多么动人的慈母的幻想！珂赛特对她来说始终是个抱在怀里的孩子。
“还不行，”那医生接着说，“现在还不行。您的热还没有退净。您看见孩子，会兴奋，会影响您的身体。非先把您的病养好不成。”
她焦急地岔着说：
“可是我的病已经好了！他真是头驴子，这医生！呀！我要看我的孩子，我！”
“您瞧，”医生说，“您多么容易动气。如果您永远这样，我便永远不许您见您的孩子。单看见她并不解决问题，您还得为她活下去才是。等到您不胡闹了，我亲自把她带来给您。”
可怜的母亲低下了头。
“医生先生，我请您原谅，我诚心诚意请您特别原谅。从前我决说不出刚才的那种话。我受的痛苦太多了，以至于我有时会不知道自己说什么。我懂，您担心情绪激动，您愿意我等多久我就等多久，但是我向您发誓，看看我的女儿对我是不会有害处的。我随时都看见她，从昨天晚上起，我的眼睛便没有离开过她。你们知道吗？你们现在把她抱来给我，我就可以好好地和她谈心。除此以外，不会再有什么的。人家特地到孟费郿去把我的孩子领来，我要看看她，这不是很自然的吗？我没有发脾气。我完全明白，我的快乐就在眼前。整整一夜，我看见一些洁白的东西，还有些人向我微笑。在医生先生高兴时，就可以把我的珂赛特抱给我。我已不发烧了，我的病早已好了，我心里明白我完全好了，但是我要装出有病的样子，一动也不动，这样才可以让这儿的女士们高兴。别人看见我安静下来，就会说：‘现在应当给她孩子了。’”
马德兰先生当时坐在床边的一张椅子上。她把脸转过去朝着他，她明明是要极力显出安静和“乖乖的”样子，正如她在这种类似稚气的病态里所说的，她的目的是要使人看到她平静了，便不再为难，把珂赛特送给她。但是她尽管强自镇静，但还是忍不住要向马德兰先生问东问西。
“您一路上都好吧，市长先生？呵！您多么慈悲，为了我去找她！您只告诉我她是什么样子就够了。她一路来，没有太辛苦吧？可怜！她一定不认识我了！这么多年，她已经忘记我了，可怜的心肝！孩子们总是没有记性的。就和小鸟一样。今天看见这，明天看见那，结果一样也想不起来。至少她的换洗衣服总是白的吧？那德纳第家的总注意到她的清洁了吧？他们给她吃什么东西？呵！我从前在受难时，想到这些事心里多么痛苦，假使你们知道！现在这些事都已过去了。我已放心了。呵！我多么想看她！市长先生，您觉得她漂亮吗？我的女儿生得美，不是吗？你们在车子里没有受凉吧！你们让她到这儿来待一会儿也不成吗？你们可以立刻又把她带出去。请您说！您是主人，假使您愿意的话！”
他握住她的手：
“珂赛特生得美，”他说，“珂赛特的身体也好，您不久就可以看见她，但是您应当安静一点。您说得太兴奋了，您又把手伸到床外边来了，您会咳嗽的。”
的确，芳汀几乎说一字就要剧烈地咳一次。
芳汀并不罗嗦，她恐怕说得太激烈，反而把事情搞坏，得不到别人的好感，因此她只谈一些不相干的话。
“孟费郿这地方还好，不是吗？到了夏天，有些人到那地方去游玩。德纳第家的生意好吗？在他们那地方来往的人并不多。那种客店也只能算是一种歇马店罢了。”
马德兰先生始终捏着她的手，望着她发愁，他当时去看她，显然是有事要和她谈，但是现在迟疑起来了。医生诊视了一回，也退出去了。只有散普丽斯姆姆在他们旁边。
当大家默默无声时，芳汀忽然叫起来：
“我听到了她的声音！我的上帝！我听到了她的声音！”
她伸出手臂，叫大家静下去，她屏着气，听得心往神驰。
这时，正有一个孩子在天井里玩，看门婆婆的孩子，或是随便一个女工的孩子。我们时常会遇到一些巧合的事，每逢人到山穷水尽时，这类事便会从冥冥之中出来凑上一脚，天井里的那个孩子便是这种巧遇之一。那孩子是个小姑娘，为了取暖，在那儿跑来跑去，高声笑着、唱着。唉！在什么东西里没有孩童的游戏！芳汀听见唱的便是这小姑娘。
“呵！”她又说，“这是我的珂赛特！我听得出她的嗓子！”
这孩子忽来忽去，走远了，她的声音也消失了。芳汀又听了一会，面容惨淡，马德兰先生听见她低声说：
“医生不许我见我的女儿，多么心狠！他真有一副坏样子！”
然而她心中欢乐的本源又出现了。她头在枕上，继续向自己说，“我们将来多么快乐呵！首先，我们有个小花园！这是马德兰先生许给我的。我的女儿在花园里玩！现在她应当认识字母了吧。我来教她拼字。她在草地上追蝴蝶。我看她玩。过后她就要去领第一次圣礼。呀！真的！她应当几时去领她的第一次圣礼呢？”
她翘起手指来数。
“……一，二，三，四，……她七岁了。再过五年。她披上一条白纱，穿上一双挑花袜，一副大姑娘的神气。呵！我的好姆姆，您不知道我多么蠢，我已想到我女儿领第一次圣礼的事了！”
她笑起来了。
他已丢了芳汀的手。他听着这些话，如同一个人听着风声，眼睛望着地，精神沉溺在无边的萦想里一样。忽然一下，她不说话了，他机械地抬起头来，芳汀神色大变。
她不再说话，也不再呼吸，她半卧半起，支在床上，瘦削的肩膀也从睡衣里露出来，刚才还喜气盈盈的面色，现在发青了，恐怖使她的眼睛睁得滴圆，好象注视着她前面、她屋子那一头的一件骇人的东西。
“我的上帝！”他喊道，“您怎么了，芳汀？”
她不回答，她的眼睛毫不离开她那仿佛看见的东西，她用一只手握住他的胳膊，用另一只手指着，叫他朝后看。
他转过头去，看见了沙威。
Part 1 Book 8 Chapter 3 Javert Satisfied
This is what had taken place.
The half-hour after midnight had just struck when M. Madeleine quitted the Hall of Assizes in Arras. He regained his inn just in time to set out again by the mail-wagon, in which he had engaged his place. A little before six o'clock in the morning he had arrived at M. Sur M., and his first care had been to post a letter to M. Laffitte, then to enter the infirmary and see Fantine.
However, he had hardly quitted the audience hall of the Court of Assizes, when the district-attorney, recovering from his first shock, had taken the word to deplore the mad deed of the honorable mayor of M. sur M., to declare that his convictions had not been in the least modified by that curious incident, which would be explained thereafter, and to demand, in the meantime, the condemnation of that Champmathieu, who was evidently the real Jean Valjean. The district-attorney's persistence was visibly at variance with the sentiments of every one, of the public, of the court, and of the jury. The counsel for the defence had some difficulty in refuting this harangue and in establishing that, in consequence of the revelations of M. Madeleine, that is to say, of the real Jean Valjean, the aspect of the matter had been thoroughly altered, and that the jury had before their eyes now only an innocent man. Thence the lawyer had drawn some epiphonemas, not very fresh, unfortunately, upon judicial errors, etc., etc.; the President, in his summing up, had joined the counsel for the defence, and in a few minutes the jury had thrown Champmathieu out of the case.
Nevertheless, the district-attorney was bent on having a Jean Valjean; and as he had no longer Champmathieu, he took Madeleine.
Immediately after Champmathieu had been set at liberty, the district-attorney shut himself up with the President. They conferred "as to the necessity of seizing the person of M. Le Maire of M. sur M." This phrase, in which there was a great deal of of, is the district-attorney's, written with his own hand, on the minutes of his report to the attorney-general. His first emotion having passed off, the President did not offer many objections. Justice must, after all, take its course. And then, when all was said, although the President was a kindly and a tolerably intelligent man, he was, at the same time, a devoted and almost an ardent royalist, and he had been shocked to hear the Mayor of M. sur M. say the Emperor, and not Bonaparte, when alluding to the landing at Cannes.
The order for his arrest was accordingly despatched. The district-attorney forwarded it to M. sur M. by a special messenger, at full speed, and entrusted its execution to Police Inspector Javert.
The reader knows that Javert had returned to M. sur M. Immediately after having given his deposition.
Javert was just getting out of bed when the messenger handed him the order of arrest and the command to produce the prisoner.
The messenger himself was a very clever member of the police, who, in two words, informed Javert of what had taken place at Arras. The order of arrest, signed by the district-attorney, was couched in these words: "Inspector Javert will apprehend the body of the Sieur Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M., who, in this day's session of the court, was recognized as the liberated convict, Jean Valjean."
Any one who did not know Javert, and who had chanced to see him at the moment when he penetrated the antechamber of the infirmary, could have divined nothing of what had taken place, and would have thought his air the most ordinary in the world. He was cool, calm, grave, his gray hair was perfectly smooth upon his temples, and he had just mounted the stairs with his habitual deliberation. Any one who was thoroughly acquainted with him, and who had examined him attentively at the moment, would have shuddered. The buckle of his leather stock was under his left ear instead of at the nape of his neck. This betrayed unwonted agitation.
Javert was a complete character, who never had a wrinkle in his duty or in his uniform; methodical with malefactors, rigid with the buttons of his coat.
That he should have set the buckle of his stock awry, it was indispensable that there should have taken place in him one of those emotions which may be designated as internal earthquakes.
He had come in a simple way, had made a requisition on the neighboring post for a corporal and four soldiers, had left the soldiers in the courtyard, had had Fantine's room pointed out to him by the portress, who was utterly unsuspicious, accustomed as she was to seeing armed men inquiring for the mayor.
On arriving at Fantine's chamber, Javert turned the handle, pushed the door open with the gentleness of a sick-nurse or a police spy, and entered.
Properly speaking, he did not enter. He stood erect in the half-open door, his hat on his head and his left hand thrust into his coat, which was buttoned up to the chin. In the bend of his elbow the leaden head of his enormous cane, which was hidden behind him, could be seen.
Thus he remained for nearly a minute, without his presence being perceived. All at once Fantine raised her eyes, saw him, and made M. Madeleine turn round.
The instant that Madeleine's glance encountered Javert's glance, Javert, without stirring, without moving from his post, without approaching him, became terrible. No human sentiment can be as terrible as joy.
It was the visage of a demon who has just found his damned soul.
The satisfaction of at last getting hold of Jean Valjean caused all that was in his soul to appear in his countenance. The depths having been stirred up, mounted to the surface. The humiliation of having, in some slight degree, lost the scent, and of having indulged, for a few moments, in an error with regard to Champmathieu, was effaced by pride at having so well and accurately divined in the first place, and of having for so long cherished a just instinct. Javert's content shone forth in his sovereign attitude. The deformity of triumph overspread that narrow brow. All the demonstrations of horror which a satisfied face can afford were there.
Javert was in heaven at that moment. Without putting the thing clearly to himself, but with a confused intuition of the necessity of his presence and of his success, he, Javert, personified justice, light, and truth in their celestial function of crushing out evil. Behind him and around him, at an infinite distance, he had authority, reason, the case judged, the legal conscience, the public prosecution, all the stars; he was protecting order, he was causing the law to yield up its thunders, he was avenging society, he was lending a helping hand to the absolute, he was standing erect in the midst of a glory. There existed in his victory a remnant of defiance and of combat. Erect, haughty, brilliant, he flaunted abroad in open day the superhuman bestiality of a ferocious archangel. The terrible shadow of the action which he was accomplishing caused the vague flash of the social sword to be visible in his clenched fist; happy and indignant, he held his heel upon crime, vice, rebellion, perdition, hell; he was radiant, he exterminated, he smiled, and there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous Saint Michael.
Javert, though frightful, had nothing ignoble about him.
Probity, sincerity, candor, conviction, the sense of duty, are things which may become hideous when wrongly directed; but which, even when hideous, remain grand: their majesty, the majesty peculiar to the human conscience, clings to them in the midst of horror; they are virtues which have one vice,--error. The honest, pitiless joy of a fanatic in the full flood of his atrocity preserves a certain lugubriously venerable radiance. Without himself suspecting the fact, Javert in his formidable happiness was to be pitied, as is every ignorant man who triumphs. Nothing could be so poignant and so terrible as this face, wherein was displayed all that may be designated as the evil of the good.
以下就是当时的经过。
马德兰先生从阿拉斯高等法院出来，已是夜间十二时半了。他回到旅馆，正好赶上乘邮车回来，我们记得他早订了一个坐位。不到早晨六点，他便到了滨海蒙特勒伊，他第一桩事便是把寄给拉菲特先生的信送到邮局，再到疗养室去看芳汀。
他离开高等法院的公堂不久，检察官便抑制了一时的慌乱，开始发言，他叹惜这位可敬的滨海蒙特勒伊市长的妄诞行为，声言他绝不因这种奇特的意外事件而改变他原来的见解，这种意外事件究竟为何发生，日后一定可以弄个明白，他并且认为商马第是真的冉阿让，要求先判他的罪。检察官这样坚持原议，显然是和每个旁听人、法庭的各个成员和陪审团的看法相反的。被告的辩护人轻轻几句话便推翻了他这论点，同时还指出这件案子经过马德兰先生，就是说真冉阿让的揭示以后，已经根本改变了面目，因此留在陪审员眼前的只是一个无罪的人。律师把法律程序上的一些错误概括说了一番，不幸的是他这番话并不是什么新的发现，庭长在作结论时也表示他和被告辩护人的见解一致，陪审团在几分钟之内，便宣告对商马第不予起诉。
可是检察官非有一个冉阿让不行，逮不住商马第，便得逮马德兰。
释放了商马第以后，检察官便立即和庭长关在屋子里密谈。他们讨论了“逮捕滨海蒙特勒伊的市长先生的本人的必要性”。这句有许多“的”字的短语，是检察官先生的杰作，是他亲笔写在呈检察长的报告底稿上的。庭长在一度感到紧张之后，并没有怎么反对。法律总不能碰壁。并且老实说，庭长虽然是个有点小聪明的好人，可是他有相当强烈的保王思想，滨海蒙特勒伊市长谈到在戛纳登陆事件时说了“皇上”，而没有说“波拿巴”，他感到很不中听。
于是逮捕状签发出去了。检察官派了专人，星夜兼程送到滨海蒙特勒伊，责成侦察员沙威执行。
我们知道，沙威在作证以后，已经立即回到滨海蒙特勒伊。
沙威正起床，专差便已把逮捕状和传票交给了他。
这专差也是个精干的警吏，一两句话便把在阿拉斯发生的事向沙威交代明白了。逮捕状上有检察官的签字，内容是这样的：“侦察员沙威，速将滨海蒙特勒伊市长马德兰君拘捕归案，马德兰君在本日公审时，已被查明为已释苦役犯冉阿让。”
假使有个不曾见过沙威的人，当时看见他走进那疗养室的前房，这人一定猜想不到发生了什么事，并且还会认为他那神气是世上最平常的。他态度冷静、严肃，灰色头发平平整整地贴在两鬓，他刚才走上楼梯的步伐也是和平日一样从容不迫的。但是假使有个深知其为人的人，并且仔细观察了他，便会感到毛骨悚然。他皮领的钮扣不在他颈后，而在他左耳上边。这说明当时他那种从未有过的惊慌。
沙威是个完人，他的工作态度和穿衣态度都没有一点可以指责的地方，他对暴徒绝不通融，对他衣服上的钮扣也从来一丝不苟。
他居然会把领扣扣歪，那一定是在他心里起了那种所谓“内心地震”的骚乱。
他在邻近的哨所里要了一个伍长和四个兵，便若无其事地来了。他把这些兵留在天井里，叫那看门婆婆把芳汀的屋子告诉他，看门婆婆毫无戒备，因为经常有一些武装的人来找市长先生，她是看惯了的。
沙威走到芳汀的门前，转动门钮，用着护士或暗探的那种柔和劲儿推开门，进来了。
严格地说，他并没有进来，他立在那半开的门口，帽子戴在头上，左手插在他那件一直扣到颈脖的礼服里。肘弯上露出他那根藏在身后的粗手杖的铅头。
他这样立着不动，几乎有一分钟，没有引起任何人的注意。忽然，芳汀抬起眼睛看见了他，又叫马德兰先生转过头去。
当马德兰先生的视线接触到沙威的视线时，沙威并没有动，也不惊，也不走近，只显出一种可怕的神色。在人类的情感方面，最可怕的是得意之色。
这是一副找到了冤家的魔鬼面孔。
他确信自己能够逮住冉阿让，因此他心中的一切全露在脸上了。底部搅浑后影响了水面。他想到自己曾嗅错了路，一时错认了商马第，好不懊恼，幸而他当初识破了他，并且多少年来，一直还是清醒的，想到这里，懊恼也就消散了。沙威的喜色因傲慢的态度而更明显，扁窄的额头因得胜而变得难看。那副沾沾自喜的面孔简直是无丑不备。
这时，沙威如在天庭，他自己虽不十分明了，但对自己的成功和地位的重要却有一种模糊的直觉，他，沙威，人格化了的法律、光明和真理，他是在代表它们执行上天授予的除恶任务。他有无边无际的权力、道理、正义、法治精神、舆论，满天的星斗环绕在他的后面和他的四周。他维护社会秩序，他使法律发出雷霆，他为社会除暴安良，他捍卫绝对真理，他屹立在神光的中央；他虽然已操胜券，却仍有挑衅和搏斗的余勇；他挺身直立，气派雄豪，威风凛凛，把个勇猛天神的超人淫威布满了天空。他正在执行的那件任务的骇人的暗影，使人可以从他那握紧了的拳头上看到一柄象征社会力量的宝剑的寒光。他愉快而愤恨地用脚跟踏着罪恶、丑行、叛逆、堕落、地狱，他发出万丈光芒，他杀人从不眨眼，他满脸堆着笑容，在这威猛天神的身上，确有一种无比伟大的气概。
沙威凶，但绝不下贱。
正直、真诚、老实、自信、忠于职务，这些品质在被曲解时是可以变成丑恶的，不过，即使丑恶，也还有它的伟大；它们的威严是人类的良知所特有的，所以在丑恶之中依然存在。这是一些有缺点的优良品质，这缺点便是它会发生错误。执迷于某一种信念的人，在纵恣暴戾时，有一种寡情而诚实的欢乐，这样的欢乐，莫名其妙竟会是一种阴森而又令人起敬的光芒。沙威在他这种骇人的快乐里，正和每一个得志的小人一样，值得怜悯。那副面孔所表现的，我们可以称之为善中的万恶，世界上没有任何东西比这更惨更可怕的了。
Part 1 Book 8 Chapter 4 Authority reasserts its Rights
Fantine had not seen Javert since the day on which the mayor had torn her from the man. Her ailing brain comprehended nothing, but the only thing which she did not doubt was that he had come to get her. She could not endure that terrible face; she felt her life quitting her; she hid her face in both hands, and shrieked in her anguish:--
"Monsieur Madeleine, save me!"
Jean Valjean--we shall henceforth not speak of him otherwise-- had risen. He said to Fantine in the gentlest and calmest of voices:--
"Be at ease; it is not for you that he is come."
Then he addressed Javert, and said:--
"I know what you want."
Javert replied:--
"Be quick about it!"
There lay in the inflection of voice which accompanied these words something indescribably fierce and frenzied. Javert did not say, "Be quick about it!" he said "Bequiabouit."
No orthography can do justice to the accent with which it was uttered: it was no longer a human word: it was a roar.
He did not proceed according to his custom, he did not enter into the matter, he exhibited no warrant of arrest. In his eyes, Jean Valjean was a sort of mysterious combatant, who was not to be laid hands upon, a wrestler in the dark whom he had had in his grasp for the last five years, without being able to throw him. This arrest was not a beginning, but an end. He confined himself to saying, "Be quick about it!"
As he spoke thus, he did not advance a single step; he hurled at Jean Valjean a glance which he threw out like a grappling-hook, and with which he was accustomed to draw wretches violently to him.
It was this glance which Fantine had felt penetrating to the very marrow of her bones two months previously.
At Javert's exclamation, Fantine opened her eyes once more. But the mayor was there; what had she to fear?
Javert advanced to the middle of the room, and cried:--
"See here now! Art thou coming?"
The unhappy woman glanced about her. No one was present excepting the nun and the mayor. To whom could that abject use of "thou" be addressed? To her only. She shuddered.
Then she beheld a most unprecedented thing, a thing so unprecedented that nothing equal to it had appeared to her even in the blackest deliriums of fever.
She beheld Javert, the police spy, seize the mayor by the collar; she saw the mayor bow his head. It seemed to her that the world was coming to an end.
Javert had, in fact, grasped Jean Valjean by the collar.
"Monsieur le Maire!" shrieked Fantine.
Javert burst out laughing with that frightful laugh which displayed all his gums.
"There is no longer any Monsieur le Maire here!"
Jean Valjean made no attempt to disengage the hand which grasped the collar of his coat. He said:--
"Javert--"
Javert interrupted him: "Call me Mr. Inspector."
"Monsieur," said Jean Valjean, "I should like to say a word to you in private."
"Aloud! Say it aloud!" replied Javert; "people are in the habit of talking aloud to me."
Jean Valjean went on in a lower tone:--
"I have a request to make of you--"
"I tell you to speak loud."
"But you alone should hear it--"
"What difference does that make to me? I shall not listen."
Jean Valjean turned towards him and said very rapidly and in a very low voice:--
"Grant me three days' grace! three days in which to go and fetch the child of this unhappy woman. I will pay whatever is necessary. You shall accompany me if you choose."
"You are making sport of me!" cried Javert. "Come now, I did not think you such a fool! You ask me to give you three days in which to run away! You say that it is for the purpose of fetching that creature's child! Ah! Ah! That's good! That's really capital!"
Fantine was seized with a fit of trembling.
"My child!" she cried, "to go and fetch my child! She is not here, then! Answer me, sister; where is Cosette? I want my child! Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le Maire!"
Javert stamped his foot.
"And now there's the other one! Will you hold your tongue, you hussy? It's a pretty sort of a place where convicts are magistrates, and where women of the town are cared for like countesses! Ah! But we are going to change all that; it is high time!"
He stared intently at Fantine, and added, once more taking into his grasp Jean Valjean's cravat, shirt and collar:--
"I tell you that there is no Monsieur Madeleine and that there is no Monsieur le Maire. There is a thief, a brigand, a convict named Jean Valjean! And I have him in my grasp! That's what there is!"
Fantine raised herself in bed with a bound, supporting herself on her stiffened arms and on both hands: she gazed at Jean Valjean, she gazed at Javert, she gazed at the nun, she opened her mouth as though to speak; a rattle proceeded from the depths of her throat, her teeth chattered; she stretched out her arms in her agony, opening her hands convulsively, and fumbling about her like a drowning person; then suddenly fell back on her pillow.
Her head struck the head-board of the bed and fell forwards on her breast, with gaping mouth and staring, sightless eyes.
She was dead.
Jean Valjean laid his hand upon the detaining hand of Javert, and opened it as he would have opened the hand of a baby; then he said to Javert:--
"You have murdered that woman."
"Let's have an end of this!" shouted Javert, in a fury; "I am not here to listen to argument. Let us economize all that; the guard is below; march on instantly, or you'll get the thumb-screws!"
In the corner of the room stood an old iron bedstead, which was in a decidedly decrepit state, and which served the sisters as a camp-bed when they were watching with the sick. Jean Valjean stepped up to this bed, in a twinkling wrenched off the head-piece, which was already in a dilapidated condition, an easy matter to muscles like his, grasped the principal rod like a bludgeon, and glanced at Javert. Javert retreated towards the door. Jean Valjean, armed with his bar of iron, walked slowly up to Fantine's couch. When he arrived there he turned and said to Javert, in a voice that was barely audible:--
"I advise you not to disturb me at this moment."
One thing is certain, and that is, that Javert trembled.
It did occur to him to summon the guard, but Jean Valjean might avail himself of that moment to effect his escape; so he remained, grasped his cane by the small end, and leaned against the door-post, without removing his eyes from Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean rested his elbow on the knob at the head of the bed, and his brow on his hand, and began to contemplate the motionless body of Fantine, which lay extended there. He remained thus, mute, absorbed, evidently with no further thought of anything connected with this life. Upon his face and in his attitude there was nothing but inexpressible pity. After a few moments of this meditation he bent towards Fantine, and spoke to her in a low voice.
What did he say to her? What could this man, who was reproved, say to that woman, who was dead? What words were those? No one on earth heard them. Did the dead woman hear them? There are some touching illusions which are, perhaps, sublime realities. The point as to which there exists no doubt is, that Sister Simplice, the sole witness of the incident, often said that at the moment that Jean Valjean whispered in Fantine's ear, she distinctly beheld an ineffable smile dawn on those pale lips, and in those dim eyes, filled with the amazement of the tomb.
Jean Valjean took Fantine's head in both his hands, and arranged it on the pillow as a mother might have done for her child; then he tied the string of her chemise, and smoothed her hair back under her cap. That done, he closed her eyes.
Fantine's face seemed strangely illuminated at that moment.
Death, that signifies entrance into the great light.
Fantine's hand was hanging over the side of the bed. Jean Valjean knelt down before that hand, lifted it gently, and kissed it.
Then he rose, and turned to Javert.
"Now," said he, "I am at your disposal."
芳汀，自从市长先生把她从沙威手中救出来以后，还没有看见过沙威。她的病脑完全不能了解当时的事，她以为他是为了她来的，她受不了那副凶相。她觉得自己的气要断了。她两手掩住自己的脸，哀号着：
“马德兰先生，救我！”
冉阿让（我们以后不再用旁的名字称呼他了）立起来，用最柔和最平静的声音向芳汀说：
“您放心。他不是来找您的。”
随后他又向沙威说：
“我知道您来干什么。”
沙威回答说：
“快走！”
在他说那两个字的口气里有一种说不出的、蛮横和狂妄的意味。他说的不是“快走！”而是一种象“快走”两字那样的声音，因此没有文字可以表示这种声音，那已经不是人的言语，而是野兽的吼叫了。
他绝不照惯例行事，他绝不说明来意，也不拿出逮捕状。对他来说，冉阿让是一种神秘的、无从捉摸的对手，黑暗中的角力者，他掐住冉阿让已经五年了，却没有能够摔翻他。这次的逮捕不是起始，而是终局。因此他只说了句：
“快走！”
他这么说，身体却没有移动一步，他用那种铁钩似的目光钩着冉阿让，他平日对颠连无告的人们也正是用这种神气硬把他们钩到他身边去的。
两个月前，芳汀感到深入她骨髓的，也正是这种目光。
沙威一声吼，芳汀又睁开了眼睛。但是市长先生在这里。
她有什么可怕的呢？
沙威走到屋子中间，叫道：
“你到底走不走？”
这个不幸的妇人四面张望。屋子里只有修女和市长先生。对谁会这样下贱地用“你”字来称呼呢？只可能是对她说的了。
她浑身发抖。
同时她看见了一桩破天荒的怪事，怪到无以复加，即使是在她发热期间最可怕的恶梦里，这样的怪事也不曾有过。
她看见暗探沙威抓住了市长先生的衣领，她又看见市长先生低着头。她仿佛觉得天翻地覆了。
沙威确实抓住了冉阿让的衣领。
“市长先生！”芳汀喊着说。
沙威放声大笑，把他满口的牙齿全突了出来。
“这儿已没有市长先生了！”
冉阿让让那只手抓住他礼服的领，并不动，他说：
“沙威……”
沙威不待他说完，便吼道：
“叫我做侦察员先生。”
“先生，”冉阿让接着说，“我想和您个人谈句话。”
“大声说！你得大声说！”沙威回答，“人家对我谈话总是大声的！”
冉阿让低声下气地继续说：
“我求您一件事……”
“我叫你大声说。”
“但是这件事只有您一个人可以听……”
“这和我有什么相干？我不听！”
冉阿让转身朝着他，急急忙忙低声向他说：
“请您暂缓三天！三天，我可以去领这个可怜的女人的小孩！应当付多少钱我都付。假使您要跟着我走也可以。”
“笑话！”沙威叫着说。“哈！我以前还没有想到你竟是一个这么蠢的东西！你要我缓三天，你好逃！你说要去领这婊子的孩子！哈！哈！真妙！好极了！”
芳汀战抖了一下。
“我的孩子！”她喊道，“去领我的孩子！她原来不在这里！我的姆姆，回答我，珂赛特在什么地方？我要我的孩子！马德兰先生！市长先生！”
沙威提起脚来一顿。
“现在这一个也来纠缠不清了！你到底闭嘴不闭嘴，骚货！这个可耻的地方，囚犯做长官，公娼享着伯爵夫人的清福！不用忙！一切都会扭转过来的，正是时候了！”
他瞧着芳汀不动，再一把抓住冉阿让的领带、衬衫和衣领说道：
“我告诉你，这儿没有马德兰先生，也没有市长先生。只有一个贼，一个土匪，一个苦役犯，叫冉阿让！我现在抓的就是他！就是这么一回事！”
芳汀直跳起来，支在她那两只僵硬的胳膊和手上面，她望望冉阿让，望望沙威，望望修女，张开口，仿佛要说话，一口痰从她喉咙底里涌上来，她的牙齿格格发抖，她悲伤地伸出两条胳膊，张开两只痉拳的手，同时四面摸索，好象一个惨遭灭顶的人，随后她忽然一下倒在枕头上。她的头撞在床头，弹回来，落在胸上，口张着，眼睛睁着，但已黯然无光了。
她死了。
冉阿让把他的手放在沙威的那只抓住他的手上，好象掰婴孩的手，一下便掰开了它，随后他向沙威说：
“您把这妇人害死了。”
“不许多话，”怒气冲天的沙威吼叫起来，“我不是到这里来听你讲道理的。不要浪费时间。队伍在楼下。马上走，不然我就要用镣铐了！
在屋子的一个壁角里，有一张坏了的旧铁床，是平日给守夜的姆姆们做临时床用的。冉阿让走到这张床的前面，一转眼便把这张业已破损的床头拆了下来，有他那样的力气，这原不是件难事，他紧紧握着这根大铁条，眼睛望着沙威。
沙威向门边退去。
冉阿让手里握着铁条，慢慢地向着芳汀的床走去，走到以后，他转过身，用一种旁人几乎听不见的声音向沙威说：
“我劝您不要在这时来打搅我。”
一桩十分确实的事，便是沙威吓得发抖。
他原想去叫警察，但又怕冉阿让乘机逃走。他只好守住不动，抓着他手杖的尖端，背靠着门框，眼睛不离冉阿让。
冉阿让的肘倚在床头的圆球上，手托着额头，望着那躺着不动的芳汀。他这样待着，凝神，静默，他所想的自然不是这人世间的事了。在他的面容和体态上仅仅有一种说不出的痛惜的颜色，这样默念了一会过后，他俯身到芳汀的耳边，细声向她说话。
他向她说些什么呢？这个待死的汉子，对这已死的妇人有什么可说的呢？这究竟是些什么话？世上没有人听到过他这些话。死者是否听到了呢？有些动人的幻想也许真是最神圣的现实。毫无疑问的是，当时唯一的证人散普丽斯姆姆时常谈到当日冉阿让在芳汀耳边说话时，她看得清清楚楚，死者的灰色嘴唇，曾微微一笑，她那双惊魂未定的眸子，也略有喜色。
冉阿让两手捧着芳汀的头，好象慈母对待自己的孩子那样，把它端正安放在枕头上，又把她衬衣的带子结好，把她的头发塞进帽子。做完了这些事，他又闭上了他的眼睛。
芳汀的面庞在这时仿佛亮得出奇。
死，便是跨进伟大光明境界的第一步。
芳汀的手还垂在床沿外。冉阿让跪在这只手的前面，轻轻地拿起来，吻了一下。
他立起来，转身向着沙威：
“现在，”他说，“我跟您走。”
Part 1 Book 8 Chapter 5 A Suitable Tomb
 Javert deposited Jean Valjean in the city prison.
The arrest of M. Madeleine occasioned a sensation, or rather, an extraordinary commotion in M. sur M. We are sorry that we cannot conceal the fact, that at the single word, "He was a convict," nearly every one deserted him. In less than two hours all the good that he had done had been forgotten, and he was nothing but a "convict from the galleys." It is just to add that the details of what had taken place at Arras were not yet known. All day long conversations like the following were to be heard in all quarters of the town:--
"You don't know? He was a liberated convict!" "Who?" "The mayor." "Bah! M. Madeleine?" "Yes." "Really?" "His name was not Madeleine at all; he had a frightful name, Bejean, Bojean, Boujean." "Ah! Good God!" "He has been arrested." "Arrested!" "In prison, in the city prison, while waiting to be transferred." "Until he is transferred!" "He is to be transferred!" "Where is he to be taken?" "He will be tried at the Assizes for a highway robbery which he committed long ago." "Well! I suspected as much. That man was too good, too perfect, too affected. He refused the cross; he bestowed sous on all the little scamps he came across. I always thought there was some evil history back of all that."
The "drawing-rooms" particularly abounded in remarks of this nature.
One old lady, a subscriber to the Drapeau Blanc, made the following remark, the depth of which it is impossible to fathom:--
"I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapartists!"
It was thus that the phantom which had been called M. Madeleine vanished from M. sur M. Only three or four persons in all the town remained faithful to his memory. The old portress who had served him was among the number.
On the evening of that day the worthy old woman was sitting in her lodge, still in a thorough fright, and absorbed in sad reflections. The factory had been closed all day, the carriage gate was bolted, the street was deserted. There was no one in the house but the two nuns, Sister Perpetue and Sister Simplice, who were watching beside the body of Fantine.
Towards the hour when M. Madeleine was accustomed to return home, the good portress rose mechanically, took from a drawer the key of M. Madeleine's chamber, and the flat candlestick which he used every evening to go up to his quarters; then she hung the key on the nail whence he was accustomed to take it, and set the candlestick on one side, as though she was expecting him. Then she sat down again on her chair, and became absorbed in thought once more. The poor, good old woman bad done all this without being conscious of it.
It was only at the expiration of two hours that she roused herself from her revery, and exclaimed, "Hold! My good God Jesus! And I hung his key on the nail!"
At that moment the small window in the lodge opened, a hand passed through, seized the key and the candlestick, and lighted the taper at the candle which was burning there.
The portress raised her eyes, and stood there with gaping mouth, and a shriek which she confined to her throat.
She knew that hand, that arm, the sleeve of that coat.
It was M. Madeleine.
It was several seconds before she could speak; she had a seizure, as she said herself, when she related the adventure afterwards.
"Good God, Monsieur le Maire," she cried at last, "I thought you were--"
She stopped; the conclusion of her sentence would have been lacking in respect towards the beginning. Jean Valjean was still Monsieur le Maire to her.
He finished her thought.
"In prison," said he. "I was there; I broke a bar of one of the windows; I let myself drop from the top of a roof, and here I am. I am going up to my room; go and find Sister Simplice for me. She is with that poor woman, no doubt."
The old woman obeyed in all haste.
He gave her no orders; he was quite sure that she would guard him better than he should guard himself.
No one ever found out how he had managed to get into the courtyard without opening the big gates. He had, and always carried about him, a pass-key which opened a little side-door; but he must have been searched, and his latch-key must have been taken from him. This point was never explained.
He ascended the staircase leading to his chamber. On arriving at the top, he left his candle on the top step of his stairs, opened his door with very little noise, went and closed his window and his shutters by feeling, then returned for his candle and re-entered his room.
It was a useful precaution; it will be recollected that his window could be seen from the street.
He cast a glance about him, at his table, at his chair, at his bed which had not been disturbed for three days. No trace of the disorder of the night before last remained. The portress had "done up" his room; only she had picked out of the ashes and placed neatly on the table the two iron ends of the cudgel and the forty-sou piece which had been blackened by the fire.
He took a sheet of paper, on which he wrote: "These are the two tips of my iron-shod cudgel and the forty-sou piece stolen from Little Gervais, which I mentioned at the Court of Assizes," and he arranged this piece of paper, the bits of iron, and the coin in such a way that they were the first things to be seen on entering the room. From a cupboard he pulled out one of his old shirts, which he tore in pieces. In the strips of linen thus prepared he wrapped the two silver candlesticks. He betrayed neither haste nor agitation; and while he was wrapping up the Bishop's candlesticks, he nibbled at a piece of black bread. It was probably the prison-bread which he had carried with him in his flight.
This was proved by the crumbs which were found on the floor of the room when the authorities made an examination later on.
There came two taps at the door.
"Come in," said he.
It was Sister Simplice.
She was pale; her eyes were red; the candle which she carried trembled in her hand. The peculiar feature of the violences of destiny is, that however polished or cool we may be, they wring human nature from our very bowels, and force it to reappear on the surface. The emotions of that day had turned the nun into a woman once more. She had wept, and she was trembling.
Jean Valjean had just finished writing a few lines on a paper, which he handed to the nun, saying, "Sister, you will give this to Monsieur le Cure."
The paper was not folded. She cast a glance upon it.
"You can read it," said he.
She read:--
"I beg Monsieur le Cure to keep an eye on all that I leave behind me. He will be so good as to pay out of it the expenses of my trial, and of the funeral of the woman who died yesterday. The rest is for the poor."
The sister tried to speak, but she only managed to stammer a few inarticulate sounds. She succeeded in saying, however:--
"Does not Monsieur le Maire desire to take a last look at that poor, unhappy woman?"
"No," said he; "I am pursued; it would only end in their arresting me in that room, and that would disturb her."
He had hardly finished when a loud noise became audible on the staircase. They heard a tumult of ascending footsteps, and the old portress saying in her loudest and most piercing tones:--
"My good sir, I swear to you by the good God, that not a soul has entered this house all day, nor all the evening, and that I have not even left the door."
A man responded:--
"But there is a light in that room, nevertheless."
They recognized Javert's voice.
The chamber was so arranged that the door in opening masked the corner of the wall on the right. Jean Valjean blew out the light and placed himself in this angle. Sister Simplice fell on her knees near the table.
The door opened.
Javert entered.
The whispers of many men and the protestations of the portress were audible in the corridor.
The nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying.
The candle was on the chimney-piece, and gave but very little light.
Javert caught sight of the nun and halted in amazement.
It will be remembered that the fundamental point in Javert, his element, the very air he breathed, was veneration for all authority. This was impregnable, and admitted of neither objection nor restriction. In his eyes, of course, the ecclesiastical authority was the chief of all; he was religious, superficial and correct on this point as on all others. In his eyes, a priest was a mind, who never makes a mistake; a nun was a creature who never sins; they were souls walled in from this world, with a single door which never opened except to allow the truth to pass through.
On perceiving the sister, his first movement was to retire.
But there was also another duty which bound him and impelled him imperiously in the opposite direction. His second movement was to remain and to venture on at least one question.
This was Sister Simplice, who had never told a lie in her life. Javert knew it, and held her in special veneration in consequence.
"Sister," said he, "are you alone in this room?"
A terrible moment ensued, during which the poor portress felt as though she should faint.
The sister raised her eyes and answered:--
"Yes."
"Then," resumed Javert, "you will excuse me if I persist; it is my duty; you have not seen a certain person--a man--this evening? He has escaped; we are in search of him--that Jean Valjean; you have not seen him?"
The sister replied:--
"No."
She lied. She had lied twice in succession, one after the other, without hesitation, promptly, as a person does when sacrificing herself.
"Pardon me," said Javert, and he retired with a deep bow.
O sainted maid! you left this world many years ago; you have rejoined your sisters, the virgins, and your brothers, the angels, in the light; may this lie be counted to your credit in paradise!
The sister's affirmation was for Javert so decisive a thing that he did not even observe the singularity of that candle which had but just been extinguished, and which was still smoking on the table.
An hour later, a man, marching amid trees and mists, was rapidly departing from M. sur M. in the direction of Paris. That man was Jean Valjean. It has been established by the testimony of two or three carters who met him, that he was carrying a bundle; that he was dressed in a blouse. Where had he obtained that blouse? No one ever found out. But an aged workman had died in the infirmary of the factory a few days before, leaving behind him nothing but his blouse. Perhaps that was the one.
One last word about Fantine.
We all have a mother,--the earth. Fantine was given back to that mother.
The cure thought that he was doing right, and perhaps he really was, in reserving as much money as possible from what Jean Valjean had left for the poor. Who was concerned, after all? A convict and a woman of the town. That is why he had a very simple funeral for Fantine, and reduced it to that strictly necessary form known as the pauper's grave.
So Fantine was buried in the free corner of the cemetery which belongs to anybody and everybody, and where the poor are lost. Fortunately, God knows where to find the soul again. Fantine was laid in the shade, among the first bones that came to hand; she was subjected to the promiscuousness of ashes. She was thrown into the public grave. Her grave resembled her bed.
[The end of Volume I. "Fantine"]
沙威把冉阿让送进了市监狱。
马德兰先生被捕的消息在滨海蒙特勒伊引起了一种异样的感觉，应当说，引起了一种非常的震动。不幸我们无法掩饰这样一种情况：仅仅为了“他当过苦役犯”这句话，大家便几乎把他完全丢弃了。他从前作的一切好事，不到两个钟头，也全被遗忘了，他已只是个“苦役犯”。应当指出，当时大家还不知道在阿拉斯发生的详细的经过。一整天，城里四处都能听到这样的谈话：“您不知道吗？他原是个被释放的苦役犯！”“谁呀？”
“市长。”“啐！马德兰先生吗？”“是呀。”“真的吗？”“他原来不叫马德兰，他的真名字真难听，白让，博让，布让。”“呀，我的天！”
“他已经被捕了。”“被捕了！他暂时还在市监狱里，不久就会被押到别处去。”“押到别处去！”“他们要把他押到别处去！他们想把他押到什么地方去呢？”“因为他从前在一条大路上犯过一桩劫案，还得上高等法院呢。”“原来如此！我早已疑心了。这人平日太好，太完善，太信上帝了。他辞谢过十字勋章。他在路上碰见小流氓总给他们些钱。我老在想，他底里一定有些不能见人的历史。”
尤其是在那些“客厅”里，这类话谈得特别多。
有一个订阅《白旗报》的老太太还有这样一种几乎深不可测的体会。
“我并不以为可惜。这对布宛纳巴的党徒是一种教训！”
这个一度称为马德兰先生的幽灵便这样在滨海蒙特勒伊消逝了。全城中，只有三四个人还追念他。服侍过他的那个老看门婆便是其中之一。
当天日落时，这个忠实的老婆子还坐在她的门房里，无限凄惶。工厂停了一天工，正门闩起来了，街上行人稀少。那幢房子里只有两个修女，佩尔佩迪姆姆和散普丽斯姆姆还在守着芳汀的遗体。
快到马德兰先生平日回家的时候，这忠实的看门婆子机械地立了起来，从抽屉里取出马德兰先生的房门钥匙，又端起他每晚用来照着上楼的烛台，随后她把钥匙挂在他惯于寻取的那钉子上，烛台放在旁边，仿佛她在等候他似的，她又回转去，坐在她那椅子上面呆想。这可怜的好老婆子并不知道她自己做了这些事。
两个多钟头过后，她如梦初醒地喊道：
“真的！我的慈悲上帝耶稣！我还把钥匙挂在钉子上呢！”
正在这时，门房的玻璃窗自动开了，一只手从窗口伸进来，拿着钥匙和烛台，凑到另一支燃着的细烛上接了火。
守门妇人抬起眼睛，张开口，几乎要喊出来了。
她认识这只手，这条胳膊，这件礼服的袖子。
是马德兰先生。
过了几秒钟，她才说得出话来。“我真吓呆了。”她过后向人谈这件事的时候，老这么说。
“我的上帝，市长先生，”她终于喊出来了，“我还以为您……”
她停了口，因为这句话的后半段会抹煞前半段的敬意。冉阿让对她始终是市长先生。
他替她把话说完：
“……进监牢了，”他说，“我到监里去过了，我折断了窗口的铁条，从屋顶上跳下来，又到了这里。我现在到我屋子里去。您去把散普丽斯姆姆找来。她一定是在那可怜的妇人旁边。”
老婆子连忙去找。
他一句话也没有嘱咐她，他十分明白，她保护他会比他自己保护自己更稳当。
别人永远没有知道他怎样能不开正门便到了天井里。他本来有一把开一扇小侧门的钥匙，是他随时带在身上的，不过他一定受过搜查，钥匙也一定被没收了。这一点从来没有人想通过。
他走上通到他屋子去的那道楼梯。到了上面，他把烛台放在楼梯的最高一级，轻轻地开了门，又一路摸黑，走去关上窗子和窗板，再回头拿了烛台，回到屋里。
这种戒备是有用的，我们记得，从街上可以看见他的窗子。
他四面望了一眼，桌子上，椅子上，和他那张三天没有动过的床上。前晚的忙乱并没有留下丝毫痕迹，因为看门婆婆早已把屋子整理过了。不过她已从灰里拾起那根棍子的两个铁斗和那烧乌了的值四十个苏的钱，干干净净地把它们放在桌上了。
他拿起一张纸，写上“这便是我在法庭里说过的那两个铁棍头和从小瑞尔威抢来的那个值四十个苏的钱”，他又把这枚银币和这两块钱摆在纸上，好让人家走进屋子一眼便可以看见。他从橱里取出了一件旧衬衫，撕成几块，用来包那两只银烛台。他既不匆忙，也不惊惶，一面包着主教的这两个烛台，一面咬着一块黑面包。这大概是在他逃走时带出来的一块囚犯吃的面包。
过后法院来检查，在地板上发现一些面包屑，证明他吃的确是狱里的面包。
有人在门上轻轻敲了两下。
“请进。”他说。
是散普丽斯姆姆。
她面色苍白，眼睛发红，手里拿着蜡烛，颤个不停。命运中的剧变往往有这样一种特点：无论我们平时多么超脱，无动于衷，一旦遭遇剧变，原有的人性总不免受到触动，从心灵的深处流露出来。这修女经过这一天的激动，又变成妇女了，她痛哭过一阵，现在还发抖。
冉阿让正在一张纸上写好了几行字，他把这张纸交给修女说：
“我的姆姆，请您交给本堂神甫先生。”
这张纸是展开的。她在那上面望了一眼。
“您可以看。”他说。
她念：“我请本堂神甫先生料理我在这里留下的一切，用以代付我的诉讼费和今日死去的这个妇人的丧葬费。余款捐给穷人。”
姆姆想说话，但是语不成声。她勉强说了一句：
“市长先生不想再看一次那可怜的苦命人吗？”
“不，”他说，“逮我的人在后面追来了，他们到她屋子里去逮我，她会不得安宁。”
他的话刚说完，楼梯下已闹得一片响，他听见许多人的脚步，走上楼来，又听见那看门老妇人用她那最高最锐的嗓子说：
“我的好先生，我在慈悲的上帝面前向您发誓，今天一整天，一整晚，都没有人到这里来过，我也没有离开过大门！”
有个人回答说：
“可是那屋子里有灯光。”
他们辨别出这是沙威的声音。
屋子的门开开，便遮着右边的墙角。冉阿让吹灭了烛，躲在这墙角里。
散普丽斯姆姆跪在桌子旁边。
门自己开了。沙威走进来。
过道里有许多人说话的声音和那看门妇人的争辩声。
修女低着眼睛正在祈祷。
一支细烛在壁炉台上发着微光。
沙威看见姆姆，停住了脚，不敢为难。
我们记得，沙威的本性，他的气质，他的一呼一吸都是对权力的尊崇。他是死板的，他不容许反对，也无可通融。在他看来，教会的权力更是高于一切。他是信徒，他在这方面，和在其他任何方面一样，浅薄而规矩。在他的眼里，神甫是种没有缺点的神明，修女是种纯洁无疵的生物。他们都是与人世隔绝了的灵魂，好象他们的灵魂与人世之间隔着一堵围墙，墙上只有一扇唯一的、不说真话便从来不开的门。
他见了姆姆，第一个动作便是向后退。
但是另外还有一种任务束缚他并极力推他前进。他的第二个动作便是停下来，至少他总得冒险问一句话。
这是生平从不说谎的散普丽斯姆姆。沙威知道，因此对她也特别尊敬。
“我的姆姆，”他说，“您是一个人在这屋子里吗？”
那可怜的看门妇人吓得魂不附体，以为事体搞糟了。
姆姆抬起眼睛，回答说：
“是的。”
“既是这样，”沙威又说，“请您原谅我多话，这是我分内应做的事，今天您没有看见一个人，一个男人。他逃走了，我们正在找他。那个叫冉阿让的家伙，您没有看见他吗？”
“没有。”
她说了假话。一连两次，一句接着一句，毫不踌躇，直截了当地说着假话，把她自己忘了似的。
“请原谅。”沙威说，他深深行了个礼，退出去了。呵，圣女！您超出凡尘，已有多年，您早已在光明中靠拢了您的贞女姐妹和您的天使弟兄，愿您这次的谎话上达天堂。
这姆姆的话，在沙威听来，是那样可靠，以至刚吹灭的还在桌上冒烟的这支耐人寻味的蜡烛也没有引起他的注意。
一个钟头过后，有个人在树林和迷雾中大踏步离开了滨海蒙特勒伊向着巴黎走去。这人便是冉阿让。有两三个赶车的车夫曾遇到他，看见他背个包袱，穿件布罩衫。那件布罩衫，他是从什么地方得来的呢？从没有人知道。而在那工厂的疗养室里，前几天死了一个老工人，只留下一件布罩衫。也许就是这件。
关于芳汀的最后几句话。
我们全有一个慈母----大地。芳汀归到这慈母的怀里去了。
本堂神甫尽量把冉阿让留下的东西，留下给穷人，他自以为做得得当，也许真是得当的。况且，这件事牵涉到谁呢？牵涉到一个苦役犯和一个娼妇。因此他简化了芳汀的殡葬，极力削减费用，把她送进了义冢。
于是芳汀被葬在坟场中那块属于大家而不属于任何私人、并使穷人千古埋没的公土里。幸而上帝知道到什么地方去寻找她的灵魂。他们把芳汀隐在遍地遗骸的乱骨堆中，她被抛到公众的泥坑里去了。她的坟正象她的床一样。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 1 What is met with on the Way from Nivelles
Last year (1861), on a beautiful May morning, a traveller, the person who is telling this story, was coming from Nivelles, and directing his course towards La Hulpe. He was on foot. He was pursuing a broad paved road, which undulated between two rows of trees, over the hills which succeed each other, raise the road and let it fall again, and produce something in the nature of enormous waves.
He had passed Lillois and Bois-Seigneur-Isaac. In the west he perceived the slate-roofed tower of Braine-l'Alleud, which has the form of a reversed vase. He had just left behind a wood upon an eminence; and at the angle of the cross-road, by the side of a sort of mouldy gibbet bearing the inscription Ancient Barrier No. 4, a public house, bearing on its front this sign: At the Four Winds (Aux Quatre Vents). Echabeau, Private Cafe.
A quarter of a league further on, he arrived at the bottom of a little valley, where there is water which passes beneath an arch made through the embankment of the road. The clump of sparsely planted but very green trees, which fills the valley on one side of the road, is dispersed over the meadows on the other, and disappears gracefully and as in order in the direction of Braine-l'Alleud.
On the right, close to the road, was an inn, with a four-wheeled cart at the door, a large bundle of hop-poles, a plough, a heap of dried brushwood near a flourishing hedge, lime smoking in a square hole, and a ladder suspended along an old penthouse with straw partitions. A young girl was weeding in a field, where a huge yellow poster, probably of some outside spectacle, such as a parish festival, was fluttering in the wind. At one corner of the inn, beside a pool in which a flotilla of ducks was navigating, a badly paved path plunged into the bushes. The wayfarer struck into this.
After traversing a hundred paces, skirting a wall of the fifteenth century, surmounted by a pointed gable, with bricks set in contrast, he found himself before a large door of arched stone, with a rectilinear impost, in the sombre style of Louis XIV., flanked by two flat medallions. A severe facade rose above this door; a wall, perpendicular to the facade, almost touched the door, and flanked it with an abrupt right angle. In the meadow before the door lay three harrows, through which, in disorder, grew all the flowers of May. The door was closed. The two decrepit leaves which barred it were ornamented with an old rusty knocker.
The sun was charming; the branches had that soft shivering of May, which seems to proceed rather from the nests than from the wind. A brave little bird, probably a lover, was carolling in a distracted manner in a large tree.
The wayfarer bent over and examined a rather large circular excavation, resembling the hollow of a sphere, in the stone on the left, at the foot of the pier of the door.
At this moment the leaves of the door parted, and a peasant woman emerged.
She saw the wayfarer, and perceived what he was looking at.
"It was a French cannon-ball which made that," she said to him. And she added:--
"That which you see there, higher up in the door, near a nail, is the hole of a big iron bullet as large as an egg. The bullet did not pierce the wood."
"What is the name of this place?" inquired the wayfarer.
"Hougomont," said the peasant woman.
The traveller straightened himself up. He walked on a few paces, and went off to look over the tops of the hedges. On the horizon through the trees, he perceived a sort of little elevation, and on this elevation something which at that distance resembled a lion.
He was on the battle-field of Waterloo.
去年（一八六一），在五月间一个晴朗的早晨，有一个行人，本故事的叙述者，到了尼维尔①，并向拉羽泊走去。他步行。他沿着山冈上两行树木中间的一条铺了路面的大道前进。那大道随着连绵不断的山冈，一起一伏，犹如巨浪。他已经走过了里洛和伊萨克林。向西望去，他可以辨出布兰拉勒②的那座形如覆盆的青石钟楼。他刚刚走过一处高地上的树林，看见有一根蛀孔累累的木柱，立在一条横路的转角处，那柱子上面写着“第四栅栏旧址”；旁边，有一家饮料店，店面墙上的招牌写着“艾侠波四风特等咖啡馆”。 
①尼维尔（Nivelles），比利时城市，在布鲁塞尔和滑铁卢的西南面，距布鲁塞尔三十多公里。
②布兰拉勒（BraineClAAlleud），地名，在滑铁卢和尼维尔之间。　　
从那咖啡馆再往前走八分之一法里，他便到了一个小山谷的底里，谷底有一条溪流，流过路下的涵洞。疏朗翠绿的树丛，散布在路旁山谷里，在路的另一面，树丛散乱有致地展向布兰拉勒。
路的右边，有一家小客店，门前摆着一辆四轮小车、一大捆蛇麻草和一个铁犁，青树篱边，有一堆干刍，在一个方坑里，石灰正冒着气，一张梯子卧倒在一个用麦秆作隔墙的破棚子的墙边。田里有个大姑娘在锄草，一大张黄色广告，也许是什么杂技团巡回演出的海报，在田边迎风飘动。在那客店的墙角外面，有一群鸭子在浅沼里游行，一条路面铺得很坏的小道沿着那浅沼伸入丛莽。那行人向丛莽中走去。
他走上百来步，到了一道十五世纪的墙脚边，墙上有用花砖砌的山字形尖顶，沿墙过去，便看见一扇拱形石库大门，一字门楣，配上两个圆形浮雕，具有路易十四时代的浑厚风格。大门的上方便是那房屋的正面，气象庄严，一道和房屋正面垂直的墙紧靠在大门旁边，构成一个生硬的直角。门前草地上，倒着三把钉耙，五月的野花在耙齿间随意开着。大门是关着的。双合门扇已经破烂，一个旧门锤也生了锈。
日光和煦宜人，树枝在作五月间那种轻柔的颤动，仿佛来自枝上的鸟巢，而不是由于风力。一只可爱的小鸟，也许是怀春吧，在一株大树上尽情啼唱。
过客弯下腰去细察门左石脚上的一个圆涡，圆涡颇大，好象是个圆球体的模子。正在这时，那双合门扇开了，走出来一个村姑。
她望着过路客人，看见了他正在细看的东西。
“这是一颗法国炮弹打的。”她向他说。
随后她又接着说：
“稍高一点，在这大门的上面，那颗钉子旁边，您看见的是一个大铳打的窟窿。铳子并没有把木板打穿。”
“这叫什么地方？”过客问道。
“乌古蒙。”村姑说。
过客抬起头来。他走了几步，从篱笆上面望去。他从树枝中望见天边有一个小丘，丘上有一个东西，远远望去，颇象一只狮子①。 
①那是滑铁卢战场上的纪念墩，墩上有个铜狮子，是英普联军在击溃拿破仑后建立的。 
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 2 Hougomont
Hougomont,--this was a funereal spot, the beginning of the obstacle, the first resistance, which that great wood-cutter of Europe, called Napoleon, encountered at Waterloo, the first knot under the blows of his axe.
It was a chateau; it is no longer anything but a farm. For the antiquary, Hougomont is Hugomons. This manor was built by Hugo, Sire of Somerel, the same who endowed the sixth chaplaincy of the Abbey of Villiers.
The traveller pushed open the door, elbowed an ancient calash under the porch, and entered the courtyard.
The first thing which struck him in this paddock was a door of the sixteenth century, which here simulates an arcade, everything else having fallen prostrate around it. A monumental aspect often has its birth in ruin. In a wall near the arcade opens another arched door, of the time of Henry IV., permitting a glimpse of the trees of an orchard; beside this door, a manure-hole, some pickaxes, some shovels, some carts, an old well, with its flagstone and its iron reel, a chicken jumping, and a turkey spreading its tail, a chapel surmounted by a small bell-tower, a blossoming pear-tree trained in espalier against the wall of the chapel--behold the court, the conquest of which was one of Napoleon's dreams. This corner of earth, could he but have seized it, would, perhaps, have given him the world likewise. Chickens are scattering its dust abroad with their beaks. A growl is audible; it is a huge dog, who shows his teeth and replaces the English.
The English behaved admirably there. Cooke's four companies of guards there held out for seven hours against the fury of an army.
Hougomont viewed on the map, as a geometrical plan, comprising buildings and enclosures, presents a sort of irregular rectangle, one angle of which is nicked out. It is this angle which contains the southern door, guarded by this wall, which commands it only a gun's length away. Hougomont has two doors,--the southern door, that of the chateau; and the northern door, belonging to the farm. Napoleon sent his brother Jerome against Hougomont; the divisions of Foy, Guilleminot, and Bachelu hurled themselves against it; nearly the entire corps of Reille was employed against it, and miscarried; Kellermann's balls were exhausted on this heroic section of wall. Bauduin's brigade was not strong enough to force Hougomont on the north, and the brigade of Soye could not do more than effect the beginning of a breach on the south, but without taking it.
The farm buildings border the courtyard on the south. A bit of the north door, broken by the French, hangs suspended to the wall. It consists of four planks nailed to two cross-beams, on which the scars of the attack are visible.
The northern door, which was beaten in by the French, and which has had a piece applied to it to replace the panel suspended on the wall, stands half-open at the bottom of the paddock; it is cut squarely in the wall, built of stone below, of brick above which closes in the courtyard on the north. It is a simple door for carts, such as exist in all farms, with the two large leaves made of rustic planks: beyond lie the meadows. The dispute over this entrance was furious. For a long time, all sorts of imprints of bloody hands were visible on the door-posts. It was there that Bauduin was killed.
The storm of the combat still lingers in this courtyard; its horror is visible there; the confusion of the fray was petrified there; it lives and it dies there; it was only yesterday. The walls are in the death agony, the stones fall; the breaches cry aloud; the holes are wounds; the drooping, quivering trees seem to be making an effort to flee.
This courtyard was more built up in 1815 than it is to-day. Buildings which have since been pulled down then formed redans and angles.
The English barricaded themselves there; the French made their way in, but could not stand their ground. Beside the chapel, one wing of the chateau, the only ruin now remaining of the manor of Hougomont, rises in a crumbling state,--disembowelled, one might say. The chateau served for a dungeon, the chapel for a block-house. There men exterminated each other. The French, fired on from every point,--from behind the walls, from the summits of the garrets, from the depths of the cellars, through all the casements, through all the air-holes, through every crack in the stones,-- fetched fagots and set fire to walls and men; the reply to the grape-shot was a conflagration.
In the ruined wing, through windows garnished with bars of iron, the dismantled chambers of the main building of brick are visible; the English guards were in ambush in these rooms; the spiral of the staircase, cracked from the ground floor to the very roof, appears like the inside of a broken shell. The staircase has two stories; the English, besieged on the staircase, and massed on its upper steps, had cut off the lower steps. These consisted of large slabs of blue stone, which form a heap among the nettles. Half a score of steps still cling to the wall; on the first is cut the figure of a trident. These inaccessible steps are solid in their niches. All the rest resembles a jaw which has been denuded of its teeth. There are two old trees there: one is dead; the other is wounded at its base, and is clothed with verdure in April. Since 1815 it has taken to growing through the staircase.
A massacre took place in the chapel. The interior, which has recovered its calm, is singular. The mass has not been said there since the carnage. Nevertheless, the altar has been left there-- an altar of unpolished wood, placed against a background of roughhewn stone. Four whitewashed walls, a door opposite the altar, two small arched windows; over the door a large wooden crucifix, below the crucifix a square air-hole stopped up with a bundle of hay; on the ground, in one corner, an old window-frame with the glass all broken to pieces--such is the chapel. Near the altar there is nailed up a wooden statue of Saint Anne, of the fifteenth century; the head of the infant Jesus has been carried off by a large ball. The French, who were masters of the chapel for a moment, and were then dislodged, set fire to it. The flames filled this building; it was a perfect furnace; the door was burned, the floor was burned, the wooden Christ was not burned. The fire preyed upon his feet, of which only the blackened stumps are now to be seen; then it stopped,-- a miracle, according to the assertion of the people of the neighborhood. The infant Jesus, decapitated, was less fortunate than the Christ.
The walls are covered with inscriptions. Near the feet of Christ this name is to be read: Henquinez. Then these others: Conde de Rio Maior Marques y Marquesa de Almagro (Habana). There are French names with exclamation points,--a sign of wrath. The wall was freshly whitewashed in 1849. The nations insulted each other there.
It was at the door of this chapel that the corpse was picked up which held an axe in its hand; this corpse was Sub-Lieutenant Legros.
On emerging from the chapel, a well is visible on the left. There are two in this courtyard. One inquires, Why is there no bucket and pulley to this? It is because water is no longer drawn there. Why is water not drawn there? Because it is full of skeletons.
The last person who drew water from the well was named Guillaume van Kylsom. He was a peasant who lived at Hougomont, and was gardener there. On the 18th of June, 1815, his family fled and concealed themselves in the woods.
The forest surrounding the Abbey of Villiers sheltered these unfortunate people who had been scattered abroad, for many days and nights. There are at this day certain traces recognizable, such as old boles of burned trees, which mark the site of these poor bivouacs trembling in the depths of the thickets.
Guillaume van Kylsom remained at Hougomont, "to guard the chateau," and concealed himself in the cellar. The English discovered him there. They tore him from his hiding-place, and the combatants forced this frightened man to serve them, by administering blows with the flats of their swords. They were thirsty; this Guillaume brought them water. It was from this well that he drew it. Many drank there their last draught. This well where drank so many of the dead was destined to die itself.
After the engagement, they were in haste to bury the dead bodies. Death has a fashion of harassing victory, and she causes the pest to follow glory. The typhus is a concomitant of triumph. This well was deep, and it was turned into a sepulchre. Three hundred dead bodies were cast into it. With too much haste perhaps. Were they all dead? Legend says they were not. It seems that on the night succeeding the interment, feeble voices were heard calling from the well.
This well is isolated in the middle of the courtyard. Three walls, part stone, part brick, and simulating a small, square tower, and folded like the leaves of a screen, surround it on all sides. The fourth side is open. It is there that the water was drawn. The wall at the bottom has a sort of shapeless loophole, possibly the hole made by a shell. This little tower had a platform, of which only the beams remain. The iron supports of the well on the right form a cross. On leaning over, the eye is lost in a deep cylinder of brick which is filled with a heaped-up mass of shadows. The base of the walls all about the well is concealed in a growth of nettles.
This well has not in front of it that large blue slab which forms the table for all wells in Belgium. The slab has here been replaced by a cross-beam, against which lean five or six shapeless fragments of knotty and petrified wood which resemble huge bones. There is no longer either pail, chain, or pulley; but there is still the stone basin which served the overflow. The rain-water collects there, and from time to time a bird of the neighboring forests comes thither to drink, and then flies away. One house in this ruin, the farmhouse, is still inhabited. The door of this house opens on the courtyard. Upon this door, beside a pretty Gothic lock-plate, there is an iron handle with trefoils placed slanting. At the moment when the Hanoverian lieutenant, Wilda, grasped this handle in order to take refuge in the farm, a French sapper hewed off his hand with an axe.
The family who occupy the house had for their grandfather Guillaume van Kylsom, the old gardener, dead long since. A woman with gray hair said to us: "I was there. I was three years old. My sister, who was older, was terrified and wept. They carried us off to the woods. I went there in my mother's arms. We glued our ears to the earth to hear. I imitated the cannon, and went boum! boum!"
A door opening from the courtyard on the left led into the orchard, so we were told. The orchard is terrible.
It is in three parts; one might almost say, in three acts. The first part is a garden, the second is an orchard, the third is a wood. These three parts have a common enclosure: on the side of the entrance, the buildings of the chateau and the farm; on the left, a hedge; on the right, a wall; and at the end, a wall. The wall on the right is of brick, the wall at the bottom is of stone. One enters the garden first. It slopes downwards, is planted with gooseberry bushes, choked with a wild growth of vegetation, and terminated by a monumental terrace of cut stone, with balustrade with a double curve.
It was a seignorial garden in the first French style which preceded Le Notre; to-day it is ruins and briars. The pilasters are surmounted by globes which resemble cannon-balls of stone. Forty-three balusters can still be counted on their sockets; the rest lie prostrate in the grass. Almost all bear scratches of bullets. One broken baluster is placed on the pediment like a fractured leg.
It was in this garden, further down than the orchard, that six light-infantry men of the 1st, having made their way thither, and being unable to escape, hunted down and caught like bears in their dens, accepted the combat with two Hanoverian companies, one of which was armed with carbines. The Hanoverians lined this balustrade and fired from above. The infantry men, replying from below, six against two hundred, intrepid and with no shelter save the currant-bushes, took a quarter of an hour to die.
One mounts a few steps and passes from the garden into the orchard, properly speaking. There, within the limits of those few square fathoms, fifteen hundred men fell in less than an hour. The wall seems ready to renew the combat. Thirty-eight loopholes, pierced by the English at irregular heights, are there still. In front of the sixth are placed two English tombs of granite. There are loopholes only in the south wall, as the principal attack came from that quarter. The wall is hidden on the outside by a tall hedge; the French came up, thinking that they had to deal only with a hedge, crossed it, and found the wall both an obstacle and an ambuscade, with the English guards behind it, the thirty-eight loopholes firing at once a shower of grape-shot and balls, and Soye's brigade was broken against it. Thus Waterloo began.
Nevertheless, the orchard was taken. As they had no ladders, the French scaled it with their nails. They fought hand to hand amid the trees. All this grass has been soaked in blood. A battalion of Nassau, seven hundred strong, was overwhelmed there. The outside of the wall, against which Kellermann's two batteries were trained, is gnawed by grape-shot.
This orchard is sentient, like others, in the month of May. It has its buttercups and its daisies; the grass is tall there; the cart-horses browse there; cords of hair, on which linen is drying, traverse the spaces between the trees and force the passer-by to bend his head; one walks over this uncultivated land, and one's foot dives into mole-holes. In the middle of the grass one observes an uprooted tree-bole which lies there all verdant. Major Blackmann leaned against it to die. Beneath a great tree in the neighborhood fell the German general, Duplat, descended from a French family which fled on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. An aged and falling apple-tree leans far over to one side, its wound dressed with a bandage of straw and of clayey loam. Nearly all the apple-trees are falling with age. There is not one which has not had its bullet or its biscayan.[6] The skeletons of dead trees abound in this orchard. Crows fly through their branches, and at the end of it is a wood full of violets.
[6] A bullet as large as an egg.
Bauduin, killed, Foy wounded, conflagration, massacre, carnage, a rivulet formed of English blood, French blood, German blood mingled in fury, a well crammed with corpses, the regiment of Nassau and the regiment of Brunswick destroyed, Duplat killed, Blackmann killed, the English Guards mutilated, twenty French battalions, besides the forty from Reille's corps, decimated, three thousand men in that hovel of Hougomont alone cut down, slashed to pieces, shot, burned, with their throats cut,--and all this so that a peasant can say to-day to the traveller: Monsieur, give me three francs, and if you like, I will explain to you the affair of Waterloo!
乌古蒙是一个伤心惨目的地方，是障碍的开始，是那名叫拿破仑的欧洲大樵夫在滑铁卢遇到的初次阻力，是巨斧痛劈声中最初碰到的盘根错节。
它原是一个古堡，现在只是一个农家的庄屋了。乌古蒙对好古者来说，应当是雨果蒙。那宅子是贵人索墨雷·雨果，供奉维莱修道院第六祭坛的那位雨果起造的。
过客推开了大门，从停在门洞里的一辆旧软兜车旁边走过，便到了庭院。
在庭院里。第一件使过客注目的东西。便是一扇十六世纪的圆顶门，门旁的一切已经全坍了。宏伟的气象仍从遗迹中显示出来。在离圆顶门不远的墙上，另辟了一道门，门上有亨利四世时代的拱心石，从门洞里可以望见果园中的树林。门旁有个肥料坑、几把十字镐和尖嘴锹，还有几辆小车，一口井口有石板铺地和铁辘轳的古井，一匹小马正在蹦跳，一只火鸡正在开屏，还有一座有小钟楼的礼拜堂，一株桃树，附在礼拜堂的墙上，正开着花。这便是拿破仑当年企图攻破的那个院子的情形。这一隅之地，假使他攻破了，全世界也许就是属于他的。一群母鸡正把地上的灰尘啄得四散。他听见一阵狺吠声，是一头张牙露齿、代替英国人的大恶狗。
当年英国人在这地方是值得钦佩的。库克的四连近卫军，在一军人马猛攻之下，坚持了七个钟头。
乌古蒙，包括房屋和园子在内，在地图上，作为一个几何图形去看，是一个缺了一只角的不规则长方形。南门便在那角上，有道围墙作它最近的屏障。乌古蒙有两道门：南门和北门，也就是古堡的门和庄屋的门。拿破仑派了他的兄弟热罗姆去攻乌古蒙；吉埃米诺、富瓦和巴许吕各师全向那里进扑，雷耶的部队几乎全部用在那方面，仍归失败，克勒曼的炮弹也都消耗在那堵英雄墙上。博丹旅部从北面增援乌古蒙并非多余，索亚旅部在南面只能打个缺口，而不能加以占领。
庄屋在院子的南面。北门被法军打破的一块门板至今还挂在墙上。那是钉在两条横木上面的四块木板，攻打的伤痕还看得出。
这道北门，当时曾被法军攻破过，后来换上了一块门板，用以替代现在挂在墙上的那块；那道门正在院底半掩着，它是开在墙上的一个方洞里的，堵在院子的北面，墙的下段是石块，上段是砖。那是一道在每个庄主人家都有的那种简单的小车门，两扇门板都是粗木板做成的，更远一点，便是草地。当时两军争夺这一关口非常猛烈。门框上满是殷红的血手印，历久不褪，博丹便在此地阵亡。
鏖战的风涛还存在这院里，当时的惨状历历在目，伏尸喋血的情形宛然如在眼前；生死存亡，有如昨日；墙垣呻吟，砖石纷飞，裂口呼叫，弹孔沥血，树枝倾斜战栗，好象力图逃遁。
这院子已不象一八一五年那样完整了，许多起伏曲折、犬牙交错的工事都已拆毁。
英军在这里设过防线，法军突破过，但是守不住。古堡的侧翼仍屹立在那小礼拜堂的旁边。但是已经坍塌，可以说是徒存四壁，空无所有了，这是乌古蒙宅子仅存的残迹。当时以古堡为碉楼，礼拜堂为营寨，两军便在那里互相歼灭。法军四处受到火枪的射击，从墙后面、顶阁上、地窖底里，从每个窗口、每个通风洞、每个石头缝里都受到射击，他们便搬一捆捆树枝去烧那一带的墙和人，射击得到了火攻的回答。
那一侧翼已经毁了，人们从窗口的铁栏缝里还可以看见那些墙砖塌了的房间，当时英军埋伏在那些房间里，一道旋梯，从底到顶全破裂了，好象是个破海螺的内脏。那楼梯分两层，英军当时在楼梯上受到攻击，便聚集在上层的梯级上，并且拆毁下层。大块大块的青石板在荨麻丛里堆得象座小山，却还有十来级附在墙上，在那第一级上搠了一个三齿叉的迹印。那些高不可攀的石级，正如牙床上的牙一样，仍旧牢固地嵌在墙壁里。其余部分就好象是一块掉了牙的颚骨。那里还有两株古树：一株已经死了，一株根上受了伤，年年四月仍发青。从一八一五以来，它的枝叶渐渐穿过了楼梯。
当年在那礼拜堂里也有过一番屠杀。现在却静得出奇。自从那次流血以后，不再有人来做弥撒了。但是祭台依然存在，那是一座靠着粗石壁的粗木祭台。四堵用灰浆刷过的墙，一道对着祭台的门，两扇圆顶小窗，门上有一个高大的木十字架，十字架上面有个被一束干草堵塞了的方形通风眼，在一个墙角的地上，有一个旧玻璃窗框的残骸，这便是那礼拜堂的现状。祭台旁边，钉了一个十五世纪的圣女安娜的木刻像；童年时代的耶稣的头，它不幸也和基督一样受难，竟被一颗铳子打掉了。法军在这礼拜堂里曾一度做过主人，继又被击退，便放了一把火。这破屋里当时满是烈焰，象只火炉，门着过火，地板也着过火，基督的木雕像却不曾着火。火舌灼过他的脚，随即熄灭了，留下两段乌焦的残肢。奇迹，当地的人这样说。儿时的耶稣丢了脑袋，足见他的运气不如基督。
墙上满是游人的字迹。在那基督的脚旁写着：安吉内。还有旁的题名?b@!!!
l?瘃
| ?誡@着惊叹号，那是愤怒的表示。那道墙在一八四九年曾经重加粉刷，因为各国的人在那上面互相辱骂。
一个手里捏着一把板斧的尸首便是在这礼拜堂的门口找到的，那是勒格罗上尉的遗骸。
从礼拜堂出来，朝左，我们可以看见一口井。这院子里原有两口井。我们问：“为什么那口井没有吊桶和滑车了呢？”因为已经没有人到那里取水了。为什么没有人到那里取水呢？因为井里填满枯骨。
到那井里取水的最后一个人叫威廉·范·吉耳逊。他是个农民，当时在乌古蒙当园丁。一八一五年六月十八日，他的家眷曾逃到树林里去躲藏。
那些不幸的流离失所的人在维莱修道院附近的树林里躲了好几昼夜。今天还留下当年的一些痕迹，例如一些烧焦了的古树干，便标志着那些惊慌战栗的难民在树林里露宿的地点。
威廉·范·吉耳逊留在乌古蒙“看守古堡”，他蜷伏在一个地窖里。英国人发现了他。他们把这吓破了胆的人从他的藏身窟里拖出来，用刀背砍他，强迫他伏侍那些战士。他们渴，威廉便供给他们喝。他的水便是从那井里取来的。许多人都在那里喝了他们最后的一口水。这口被许多死人喝过水的井也该同归于尽。
战后大家忙着掩埋尸休。死神有一种独特的扰乱胜利的方法，它在光荣之后继以瘟疫。伤寒症往往是武功的一种副产品。那口井相当深，成了万人冢。那里面丢进了三百具尸体。也许丢得太急。他们果真全是死了的人吗？据传说是未必尽然的。好象在抛尸的那天晚上，还有人听见微弱的叫喊声从井底传出来。
那口井孤零零地在院子中间。三堵半石半砖的墙，折得和屏风的隔扇一样，象个小方塔，三面围着它。第四面是空着的。那便是取水的地方。中间那堵墙有个怪形牛眼洞，也许是个炸弹窟窿。那小塔原有一层顶板，现在只剩木架了。右边护墙的铁件作十字形。我们低着头往下望去，只看见黑魆魆一道砖砌的圆洞，深不见底。井旁的墙脚都埋在荨麻丛里。
在比利时，每口井的周围地上都铺有大块的青石板，而那口井却没有。代替青石板的，只是一条横木，上面架着五六段奇形怪状、多节、僵硬、类似长条枯骨的木头。它已没有吊桶，也没有铁链和滑车了；但盛水的石槽却还存在。雨水聚在里面，常有一只小鸟从邻近的树林中飞来啄饮，继又飞去。
在那废墟里只有一所房子，那便是庄屋，还有人住着。庄屋的门开向院子。门上有一块精致的哥特式的锁面，旁边，斜伸着一个苜蓿形的铁门钮。当日汉诺威的维尔达中尉正握着那门钮，想躲进庄屋去，一个法国敢死队员一斧子便砍下了他的手。
住这房子的那一家人的祖父叫范·吉耳逊，他便是当年的那个园丁，早已死了。一个头发灰白的妇人向您说：“当时我也住在这里。我才三岁。我的姐姐比较大，吓得直哭。他们便把我们带到树林里去了。我躲在母亲怀里。大家都把耳朵贴在地上听，我呢，我学大炮的声音，喊着‘嘣，嘣。’”
院子左边的那道门，我们已经说过，开向果园。
果园的情形惨极了。
它分三部分，我们几乎可以说三幕。第一部分是花园，第二部分是果园，第三部分是树林。这三个部分有一道总围墙，在门的这边有古堡和庄屋，左边有一道篱，右边有一道墙，后面也有一道墙。右边的墙是砖砌的，后面的墙是石砌的。我们先进花园。花园比房子低，种了些覆盆子，生满了野草，尽头处有一座高大的方石平台，栏杆的石柱全作葫芦形。那是一种贵人的花园，它那格局是最早的法国式，比勒诺特尔式还早，现在已经荒废，荆棘丛生。石柱顶端作浑圆体，类似石球。现在还有四十三根石栏杆立在它们的底座上，其余的都倒在草丛里了。几乎每根都有枪弹的伤痕。一条断了的石栏杆竖在平台的前端，如同一条断腿。
花园比果园低，第一轻装队的六个士兵曾经攻进这花园，陷在里面，好象熊落陷阱，出不去，他们受到两连汉诺威兵的攻击，其中一连还配备了火枪。汉诺威兵凭着石栏杆，向下射击。轻装队士兵从低处回射，六个人对付两百，奋不顾身，唯一的屏障只是草丛，他们坚持了一刻钟，六个人同归于尽。
我们踏上几步石级，便从花园进入真正的果园。在一块几平方脱阿斯大小的地方，一千五百人
d@!!!
l?瘃

Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 3 The Eighteenth of June, 1815
Let us turn back,--that is one of the story-teller's rights,-- and put ourselves once more in the year 1815, and even a little earlier than the epoch when the action narrated in the first part of this book took place.
If it had not rained in the night between the 17th and the 18th of June, 1815, the fate of Europe would have been different. A few drops of water, more or less, decided the downfall of Napoleon. All that Providence required in order to make Waterloo the end of Austerlitz was a little more rain, and a cloud traversing the sky out of season sufficed to make a world crumble.
The battle of Waterloo could not be begun until half-past eleven o'clock, and that gave Blucher time to come up. Why? Because the ground was wet. The artillery had to wait until it became a little firmer before they could manoeuvre.
Napoleon was an artillery officer, and felt the effects of this. The foundation of this wonderful captain was the man who, in the report to the Directory on Aboukir, said: Such a one of our balls killed six men. All his plans of battle were arranged for projectiles. The key to his victory was to make the artillery converge on one point. He treated the strategy of the hostile general like a citadel, and made a breach in it. He overwhelmed the weak point with grape-shot; he joined and dissolved battles with cannon. There was something of the sharpshooter in his genius. To beat in squares, to pulverize regiments, to break lines, to crush and disperse masses,--for him everything lay in this, to strike, strike, strike incessantly,-- and he intrusted this task to the cannon-ball. A redoubtable method, and one which, united with genius, rendered this gloomy athlete of the pugilism of war invincible for the space of fifteen years.
On the 18th of June, 1815, he relied all the more on his artillery, because he had numbers on his side. Wellington had only one hundred and fifty-nine mouths of fire; Napoleon had two hundred and forty.
Suppose the soil dry, and the artillery capable of moving, the action would have begun at six o'clock in the morning. The battle would have been won and ended at two o'clock, three hours before the change of fortune in favor of the Prussians. What amount of blame attaches to Napoleon for the loss of this battle? Is the shipwreck due to the pilot?
Was it the evident physical decline of Napoleon that complicated this epoch by an inward diminution of force? Had the twenty years of war worn out the blade as it had worn the scabbard, the soul as well as the body? Did the veteran make himself disastrously felt in the leader? In a word, was this genius, as many historians of note have thought, suffering from an eclipse? Did he go into a frenzy in order to disguise his weakened powers from himself? Did he begin to waver under the delusion of a breath of adventure? Had he become--a grave matter in a general--unconscious of peril? Is there an age, in this class of material great men, who may be called the giants of action, when genius grows short-sighted? Old age has no hold on the geniuses of the ideal; for the Dantes and Michael Angelos to grow old is to grow in greatness; is it to grow less for the Hannibals and the Bonapartes? Had Napoleon lost the direct sense of victory? Had he reached the point where he could no longer recognize the reef, could no longer divine the snare, no longer discern the crumbling brink of abysses? Had he lost his power of scenting out catastrophes? He who had in former days known all the roads to triumph, and who, from the summit of his chariot of lightning, pointed them out with a sovereign finger, had he now reached that state of sinister amazement when he could lead his tumultuous legions harnessed to it, to the precipice? Was he seized at the age of forty-six with a supreme madness? Was that titanic charioteer of destiny no longer anything more than an immense dare-devil?
We do not think so.
His plan of battle was, by the confession of all, a masterpiece. To go straight to the centre of the Allies' line, to make a breach in the enemy, to cut them in two, to drive the British half back on Hal, and the Prussian half on Tongres, to make two shattered fragments of Wellington and Blucher, to carry Mont-Saint-Jean, to seize Brussels, to hurl the German into the Rhine, and the Englishman into the sea. All this was contained in that battle, according to Napoleon. Afterwards people would see.
Of course, we do not here pretend to furnish a history of the battle of Waterloo; one of the scenes of the foundation of the story which we are relating is connected with this battle, but this history is not our subject; this history, moreover, has been finished, and finished in a masterly manner, from one point of view by Napoleon, and from another point of view by a whole pleiad of historians.[7]
[7] Walter Scott, Lamartine, Vaulabelle, Charras, Quinet, Thiers.
As for us, we leave the historians at loggerheads; we are but a distant witness, a passer-by on the plain, a seeker bending over that soil all made of human flesh, taking appearances for realities, perchance; we have no right to oppose, in the name of science, a collection of facts which contain illusions, no doubt; we possess neither military practice nor strategic ability which authorize a system; in our opinion, a chain of accidents dominated the two leaders at Waterloo; and when it becomes a question of destiny, that mysterious culprit, we judge like that ingenious judge, the populace.
追源溯流是讲故事人的一种权利，假设我们是在一八一五年，并且比本书篇一部分所说的那些进攻还稍早一些的时候。
假使在一八一五年六月十七日到十八日的那一晚不曾下雨，欧洲的局面早已改变了。多了几滴雨或少了几滴雨，对拿破仑就成了胜败存亡的关键。上天只须借几滴雨水，便可使滑铁卢成为奥斯特里茨的末日，一片薄云违反了时令的风向穿过天空，便足使一个世界崩溃。
滑铁卢战争只有在十一点半开始，布吕歇尔才能从容赶到。为什么？因为地面湿了。炮队只有等到地面干一点，否则不能活动。
拿破仑是使炮的能手，他自己也这样觉得。他在向督政府报告阿布基尔战况的文件里说过：“我们的炮弹便这样打死了六个人。”这句话可以说明那位天才将领的特点。他的一切战争计划全建立在炮弹上。集中大炮火力于某一点，那便是他胜利的秘诀。他把敌军将领的战略，看成一个堡垒，加以迎头痛击。他用开花弹攻打敌人的弱点，挑战，解围，也全赖炮力。他的天才最善于使炮。攻陷方阵，粉碎联队，突破阵线，消灭和驱散密集队伍，那一切便是他的手法，打，打，不停地打，而他把那种打的工作交给炮弹。那种锐不可当的方法，加上他的天才，便使战场上的这位沉郁的挥拳好汉在十五年中所向披靡。
一八一五年六月十八日，正因为炮位占优势，他更寄希望于发挥炮的威力。威灵顿只有一百五十九尊火器，而拿破仑有二百四十尊。
假使地是干的，炮队易于行动，早晨六点便已开火了。战事在两点钟，比普鲁士军队的突然出现还早三个钟头就告结束，已经获得胜利了。
在那次战争的失败里拿破仑方面的错误占多少成分呢？
中流失事便应归咎于舵工吗？
拿破仑体力上明显的变弱，那时难道已引起他精力的衰退？二十年的战争，难道象磨损剑鞘那样，也磨损了剑刃，象消耗体力那样，也消耗了精神吗？这位将领难道也已感到年龄的困累吗？简单地说，这位天才，确如许多优秀的史学家所公认的那样，已经衰弱了吗？他是不是为了要掩饰自己的衰弱，才轻举妄动呢？他是不是在一场风险的困惑中，开始把握不住了呢？难道他犯了为将者的大忌，变成了不了解危险的人吗？在那些可以称作大活动家的钢筋铁骨的人杰里，果真存在着天才退化的时期吗？对精神活动方面的天才，老年是不起影响的，象但丁和米开朗琪罗这类人物，年岁越高，才气越盛；对汉尼拔①和波拿巴这类人物，才气难道会随着岁月消逝吗？难道拿破仑对胜利已失去了他那种锐利的眼光吗？他竟到了认不清危险，猜不出陷阱、分辨不出坑谷边上的悬崖那种地步吗？对灾难他已失去嗅觉了吗？他从前素来洞悉一切走向成功的道路，手握雷电，发踪指使，难道现在竟昏愦到自投绝地，把手下的千军万马推入深渊吗？四十六岁，他便害了无可救药的狂病吗？那位掌握命运的怪杰难道已只是一条大莽汉了吗？
我们绝不那么想。 
①汉尼拔（Hannibal，约前247－183），杰出的迦太基统帅。　
他的作战计划，众所周知是件杰作。直赴联军阵线中心，洞穿敌阵，把它截为两半，把不列颠的一半驱逐到阿尔，普鲁士的一半驱逐到潼格尔，使威灵顿和布吕歇尔不能首尾相应，夺取圣约翰山，占领布鲁塞尔，把德国人抛入莱茵河，英国人投入海中。那一切，在拿破仑看来，都是能在那次战争中实现的。至于以后的事，以后再看。
在此地我们当然没有写滑铁卢史的奢望，我们现在要谈的故事的伏线和那次战争有关，但是那段历史并不是我们的主题，况且那段历史是已经编好了的，洋洋洒洒地编好了的，一方面，有拿破仑的自述，另一方面，有史界七贤①的著作。至于我们，尽可以让那些史学家去聚讼，我们只是一个事后的见证人，原野中的一个过客，一个在那血肉狼藉的地方俯首搜索的人，也许是一个把表面现象看作实际情况的人；对一般错综复杂、神妙莫测的事物，从科学观点考虑问题，我们没有发言权，我们没有军事上的经验和战略上的才干，不能成为一家之言；在我们看来，在滑铁卢，那两个将领被一连串偶然事故所支配。至于命运，这神秘的被告，我们和人民（这天真率直的评判者）一样，对它作出我们的判决。 
①按此处法文原注只列举瓦尔特·斯高特（WalterScott）、拉马丁（Lamartine）、沃拉贝尔（Vaulabelle）、夏拉（Charras）、基内（Quinet）、齐埃尔（Zhiers）等六人。 
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 4 A
Those persons who wish to gain a clear idea of the battle of Waterloo have only to place, mentally, on the ground, a capital A. The left limb of the A is the road to Nivelles, the right limb is the road to Genappe, the tie of the A is the hollow road to Ohain from Braine-l'Alleud. The top of the A is Mont-Saint-Jean, where Wellington is; the lower left tip is Hougomont, where Reille is stationed with Jerome Bonaparte; the right tip is the Belle-Alliance, where Napoleon was. At the centre of this chord is the precise point where the final word of the battle was pronounced. It was there that the lion has been placed, the involuntary symbol of the supreme heroism of the Imperial Guard.
The triangle included in the top of the A, between the two limbs and the tie, is the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean. The dispute over this plateau constituted the whole battle. The wings of the two armies extended to the right and left of the two roads to Genappe and Nivelles; d'Erlon facing Picton, Reille facing Hill.
Behind the tip of the A, behind the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean, is the forest of Soignes.
As for the plain itself, let the reader picture to himself a vast undulating sweep of ground; each rise commands the next rise, and all the undulations mount towards Mont-Saint-Jean, and there end in the forest.
Two hostile troops on a field of battle are two wrestlers. It is a question of seizing the opponent round the waist. The one seeks to trip up the other. They clutch at everything: a bush is a point of support; an angle of the wall offers them a rest to the shoulder; for the lack of a hovel under whose cover they can draw up, a regiment yields its ground; an unevenness in the ground, a chance turn in the landscape, a cross-path encountered at the right moment, a grove, a ravine, can stay the heel of that colossus which is called an army, and prevent its retreat. He who quits the field is beaten; hence the necessity devolving on the responsible leader, of examining the most insignificant clump of trees, and of studying deeply the slightest relief in the ground.
The two generals had attentively studied the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean, now called the plain of Waterloo. In the preceding year, Wellington, with the sagacity of foresight, had examined it as the possible seat of a great battle. Upon this spot, and for this duel, on the 18th of June, Wellington had the good post, Napoleon the bad post. The English army was stationed above, the French army below.
It is almost superfluous here to sketch the appearance of Napoleon on horseback, glass in hand, upon the heights of Rossomme, at daybreak, on June 18, 1815. All the world has seen him before we can show him. That calm profile under the little three-cornered hat of the school of Brienne, that green uniform, the white revers concealing the star of the Legion of Honor, his great coat hiding his epaulets, the corner of red ribbon peeping from beneath his vest, his leather trousers, the white horse with the saddle-cloth of purple velvet bearing on the corners crowned N's and eagles, Hessian boots over silk stockings, silver spurs, the sword of Marengo,--that whole figure of the last of the Caesars is present to all imaginations, saluted with acclamations by some, severely regarded by others.
That figure stood for a long time wholly in the light; this arose from a certain legendary dimness evolved by the majority of heroes, and which always veils the truth for a longer or shorter time; but to-day history and daylight have arrived.
That light called history is pitiless; it possesses this peculiar and divine quality, that, pure light as it is, and precisely because it is wholly light, it often casts a shadow in places where people had hitherto beheld rays; from the same man it constructs two different phantoms, and the one attacks the other and executes justice on it, and the shadows of the despot contend with the brilliancy of the leader. Hence arises a truer measure in the definitive judgments of nations. Babylon violated lessens Alexander, Rome enchained lessens Caesar, Jerusalem murdered lessens Titus, tyranny follows the tyrant. It is a misfortune for a man to leave behind him the night which bears his form.
希望清楚地了解滑铁卢战争的人，只须在想象中把一个大写的A字写在地上。A字的左边一划是尼维尔公路，右边一划是热纳普公路，A字中间的横线是从奥安到布兰拉勒的一条凹路。A字的顶是圣约翰山，威灵顿所在的地方；左下端是乌古蒙，雷耶和热罗姆·波拿巴①所在的地方；右下端是佳盟，拿破仑所在的地方。比右腿和横线的交点稍低一点的地方是圣拉埃，横线的中心点正是战争完毕说出最后那个字②的地方。无意中把羽林军的至高英勇表现出来的那只狮子便竖立在这一点上。 
①热罗姆·波拿巴，拿破仑的八弟。
②指康布罗纳将军在拒绝投降时对英军说的那个“屎”字，详见下面第十四、十五节。法国人说“屎”字有如我们说“放屁”一样，有极端轻视对方的意思。　
从A字的尖顶到横线和左右两划中间的那个三角地带是圣约翰山高地。争夺那片高地是那次战争的全部过程。
两军的侧翼在热纳普路和尼维尔路上向左右两侧展开；
戴尔隆和皮克顿对峙，雷耶和希尔对峙。
在A字的尖顶和圣约翰山高地后面的，是索瓦宁森林。
至于那平原本身，我们可以把它想象为一片辽阔、起伏如波浪的旷地；波浪越起越高，齐向圣约翰山荡去，直到那森林。
战场上两军交战，正如两人角力，彼此互相搂抱。彼此都要使对方摔倒。我们对任何一点东西都不肯放松；一丛小树可以作为据点，一个墙角可以成为支柱，背后缺少一点依靠，可以使整队人马立不住足；平原上的洼地，地形的变化，一条适当的捷径，一片树林，一条山沟，都可以撑住大军的脚眼，使它不后退。谁退出战场，谁就失败。因此，负责的主帅必须细致深入地察遍每一丛小树和每一处有轻微起伏的地形。
两军的将领都曾仔细研究过圣约翰山平原棗今日已改称滑铁卢平原。一年以前，威灵顿便早有先见，已经考察过这地方，作了进行大战的准备。在那次决战中，六月十八日，威灵顿在那片地上占了优势，拿破仑处于劣势。英军居高，法军居下。
在此地描绘拿破仑于一八一五年六月十八日黎明，在罗松高地上骑着马，手里拿着望远镜的形象，那几乎是多事。在写出以前，大家早已全见过了。布里埃纳①军校的小帽下那种镇静的侧面像，那身绿色的军服，遮着勋章的白翻领，遮着肩章的灰色外衣，坎肩下的一角红丝带，皮短裤，骑匹白马，马背上覆着紫绒，紫绒角上有几个上冠皇冕的N和鹰，丝袜，长统马靴，银刺马距，马伦哥剑，在每个人的想象中都有着这副最后一个恺撒的尊容，有些人见了欢欣鼓舞，有些人见了侧目而视。 
①布里埃纳（Brerne），地名，拿破仑在该地军校毕业。
那副尊容久已处于一片光明之中，即使英雄人物也多半要受到传说的歪曲，致使真相或久或暂受到蒙蔽，但到今天，历史和真象都已大白。
那种真象棗历史棗是冷酷无情的。历史有这样一种特点和妙用，尽管它是光明，并且正因为它是光明，便常在光辉所到之处涂上一层阴影；它把同一个人造成两个不同的鬼物，互相攻讦，互相排斥。暴君的黑暗和统帅的荣光进行斗争。于是人民有了比较正确的定论。巴比伦被蹂躏，亚历山大的声誉有损；罗马被奴役，恺撒因而无光；耶路撒冷被屠戮，梯特为之减色。暴政随暴君而起。一个人身后曳着和他本人相似的暗影，对他而言那是一种不幸。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 5 The Quid Obscurum of Battles
Every one is acquainted with the first phase of this battle; a beginning which was troubled, uncertain, hesitating, menacing to both armies, but still more so for the English than for the French.
It had rained all night, the earth had been cut up by the downpour, the water had accumulated here and there in the hollows of the plain as if in casks; at some points the gear of the artillery carriages was buried up to the axles, the circingles of the horses were dripping with liquid mud. If the wheat and rye trampled down by this cohort of transports on the march had not filled in the ruts and strewn a litter beneath the wheels, all movement, particularly in the valleys, in the direction of Papelotte would have been impossible.
The affair began late. Napoleon, as we have already explained, was in the habit of keeping all his artillery well in hand, like a pistol, aiming it now at one point, now at another, of the battle; and it had been his wish to wait until the horse batteries could move and gallop freely. In order to do that it was necessary that the sun should come out and dry the soil. But the sun did not make its appearance. It was no longer the rendezvous of Austerlitz. When the first cannon was fired, the English general, Colville, looked at his watch, and noted that it was thirty-five minutes past eleven.
The action was begun furiously, with more fury, perhaps, than the Emperor would have wished, by the left wing of the French resting on Hougomont. At the same time Napoleon attacked the centre by hurling Quiot's brigade on La Haie-Sainte, and Ney pushed forward the right wing of the French against the left wing of the English, which rested on Papelotte.
The attack on Hougomont was something of a feint; the plan was to draw Wellington thither, and to make him swerve to the left. This plan would have succeeded if the four companies of the English guards and the brave Belgians of Perponcher's division had not held the position solidly, and Wellington, instead of massing his troops there, could confine himself to despatching thither, as reinforcements, only four more companies of guards and one battalion from Brunswick.
The attack of the right wing of the French on Papelotte was calculated, in fact, to overthrow the English left, to cut off the road to Brussels, to bar the passage against possible Prussians, to force Mont-Saint-Jean, to turn Wellington back on Hougomont, thence on Braine-l'Alleud, thence on Hal; nothing easier. With the exception of a few incidents this attack succeeded Papelotte was taken; La Haie-Sainte was carried.
A detail to be noted. There was in the English infantry, particularly in Kempt's brigade, a great many raw recruits. These young soldiers were valiant in the presence of our redoubtable infantry; their inexperience extricated them intrepidly from the dilemma; they performed particularly excellent service as skirmishers: the soldier skirmisher, left somewhat to himself, becomes, so to speak, his own general. These recruits displayed some of the French ingenuity and fury. This novice of an infantry had dash. This displeased Wellington.
After the taking of La Haie-Sainte the battle wavered.
There is in this day an obscure interval, from mid-day to four o'clock; the middle portion of this battle is almost indistinct, and participates in the sombreness of the hand-to-hand conflict. Twilight reigns over it. We perceive vast fluctuations in that fog, a dizzy mirage, paraphernalia of war almost unknown to-day, pendant colbacks, floating sabre-taches, cross-belts, cartridge-boxes for grenades, hussar dolmans, red boots with a thousand wrinkles, heavy shakos garlanded with torsades, the almost black infantry of Brunswick mingled with the scarlet infantry of England, the English soldiers with great, white circular pads on the slopes of their shoulders for epaulets, the Hanoverian light-horse with their oblong casques of leather, with brass hands and red horse-tails, the Scotch with their bare knees and plaids, the great white gaiters of our grenadiers; pictures, not strategic lines--what Salvator Rosa requires, not what is suited to the needs of Gribeauval.
A certain amount of tempest is always mingled with a battle. Quid obscurum, quid divinum. Each historian traces, to some extent, the particular feature which pleases him amid this pellmell. Whatever may be the combinations of the generals, the shock of armed masses has an incalculable ebb. During the action the plans of the two leaders enter into each other and become mutually thrown out of shape. Such a point of the field of battle devours more combatants than such another, just as more or less spongy soils soak up more or less quickly the water which is poured on them. It becomes necessary to pour out more soldiers than one would like; a series of expenditures which are the unforeseen. The line of battle waves and undulates like a thread, the trails of blood gush illogically, the fronts of the armies waver, the regiments form capes and gulfs as they enter and withdraw; all these reefs are continually moving in front of each other. Where the infantry stood the artillery arrives, the cavalry rushes in where the artillery was, the battalions are like smoke. There was something there; seek it. It has disappeared; the open spots change place, the sombre folds advance and retreat, a sort of wind from the sepulchre pushes forward, hurls back, distends, and disperses these tragic multitudes. What is a fray? an oscillation? The immobility of a mathematical plan expresses a minute, not a day. In order to depict a battle, there is required one of those powerful painters who have chaos in their brushes. Rembrandt is better than Vandermeulen; Vandermeulen, exact at noon, lies at three o'clock. Geometry is deceptive; the hurricane alone is trustworthy. That is what confers on Folard the right to contradict Polybius. Let us add, that there is a certain instant when the battle degenerates into a combat, becomes specialized, and disperses into innumerable detailed feats, which, to borrow the expression of Napoleon himself, "belong rather to the biography of the regiments than to the history of the army." The historian has, in this case, the evident right to sum up the whole. He cannot do more than seize the principal outlines of the struggle, and it is not given to any one narrator, however conscientious he may be, to fix, absolutely, the form of that horrible cloud which is called a battle.
This, which is true of all great armed encounters, is particularly applicable to Waterloo.
Nevertheless, at a certain moment in the afternoon the battle came to a point.
大家知道那次战争最初阶段的局面对双方的军队都是紧张、混乱、棘手、危急的，但是英军比法军还更危殆。落了一整夜的雨；暴雨之后，一片泥泞；原野上，处处是水坑，水在坑里，如在盆中；在某些地方，辎重车的轮子淹没了一半，马的肚带上滴着泥浆；假使没有那群蜂拥前进的车辆所压倒的大麦和稞麦把车辙填起来替车轮垫底，一切行动，尤其是在帕佩洛特一带的山谷里，都会是不可能的。
战争开始得迟，拿破仑，我们已经说过，惯于把全部炮队握在手里，如同握管手枪，时而指向战争的某一点，时而又指向另一点；所以他要等待，好让驾好了的炮队能驰骤自如；要做到这一步，非得太阳出来晒干地面不可。但是太阳迟迟不现，这回它却不象奥斯特里茨那次那样守约了。第一炮发出时，英国的科维尔将军看了一下表，当时正是十一点卅五分。
战事开始时法军左翼猛扑乌古蒙，那种猛烈程度，也许比皇上所预期的还更猛些。同时拿破仑进攻中部，命吉奥的旅部冲击圣拉埃，内伊①也命令法军的右翼向盘据在帕佩洛特的英军左翼挺进。 
①内伊（Ney），拿破仑部下的得力元帅。　
乌古蒙方面的攻势有些诱敌作用。原想把威灵顿引到那里去，使他偏重左方，计划是那样定的。假使那四连英国近卫军和佩尔蓬谢部下的那一师忠勇的比利时兵不曾固守防地，那计划也许成了功，但是威灵顿并没有向乌古蒙集中，只加派了四连近卫军和不伦瑞克的营部赴援。
法军右翼向帕佩洛特的攻势已经完成，计划是要击溃英军左翼，截断通向布鲁塞尔的道路，切断那可能到达的普鲁士军队的来路，进逼圣约翰山，想把威灵顿先撵到乌古蒙，再撵到布兰拉勒，再撵到阿尔，那是显而易见的。假使没有发生意外，那一路进击，一定会成功。帕佩洛特夺过来了，圣拉埃也占住了。
附带说一句。在英军的步兵中，尤其是在兰伯特的旅部里，有不少新兵。那些青年战士，在我们勇猛的步兵前面是顽强的，他们缺乏经验，却能奋勇作战，他们尤其作了出色的散兵战斗，散兵只须稍稍振奋，便可成为自己的将军，那些新兵颇有法国军人的那种独立作战和奋不顾身的劲头。那些乳臭小兵都相当冲动，威灵顿为之不乐。
在夺取了圣拉埃以后，战事形成了相持不下的局面。
那天，从中午到四点，中间有一段混乱过程；战况差不多是不明的，成了一种混战状态。黄昏将近，千军万马在暮霭中往复飘荡，那是一种惊心动魄的奇观，当时的军容今日已经不可复见了，红缨帽，飘荡的佩剑，交叉的革带，榴弹包，轻骑兵的盘绦军服，千褶红靴，缨络累累的羽毛冠，一色朱红，肩上有代替肩章的白色大圆环的英国步兵和几乎纯黑的不伦瑞克步兵交相辉映，还有头戴铜箍、红缨、椭圆形皮帽的汉诺威轻骑兵，露着膝头、披着方格衣服的苏格兰兵，我国羽林军的白色长绑腿，这是一幅幅图画，而不是一行行阵线，为萨尔瓦多·罗扎①所需，不为格里德瓦尔②所需。 
①萨尔瓦多·罗扎（SalvatorRosa），1615?673），意大利画家，作画尚色彩富丽。
②格里博瓦尔（Gribeauval），法国十八世纪革命前的一个将军。　
每次战争总有风云的变幻。“天意莫测。”每个史学家都随心所欲把那些混乱情形描写几笔。为将者无论怎样筹划，一到交锋，总免不了千变万化，时进时退；在战事进行中，两军将领所定的计划必然互有出入，互相牵制。战场的某一点所吞没的战士会比另一点多些，仿佛那些地方的海绵吸水性强弱不同，因而吸收水量的快慢也不一样。为将者无可奈何，只得在某些地方多填一些士兵下去。那是一种意外的消耗。战线如长蛇，蜿蜒动荡，鲜血如溪水，狂妄地流着，两军的前锋汹涌如波涛，军队或进或退，交错如地角海湾，那一切礁石也都面面相对，浮动不停；炮队迎步兵，马队追炮队，队伍如烟云。那里明明有一点东西，细看却又不见了，稀疏的地方迁移不定，浓密的烟尘进退无常，有种阴风把那些血肉横飞的人堆推上前去，继又撵回来，扫集到一处，继又把他们驱散四方。混战是什么呢？是种周旋进退的动作。精密的计划是死东西，只适合于一分钟，对一整天不适合。描绘战争，非得有才气纵横、笔势雄浑的画家不可；伦勃朗①就比范·德·米伦②高明些。范·德·米伦正确地画出了中午的情形，却不是三点钟的真相。几何学不足为凭，只有飓风是真实的。因此福拉尔③有驳斥波利比乌斯④的理由。我们应当补充一句，在某个时刻，战争常转成肉博，人自为战，分散为无数的细枝末节。拿破仑说过：“那些情节属于各联队的生活史，而不属于大军的历史。”在那种情况下，史学家显然只能叙述一个梗概。他只能掌握战争的主要轮廓，无论怎样力求忠实，也决不能把战云的形态刻画出来。 
①伦勃朗（Rembrandt），十七世纪荷兰画家。
②范·德·米伦（VonDerMeulen），十七世纪佛兰德画家，曾在路易十四朝廷工作二十五年，故一般视作法国画家。
③福拉尔（Folard），十八世纪法国兵法家。
④波利比乌斯（Polybe），公元前二世纪希腊历史学家。
　这对任何一次大会战都是正确的，尤其是对滑铁卢。
可是，到了下午，在某个时刻，战争的局势渐渐分明了。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 7 Napoleon in a Good Humor
The Emperor, though ill and discommoded on horseback by a local trouble, had never been in a better humor than on that day. His impenetrability had been smiling ever since the morning. On the 18th of June, that profound soul masked by marble beamed blindly. The man who had been gloomy at Austerlitz was gay at Waterloo. The greatest favorites of destiny make mistakes. Our joys are composed of shadow. The supreme smile is God's alone.
Ridet Caesar, Pompeius flebit, said the legionaries of the Fulminatrix Legion. Pompey was not destined to weep on that occasion, but it is certain that Caesar laughed. While exploring on horseback at one o'clock on the preceding night, in storm and rain, in company with Bertrand, the communes in the neighborhood of Rossomme, satisfied at the sight of the long line of the English camp-fires illuminating the whole horizon from Frischemont to Braine-l'Alleud, it had seemed to him that fate, to whom he had assigned a day on the field of Waterloo, was exact to the appointment; he stopped his horse, and remained for some time motionless, gazing at the lightning and listening to the thunder; and this fatalist was heard to cast into the darkness this mysterious saying, "We are in accord." Napoleon was mistaken. They were no longer in accord.
He took not a moment for sleep; every instant of that night was marked by a joy for him. He traversed the line of the principal outposts, halting here and there to talk to the sentinels. At half-past two, near the wood of Hougomont, he heard the tread of a column on the march; he thought at the moment that it was a retreat on the part of Wellington. He said: "It is the rear-guard of the English getting under way for the purpose of decamping. I will take prisoners the six thousand English who have just arrived at Ostend." He conversed expansively; he regained the animation which he had shown at his landing on the first of March, when he pointed out to the Grand-Marshal the enthusiastic peasant of the Gulf Juan, and cried, "Well, Bertrand, here is a reinforcement already!" On the night of the 17th to the 18th of June he rallied Wellington. "That little Englishman needs a lesson," said Napoleon. The rain redoubled in violence; the thunder rolled while the Emperor was speaking.
At half-past three o'clock in the morning, he lost one illusion; officers who had been despatched to reconnoitre announced to him that the enemy was not making any movement. Nothing was stirring; not a bivouac-fire had been extinguished; the English army was asleep. The silence on earth was profound; the only noise was in the heavens. At four o'clock, a peasant was brought in to him by the scouts; this peasant had served as guide to a brigade of English cavalry, probably Vivian's brigade, which was on its way to take up a position in the village of Ohain, at the extreme left. At five o'clock, two Belgian deserters reported to him that they had just quitted their regiment, and that the English army was ready for battle. "So much the better!" exclaimed Napoleon. "I prefer to overthrow them rather than to drive them back."
In the morning he dismounted in the mud on the slope which forms an angle with the Plancenoit road, had a kitchen table and a peasant's chair brought to him from the farm of Rossomme, seated himself, with a truss of straw for a carpet, and spread out on the table the chart of the battle-field, saying to Soult as he did so, "A pretty checker-board."
In consequence of the rains during the night, the transports of provisions, embedded in the soft roads, had not been able to arrive by morning; the soldiers had had no sleep; they were wet and fasting. This did not prevent Napoleon from exclaiming cheerfully to Ney, "We have ninety chances out of a hundred." At eight o'clock the Emperor's breakfast was brought to him. He invited many generals to it. During breakfast, it was said that Wellington had been to a ball two nights before, in Brussels, at the Duchess of Richmond's; and Soult, a rough man of war, with a face of an archbishop, said, "The ball takes place to-day." The Emperor jested with Ney, who said, "Wellington will not be so simple as to wait for Your Majesty." That was his way, however. "He was fond of jesting," says Fleury de Chaboulon. "A merry humor was at the foundation of his character," says Gourgaud. "He abounded in pleasantries, which were more peculiar than witty," says Benjamin Constant. These gayeties of a giant are worthy of insistence. It was he who called his grenadiers "his grumblers"; he pinched their ears; he pulled their mustaches. "The Emperor did nothing but play pranks on us," is the remark of one of them. During the mysterious trip from the island of Elba to France, on the 27th of February, on the open sea, the French brig of war, Le Zephyr, having encountered the brig L'Inconstant, on which Napoleon was concealed, and having asked the news of Napoleon from L'Inconstant, the Emperor, who still wore in his hat the white and amaranthine cockade sown with bees, which he had adopted at the isle of Elba, laughingly seized the speaking-trumpet, and answered for himself, "The Emperor is well." A man who laughs like that is on familiar terms with events. Napoleon indulged in many fits of this laughter during the breakfast at Waterloo. After breakfast he meditated for a quarter of an hour; then two generals seated themselves on the truss of straw, pen in hand and their paper on their knees, and the Emperor dictated to them the order of battle.
At nine o'clock, at the instant when the French army, ranged in echelons and set in motion in five columns, had deployed-- the divisions in two lines, the artillery between the brigades, the music at their head; as they beat the march, with rolls on the drums and the blasts of trumpets, mighty, vast, joyous, a sea of casques, of sabres, and of bayonets on the horizon, the Emperor was touched, and twice exclaimed, "Magnificent! Magnificent!"
Between nine o'clock and half-past ten the whole army, incredible as it may appear, had taken up its position and ranged itself in six lines, forming, to repeat the Emperor's expression, "the figure of six V's." A few moments after the formation of the battle-array, in the midst of that profound silence, like that which heralds the beginning of a storm, which precedes engagements, the Emperor tapped Haxo on the shoulder, as he beheld the three batteries of twelve-pounders, detached by his orders from the corps of Erlon, Reille, and Lobau, and destined to begin the action by taking Mont-Saint-Jean, which was situated at the intersection of the Nivelles and the Genappe roads, and said to him, "There are four and twenty handsome maids, General."
Sure of the issue, he encouraged with a smile, as they passed before him, the company of sappers of the first corps, which he had appointed to barricade Mont-Saint-Jean as soon as the village should be carried. All this serenity had been traversed by but a single word of haughty pity; perceiving on his left, at a spot where there now stands a large tomb, those admirable Scotch Grays, with their superb horses, massing themselves, he said, "It is a pity."
Then he mounted his horse, advanced beyond Rossomme, and selected for his post of observation a contracted elevation of turf to the right of the road from Genappe to Brussels, which was his second station during the battle. The third station, the one adopted at seven o'clock in the evening, between La Belle-Alliance and La Haie-Sainte, is formidable; it is a rather elevated knoll, which still exists, and behind which the guard was massed on a slope of the plain. Around this knoll the balls rebounded from the pavements of the road, up to Napoleon himself. As at Brienne, he had over his head the shriek of the bullets and of the heavy artillery. Mouldy cannon-balls, old sword-blades, and shapeless projectiles, eaten up with rust, were picked up at the spot where his horse' feet stood. Scabra rubigine. A few years ago, a shell of sixty pounds, still charged, and with its fuse broken off level with the bomb, was unearthed. It was at this last post that the Emperor said to his guide, Lacoste, a hostile and terrified peasant, who was attached to the saddle of a hussar, and who turned round at every discharge of canister and tried to hide behind Napoleon: "Fool, it is shameful! You'll get yourself killed with a ball in the back." He who writes these lines has himself found, in the friable soil of this knoll, on turning over the sand, the remains of the neck of a bomb, disintegrated, by the oxidization of six and forty years, and old fragments of iron which parted like elder-twigs between the fingers.
Every one is aware that the variously inclined undulations of the plains, where the engagement between Napoleon and Wellington took place, are no longer what they were on June 18, 1815. By taking from this mournful field the wherewithal to make a monument to it, its real relief has been taken away, and history, disconcerted, no longer finds her bearings there. It has been disfigured for the sake of glorifying it. Wellington, when he beheld Waterloo once more, two years later, exclaimed, "They have altered my field of battle!" Where the great pyramid of earth, surmounted by the lion, rises to-day, there was a hillock which descended in an easy slope towards the Nivelles road, but which was almost an escarpment on the side of the highway to Genappe. The elevation of this escarpment can still be measured by the height of the two knolls of the two great sepulchres which enclose the road from Genappe to Brussels: one, the English tomb, is on the left; the other, the German tomb, is on the right. There is no French tomb. The whole of that plain is a sepulchre for France. Thanks to the thousands upon thousands of cartloads of earth employed in the hillock one hundred and fifty feet in height and half a mile in circumference, the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean is now accessible by an easy slope. On the day of battle, particularly on the side of La Haie-Sainte, it was abrupt and difficult of approach. The slope there is so steep that the English cannon could not see the farm, situated in the bottom of the valley, which was the centre of the combat. On the 18th of June, 1815, the rains had still farther increased this acclivity, the mud complicated the problem of the ascent, and the men not only slipped back, but stuck fast in the mire. Along the crest of the plateau ran a sort of trench whose presence it was impossible for the distant observer to divine.
What was this trench? Let us explain. Braine-l'Alleud is a Belgian village; Ohain is another. These villages, both of them concealed in curves of the landscape, are connected by a road about a league and a half in length, which traverses the plain along its undulating level, and often enters and buries itself in the hills like a furrow, which makes a ravine of this road in some places. In 1815, as at the present day, this road cut the crest of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean between the two highways from Genappe and Nivelles; only, it is now on a level with the plain; it was then a hollow way. Its two slopes have been appropriated for the monumental hillock. This road was, and still is, a trench throughout the greater portion of its course; a hollow trench, sometimes a dozen feet in depth, and whose banks, being too steep, crumbled away here and there, particularly in winter, under driving rains. Accidents happened here. The road was so narrow at the Braine-l'Alleud entrance that a passer-by was crushed by a cart, as is proved by a stone cross which stands near the cemetery, and which gives the name of the dead, Monsieur Bernard Debrye, Merchant of Brussels, and the date of the accident, February, 1637.[8] It was so deep on the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean that a peasant, Mathieu Nicaise, was crushed there, in 1783, by a slide from the slope, as is stated on another stone cross, the top of which has disappeared in the process of clearing the ground, but whose overturned pedestal is still visible on the grassy slope to the left of the highway between La Haie-Sainte and the farm of Mont-Saint-Jean.
[8] This is the inscription:-- D. O. M. CY A ETE ECRASE, PAR MALHEUR, SOUS UN CHARIOT, MONSIEUR BERNARD, DE BRYE MARCHAND, A BRUXELLE LE [Illegible], FEVRIER 1637.
On the day of battle, this hollow road whose existence was in no way indicated, bordering the crest of Mont-Saint-Jean, a trench at the summit of the escarpment, a rut concealed in the soil, was invisible; that is to say, terrible.
皇上骑在马上，他虽然有病，虽因一点局部的毛病而感到不便，却从不曾有过那天那样愉快的心情。从早晨起，他那深沉莫测的神色中便含有笑意。一八一五年六月十八日，他那隐在冷脸下面的深邃的灵魂，盲目地发射着光辉。在奥斯特里茨心情沉闷的那个人，在滑铁卢却是愉快的。大凡受枯于天的异人常有那种无可理解的表现。我们的欢乐常蕴藏着忧患。最后一笑是属于上帝的。
“恺撒笑，庞培①哭。”福尔弥纳特利克斯的部下说过。这一次，庞培该不至于哭，而恺撒却确实笑了。 
①庞培为纪元前一世纪罗马大帝恺撤的政敌，后卒为恺撒所败。　
自从前一夜的一点钟起，他就骑着马，在狂风疾雨中和贝特朗一道巡视着罗松附近一带的山地，望见英军的火光从弗里谢蒙一直延展到布兰拉勒，照映在地平线上，他心中感到满意，好象觉得他所指定应在某日来到滑铁卢战场的幸运果然应时到了；他勒住了他的马，望着闪电，听着雷声，呆呆地停留了一会，有人听见那宿命论者在黑夜中说了这样一句神秘的话：“我们是同心协力的。”他搞错了，他们已不同心协力了。
他一分钟也不曾睡，那一整夜，每时每刻对他都是欢乐。他走遍了前哨阵地，随时随地停下来和那些斥候骑兵谈话。两点半钟，他在乌古蒙树林附近听见一个纵队行进的声音，他心里一动，以为是威灵顿退阵，他向贝特朗说：“这是英国后防军准备退却的行动。我要把刚到奥斯坦德的那六千英国兵俘虏过来。”他语气豪放，回想起三月一日在茹安海湾登陆时看见的一个惊喜若狂的农民，他把那农民指给大元帅①看，喊道：“看，贝特朗，生力军已经来了！”现在他又有了那种豪迈气概。六月十七到十八的那一晚上，他不时取笑威灵顿，“这英国小鬼得受点教训。”拿破仑说。雨更加大了，在皇上说话时雷声大作。 
①大元帅指贝特朗。　
到早晨三点半钟，他那幻想已经消失，派去侦察敌情的军官们回来报告他，说敌军毫无行动。一切安定，营火全没有熄。英国军队正睡着，地上绝无动静，声音全在天上。四点钟，有几个巡逻兵带来了一个农民，那农民当过向导，曾替一旅预备到极左方奥安村去驻防的英国骑兵引路，那也许是维维安旅。五点钟，两个比利时叛兵向他报告，说他们刚离开队伍，并且说英军在等待战斗。
“好极了！”拿破仑喊着说，“我不但要打退他们，而且要打翻他们。”
到了早晨，他在普朗尚努瓦路转角的高堤上下了马，立在烂泥中，叫人从罗松庄屋搬来一张厨房用的桌子和一张农民用的椅子，他坐下来，用一捆麦秸做地毯，把那战场的地图摊在桌上，向苏尔特说：“多好看的棋盘！”
由于夜里下了雨，粮秣运输队都阻滞在路上的泥坑里，不能一早到达；兵士们不曾睡，身上湿了，并且没有东西吃；但是拿破仑仍兴高采烈地向内伊叫着说：“我们有百分之九十的机会。”八点，皇上的早餐来了。他邀了几个将军同餐。一面吃着，有人谈到前天晚上威灵顿在布鲁塞尔里士满公爵夫人家里参加舞会的事，苏尔特是个面如大主教的鲁莽战士，他说：“舞会，今天才有舞会。”内伊也说：“威灵顿不至于简单到候陛下的圣驾吧。”皇上也取笑了一番。他性情原是那样的。弗勒里·德·夏布隆①说他“乐于嘲讪”。古尔戈②说他“本性好诙谐，善戏谑”。班加曼·贡斯当③说他“能开多种多样的玩笑，不过突梯的时候多，巧妙的时候少”。那种怪杰的妙语是值得我们大书特书的。称他的羽七日，在从厄尔巴岛回法国的那次神秘归程中，法国帆船“和风号”在海上遇见了偷载拿破仑的“无常号”，便向“无常号”探听拿破仑的消息，皇上当时戴的帽子上，还有他在厄尔巴岛采用的那种带几只蜜蜂的红白两色圆帽花，他一面笑，一面拿起传声筒，亲自回答说：“皇上平安。”见怪不怪的人才能开这类玩笑。拿破仑在滑铁卢早餐时，这种玩笑便开了好几次。早餐后，他静默了一刻钟，随后两个将军坐在那捆麦秸上，手里一支笔，膝上一张纸，记录皇上口授的攻击令。 
①夏布隆（Chaboulon），拿破仑手下官员，百日帝政时期为拿破仑奔走效劳。
②古尔戈（Gouraud），将军，曾写日记记下拿破仑在赫勒拿岛的生活。
③贡斯当（Constant，1767?830），法国自由资产阶级活动家、政论家和作家，曾从事国家法问题的研究。
九点钟，法国军队排起队伍，分作五行出动，展开阵式，各师分列两行，炮队在旅部中间，音乐居首，吹奏进军曲，鼓声滚动，号角齐鸣，雄壮，广阔，欢乐，海一般的头盔，马刀和枪刺，浩浩荡荡，直抵天边，这时皇上大为感动，连喊了两声：
“壮丽！壮丽！”
从九点到十点半，全部军队，真是难于置信，都已进入阵地，列成六行，照皇上的说法，便是排成了“六个V形”。阵式列好后几分钟，在混战以前，正如在风雨将至的那种肃静中，皇上看见他从戴尔隆、雷耶和罗博各军中抽调出来的那三队十二利弗炮①在列队前进，那是准备在开始攻击时用来攻打尼维尔和热纳普路交叉处的圣约翰山的。皇上拍着亚克索的肩膀向他说：“将军，快看那二十四个美女。” 
①发射重十二利弗（重一市斤）的炮弹的炮。
第一军的先锋连奉了他的命令，在攻下圣约翰山时去防守那村子，当那先锋连在他面前走过时，他满怀信心，向他们微笑，鼓舞他们。在那肃静的气氛中，他只说了一句自负而又悲悯的话，他看见在他左边，就是今日有一巨冢的地方，那些衣服华丽、骑着高头骏马的苏格兰灰衣队伍正走向那里集合，他说了声“可惜”。随听他跨上马，从罗松向前跑，选了从热纳普到布鲁塞尔那条路右边的一个长着青草的土埂做观战台，这是他在那次战争中第二次停留的地点。他第三次，在傍晚七点钟停留的地点，是在佳盟和圣拉埃之间，那是个危险地带；那个颇高的土丘今日还在，当时羽林军士全集在丘后平地上的一个斜坡下面。在那土丘的四周，炮弹纷纷射在石块路面上，直向拿破仑身旁飞来。如同在布里埃纳一样，炮弹和枪弹在他头上嘶嘶飞过。后来有人在他马蹄立过的那一带，拾得一些朽烂的炮弹、残破的指挥刀和变了形的枪弹，全是锈了的。“粪土朽木。”几年前，还有人在那地方掘出一枚六十斤重的炸弹，炸药还在，信管断在弹壳外面。
就在这最后停留的地点皇上向他的向导拉科斯特说话，这是个有敌对情绪的农民，很惊慌，被拴在一个骑兵的马鞍上，每次炮弹爆炸都要转过身去，还想躲在他的后面。皇上对他说：“蠢材！不要脸，人家会从你背后宰了你的。”写这几行字的人也亲自在那土丘的松土里，在挖进泥沙时，找到一个被四十六年的铁锈侵蚀的炸弹头和一些藿香梗似的一捏便碎的烂铁。
拿破仑和威灵顿交锋的那片起伏如波浪、倾斜程度不一致的平原，人人知道，现在已不是一八一五年六月十八日的情形了。在建滑铁卢纪念墩时，那悲惨的战场上的高土已被人削平了，历史失了依据，现在已无从认识它的真面目。为了要它光彩，反而毁了它原来的面貌。战后两年，威灵顿重见滑铁卢时曾喊道：“你们把我的战场改变了。”在今日顶着一只狮子的大方尖塔的地方，当时有条山脊，并且，它缓缓地向尼维尔路方面倾斜下来，这一带还不怎么难走，可是在向热纳普路那一面，却几乎是一种峭壁。那峭壁的高度在今日还可凭借那两个并立在由热纳普到布鲁塞尔那条路两旁的大土坟的高度估量出来，路左是英军的坟场，路右是德军的坟场。法军没有坟场。对法国来说，那整个平原全是墓地。圣约翰山高地由于取走了千万车泥土去筑那高一百五十尺、方圆半英里的土墩，现在它那斜坡已经比较和缓易行了，打仗的那天，尤其在圣拉埃一带，地势非常陡峭。坡度峻急到使英军的炮口不能瞄准在他们下面山谷中那所作为战争中心的庄屋。一八一五年六月十八日，雨水更在那陡坡上冲出无数沟坑，行潦遍地，上坡更加困难，他们不但难于攀登，简直是在泥中匍匐。高地上，沿着那山脊，原有一条深沟。那是立在远处的人意想不到的。
那条深沟是什么？我们得说明一下。布兰拉勒和奥安都是比利时的村子。两个村子都隐在低洼的地方，两村之间有一条长约一法里半的路，路通过那高低不平的旷地，常常陷入丘底，象一条壕堑，因此那条路在某些地方简直是一条坑道。那条路在一八一五年，和现在一样，延伸在热纳普路和尼维尔路之间，横截着圣约翰山高地的那条山脊，不过现在它是和地面一样平了，当时却是一条凹路，两旁斜壁被人取去筑纪念墩了。那条路的绝大部分从前就是，现在也还是一种壕沟，沟有时深达十二尺，并且两壁太陡，四处崩塌，尤其是在冬季大雨滂沱的时候，曾发生过一些祸害。那条路在进入布兰拉勒处特别狭窄，以致有一个过路人被碾死在一辆车子下面，坟场旁边有个石十字架可以证明，那十字架上有死者的姓名，“贝尔纳·德·勃里先生，布鲁塞尔的商人”，肇事的日期是一六三七年二月，碑文如下：
上帝鉴临，布鲁塞尔商人贝尔纳·德·勃里先生，不幸在此死于车下。
一六三七年二月×（碑文不明）日
在圣约翰山高地的那一段，那条凹路深到把一个叫马第·尼开兹的农民压死在路旁的崩土下面，那是在一七八三年，另外一个石十字架足资证明。那十字架在圣拉埃和圣约翰山庄屋之间的路左，它的上段已没在田中，但是那翻倒了的石座，今天仍露在草坡外面，可以看到。
在战争的那天，那条沿着圣约翰山高地山脊的不露形迹的凹路，那条陡坡顶上的坑道，隐在土里的壕堑，是望不见的，也就是说，凶险的。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 8 The Emperor puts a Question to the Guide Lacoste
So, on the morning of Waterloo, Napoleon was content.
He was right; the plan of battle conceived by him was, as we have seen, really admirable.
The battle once begun, its very various changes,--the resistance of Hougomont; the tenacity of La Haie-Sainte; the killing of Bauduin; the disabling of Foy; the unexpected wall against which Soye's brigade was shattered; Guilleminot's fatal heedlessness when he had neither petard nor powder sacks; the miring of the batteries; the fifteen unescorted pieces overwhelmed in a hollow way by Uxbridge; the small effect of the bombs falling in the English lines, and there embedding themselves in the rain-soaked soil, and only succeeding in producing volcanoes of mud, so that the canister was turned into a splash; the uselessness of Pire's demonstration on Braine-l'Alleud; all that cavalry, fifteen squadrons, almost exterminated; the right wing of the English badly alarmed, the left wing badly cut into; Ney's strange mistake in massing, instead of echelonning the four divisions of the first corps; men delivered over to grape-shot, arranged in ranks twenty-seven deep and with a frontage of two hundred; the frightful holes made in these masses by the cannon-balls; attacking columns disorganized; the side-battery suddenly unmasked on their flank; Bourgeois, Donzelot, and Durutte compromised; Quiot repulsed; Lieutenant Vieux, that Hercules graduated at the Polytechnic School, wounded at the moment when he was beating in with an axe the door of La Haie-Sainte under the downright fire of the English barricade which barred the angle of the road from Genappe to Brussels; Marcognet's division caught between the infantry and the cavalry, shot down at the very muzzle of the guns amid the grain by Best and Pack, put to the sword by Ponsonby; his battery of seven pieces spiked; the Prince of Saxe-Weimar holding and guarding, in spite of the Comte d'Erlon, both Frischemont and Smohain; the flag of the 105th taken, the flag of the 45th captured; that black Prussian hussar stopped by runners of the flying column of three hundred light cavalry on the scout between Wavre and Plancenoit; the alarming things that had been said by prisoners; Grouchy's delay; fifteen hundred men killed in the orchard of Hougomont in less than an hour; eighteen hundred men overthrown in a still shorter time about La Haie-Sainte,--all these stormy incidents passing like the clouds of battle before Napoleon, had hardly troubled his gaze and had not overshadowed that face of imperial certainty. Napoleon was accustomed to gaze steadily at war; he never added up the heart-rending details, cipher by cipher; ciphers mattered little to him, provided that they furnished the total, victory; he was not alarmed if the beginnings did go astray, since he thought himself the master and the possessor at the end; he knew how to wait, supposing himself to be out of the question, and he treated destiny as his equal: he seemed to say to fate, Thou wilt not dare.
Composed half of light and half of shadow, Napoleon thought himself protected in good and tolerated in evil. He had, or thought that he had, a connivance, one might almost say a complicity, of events in his favor, which was equivalent to the invulnerability of antiquity.
Nevertheless, when one has Beresina, Leipzig, and Fontainebleau behind one, it seems as though one might distrust Waterloo. A mysterious frown becomes perceptible in the depths of the heavens.
At the moment when Wellington retreated, Napoleon shuddered. He suddenly beheld the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean cleared, and the van of the English army disappear. It was rallying, but hiding itself. The Emperor half rose in his stirrups. The lightning of victory flashed from his eyes.
Wellington, driven into a corner at the forest of Soignes and destroyed--that was the definitive conquest of England by France; it was Crecy, Poitiers, Malplaquet, and Ramillies avenged. The man of Marengo was wiping out Agincourt.
So the Emperor, meditating on this terrible turn of fortune, swept his glass for the last time over all the points of the field of battle. His guard, standing behind him with grounded arms, watched him from below with a sort of religion. He pondered; he examined the slopes, noted the declivities, scrutinized the clumps of trees, the square of rye, the path; he seemed to be counting each bush. He gazed with some intentness at the English barricades of the two highways,--two large abatis of trees, that on the road to Genappe above La Haie-Sainte, armed with two cannon, the only ones out of all the English artillery which commanded the extremity of the field of battle, and that on the road to Nivelles where gleamed the Dutch bayonets of Chasse's brigade. Near this barricade he observed the old chapel of Saint Nicholas, painted white, which stands at the angle of the cross-road near Braine-l'Alleud; he bent down and spoke in a low voice to the guide Lacoste. The guide made a negative sign with his head, which was probably perfidious.
The Emperor straightened himself up and fell to thinking.
Wellington had drawn back.
All that remained to do was to complete this retreat by crushing him.
Napoleon turning round abruptly, despatched an express at full speed to Paris to announce that the battle was won.
Napoleon was one of those geniuses from whom thunder darts.
He had just found his clap of thunder.
He gave orders to Milhaud's cuirassiers to carry the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean.
这足见拿破仑在滑铁卢的那个早晨是高兴的。
他有理由高兴，他擘画出来的那个作战计划，我们已经肯定，真令人叹服。
交锋以后，战争的非常复杂惊险的变化，乌古蒙的阻力，圣拉埃的顽抗，博丹的阵亡，富瓦战斗能力的丧失，使索亚旅部受到创伤的那道意外的墙，无弹无药的吉埃米诺的那种见死不退的顽强，炮队的陷入泥淖，被阿克斯布里吉击溃在一条凹路里的那十五尊无人护卫的炮，炸弹落入英军防线效果不大，土被雨水浸透了，炸弹陷入，只能喷出一些泥土，以致开花弹全变成了烂泥泡，比雷在布兰拉勒出击无功，十五营骑兵几乎全部覆没，英军右翼应战的镇静，左翼防守的周密，内伊不把第一军的四师人散开，反把他们聚拢的那种奇怪的误会，每排二百人，前后连接二十七排，许多那样的队形齐头并进去和开花弹对抗，炮弹对那些密集队伍的骇人的射击，失去连络的先锋队，从侧面进攻的炮队突然受到拦腰的袭击，布尔热瓦、东泽洛和迪吕特被围困，吉奥被击退，来自综合工科学校的大力士维安中尉，冒着英军防守热纳普到布鲁塞尔那条路转角处的炮火，在抡起板斧去砍圣拉埃大门时受了伤，马科涅师被困在步兵和骑兵的夹击中，在麦田里受到了贝司特和派克的劈面射击和庞森比的砍斫，他炮队的七尊炮的火眼全被钉塞，戴尔隆伯爵夺不下萨克森－魏玛亲王防守的弗里谢蒙和斯莫安，第一○五联队的军旗被夺，第四十五联队的军旗被夺，那个普鲁士黑轻骑军士被三百名在瓦弗和普朗尚努瓦一带策应的狙击队所获，那俘虏所说的种种悚听的危言，格鲁希的迟迟不来，一下便倒在圣拉埃周围的那一千八百人，比在乌古蒙果园中不到一个钟头便被杀尽的那一千五百人死得更快，凡此种种迅雷疾风似的意外，有如阵阵战云，在拿破仑的眼前掠过，几乎不曾扰乱他的视线，他那副极度自信的龙颜，绝不因这些变幻而稍露忧色。他习惯于正视战争，他从不斤斤计较那些痛心的细数，他从来不大注意那些数字，他要算的是总账：最后的胜利。开始危殆，他毫不在意，他知道自己是最后的主人和占有者，他知道等待，认为自己不会有问题，他认为命运和他势匀力敌。他仿佛在向命运说：“你不见得敢吧。”
半属光明，半属黑暗，拿破仑常常觉得自己受着幸运的庇护和恶运的优容。他曾经受过，或者自以为受过多次事变的默许，甚至几乎可以说，受过多次事变的包庇，使他成为一个类似古代那种金刚不坏之身的人物。
可是经历过别列津纳①、莱比锡②和枫丹白露③的人，对滑铁卢似乎也应稍存戒心。空中早已显露过横眉蹙额的神气了。 
①别列津纳Bérésina，河名，在俄国，一八一二年拿破仑受创于此。
②莱比锡（Leipsick），城名，有德国，一八一三年拿破仑与俄普联军战于此，失利。
③枫丹白露（Feipsick），宫名，在巴黎附近枫丹白露镇，一八一四年拿破仑宣告逊位于此。
威灵顿后退，拿破仑见了大吃一惊。他望见圣约翰山高地突然空虚，英军的前锋不见了。英军前锋正在整理队伍，然而却在逃走。皇上半立在他的踏镫上。眼睛里闪起了胜利的电光。
把威灵顿压缩到索瓦宁森林，再加以歼灭，英格兰便永远被法兰西压倒了，克雷西①、普瓦蒂埃②、马尔普拉凯③和拉米伊④的仇也都报了。马伦哥⑤的英雄正准备雪阿赞库尔⑥之耻。 
①克雷西Crécy，一三四六年，法军被英军击溃于此。
②普瓦蒂埃（Poitiers），一三五六年，法军被英军击溃于此。
③马尔普拉凯（Malplaquet），一七○九年，法军被英军击溃于此。
④拉米伊Ramillies，一七○六年，法军被英军击溃于此。
⑤马伦哥Marengo，一八○○年，拿破仑败奥军于此。
⑥阿赞库尔（Azincourt），一四一五年，法军被英军击溃于此。　
皇上当时一面思量那骇人的变局，一面拿起望远镜，向战场的每一点作最后一次的眺望。围在他后面的卫队，武器立在地上，带着一种敬畏神明的态度从下面仰望着他。他正在想，正在视察山坡，打量斜地、树丛、稞麦田、小道，他仿佛正在计算每丛小树。他凝神注视着英军在那两条大路上两大排树干后面所设的两处防御工事，一处在圣拉埃方面，热纳普大路上，附有两尊炮，那便是英军瞄着战场尽头的唯一炮队；另一处在尼维尔大路上，闪着荷兰军队夏塞旅部的枪刺。他还注意了在那一带防御工事附近，去布兰拉勒那条岔路拐角处的那座粉白的圣尼古拉老教堂。他弯下腰去，向那向导拉科斯特低声说了一句话。向导摇了摇头，也许那就是他的奸计。
皇上又挺起身子，聚精会神，想了一会。
威灵顿已经退却。只须再加以压迫，他便整个溃灭了。
拿破仑陡然转过身来，派了一名马弁去巴黎报捷。
拿破仑是一种霹雳似的天才。
他刚找到了大显神威的机会。
他命令米约的铁甲骑兵去占领圣约翰山高地。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 9 The Unexpected
There were three thousand five hundred of them. They formed a front a quarter of a league in extent. They were giant men, on colossal horses. There were six and twenty squadrons of them; and they had behind them to support them Lefebvre-Desnouettes's division,--the one hundred and six picked gendarmes, the light cavalry of the Guard, eleven hundred and ninety-seven men, and the lancers of the guard of eight hundred and eighty lances. They wore casques without horse-tails, and cuirasses of beaten iron, with horse-pistols in their holsters, and long sabre-swords. That morning the whole army had admired them, when, at nine o'clock, with braying of trumpets and all the music playing "Let us watch o'er the Safety of the Empire," they had come in a solid column, with one of their batteries on their flank, another in their centre, and deployed in two ranks between the roads to Genappe and Frischemont, and taken up their position for battle in that powerful second line, so cleverly arranged by Napoleon, which, having on its extreme left Kellermann's cuirassiers and on its extreme right Milhaud's cuirassiers, had, so to speak, two wings of iron.
Aide-de-camp Bernard carried them the Emperor's orders. Ney drew his sword and placed himself at their head. The enormous squadrons were set in motion.
Then a formidable spectacle was seen.
All their cavalry, with upraised swords, standards and trumpets flung to the breeze, formed in columns by divisions, descended, by a simultaneous movement and like one man, with the precision of a brazen battering-ram which is effecting a breach, the hill of La Belle Alliance, plunged into the terrible depths in which so many men had already fallen, disappeared there in the smoke, then emerging from that shadow, reappeared on the other side of the valley, still compact and in close ranks, mounting at a full trot, through a storm of grape-shot which burst upon them, the terrible muddy slope of the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean. They ascended, grave, threatening, imperturbable; in the intervals between the musketry and the artillery, their colossal trampling was audible. Being two divisions, there were two columns of them; Wathier's division held the right, Delort's division was on the left. It seemed as though two immense adders of steel were to be seen crawling towards the crest of the table-land. It traversed the battle like a prodigy.
Nothing like it had been seen since the taking of the great redoubt of the Muskowa by the heavy cavalry; Murat was lacking here, but Ney was again present. It seemed as though that mass had become a monster and had but one soul. Each column undulated and swelled like the ring of a polyp. They could be seen through a vast cloud of smoke which was rent here and there. A confusion of helmets, of cries, of sabres, a stormy heaving of the cruppers of horses amid the cannons and the flourish of trumpets, a terrible and disciplined tumult; over all, the cuirasses like the scales on the hydra.
These narrations seemed to belong to another age. Something parallel to this vision appeared, no doubt, in the ancient Orphic epics, which told of the centaurs, the old hippanthropes, those Titans with human heads and equestrian chests who scaled Olympus at a gallop, horrible, invulnerable, sublime--gods and beasts.
Odd numerical coincidence,--twenty-six battalions rode to meet twenty-six battalions. Behind the crest of the plateau, in the shadow of the masked battery, the English infantry, formed into thirteen squares, two battalions to the square, in two lines, with seven in the first line, six in the second, the stocks of their guns to their shoulders, taking aim at that which was on the point of appearing, waited, calm, mute, motionless. They did not see the cuirassiers, and the cuirassiers did not see them. They listened to the rise of this flood of men. They heard the swelling noise of three thousand horse, the alternate and symmetrical tramp of their hoofs at full trot, the jingling of the cuirasses, the clang of the sabres and a sort of grand and savage breathing. There ensued a most terrible silence; then, all at once, a long file of uplifted arms, brandishing sabres, appeared above the crest, and casques, trumpets, and standards, and three thousand heads with gray mustaches, shouting, "Vive l'Empereur!" All this cavalry debouched on the plateau, and it was like the appearance of an earthquake.
All at once, a tragic incident; on the English left, on our right, the head of the column of cuirassiers reared up with a frightful clamor. On arriving at the culminating point of the crest, ungovernable, utterly given over to fury and their course of extermination of the squares and cannon, the cuirassiers had just caught sight of a trench,-- a trench between them and the English. It was the hollow road of Ohain.
It was a terrible moment. The ravine was there, unexpected, yawning, directly under the horses' feet, two fathoms deep between its double slopes; the second file pushed the first into it, and the third pushed on the second; the horses reared and fell backward, landed on their haunches, slid down, all four feet in the air, crushing and overwhelming the riders; and there being no means of retreat,-- the whole column being no longer anything more than a projectile,-- the force which had been acquired to crush the English crushed the French; the inexorable ravine could only yield when filled; horses and riders rolled there pell-mell, grinding each other, forming but one mass of flesh in this gulf: when this trench was full of living men, the rest marched over them and passed on. Almost a third of Dubois's brigade fell into that abyss.
This began the loss of the battle.
A local tradition, which evidently exaggerates matters, says that two thousand horses and fifteen hundred men were buried in the hollow road of Ohain. This figure probably comprises all the other corpses which were flung into this ravine the day after the combat.
Let us note in passing that it was Dubois's sorely tried brigade which, an hour previously, making a charge to one side, had captured the flag of the Lunenburg battalion.
Napoleon, before giving the order for this charge of Milhaud's cuirassiers, had scrutinized the ground, but had not been able to see that hollow road, which did not even form a wrinkle on the surface of the plateau. Warned, nevertheless, and put on the alert by the little white chapel which marks its angle of junction with the Nivelles highway, he had probably put a question as to the possibility of an obstacle, to the guide Lacoste. The guide had answered No. We might almost affirm that Napoleon's catastrophe originated in that sign of a peasant's head.
Other fatalities were destined to arise.
Was it possible that Napoleon should have won that battle? We answer No. Why? Because of Wellington? Because of Blucher? No. Because of God.
Bonaparte victor at Waterloo; that does not come within the law of the nineteenth century. Another series of facts was in preparation, in which there was no longer any room for Napoleon. The ill will of events had declared itself long before.
It was time that this vast man should fall.
The excessive weight of this man in human destiny disturbed the balance. This individual alone counted for more than a universal group. These plethoras of all human vitality concentrated in a single head; the world mounting to the brain of one man,--this would be mortal to civilization were it to last. The moment had arrived for the incorruptible and supreme equity to alter its plan. Probably the principles and the elements, on which the regular gravitations of the moral, as of the material, world depend, had complained. Smoking blood, over-filled cemeteries, mothers in tears,-- these are formidable pleaders. When the earth is suffering from too heavy a burden, there are mysterious groanings of the shades, to which the abyss lends an ear.
Napoleon had been denounced in the infinite and his fall had been decided on.
He embarrassed God.
Waterloo is not a battle; it is a change of front on the part of the Universe.
他们是三千五百人。前锋排列到四分之一法里宽。那是些骑着高头大马的巨人。他们分为二十六队，此外还有勒费弗尔－德努埃特师，一百六十名优秀宪兵，羽林军的狙击队，一千一百九十七人，还有羽林军的长矛队，八百八十支长矛，全都跟在后面，随时应援。他们头戴无缨铁盔，身穿铁甲，枪橐里带着短枪和长剑。早晨全军的人已经望着他们羡慕过一番了。那时是九点钟，军号响了，全军的乐队都奏出了“我们要卫护帝国”，他们排成密密层层的行列走来，一队炮兵在他们旁边，一队炮兵在他们中间，分作两行散布在从热纳普到弗里谢蒙的那条路上，他们的阵地是兵力雄厚的第二道防线，是由拿破仑英明擘画出来的，极左一端有克勒曼的铁甲骑兵，极右一端有米约的铁甲骑兵，我们可以说，他们是第二道防线的左右两铁翼。
副官贝尔纳传达了命令。内伊拔出了他的剑，一马当先。
大队出动了。
当时的声势真足丧人心胆。
那整队骑兵，长刀高举，旌旗和喇叭声迎风飘荡，每个师成一纵队，行动一致，有如一人，准确得象那种无坚不摧的铜羊头①，从佳盟坡上直冲下去，深入尸骸枕藉的险地，消失在烟雾中，继又越过烟雾，出现在山谷的彼端，始终密集，相互靠拢，前后紧接，穿过那乌云一般向他们扑来的开花弹，冲向圣约翰山高地边沿上峻急泥泞的斜坡。他们由下上驰，严整，勇猛，沉着，在枪炮声偶尔间断的一刹那间，我们可以听到那支大军的踏地声。他们既是两个师，便列了两个纵队，瓦蒂埃师居右，德洛尔师居左。远远望去，好象两条钢筋铁骨的巨蟒爬向那高地的山脊。有如神兽穿越战云。 
①古代攻坚的长木柱，柱端冠以铜羊头，用以冲击城门等。　
自从夺取莫斯科河炮台以来，还不曾有过这种以大队骑兵冲杀的战争，这次缪拉不在，但是内伊仍然参与了。那一大队人马仿佛变成了一个怪物，并且只有一条心。每个分队都蜿蜒伸缩，有如腔肠动物的环节。我们可以随时从浓烟的缝隙中发现他们。无数的铁盔、吼声、白刃，还有马尻在炮声和鼓乐声中的奔腾，声势猛烈而秩序井然，显露在上层的便是龙鳞般的胸甲。
这种叙述好象是属于另一时代的。类此的景物确在古代的志异诗篇中见过，那种马人，半马半人的人面马身金刚，驰骋在奥林匹斯山头，丑恶凶猛，坚强无敌，雄伟绝伦，是神也是兽。
数字上的巧合也是稀有的，二十六营步兵迎战二十六分队骑士。在那高地的顶点背后，英国步兵在隐伏着的炮队的掩护下，分成十三个方阵，每两个营组成一个方阵，分列两排，前七后六，枪托抵在肩上，瞄着迎面冲来的敌人，沉着，不言不动，一心静候，他们看不见铁甲骑兵，铁甲骑兵也看不见他们。他们只听见这边的人浪潮似的涌来了。他们听见那三千匹马的声音越来越大，听见马蹄奔走时发出的那种交替而整齐的踏地声、铁甲的磨擦声、刀剑的撞击声和一片粗野强烈的喘息声。一阵骇人的寂静过后，忽然一长列举起钢刀的胳膊在那顶点上出现了，只见铁盔、喇叭和旗帜，三千颗有灰色髭须的人头齐声喊道：“皇帝万岁！”全部骑兵已经冲上了高地，并且出现了有如天崩地裂的局面。
突然，惨不忍睹，在英军的左端，我军的右端，铁骑纵队前锋的战马，在震撼山岳的呐喊声中全都直立起来了。一气狂奔到那山脊最高处，正要冲去歼灭那些炮队和方阵的铁骑军时，到此突然发现在他们和英军之间有一条沟，一条深沟，那便是奥安的凹路。
那一刹那是惊天动地的。那条裂谷在猝不及防时出现，张着大口，直悬在马蹄下面，两壁之间深达四公尺，第二排冲着第一排，第三排冲着第二排，那些马全都立了起来，向后倒，坐在臀上，四脚朝天往下滑，骑士们全被挤了下来，垒成人堆，绝对无法后退，整个纵队就象一颗炮弹，用以摧毁英国人的那种冲力却用在法国人身上了，那条无可飞渡的沟谷不到填满不甘休，骑兵和马匹纵横颠倒，一个压着一个，全滚了下去，成了那深渊中的一整团血肉，等到那条沟被活人填满以后，余下的人马才从他们身上踏过去。杜布瓦旅几乎丧失了三分之一在那条天堑里。
从此战争开始失利了。
当地有一种传说，当然言过其实，说在奥安的那条凹路里坑了二千匹马和一千五百人。如果把在战争次日抛下去的尸体总计在内，这数字也许和事实相去不远。
顺便补充一句，在一个钟头以前，孤军深入，夺取吕内堡营军旗的，正是这惨遭不测的杜布瓦旅。
拿破仑在命令米约铁骑军冲击之先，曾经估量过地形，不过没有看出那条在高地上连一点痕迹也不露的凹路。可是那所白色小礼拜堂显示出那条凹路和尼维尔路的差度，提醒过他，使他有了警惕，因此他向向导拉科斯特提了个问题，也许是问前面有无障碍。向导回答没有。我们几乎可以这样说，拿破仑的崩溃是由那个农民摇头造成的。
此外也还有其他非败不可的原因。
拿破仑这次要获胜，可能吗？我们说不可能。为什么？由于威灵顿的缘故吗？由于布吕歇尔的缘故吗？都不是。天意使然。
如果拿破仑在滑铁卢胜利，那就违反了十九世纪的规律。一系列的事变早已在酝酿中，迫使拿破仑不能再有立足之地。
形势不利，由来已久。
那巨人败亡的时候早已到了。
那个人的过分的重量搅乱了人类命运的平衡。他单独一人较之全人类还更为重大。全人类的充沛精力要是都集中在一个人的头颅里，全世界要是都萃集于一个人的脑子里，那种状况，如果延续下去，就会是文明的末日。实现至高无上、至当不移的公理的时刻已经来到了。决定精神方面和物质方面必然趋势的各种原则和因素都已感到不平。热气腾腾的血、公墓中人满之患、痛哭流涕的慈母，这些都是有力的控诉。人世间既已苦于不胜负荷，冥冥之中，便会有一种神秘的呻吟上达天听。
拿破仑已在天庭受到控告，他的倾覆是注定了的。
他使上帝不快。
滑铁卢绝不是一场战斗，而是宇宙面貌的更新。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 10 The Plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean
The battery was unmasked at the same moment with the ravine.
Sixty cannons and the thirteen squares darted lightning point-blank on the cuirassiers. The intrepid General Delort made the military salute to the English battery.
The whole of the flying artillery of the English had re-entered the squares at a gallop. The cuirassiers had not had even the time for a halt. The disaster of the hollow road had decimated, but not discouraged them. They belonged to that class of men who, when diminished in number, increase in courage.
Wathier's column alone had suffered in the disaster; Delort's column, which Ney had deflected to the left, as though he had a presentiment of an ambush, had arrived whole.
The cuirassiers hurled themselves on the English squares.
At full speed, with bridles loose, swords in their teeth pistols in fist,--such was the attack.
There are moments in battles in which the soul hardens the man until the soldier is changed into a statue, and when all this flesh turns into granite. The English battalions, desperately assaulted, did not stir.
Then it was terrible.
All the faces of the English squares were attacked at once. A frenzied whirl enveloped them. That cold infantry remained impassive. The first rank knelt and received the cuirassiers on their bayonets, the second ranks shot them down; behind the second rank the cannoneers charged their guns, the front of the square parted, permitted the passage of an eruption of grape-shot, and closed again. The cuirassiers replied by crushing them. Their great horses reared, strode across the ranks, leaped over the bayonets and fell, gigantic, in the midst of these four living wells. The cannon-balls ploughed furrows in these cuirassiers; the cuirassiers made breaches in the squares. Files of men disappeared, ground to dust under the horses. The bayonets plunged into the bellies of these centaurs; hence a hideousness of wounds which has probably never been seen anywhere else. The squares, wasted by this mad cavalry, closed up their ranks without flinching. Inexhaustible in the matter of grape-shot, they created explosions in their assailants' midst. The form of this combat was monstrous. These squares were no longer battalions, they were craters; those cuirassiers were no longer cavalry, they were a tempest. Each square was a volcano attacked by a cloud; lava contended with lightning.
The square on the extreme right, the most exposed of all, being in the air, was almost annihilated at the very first shock. lt was formed of the 75th regiment of Highlanders. The bagpipe-player in the centre dropped his melancholy eyes, filled with the reflections of the forests and the lakes, in profound inattention, while men were being exterminated around him, and seated on a drum, with his pibroch under his arm, played the Highland airs. These Scotchmen died thinking of Ben Lothian, as did the Greeks recalling Argos. The sword of a cuirassier, which hewed down the bagpipes and the arm which bore it, put an end to the song by killing the singer.
The cuirassiers, relatively few in number, and still further diminished by the catastrophe of the ravine, had almost the whole English army against them, but they multiplied themselves so that each man of them was equal to ten. Nevertheless, some Hanoverian battalions yielded. Wellington perceived it, and thought of his cavalry. Had Napoleon at that same moment thought of his infantry, he would have won the battle. This forgetfulness was his great and fatal mistake.
All at once, the cuirassiers, who had been the assailants, found themselves assailed. The English cavalry was at their back. Before them two squares, behind them Somerset; Somerset meant fourteen hundred dragoons of the guard. On the right, Somerset had Dornberg with the German light-horse, and on his left, Trip with the Belgian carabineers; the cuirassiers attacked on the flank and in front, before and in the rear, by infantry and cavalry, had to face all sides. What mattered it to them? They were a whirlwind. Their valor was something indescribable.
In addition to this, they had behind them the battery, which was still thundering. It was necessary that it should be so, or they could never have been wounded in the back. One of their cuirasses, pierced on the shoulder by a ball from a biscayan,[9] is in the collection of the Waterloo Museum.
[9] A heavy rifled gun.
For such Frenchmen nothing less than such Englishmen was needed. It was no longer a hand-to-hand conflict; it was a shadow, a fury, a dizzy transport of souls and courage, a hurricane of lightning swords. In an instant the fourteen hundred dragoon guards numbered only eight hundred. Fuller, their lieutenant-colonel, fell dead. Ney rushed up with the lancers and Lefebvre-Desnouettes's light-horse. The plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean was captured, recaptured, captured again. The cuirassiers quitted the cavalry to return to the infantry; or, to put it more exactly, the whole of that formidable rout collared each other without releasing the other. The squares still held firm.
There were a dozen assaults. Ney had four horses killed under him. Half the cuirassiers remained on the plateau. This conflict lasted two hours.
The English army was profoundly shaken. There is no doubt that, had they not been enfeebled in their first shock by the disaster of the hollow road the cuirassiers would have overwhelmed the centre and decided the victory. This extraordinary cavalry petrified Clinton, who had seen Talavera and Badajoz. Wellington, three-quarters vanquished, admired heroically. He said in an undertone, "Sublime!"
The cuirassiers annihilated seven squares out of thirteen, took or spiked sixty pieces of ordnance, and captured from the English regiments six flags, which three cuirassiers and three chasseurs of the Guard bore to the Emperor, in front of the farm of La Belle Alliance.
Wellington's situation had grown worse. This strange battle was like a duel between two raging, wounded men, each of whom, still fighting and still resisting, is expending all his blood.
Which of the two will be the first to fall?
The conflict on the plateau continued.
What had become of the cuirassiers? No one could have told. One thing is certain, that on the day after the battle, a cuirassier and his horse were found dead among the woodwork of the scales for vehicles at Mont-Saint-Jean, at the very point where the four roads from Nivelles, Genappe, La Hulpe, and Brussels meet and intersect each other. This horseman had pierced the English lines. One of the men who picked up the body still lives at Mont-Saint-Jean. His name is Dehaze. He was eighteen years old at that time.
Wellington felt that he was yielding. The crisis was at hand.
The cuirassiers had not succeeded, since the centre was not broken through. As every one was in possession of the plateau, no one held it, and in fact it remained, to a great extent, with the English. Wellington held the village and the culminating plain; Ney had only the crest and the slope. They seemed rooted in that fatal soil on both sides.
But the weakening of the English seemed irremediable. The bleeding of that army was horrible. Kempt, on the left wing, demanded reinforcements. "There are none," replied Wellington; "he must let himself be killed!" Almost at that same moment, a singular coincidence which paints the exhaustion of the two armies, Ney demanded infantry from Napoleon, and Napoleon exclaimed, "Infantry! Where does he expect me to get it? Does he think I can make it?"
Nevertheless, the English army was in the worse case of the two. The furious onsets of those great squadrons with cuirasses of iron and breasts of steel had ground the infantry to nothing. A few men clustered round a flag marked the post of a regiment; such and such a battalion was commanded only by a captain or a lieutenant; Alten's division, already so roughly handled at La Haie-Sainte, was almost destroyed; the intrepid Belgians of Van Kluze's brigade strewed the rye-fields all along the Nivelles road; hardly anything was left of those Dutch grenadiers, who, intermingled with Spaniards in our ranks in 1811, fought against Wellington; and who, in 1815, rallied to the English standard, fought against Napoleon. The loss in officers was considerable. Lord Uxbridge, who had his leg buried on the following day, had his knee shattered. If, on the French side, in that tussle of the cuirassiers, Delort, l'Heritier, Colbert, Dnop, Travers, and Blancard were disabled, on the side of the English there was Alten wounded, Barne wounded, Delancey killed, Van Meeren killed, Ompteda killed, the whole of Wellington's staff decimated, and England had the worse of it in that bloody scale. The second regiment of foot-guards had lost five lieutenant-colonels, four captains, and three ensigns; the first battalion of the 30th infantry had lost 24 officers and 1,200 soldiers; the 79th Highlanders had lost 24 officers wounded, 18 officers killed, 450 soldiers killed. The Hanoverian hussars of Cumberland, a whole regiment, with Colonel Hacke at its head, who was destined to be tried later on and cashiered, had turned bridle in the presence of the fray, and had fled to the forest of Soignes, sowing defeat all the way to Brussels. The transports, ammunition-wagons, the baggage-wagons, the wagons filled with wounded, on perceiving that the French were gaining ground and approaching the forest, rushed headlong thither. The Dutch, mowed down by the French cavalry, cried, "Alarm!" From Vert-Coucou to Groentendael, for a distance of nearly two leagues in the direction of Brussels, according to the testimony of eye-witnesses who are still alive, the roads were encumbered with fugitives. This panic was such that it attacked the Prince de Conde at Mechlin, and Louis XVIII. at Ghent. With the exception of the feeble reserve echelonned behind the ambulance established at the farm of Mont-Saint-Jean, and of Vivian's and Vandeleur's brigades, which flanked the left wing, Wellington had no cavalry left. A number of batteries lay unhorsed. These facts are attested by Siborne; and Pringle, exaggerating the disaster, goes so far as to say that the Anglo-Dutch army was reduced to thirty-four thousand men. The Iron Duke remained calm, but his lips blanched. Vincent, the Austrian commissioner, Alava, the Spanish commissioner, who were present at the battle in the English staff, thought the Duke lost. At five o'clock Wellington drew out his watch, and he was heard to murmur these sinister words, "Blucher, or night!"
It was at about that moment that a distant line of bayonets gleamed on the heights in the direction of Frischemont.
Here comes the change of face in this giant drama.
深沟的惨祸未了，埋伏着的炮队已经露面了。
六十尊大炮和十三个方阵同时向着铁骑军劈面射来。无畏将军德洛尔立即向英国炮队还礼。
英国的轻炮队全数急驰回到方阵中间。铁骑军一下也没有停。那条凹路的灾害损伤了他们的元气，却不会伤及他们的勇气。那些人都是因为力寡势孤反而勇气百倍的。
只有瓦蒂埃纵队遭了那凹路的殃，德洛尔纵队，却全部到达目的地，因为内伊指示过，教他从左面斜进，他仿佛预先嗅到了陷阱似的。
铁骑军蹴踏着英军的方阵。
腹朝黄土，放开缰勒，牙咬着刀，手捏着枪，那就是当日冲杀的情形。
有时，在战争中，心情会使人变得僵硬，以致士兵成了塑像，肉身变成青石。英国的各营士兵都被那种攻势吓慌了，呆着不能动。
当时的情形确是触目惊心。
英军方阵的每一面都同时受到冲击。铁骑军狂暴地旋转着，把他们包在中间。那些步兵沉着应战，毫不动摇。第一行，一只脚跪在地上，用枪刺迎接铁骑；第二行开枪射击；第二行后面，炮兵上着炮弹，方阵的前方让开，让开花弹放过，又随即合拢。铁骑军报以蹴踏。他们的壮马立在两只后蹄上，跨过行列，从枪刺尖上跳过去，巍然落在那四堵人墙中间。炮弹在铁骑队伍中打出了一些空洞，铁骑也在方阵中冲开了一些缺口。一行行被马蹄踏烂了的人，倒在地上不见了。枪刺也插进了那些神骑的胸腹。人们在旁的地方，也许不曾见过那种光怪陆离的伤亡情况。方阵被那种狂暴的骑兵侵蚀以后，便缩小范围，继续应战。他们把射不尽的开花弹在敌人的队伍中爆炸开来。那种战争的形象确是残暴极了。那些方阵已不是队伍，而是一些火山口。铁骑军也不是马队，而是一阵阵的暴风。每一个方阵都是一座受着乌云侵袭的火山，熔岩在和雷霆交战。
极右的那个方阵，暴露在外面，是最没有掩护的一个，几乎一经接触便全部被消灭了。它是苏格兰第七十五联队组成的。那个吹风笛的士兵坐在方阵中央的一面军鼓上，气囊挟在腋下，无忧无虑地垂着他那双满映着树影湖光的愁郁的眼睛，正当别人在他前后左右厮杀时，他还吹奏着山地民歌。那些苏格兰士兵，在临死时还想念着班乐乡，正如希腊人回忆阿戈斯①一样，一个铁甲骑兵把那气囊和抱着它的那条胳膊同时一刀砍下，歌曲也就随着歌手停止了。 
①阿戈斯（Argos），希腊城名。　
铁骑军的人数比较少，那凹路上的灾难把他们削弱了，而在那里和他们对抗的，几乎是英国的全部军队，但是他们以一当十，人数就大增。那时，几营汉诺威军队向后折回了。威灵顿见了，想到了他的骑兵。假使拿破仑那时也想到了他的步兵，他也许就打了个胜仗，那一点忽略是他一种无可弥补的大错。
那些攻人的铁骑军突然觉得自己被攻了。英国的骑兵已在他们的背后。他们前有方阵，后有萨默塞特，萨默塞特便是那一千四百名龙骑卫队。萨默塞特右有德恩贝格的德国轻骑兵，左有特利伯的比利时火枪队；铁骑军的头部和腰部，前方和后方，都受着骑兵和步兵的袭击，他们得四面应战。这对他们有什么关系？他们是旋风。那种勇气是无法形容的。
此外，炮兵始终在他们的背后轰击。不那样，就不能伤他们的背。他们的一副铁甲，在左肩胛骨上有一个枪弹孔，现在还陈列在所谓滑铁卢陈列馆里。
有了那样的法国人，也就必须有那样的英国人。
那已不是混战，而是一阵黑旋风，一种狂怒，是灵魂和勇气的一种触目惊心的奋厉，是一阵剑光与闪电交驰的风暴。一刹那间，那一千四百名龙骑卫队只剩下八百了，他们的大佐弗来也落马而死。内伊领着勒费弗尔－戴努埃特的长矛兵和狙击队赶来。圣约翰山高地被占领，再被占领，又被占领了。铁骑军丢开骑兵，回头再去攻步兵，或者，说得正确一些，那一群乱人乱马，已经扭作一团，谁也不肯放手。那些方阵始终不动。先后冲击过十二次。内伊的坐骑连死四匹。铁骑军的半数死在高地上。那种搏斗延续了两个钟头。
英军深受震动。大家都知道，假使铁骑军最初不曾遭受那凹路的损伤，他们早已突破了英军的中部，而胜利在握了。见过塔拉韦腊①和巴达霍斯②战役的克林东望见这种稀有的骑兵也不免瞠目结舌，呆如石人。十有七成败定了的威灵顿也不失英雄本色，加以赞叹。他低声说着：“出色！”③ 
①塔拉韦腊（Talavera），一八○九年威灵顿战胜法军于此。
②巴达霍斯（Badajoz），西班牙城名，一八一一年被法军攻占。
③原字是英文（splendide）。棗原注。
铁骑军歼灭了十三个方阵中的七个，夺取或钉塞了六十尊大炮，并且获得英军联队的六面军旗，由羽林军的三个铁骑兵和三个狙击兵送到佳盟庄上，献给了皇帝。
威灵顿的地位更加不利了。那种奇怪的战争就象两个负伤恶斗的人的肉搏，双方的血都已流尽，但是彼此都不放手，仍继续搏斗。看两个人中究竟谁先倒下？
高地的争夺战继续进行。
那些铁骑军究竟到达过什么地方？谁也不知道。但有一点是确实的，就是在战争的翌日，在尼维尔、热纳普、拉羽泊和布鲁塞尔四条大路的交叉处，有人发现了一个铁骑兵，连人带马，一同死在一个称那些进入圣约翰山的车子的天秤架子里。那个骑士穿过了英军的防线。抬过他尸体的那些人中，现在还有一个住在圣约翰山，他的名字叫德阿茨。当时他十八岁。
威灵顿觉得自己渐渐支持不住了。这是生死关头。
铁骑军丝毫没有成功，因为他们并没有突破中部防线。双方都占住了那高地，也就等于双方都没有占住，并且大部分还在英军手里。威灵顿有那村子和那片最高的平地，内伊只得了山脊和山坡。双方都好象在那片伤心惨目的土地上扎下了根。
但是英军的困惫看来是无可救药的。他们流血的程度真是可怕。左翼的兰伯特请援。威灵顿回答：“无援可增，牺牲吧！”几乎同时棗这种不约而同的怪事正可说明两军都已精疲力尽棗内伊也向拿破仑请求步兵，拿破仑喊着说：“步兵！
他要我到哪里去找步兵？他要我临时变出来吗？”
但是英军是病得最厉害的。那些钢胸铁甲的大队人马的猛突已把他们的步兵踏成了肉醢。寥寥几个人围着一面旗，就标志着一个联队的防地，某些营的官长只剩了一个上尉或是一个中尉；已经在圣拉埃大受损伤的阿尔顿师几乎死绝，范·克吕茨的一旅比利时勇士已经伏尸在尼维尔路一带的稞麦田中；在一八一一年混在我们队伍中到西班牙去攻打威灵顿，又在一八一五年联合英军来攻打拿破仑的那些荷兰近卫军，几乎没剩下什么人。军官的伤亡也是突出的。翌日亲自埋腿的那位贵人阿克斯布里吉当时已经炸裂膝盖。从法国方面说，在那次铁骑军战斗的过程中，德洛尔、雷力杰、柯尔培尔、德诺普、特拉维尔和布朗卡都已负伤退阵，在英国方面，阿尔顿受了伤，巴恩受了伤，德朗塞阵亡，范·梅朗阵亡，昂普特达阵亡，威灵顿的作战指挥部全完了，在那种两败俱伤的局面中，英国的损失更为严重。护卫步兵第二联队丢了五个中校、四个上尉和三个守旗官，步兵第三十联队第一营丢了二十四个官长和一百十二个士兵，第七十九山地联队有二十四个官长受伤，十八个官长丧命，四百五十个士兵阵亡。坎伯兰部下的汉诺威骑兵有个联队，在哈克上校率领下，竟在酣战中掉转辔头，全部逃进了索瓦宁森林，以致布鲁塞尔的人心也动摇起来，过后他受到审判，免去军职。他们看见法军节节前进，逼近森林，便连忙把辎重、车辆、行李、满载伤兵的篷车运进森林。被法国骑兵杀惨了的荷兰兵都叫“倒霉”。据当日亲眼见过今天还活着的人说，当日从绿班鸠到格昂达尔的那条通到布鲁塞尔几乎长达两法里的大路上，满是逃兵。当时恐怖万状，以致在马林①的孔代亲王和在根特的路易十八都提心吊胆。除了驻在圣约翰山庄屋战地医院后面的那一小撮后备骑兵和掩护左翼的维维安和范德勒尔两旅的一小部分骑兵外，威灵顿已没有骑兵了。许多大炮的残骸倒在地上。这些事实都是西博恩报导的，普林格尔甚至说英荷联军只剩下三万四千人。那位铁公爵②貌似镇静，但嘴唇却发白了。在英军作战指挥部里的奥地利代表万塞纳和西班牙代表阿拉瓦都认为那位公爵玩完了。五点钟时威灵顿取出他的表，说了这样一句忧心如焚的话：“布吕歇尔不来就完了！” 
①马林（Malines），比利时产精致花边的城市。
②铁公爵，威灵顿的外号。　
正在那前后，在弗里谢蒙方面的高丘上，远远地出现了一线明晃晃的枪刺。
从此这场恶战起了剧变。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 11 A Bad Guide to Napoleon
The painful surprise of Napoleon is well known. Grouchy hoped for, Blucher arriving. Death instead of life.
Fate has these turns; the throne of the world was expected; it was Saint Helena that was seen.
If the little shepherd who served as guide to Bulow, Blucher's lieutenant, had advised him to debouch from the forest above Frischemont, instead of below Plancenoit, the form of the nineteenth century might, perhaps, have been different. Napoleon would have won the battle of Waterloo. By any other route than that below Plancenoit, the Prussian army would have come out upon a ravine impassable for artillery, and Bulow would not have arrived.
Now the Prussian general, Muffling, declares that one hour's delay, and Blucher would not have found Wellington on his feet. "The battle was lost."
It was time that Bulow should arrive, as will be seen. He had, moreover, been very much delayed. He had bivouacked at Dion-le-Mont, and had set out at daybreak; but the roads were impassable, and his divisions stuck fast in the mire. The ruts were up to the hubs of the cannons. Moreover, he had been obliged to pass the Dyle on the narrow bridge of Wavre; the street leading to the bridge had been fired by the French, so the caissons and ammunition-wagons could not pass between two rows of burning houses, and had been obliged to wait until the conflagration was extinguished. It was mid-day before Bulow's vanguard had been able to reach Chapelle-Saint-Lambert.
Had the action been begun two hours earlier, it would have been over at four o'clock, and Blucher would have fallen on the battle won by Napoleon. Such are these immense risks proportioned to an infinite which we cannot comprehend.
The Emperor had been the first, as early as mid-day, to descry with his field-glass, on the extreme horizon, something which had attracted his attention. He had said, "I see yonder a cloud, which seems to me to be troops." Then he asked the Duc de Dalmatie, "Soult, what do you see in the direction of Chapelle-Saint-Lambert?" The marshal, levelling his glass, answered, "Four or five thousand men, Sire; evidently Grouchy." But it remained motionless in the mist. All the glasses of the staff had studied "the cloud" pointed out by the Emperor. Some said: "It is trees." The truth is, that the cloud did not move. The Emperor detached Domon's division of light cavalry to reconnoitre in that quarter.
Bulow had not moved, in fact. His vanguard was very feeble, and could accomplish nothing. He was obliged to wait for the body of the army corps, and he had received orders to concentrate his forces before entering into line; but at five o'clock, perceiving Wellington's peril, Blucher ordered Bulow to attack, and uttered these remarkable words: "We must give air to the English army."
A little later, the divisions of Losthin, Hiller, Hacke, and Ryssel deployed before Lobau's corps, the cavalry of Prince William of Prussia debouched from the forest of Paris, Plancenoit was in flames, and the Prussian cannon-balls began to rain even upon the ranks of the guard in reserve behind Napoleon.
大家知道拿破仑极其失望的心情，他一心指望格鲁希回来，却眼见比洛突然出现，救星不来，反逢厉鬼。
命运竟有如此的变幻，他正待坐上世界的宝座，却望见了圣赫勒拿①岛显现在眼前。 
①圣赫勒拿（SainteCHélène），岛名。拿破仑在滑铁卢战败后，被囚于该岛。　
假使替布吕歇尔的副司令比洛当向导的那个牧童教他从弗里谢蒙的上面走出森林，而不从普朗尚努瓦的下面，十九世纪的面貌也许就会不同些。滑铁卢战争的胜利也许属于拿破仑了。除了普朗尚努瓦下面的那条路，普鲁士军队都会遇到不容炮队通过的裂谷，比洛也就到达不了。
所以，再迟到一个钟头，据普鲁士将军米夫林说，布吕歇尔就不会看见威灵顿站着；“战事已经失败了。”足见比洛到的正是时候。况且他已耽误了不少时间。他在狄翁山露宿了一夜，天一亮又开动。但是那些道路都难走，他的部队全泥淖满身。轮辙深达炮轮的轴。此外，他还得由那条狭窄的瓦弗桥渡过迪尔河，通桥的那条街道已被法军放火烧起来了，两旁房屋的火势正炽，炮队的弹药车和辎重车不能冒火穿过，非得等火熄灭不能走。到了中午，比洛的前锋还没有到圣朗贝堂。
假使战事早两个钟头开始，到四点便可以完毕，布吕歇尔赶来，也会是在拿破仑得胜之后。那种渺茫的机缘不是人力所能测度的。
在中午皇上首先就从望远镜中望见极远处有点什么东西，这使他放心不下。他说：“我看见那边有堆黑影，象是军队。”接着，他问达尔马提亚公爵说：“苏尔特，您看圣朗贝堂那边是什么东西？”那位大元帅对准他的望远镜答道：“四五千人，陛下。自然是格鲁希了。”但是他们停在雾中不动。作战指挥部的人员全拿起了望远镜来研究皇上发现的那堆“黑影”。有几个说：“是些中途休息的队伍。”大部分人说：“那是些树。”可靠的是那堆黑影停着不动。皇上派了多芒的轻骑兵师去探察那黑点。
比洛的确不曾移动，他的前锋太弱了，无能为力。他得等候大军，并且他还得到命令，在集中兵力之前，不得擅入战线。但是到了五点钟，布吕歇尔看见威灵顿形势危急，便命令比洛进攻，并且说了这样一句漂亮话：
“得给点空气给英国军队了。”
不到一刻工夫，罗襄、希勒尔、哈克和李赛尔各部在罗博的前面展开了阵式，普鲁士威廉亲王的骑兵也从巴黎森林中冲出来，普朗尚努瓦着了火，普鲁士的炮弹雨一般地射来，直达留守在拿破仑背后羽林军的行阵中。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 12 The Guard
Every one knows the rest,--the irruption of a third army; the battle broken to pieces; eighty-six months of fire thundering simultaneously; Pirch the first coming up with Bulow; Zieten's cavalry led by Blucher in person, the French driven back; Marcognet swept from the plateau of Ohain; Durutte dislodged from Papelotte; Donzelot and Quiot retreating; Lobau caught on the flank; a fresh battle precipitating itself on our dismantled regiments at nightfall; the whole English line resuming the offensive and thrust forward; the gigantic breach made in the French army; the English grape-shot and the Prussian grape-shot aiding each other; the extermination; disaster in front; disaster on the flank; the Guard entering the line in the midst of this terrible crumbling of all things.
Conscious that they were about to die, they shouted, "Vive l'Empereur!" History records nothing more touching than that agony bursting forth in acclamations.
The sky had been overcast all day long. All of a sudden, at that very moment,--it was eight o'clock in the evening--the clouds on the horizon parted, and allowed the grand and sinister glow of the setting sun to pass through, athwart the elms on the Nivelles road. They had seen it rise at Austerlitz.
Each battalion of the Guard was commanded by a general for this final catastrophe. Friant, Michel, Roguet, Harlet, Mallet, Poret de Morvan, were there. When the tall caps of the grenadiers of the Guard, with their large plaques bearing the eagle appeared, symmetrical, in line, tranquil, in the midst of that combat, the enemy felt a respect for France; they thought they beheld twenty victories entering the field of battle, with wings outspread, and those who were the conquerors, believing themselves to be vanquished, retreated; but Wellington shouted, "Up, Guards, and aim straight!" The red regiment of English guards, lying flat behind the hedges, sprang up, a cloud of grape-shot riddled the tricolored flag and whistled round our eagles; all hurled themselves forwards, and the final carnage began. In the darkness, the Imperial Guard felt the army losing ground around it, and in the vast shock of the rout it heard the desperate flight which had taken the place of the "Vive l'Empereur!" and, with flight behind it, it continued to advance, more crushed, losing more men at every step that it took. There were none who hesitated, no timid men in its ranks. The soldier in that troop was as much of a hero as the general. Not a man was missing in that suicide.
Ney, bewildered, great with all the grandeur of accepted death, offered himself to all blows in that tempest. He had his fifth horse killed under him there. Perspiring, his eyes aflame, foaming at the mouth, with uniform unbuttoned, one of his epaulets half cut off by a sword-stroke from a horseguard, his plaque with the great eagle dented by a bullet; bleeding, bemired, magnificent, a broken sword in his hand, he said, "Come and see how a Marshal of France dies on the field of battle!" But in vain; he did not die. He was haggard and angry. At Drouet d'Erlon he hurled this question, "Are you not going to get yourself killed?" In the midst of all that artillery engaged in crushing a handful of men, he shouted: "So there is nothing for me! Oh! I should like to have all these English bullets enter my bowels!" Unhappy man, thou wert reserved for French bullets!
此后的情形是大家知道的：第三支军队的突现，战局发生变化，八十尊大炮陡然齐发，皮尔希一世领着比洛忽然出现，布吕歇尔亲自率领的齐坦骑兵，法军被逐，马科涅被迫放弃奥安，迪吕特被迫撤离帕佩洛特，东泽洛和吉奥且战且退，罗博受着侧面的攻击，一种新攻势在暮色中向我们失了屏障的队伍逼来，英军全线反攻，向前猛扑，法军大受创伤，英普两军的炮火相互呼应，歼灭，前锋的困厄，侧翼的困厄，羽林军在那种骇人的总崩溃形势中加入了战斗。
羽林军士知道自己去死已不远，大声喊着：“皇帝万岁！”
历史上从没有比那种忍痛的欢呼更动人的了。
那天的天气一直是阴的，那时，傍晚八点钟，天边的云忽然开朗，落日的红光阴惨惨的，从尼维尔路旁的榆树枝叶中透过来。而在奥斯特里茨的那一次，太阳却在上升。
挺身赴难的羽林军的每个营都由一个将军率领。弗里昂、米歇尔、罗格、阿尔莱、马莱、波雷·德·莫尔旺当时都在。羽林军士戴着大鹰徽高帽，行列整齐，神色镇定，个个仪表非凡，当他们在战云迷漫中出现时，敌军对法兰西也肃然起敬，他们以为看见了二十个胜利之神展开双翼，飞入战场，那些占优势的人也觉得气馁，于是向后退却，可是威灵顿喊道：“近卫军，起立，瞄准！”躺在篱后的英国红衣近卫军立了起来；一阵开花弹把我们的雄鹰四周的那些飘动着的三色旗打得满是窟窿，大家一齐冲杀，最后的血战开始了。羽林军在黑暗中觉得四周的军队已开始败退，崩溃的局势已经广泛形成，他们听见逃命的声音替代了“皇帝万岁”的呼声，但是他们后面的军队尽管退，他们自己却仍旧往前进，越走越近危险，越走越近死亡。绝没有一个人迟疑，绝没有一个人胆怯。那支军队中的士兵都和将军一样英勇。没有一个不甘愿赴死。
内伊战酣了，决心殉难，勇气长到和死神一般高，在殊死战中东奔西突，奋不顾身。他的第五匹坐骑死了。他汗流满面，眼中冒火，满唇白沫，军服没扣上，一个肩章被一个骑兵砍掉了一半，他的大鹰章也被一颗枪弹打了一个窝，浑身是血，浑身是泥，雄伟绝伦，他手举一把断剑，吼道：“你们来看看法兰西的大元帅是怎样尽忠报国的！”但是没有用，他求死不得。于是他勃然大怒，使人惊恐。他向戴尔隆发出这样的问题：“难道你不打算牺牲吗？”他在那以多凌寡的炮队中大声喊道：“我就没有一点份！哈！我愿让所有这些英国人的炮弹全钻进我的肚子！”苦命人，你是留下来吃法国人的枪弹的①！ 
①内伊在战后被王朝处死。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 13 The Catastrophe
The rout behind the Guard was melancholy.
The army yielded suddenly on all sides at once,--Hougomont, La Haie-Sainte, Papelotte, Plancenoit. The cry "Treachery!" was followed by a cry of "Save yourselves who can!" An army which is disbanding is like a thaw. All yields, splits, cracks, floats, rolls, falls, jostles, hastens, is precipitated. The disintegration is unprecedented. Ney borrows a horse, leaps upon it, and without hat, cravat, or sword, places himself across the Brussels road, stopping both English and French. He strives to detain the army, he recalls it to its duty, he insults it, he clings to the rout. He is overwhelmed. The soldiers fly from him, shouting, "Long live Marshal Ney!" Two of Durutte's regiments go and come in affright as though tossed back and forth between the swords of the Uhlans and the fusillade of the brigades of Kempt, Best, Pack, and Rylandt; the worst of hand-to-hand conflicts is the defeat; friends kill each other in order to escape; squadrons and battalions break and disperse against each other, like the tremendous foam of battle. Lobau at one extremity, and Reille at the other, are drawn into the tide. In vain does Napoleon erect walls from what is left to him of his Guard; in vain does he expend in a last effort his last serviceable squadrons. Quiot retreats before Vivian, Kellermann before Vandeleur, Lobau before Bulow, Morand before Pirch, Domon and Subervic before Prince William of Prussia; Guyot, who led the Emperor's squadrons to the charge, falls beneath the feet of the English dragoons. Napoleon gallops past the line of fugitives, harangues, urges, threatens, entreats them. All the mouths which in the morning had shouted, "Long live the Emperor!" remain gaping; they hardly recognize him. The Prussian cavalry, newly arrived, dashes forwards, flies, hews, slashes, kills, exterminates. Horses lash out, the cannons flee; the soldiers of the artillery-train unharness the caissons and use the horses to make their escape; transports overturned, with all four wheels in the air, clog the road and occasion massacres. Men are crushed, trampled down, others walk over the dead and the living. Arms are lost. A dizzy multitude fills the roads, the paths, the bridges, the plains, the hills, the valleys, the woods, encumbered by this invasion of forty thousand men. Shouts despair, knapsacks and guns flung among the rye, passages forced at the point of the sword, no more comrades, no more officers, no more generals, an inexpressible terror. Zieten putting France to the sword at its leisure. Lions converted into goats. Such was the flight.
At Genappe, an effort was made to wheel about, to present a battle front, to draw up in line. Lobau rallied three hundred men. The entrance to the village was barricaded, but at the first volley of Prussian canister, all took to flight again, and Lobau was taken. That volley of grape-shot can be seen to-day imprinted on the ancient gable of a brick building on the right of the road at a few minutes' distance before you enter Genappe. The Prussians threw themselves into Genappe, furious, no doubt, that they were not more entirely the conquerors. The pursuit was stupendous. Blucher ordered extermination. Roguet had set the lugubrious example of threatening with death any French grenadier who should bring him a Prussian prisoner. Blucher outdid Roguet. Duhesme, the general of the Young Guard, hemmed in at the doorway of an inn at Genappe, surrendered his sword to a huzzar of death, who took the sword and slew the prisoner. The victory was completed by the assassination of the vanquished. Let us inflict punishment, since we are history: old Blucher disgraced himself. This ferocity put the finishing touch to the disaster. The desperate route traversed Genappe, traversed Quatre-Bras, traversed Gosselies, traversed Frasnes, traversed Charleroi, traversed Thuin, and only halted at the frontier. Alas! and who, then, was fleeing in that manner? The Grand Army.
This vertigo, this terror, this downfall into ruin of the loftiest bravery which ever astounded history,--is that causeless? No. The shadow of an enormous right is projected athwart Waterloo. It is the day of destiny. The force which is mightier than man produced that day. Hence the terrified wrinkle of those brows; hence all those great souls surrendering their swords. Those who had conquered Europe have fallen prone on the earth, with nothing left to say nor to do, feeling the present shadow of a terrible presence. Hoc erat in fatis. That day the perspective of the human race underwent a change. Waterloo is the hinge of the nineteenth century. The disappearance of the great man was necessary to the advent of the great century. Some one, a person to whom one replies not, took the responsibility on himself. The panic of heroes can be explained. In the battle of Waterloo there is something more than a cloud, there is something of the meteor. God has passed by.
At nightfall, in a meadow near Genappe, Bernard and Bertrand seized by the skirt of his coat and detained a man, haggard, pensive, sinister, gloomy, who, dragged to that point by the current of the rout, had just dismounted, had passed the bridle of his horse over his arm, and with wild eye was returning alone to Waterloo. It was Napoleon, the immense somnambulist of this dream which had crumbled, essaying once more to advance.
羽林军后面的溃退情形真够惨。军队突然从各方面，从乌古蒙、圣拉埃、帕佩洛特、普朗尚努瓦同时一齐折回。在一片“叛徒！”的呼声后接着又起了“赶快逃命！”的声音。军队溃败有如江河解冻，一切都摧折，分裂，崩决，漂荡，奔腾，倒塌，相互冲撞，相互拥挤，忙乱慌张。这是一种空前的溃乱。内伊借了一匹马，跳上去，没有帽子，没有领带，也没有刀，堵在通往布鲁塞尔的那条大路上，同时制止英军和法军。他要阻止军队溃散，他叫他们，骂他们，把住他们的退路。他怒不可遏。那些士兵见了他都逃避，嘴里喊着：“内伊大元帅万岁！”迪吕特的两个联队，跑去又跑来，惊慌失措，好象是被枪骑兵的刀和兰伯特、贝司特、派克、里兰特各旅的排枪捆扎住了。混战中最可怕的是溃败，朋友也互相屠杀，争夺去路，骑兵和步兵也互相残杀，各自逃生，真是战争中惊涛骇浪的场面。罗博和雷耶各在一端，也都卷进了狂澜。拿破仑用他余下的卫士四面堵截，毫无效果，他把随身的卫队调去作最后的挣扎，也是枉然。吉奥在维维安面前退却，克勒曼在范德勒尔面前退却，罗博在比洛面前退却，莫朗在皮尔希面前退却，多芒和絮贝维在普鲁士威廉亲王面前退却。吉奥领了皇上的骑兵队去冲锋，落在英国骑兵的马蹄下。拿破仑奔驰在那些逃兵的面前，鼓励他们，督促他们，威吓他们，央求他们。早晨还欢呼皇帝万岁的那些嘴，现在都哑口无言，他们几乎全都不认识皇上了。新到的普鲁士骑兵飞也似的冲来，只管砍，削，剁，杀，宰割；拖炮的马乱蹦乱踢，带着炮逃走了；辎重兵也解下车箱，骑着马逃命去了；无数车箱，四轮朝天，拦在路上，造成了屠杀的机会。大家互相践踏，互相推挤，踩着死人和活人往前走。那些胳膊已经失去了理性。大路、小路、桥梁、平原、山岗、山谷、树林都被那四万溃军塞满了。呼号，悲怆，丢在稞麦田里的背囊和枪支，被堵住的逢人便砍的去路，无所谓同胞，无所谓官长，无所谓将军，只有一种说不出的恐怖。齐坦把法兰西杀了个痛快淋漓。雄狮都变成了松鼠。那次的溃败情形便是如此。
在热纳普，有人还企图回转去建立防线，去遏止，堵截。罗博聚合了三百人。在进村子处设了防御工事，但是普鲁士的弹片一飞，大家全又逃散了，于是罗博就缚。我们今日还可以在路右，离热纳普几分钟路程的一所破砖墙房子的山尖上看见那弹片的痕迹。普鲁士军队冲进热纳普，自然是因为杀人太少才那样怒气冲天的。追击的情形真凶狠。布吕歇尔命令悉数歼灭。在这以前，罗格已开过那种恶例，他不许法国羽林军士俘虏普鲁士士兵，违者处死。布吕歇尔的狠劲又超过了罗格。青年羽林军的将军迪埃斯梅退到热纳普的客舍门口，他把佩剑交给一个杀人不眨眼的骑兵，那骑兵接了剑，却杀了那俘虏。胜利是由屠杀战败者来完成的。我们既在叙述历史，那就可以贬责：衰老的布吕歇尔玷污了自己。那种淫威实在是绝灭人性的。溃军仓皇失措，穿过热纳普，穿过四臂村，穿过松布雷夫，穿过弗拉斯内，穿过沙勒罗瓦，穿过特万，直到边境才停止。真是伤心惨目！那样逃窜的是谁？是大军。
那种在历史上空前未有的大无畏精神竟会这样惊扰，恐怖，崩溃，这能说是没来由的吗？不能。极大的右的黑影投射在滑铁卢了。那一天是命中注定的。一种超人的权力使那天出现了。因此万众俯首战栗，因此心灵伟大的人也全交剑投降。当年征服欧洲的那些人今日一败涂地，他们没有什么要说的，也没有什么要做的了，只觉得冥冥中有恐怖存在。“非战之罪，天亡我也。”人类的前途在那天起了变化。滑铁卢是十九世纪的关键。那位大人物退出舞台对这个大世纪的兴盛是不可缺少的。有个至高的主宰作了那样的决定。所以英雄们的惶恐也是可以理解的了。在滑铁卢战争中，不但有乌云，也还有天灾。上帝到过了。
傍晚时，在热纳普附近的田野里，贝尔纳和贝特朗拉住一个人的衣襟，不让他走，那人神色阴森，若有所思，他是被溃退的浪潮推到那里去的，他刚下了马，挽着缰绳，惝怳迷离，独自一人转身向着滑铁卢走去。那人便是拿破仑，梦游中的巨人，他还想往前走，去追寻那崩塌了的幻境。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 14 The Last Square
Several squares of the Guard, motionless amid this stream of the defeat, as rocks in running water, held their own until night. Night came, death also; they awaited that double shadow, and, invincible, allowed themselves to be enveloped therein. Each regiment, isolated from the rest, and having no bond with the army, now shattered in every part, died alone. They had taken up position for this final action, some on the heights of Rossomme, others on the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean. There, abandoned, vanquished, terrible, those gloomy squares endured their death-throes in formidable fashion. Ulm, Wagram, Jena, Friedland, died with them.
At twilight, towards nine o'clock in the evening, one of them was left at the foot of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean. In that fatal valley, at the foot of that declivity which the cuirassiers had ascended, now inundated by the masses of the English, under the converging fires of the victorious hostile cavalry, under a frightful density of projectiles, this square fought on. It was commanded by an obscure officer named Cambronne. At each discharge, the square diminished and replied. It replied to the grape-shot with a fusillade, continually contracting its four walls. The fugitives pausing breathless for a moment in the distance, listened in the darkness to that gloomy and ever-decreasing thunder.
When this legion had been reduced to a handful, when nothing was left of their flag but a rag, when their guns, the bullets all gone, were no longer anything but clubs, when the heap of corpses was larger than the group of survivors, there reigned among the conquerors, around those men dying so sublimely, a sort of sacred terror, and the English artillery, taking breath, became silent. This furnished a sort of respite. These combatants had around them something in the nature of a swarm of spectres, silhouettes of men on horseback, the black profiles of cannon, the white sky viewed through wheels and gun-carriages, the colossal death's-head, which the heroes saw constantly through the smoke, in the depths of the battle, advanced upon them and gazed at them. Through the shades of twilight they could hear the pieces being loaded; the matches all lighted, like the eyes of tigers at night, formed a circle round their heads; all the lintstocks of the English batteries approached the cannons, and then, with emotion, holding the supreme moment suspended above these men, an English general, Colville according to some, Maitland according to others, shouted to them, "Surrender, brave Frenchmen!" Cambronne replied, "-----."
{EDITOR'S COMMENTARY: Another edition of this book has the word "Merde!" in lieu of the ----- above.}
羽林军的几个方阵，有如水中的岩石，屹立在溃军的乱流中，一直坚持到夜晚。夜来了，死神也同时来了，他们等候那双重黑影，不屈不挠，任凭敌人包围。每个联队，各各孤立，和各方面被击溃的大军已完全失去联系，他们从容就义，各自负责。有的守着罗松一带的高地，有的守在圣约翰山的原野里，准备作最后的一搏。那些无援无望，勇气百倍，视死如归的方阵在那一带轰轰烈烈地呻吟待毙。乌尔姆、瓦格拉姆、耶拿、弗里德兰①的声名也正随着他们死去。 
①这些都是拿破仑打胜仗的地方。　
夜色朦胧，九点左右，在圣约翰山高地的坡下还剩一个方阵。在那阴惨的山谷中，在铁骑军曾经向上奔驰，现在流遍英军的血、盖满英军尸体的山坡下，在胜利的敌军炮队集中轰击下，那一个方阵仍在战斗。他们的长官是一个叫康布罗纳的无名军官。每受一次轰击，那方阵便缩小一次，但仍在还击。他们用步枪对抗大炮，四面的人墙不断缩短。有些逃兵在上气不接下气时停下来，在黑暗中远远听着那惨淡的枪声在渐渐减少。
那队壮士只剩下寥寥几个人，他们的军旗成了一块破布，他们的子弹已经射完，步枪成了光杆，在尸堆比活人队伍还大时，战胜者面对那些坚贞卓绝、光荣就义的人们，也不免如见神明，感到一种神圣的恐怖，英军炮队一时寂静无声，停止了射击。那是一种暂息。战士们觉得在他们四周有无数幢幢鬼魂、骑士的形象、炮身的黑影以及从车轮和炮架中窥见的天色，英雄们在战场远处的烟尘中隐隐望见死神的髑髅，其大无比，向他们逼近并注视着他们。他们在苍茫暮色中可以听到敌人上炮弹的声音，那些燃着的引火绳好象是黑暗中猛虎的眼睛，在他们头上绕成一个圈，英国炮队的火杆一齐靠近了炮身，这时，有一个英国将军，有人说是科维耳，也有人说是梅特兰，他当时心有所感，抓住悬在他们头上的那最后一秒钟，向他们喊道：“勇敢的法国人，投降吧！”康布罗纳答道：“屎！”
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 15 Cambronne
If any French reader object to having his susceptibilities offended, one would have to refrain from repeating in his presence what is perhaps the finest reply that a Frenchman ever made. This would enjoin us from consigning something sublime to History.
At our own risk and peril, let us violate this injunction.
Now, then, among those giants there was one Titan,--Cambronne.
To make that reply and then perish, what could be grander? For being willing to die is the same as to die; and it was not this man's fault if he survived after he was shot.
The winner of the battle of Waterloo was not Napoleon, who was put to flight; nor Wellington, giving way at four o'clock, in despair at five; nor Blucher, who took no part in the engagement. The winner of Waterloo was Cambronne.
To thunder forth such a reply at the lightning-flash that kills you is to conquer!
Thus to answer the Catastrophe, thus to speak to Fate, to give this pedestal to the future lion, to hurl such a challenge to the midnight rainstorm, to the treacherous wall of Hougomont, to the sunken road of Ohain, to Grouchy's delay, to Blucher's arrival, to be Irony itself in the tomb, to act so as to stand upright though fallen, to drown in two syllables the European coalition, to offer kings privies which the Caesars once knew, to make the lowest of words the most lofty by entwining with it the glory of France, insolently to end Waterloo with Mardigras, to finish Leonidas with Rabellais, to set the crown on this victory by a word impossible to speak, to lose the field and preserve history, to have the laugh on your side after such a carnage,--this is immense!
It was an insult such as a thunder-cloud might hurl! It reaches the grandeur of AEschylus!
Cambronne's reply produces the effect of a violent break. 'Tis like the breaking of a heart under a weight of scorn. 'Tis the overflow of agony bursting forth. Who conquered? Wellington? No! Had it not been for Blucher, he was lost. Was it Blucher? No! If Wellington had not begun, Blucher could not have finished. This Cambronne, this man spending his last hour, this unknown soldier, this infinitesimal of war, realizes that here is a falsehood, a falsehood in a catastrophe, and so doubly agonizing; and at the moment when his rage is bursting forth because of it, he is offered this mockery,--life! How could he restrain himself? Yonder are all the kings of Europe, the general's flushed with victory, the Jupiter's darting thunderbolts; they have a hundred thousand victorious soldiers, and back of the hundred thousand a million; their cannon stand with yawning mouths, the match is lighted; they grind down under their heels the Imperial guards, and the grand army; they have just crushed Napoleon, and only Cambronne remains,-- only this earthworm is left to protest. He will protest. Then he seeks for the appropriate word as one seeks for a sword. His mouth froths, and the froth is the word. In face of this mean and mighty victory, in face of this victory which counts none victorious, this desperate soldier stands erect. He grants its overwhelming immensity, but he establishes its triviality; and he does more than spit upon it. Borne down by numbers, by superior force, by brute matter, he finds in his soul an expression: "Excrement!" We repeat it,-- to use that word, to do thus, to invent such an expression, is to be the conqueror!
The spirit of mighty days at that portentous moment made its descent on that unknown man. Cambronne invents the word for Waterloo as Rouget invents the "Marseillaise," under the visitation of a breath from on high. An emanation from the divine whirlwind leaps forth and comes sweeping over these men, and they shake, and one of them sings the song supreme, and the other utters the frightful cry.
This challenge of titanic scorn Cambronne hurls not only at Europe in the name of the Empire,--that would be a trifle: he hurls it at the past in the name of the Revolution. It is heard, and Cambronne is recognized as possessed by the ancient spirit of the Titans. Danton seems to be speaking! Kleber seems to be bellowing!
At that word from Cambronne, the English voice responded, "Fire!" The batteries flamed, the hill trembled, from all those brazen mouths belched a last terrible gush of grape-shot; a vast volume of smoke, vaguely white in the light of the rising moon, rolled out, and when the smoke dispersed, there was no longer anything there. That formidable remnant had been annihilated; the Guard was dead. The four walls of the living redoubt lay prone, and hardly was there discernible, here and there, even a quiver in the bodies; it was thus that the French legions, greater than the Roman legions, expired on Mont-Saint-Jean, on the soil watered with rain and blood, amid the gloomy grain, on the spot where nowadays Joseph, who drives the post-wagon from Nivelles, passes whistling, and cheerfully whipping up his horse at four o'clock in the morning.
那个最美妙的字，虽然是法国人经常说的，可是把它说给愿受人尊敬的法国读者听，也许是不应该的，历史不容妙语。
我们甘冒不韪，破此禁例。
因此，在那些巨人中有个怪杰，叫康布罗纳①。 
①康布罗纳（Cambronne），法国将军。　
说了那个字，然后从容就义，还有什么比这更伟大的！他为求死而出此一举，要是他能在枪林弹雨中幸存，那不是他的过失。
滑铁卢战争的胜利者不是在溃败中的拿破仑，也不是曾在四点钟退却，五点钟绝望的威灵顿，也不是不费吹灰之力的布吕歇尔，滑铁卢战争的胜利者是康布罗纳。
霹雳一声，用那样一个字去回击向你劈来的雷霆，那才是胜利。以此回答惨祸，回答命运，为未来的狮子①奠基，以此反抗那一夜的大雨，乌古蒙的贼墙，奥安的凹路，格鲁希的迟到，布吕歇尔的应援，作墓中的戏谑，留死后的余威，把欧洲联盟淹没在那个字的音节里，把恺撒们领教过的秽物献给各国君主，把最鄙俗的字和法兰西的光辉糅合起来，造了一个最堂皇的字，以嬉笑怒骂收拾滑铁卢，以拉伯雷②补莱翁尼达斯③的不足，用句不能出口的隽语总结那次胜利，丧失疆土而保全历史，流血之后还能使人四处听见笑声，这是多么宏伟。 
①指滑铁卢纪念墩上的那只铁狮子，见本卷第二节注。
②拉伯雷（Rabelais），十六世纪法国文学家，善讽刺。
③莱翁尼达斯（Léonidas），公元前五世纪斯巴达王，与波斯作战时战死。　
这是对雷霆的辱骂。埃斯库罗斯的伟大也不过如是。
康布罗纳的这个字有一种崩裂的声音，是满腔轻蔑心情突破胸膛时的崩裂，是痛心太甚所引起的爆炸。谁是胜利者？是威灵顿吗？不是。如果没有布吕歇尔，他早已败了。是布吕歇尔吗？不是。如果没有威灵顿打头阵，布吕歇尔也收拾不了残局。康布罗纳，那最后一刻的过客，一个默默无闻的小将，大战中的一个无限渺小的角色，他深深感到那次溃败确是荒谬，使他倍加痛心，正当他满腹怨恨不得发泄时，别人却来开他玩笑，要他逃生！他又怎能不顿足大骂呢？
他们全在那里，欧洲的君王们，洋洋得意的将军们，暴跳如雷的天罡地煞，他们有十万得胜军，十万之后，再有百万，他们的炮，燃着火绳，张着大口，他们的脚踏着羽林将士和大军，他们刚才已经压倒了拿破仑，剩下的只是康布罗纳了，只剩下这么一条蚯蚓在反抗。他当然要反抗。于是他要找一个字，如同找一柄剑。他正满嘴唾沫，那唾沫便是那个字了。在那种非凡而又平凡的胜利面前，在那种没有胜利者的胜利面前，那个悲愤绝望的人攘臂挺身而起，他感到那种胜利的重大，却又了解它的空虚，因此他认为唾以口沫还不足，在数字、力量、物质各方面他既然都被压倒了，于是就找出一个字，秽物。我们又把那个字记了下来。那样说，那样做，找到那样一个字，那才真是风流人物。
那些伟大岁月的精神，在那出生入死的刹那间启发了这位无名小卒的心灵。康布罗纳找到的滑铁卢的那个字，正如鲁日·德·李勒①构思的《马赛曲》，都是出自上天的启示。有阵神风来自上天，感动了这两个人，他们都瞿然憬悟，因而一个唱出了那样卓越的歌曲，一个发出了那种骇人的怒吼。康布罗纳不仅代表帝国把那巨魔式的咒语唾向欧洲，那样似嫌不足；他还代表革命唾向那已往的日子。我们听到他的声音，并且在康布罗纳的声音里感到各先烈的遗风。那仿佛是丹东的谈吐，又仿佛是克莱贝尔②的狮吼。 
①鲁日·德·李勒（RougetdelAIsle），法国十八世纪资产阶级革命时期的革命军官，所作《马赛曲》，现为法国国歌。
②克莱贝尔（kléber），革命时期的将军，一八○○年被刺死。　
英国人听了康布罗纳的那个字，报以“放！”各炮火光大作，山冈震撼，从所有那些炮口中喷出了最后一批开花弹，声如奔雷，浓烟遍野，被初生的月光隐隐映成白色，萦绕空中，等到烟散以后，什么全没有了。那点锐不可当的残余也被歼灭了，羽林军覆没了。那座活炮垒的四堵墙全倒在地上，在尸体堆中，这儿那儿，还偶然有些抽搐的动作；比罗马大军更伟大的法兰西大军便那样死在圣约翰山的那片浸满了雨水和血液的土壤上，阴惨的麦田里，也就是现在驾着尼维尔邮车的约瑟夫①自得其乐地鞭着马，吹着口哨而过的那一带地方。 
①约瑟夫，犹如说张三李四。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 16 Quot Libras in Duce?
The battle of Waterloo is an enigma. It is as obscure to those who won it as to those who lost it. For Napoleon it was a panic;[10] Blucher sees nothing in it but fire; Wellington understands nothing in regard to it. Look at the reports. The bulletins are confused, the commentaries involved. Some stammer, others lisp. Jomini divides the battle of Waterloo into four moments; Muffling cuts it up into three changes; Charras alone, though we hold another judgment than his on some points, seized with his haughty glance the characteristic outlines of that catastrophe of human genius in conflict with divine chance. All the other historians suffer from being somewhat dazzled, and in this dazzled state they fumble about. It was a day of lightning brilliancy; in fact, a crumbling of the military monarchy which, to the vast stupefaction of kings, drew all the kingdoms after it--the fall of force, the defeat of war.
[10] "A battle terminated, a day finished, false measures repaired, greater successes assured for the morrow,--all was lost by a moment of panic, terror."--Napoleon, Dictees de Sainte Helene.
In this event, stamped with superhuman necessity, the part played by men amounts to nothing.
If we take Waterloo from Wellington and Blucher, do we thereby deprive England and Germany of anything? No. Neither that illustrious England nor that august Germany enter into the problem of Waterloo. Thank Heaven, nations are great, independently of the lugubrious feats of the sword. Neither England, nor Germany, nor France is contained in a scabbard. At this epoch when Waterloo is only a clashing of swords, above Blucher, Germany has Schiller; above Wellington, England has Byron. A vast dawn of ideas is the peculiarity of our century, and in that aurora England and Germany have a magnificent radiance. They are majestic because they think. The elevation of level which they contribute to civilization is intrinsic with them; it proceeds from themselves and not from an accident. The aggrandizement which they have brought to the nineteenth century has not Waterloo as its source. It is only barbarous peoples who undergo rapid growth after a victory. That is the temporary vanity of torrents swelled by a storm. Civilized people, especially in our day, are neither elevated nor abased by the good or bad fortune of a captain. Their specific gravity in the human species results from something more than a combat. Their honor, thank God! their dignity, their intelligence, their genius, are not numbers which those gamblers, heroes and conquerors, can put in the lottery of battles. Often a battle is lost and progress is conquered. There is less glory and more liberty. The drum holds its peace; reason takes the word. It is a game in which he who loses wins. Let us, therefore, speak of Waterloo coldly from both sides. Let us render to chance that which is due to chance, and to God that which is due to God. What is Waterloo? A victory? No. The winning number in the lottery.
The quine[11] won by Europe, paid by France.
[11] Five winning numbers in a lottery.
It was not worth while to place a lion there.
Waterloo, moreover, is the strangest encounter in history. Napoleon and Wellington. They are not enemies; they are opposites. Never did God, who is fond of antitheses, make a more striking contrast, a more extraordinary comparison. On one side, precision, foresight, geometry, prudence, an assured retreat, reserves spared, with an obstinate coolness, an imperturbable method, strategy, which takes advantage of the ground, tactics, which preserve the equilibrium of battalions, carnage, executed according to rule, war regulated, watch in hand, nothing voluntarily left to chance, the ancient classic courage, absolute regularity; on the other, intuition, divination, military oddity, superhuman instinct, a flaming glance, an indescribable something which gazes like an eagle, and which strikes like the lightning, a prodigious art in disdainful impetuosity, all the mysteries of a profound soul, associated with destiny; the stream, the plain, the forest, the hill, summoned, and in a manner, forced to obey, the despot going even so far as to tyrannize over the field of battle; faith in a star mingled with strategic science, elevating but perturbing it. Wellington was the Bareme of war; Napoleon was its Michael Angelo; and on this occasion, genius was vanquished by calculation. On both sides some one was awaited. It was the exact calculator who succeeded. Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy; he did not come. Wellington expected Blucher; he came.
Wellington is classic war taking its revenge. Bonaparte, at his dawning, had encountered him in Italy, and beaten him superbly. The old owl had fled before the young vulture. The old tactics had been not only struck as by lightning, but disgraced. Who was that Corsican of six and twenty? What signified that splendid ignoramus, who, with everything against him, nothing in his favor, without provisions, without ammunition, without cannon, without shoes, almost without an army, with a mere handful of men against masses, hurled himself on Europe combined, and absurdly won victories in the impossible? Whence had issued that fulminating convict, who almost without taking breath, and with the same set of combatants in hand, pulverized, one after the other, the five armies of the emperor of Germany, upsetting Beaulieu on Alvinzi, Wurmser on Beaulieu, Melas on Wurmser, Mack on Melas? Who was this novice in war with the effrontery of a luminary? The academical military school excommunicated him, and as it lost its footing; hence, the implacable rancor of the old Caesarism against the new; of the regular sword against the flaming sword; and of the exchequer against genius. On the 18th of June, 1815, that rancor had the last word. and beneath Lodi, Montebello, Montenotte, Mantua, Arcola, it wrote: Waterloo. A triumph of the mediocres which is sweet to the majority. Destiny consented to this irony. In his decline, Napoleon found Wurmser, the younger, again in front of him.
In fact, to get Wurmser, it sufficed to blanch the hair of Wellington.
Waterloo is a battle of the first order, won by a captain of the second.
That which must be admired in the battle of Waterloo, is England; the English firmness, the English resolution, the English blood; the superb thing about England there, no offence to her, was herself. It was not her captain; it was her army.
Wellington, oddly ungrateful, declares in a letter to Lord Bathurst, that his army, the army which fought on the 18th of June, 1815, was a "detestable army." What does that sombre intermingling of bones buried beneath the furrows of Waterloo think of that?
England has been too modest in the matter of Wellington. To make Wellington so great is to belittle England. Wellington is nothing but a hero like many another. Those Scotch Grays, those Horse Guards, those regiments of Maitland and of Mitchell, that infantry of Pack and Kempt, that cavalry of Ponsonby and Somerset, those Highlanders playing the pibroch under the shower of grape-shot, those battalions of Rylandt, those utterly raw recruits, who hardly knew how to handle a musket holding their own against Essling's and Rivoli's old troops,--that is what was grand. Wellington was tenacious; in that lay his merit, and we are not seeking to lessen it: but the least of his foot-soldiers and of his cavalry would have been as solid as he. The iron soldier is worth as much as the Iron Duke. As for us, all our glorification goes to the English soldier, to the English army, to the English people. If trophy there be, it is to England that the trophy is due. The column of Waterloo would be more just, if, instead of the figure of a man, it bore on high the statue of a people.
But this great England will be angry at what we are saying here. She still cherishes, after her own 1688 and our 1789, the feudal illusion. She believes in heredity and hierarchy. This people, surpassed by none in power and glory, regards itself as a nation, and not as a people. And as a people, it willingly subordinates itself and takes a lord for its head. As a workman, it allows itself to be disdained; as a soldier, it allows itself to be flogged.
It will be remembered, that at the battle of Inkermann a sergeant who had, it appears, saved the army, could not be mentioned by Lord Paglan, as the English military hierarchy does not permit any hero below the grade of an officer to be mentioned in the reports.
That which we admire above all, in an encounter of the nature of Waterloo, is the marvellous cleverness of chance. A nocturnal rain, the wall of Hougomont, the hollow road of Ohain, Grouchy deaf to the cannon, Napoleon's guide deceiving him, Bulow's guide enlightening him,-- the whole of this cataclysm is wonderfully conducted.
On the whole, let us say it plainly, it was more of a massacre than of a battle at Waterloo.
Of all pitched battles, Waterloo is the one which has the smallest front for such a number of combatants. Napoleon three-quarters of a league; Wellington, half a league; seventy-two thousand combatants on each side. From this denseness the carnage arose.
The following calculation has been made, and the following proportion established: Loss of men: at Austerlitz, French, fourteen per cent; Russians, thirty per cent; Austrians, forty-four per cent. At Wagram, French, thirteen per cent; Austrians, fourteen. At the Moskowa, French, thirty-seven per cent; Russians, forty-four. At Bautzen, French, thirteen per cent; Russians and Prussians, fourteen. At Waterloo, French, fifty-six per cent; the Allies, thirty-one. Total for Waterloo, forty-one per cent; one hundred and forty-four thousand combatants; sixty thousand dead.
To-day the field of Waterloo has the calm which belongs to the earth, the impassive support of man, and it resembles all plains.
At night, moreover, a sort of visionary mist arises from it; and if a traveller strolls there, if he listens, if he watches, if he dreams like Virgil in the fatal plains of Philippi, the hallucination of the catastrophe takes possession of him. The frightful 18th of June lives again; the false monumental hillock disappears, the lion vanishes in air, the battle-field resumes its reality, lines of infantry undulate over the plain, furious gallops traverse the horizon; the frightened dreamer beholds the flash of sabres, the gleam of bayonets, the flare of bombs, the tremendous interchange of thunders; he hears, as it were, the death rattle in the depths of a tomb, the vague clamor of the battle phantom; those shadows are grenadiers, those lights are cuirassiers; that skeleton Napoleon, that other skeleton is Wellington; all this no longer exists, and yet it clashes together and combats still; and the ravines are empurpled, and the trees quiver, and there is fury even in the clouds and in the shadows; all those terrible heights, Hougomont, Mont-Saint-Jean, Frischemont, Papelotte, Plancenoit, appear confusedly crowned with whirlwinds of spectres engaged in exterminating each other.
滑铁卢战争是个谜。它对胜者和败者都一样是不明不白的。对拿破仑，它是恐怖①，布吕歇尔只看见炮火，威灵顿完全莫名其妙。看那些报告吧。公报是漫无头绪的，评论是不得要领的。这部分人讷讷，那部分人期期。若米尼把滑铁卢战事分成四个阶段；米夫林又把它截成三个转变，惟有夏拉，虽然在某几个论点上我们的见解和他不一致，但他却独具慧眼，是抓住那位人杰和天意接触时产生的惨局中各个特殊环节的人。其他的历史家都有些目眩神迷，也就不免在眩惑中摸索。那确是一个风驰电掣的日子，好战的专制政体的崩溃震动了所有的王国，各国君王都为之大惊失色，强权覆灭，黩武主义败退。 
①“一场战斗的结束，一日工作的完成，措置失宜的挽救，来日必获的更大胜利，这一切全为了一时的恐怖而失去了。”（拿破仑在圣赫勒拿岛日记。）棗原注。　
在那不测之事中，显然有上天干预的痕迹，人力是微不足道的。
我们假设把滑铁卢从威灵顿和布吕歇尔的手中夺回，英国和德国会丧失什么吗？不会的。名声大振的英国和庄严肃穆的德国都和滑铁卢问题无关。感谢上天，民族的荣誉并不在残酷的武功。德国、英国、法国都不是区区剑匣所能代表的。当滑铁卢剑声铮铮的时代，在布吕歇尔之上，德国有哥德，在威灵顿之上，英国有拜伦。思想的广泛昌明是我们这一世纪的特征，在那曙光里，英国和德国都有它们辉煌的成就。它们的思想已使它们成为大家的表率。它们有提高文化水平的独特功绩。那种成就是自发的，不是偶然触发的。它们在十九世纪的壮大决不起源于滑铁卢。只有野蛮民族才会凭一战之功突然强盛。那是一种顷忽即灭的虚荣，有如狂风掀起的白浪。文明的民族，尤其是在我们这个时代，不因一个将领的幸与不幸而有所增损。他们在人类中的比重不取决于一场战事的结果。他们的荣誉，谢谢上帝，他们的尊严，他们的光明，他们的天才都不是那些赌鬼似的英雄和征服者在战争赌局中所能下的赌注。常常是战争失败，反而有了进步。少点光荣，使多点自由。鼙鼓无声，理性争鸣。那是一种以败为胜的玩意儿。既是这样，就让我们平心静气，从两方面来谈谈滑铁卢吧。我们把属于机缘的还给机缘，属于上帝的归诸上帝。滑铁卢是什么？是一种丰功伟绩吗？不，是一场赌博。
是一场欧洲赢了法国输了的赌博。
在那地方立只狮子似乎是不值得的，况且滑铁卢是有史以来一次最奇特的遭遇。拿破仑和威灵顿，他们不是敌人，而是两个背道而驰的人。喜用对偶法的上帝从来不曾造出一种比这更惊人的对比和更特别的会合。一方面是准确，预见，循规蹈矩，谨慎，先谋退步，预留余力，头脑顽强冷静，步骤坚定，战略上因地制宜，战术上部署平衡，进退有序，攻守以时，绝不怀侥幸心理，有老将的传统毅力，绝对缜密周全；而另一方面是直觉，凭灵感，用奇兵，有超人的本能，料事目光如炬，一种说不出的如同鹰视雷击般的能力，才气纵横，敏捷，自负，心曲深沉，鬼神莫测，狎玩命运，川泽、原野、山林似乎都想去操纵，迫使服从，那位专制魔王甚至对战场也要放肆，他把军事科学和星相学混为一谈，加强了信心，同时也搅乱了信心。威灵顿是战争中的巴雷姆①，拿破仑是战争中的米开朗琪罗，这一次，天才被老谋深算击溃了。 
①巴雷姆（BarreDme），十七世纪法国数学家。
两方面都在等待援兵。计算精确的人成功了。拿破仑等待格鲁希，他没有来。威灵顿等待布吕歇尔，他来了。
威灵顿，便是进行报复的古典战争，波拿巴初露头角时，曾在意大利碰过他，并把他打得落花流水。那老枭曾败在雏鹰手里。古老的战术不仅一败涂地，而且臭名远扬。那个当时才二十六岁的科西嘉人是什么，那个风流倜傥的无知少年，势孤敌众，两手空空，没有粮秣，没有军火，没有炮，没有鞋，几乎没有军队，以一小撮人反抗强敌，奋击沆瀣一气的欧洲，他在无可奈何之中竟不近情理地多次获得胜利，那究竟是怎么回事？从什么地方钻出了那样一个霹雳似的暴客，能够一口气，用一贯的手法，先后粉碎德皇的五个军，把博利厄摔在阿尔文齐身上，维尔姆泽摔在博利厄身上，梅拉斯摔在维尔姆泽身上，麦克又摔在梅拉斯身上。那目空一切的新生尤物是什么人？学院派的军事学家在逃遁时都把他看作异端。因此在旧恺撒主义与新恺撒主义之间，在规行矩步的刀法与雷奔电掣的剑法之间，庸才与天才之间，有了无可调和的仇恨。仇恨终于在一八一五年六月十八日写出了那最后的字，在洛迪、芒泰贝洛、芒泰诺泰、曼图亚、马伦哥、阿尔科拉①之后，添上了滑铁卢。庸人们的胜利，多数人的慰藉。上天竟同意了这种讽刺。拿破仑在日薄西山时又遇见了小维尔姆泽②。 
①这些都是拿破仑打胜仗的地方。
②维尔姆泽（Wumser，1724?797），奥军将领，一七九六年为拿破仑所败，此时已去世。　
的确，要打败维尔姆泽，只需使威灵顿的头发变白就是了。
滑铁卢是一场头等战争，却被一个次等的将领胜了去。
在滑铁卢战争中，我们应当钦佩的是英格兰，是英国式的刚毅，英国式的果敢，英国式的热血；英格兰的优越，它不至见怪吧，在于它本身。不是它的将领，而是它的士兵。
忘恩负义到出奇的威灵顿在给贵人巴塞司特的一封信里提到他的军队，那在一八一五年六月十八日作战的军队，是一支“可恶的军队”。那些七零八落埋在滑铁卢耕地下的可怜枯骨对他的话又作何感想？
英格兰在威灵顿面前过于妄自菲薄了。把威灵顿捧得那样高便是小看了英格兰。威灵顿只是个平凡的英雄。那些灰色的苏格兰军、近卫骑兵、梅特兰和米契尔的联队、派克和兰伯特的步兵、庞森比和萨默塞特的骑兵、在火线上吹唢呐的山地人、里兰特的部队、那些连火枪都还不大知道使用但却敢于对抗埃斯林、里沃利①的老练士卒的新兵，他们才是伟大的。威灵顿顽强，那是他的优点，我们不和他讨价还价，但是他的步兵和骑兵的最小的部分都和他一样坚强。铁军比得上铁公爵。在我们这方面，我们全部的敬意属于英国的士兵、英国的军队和英国的人民。假使有功绩，那功绩也应属于英格兰。滑铁卢的华表如果不是顶着一个人像，而是把一个民族的塑像高插入云，那样会比较公允些。
但是大英格兰听了我们在此地所说的话一定会恼怒。它经历了它的一六八八年和我们的一七八九年后却仍保留封建的幻想。它信仰世袭制度和等级制度。世界上那个最强盛、最光荣的民族尊重自己的国家而不尊重自己的民族。做人民的，自甘居人之下，并把一个贵人顶在头上。工人任人蔑视，士兵任人鞭笞。我们记得，在因克尔曼②战役中，据说有个中士救了大军的险，但是贵人腊格伦没有为他论功行赏，因为英国的军级制度不容许在战报中提到官长等级以下的任何英雄。 
①两处皆拿破仑打胜仗的地方。
②因克尔曼（Inkermann），阿尔及利亚城市，即今之穆斯塔加奈姆（MostaCganem）。　
在滑铁卢那种性质的会战中，我们最佩服的，是造化布置下的那种怪诞的巧合。夜雨，乌古蒙的墙，奥安的凹路，格路希充耳不闻炮声，拿破仑的向导欺心卖主，比洛的向导点拨得宜；那一连串天灾人祸都演得极尽巧妙。
概括起来说，在滑铁卢确是战争少，屠杀多。
滑铁卢在所有的阵地战中是战线最短而队伍最密集的一次。拿破仑，一法里的四分之三，威灵顿，半法里，每边七万二千战士。屠杀便由那样的密度造成的。
有人作过这样的计算，并且列出了这样的比例数字，阵亡人数在奥斯特里茨，法军百分之十四，俄军百分之三十，奥军百分之四十四；在瓦格拉姆，法军百分之十三，奥军百分之十四；在莫斯科河，法军百分之三十七，俄军，四十四；在包岑，法军百分之十三，俄军和奥军，十四；在滑铁卢，法军百分之五十六，联军，三十一。滑铁卢总计，百分之四十一。战士十四万四千，阵亡六万。
到今日，滑铁卢战场恢复了大地棗世人的不偏不倚的安慰者棗的谧静，和其他的原野一样了。
可是一到晚上，就有一种鬼魂似的薄雾散布开来，假使有个旅人经过那里，假使他望，假使他听，假使他象维吉尔在腓力比①战场上那样梦想，当年溃乱的幻景就会使他意夺神骇。六月十八的惨状会重行出现，那伪造的纪念堆隐灭了，俗不可耐的狮子消失了，战场也恢复了它的原来面目；一行行的步兵象波浪起伏那样在原野上前进，奔腾的怒马驰骋天边；惊魂不定的沉思者会看见刀光直晃，枪刺闪烁，炸弹爆发，雷霆交击，血肉横飞，他会听到一片鬼魂交战的呐喊声，隐隐约约，有如在墓底呻吟，那些黑影，便是羽林军士；那些荧光，便是铁骑；那枯骸，便是拿破仑，另一枯骸，是威灵顿；那一切早已不存在了，可是仍旧鏖战不休，山谷殷红，林木颤栗，杀气直薄云霄；圣约翰山、乌古蒙、弗里谢蒙，帕佩洛特、普朗尚努瓦，所有那些莽旷的高地，都隐隐显出无数鬼影，在朦胧中回旋厮杀。 
①腓力比（Philippes），城名，在马其顿，公元前四十二年，安敦尼和屋大维在此战胜布鲁图斯。 
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 17 Is Waterloo to be considered Good?
There exists a very respectable liberal school which does not hate Waterloo. We do not belong to it. To us, Waterloo is but the stupefied date of liberty. That such an eagle should emerge from such an egg is certainly unexpected.
If one places one's self at the culminating point of view of the question, Waterloo is intentionally a counter-revolutionary victory. It is Europe against France; it is Petersburg, Berlin, and Vienna against Paris; it is the statu quo against the initiative; it is the 14th of July, 1789, attacked through the 20th of March, 1815; it is the monarchies clearing the decks in opposition to the indomitable French rioting. The final extinction of that vast people which had been in eruption for twenty-six years--such was the dream. The solidarity of the Brunswicks, the Nassaus, the Romanoffs, the Hohenzollerns, the Hapsburgs with the Bourbons. Waterloo bears divine right on its crupper. It is true, that the Empire having been despotic, the kingdom by the natural reaction of things, was forced to be liberal, and that a constitutional order was the unwilling result of Waterloo, to the great regret of the conquerors. It is because revolution cannot be really conquered, and that being providential and absolutely fatal, it is always cropping up afresh: before Waterloo, in Bonaparte overthrowing the old thrones; after Waterloo, in Louis XVIII. granting and conforming to the charter. Bonaparte places a postilion on the throne of Naples, and a sergeant on the throne of Sweden, employing inequality to demonstrate equality; Louis XVIII. at Saint-Ouen countersigns the declaration of the rights of man. If you wish to gain an idea of what revolution is, call it Progress; and if you wish to acquire an idea of the nature of progress, call it To-morrow. To-morrow fulfils its work irresistibly, and it is already fulfilling it to-day. It always reaches its goal strangely. It employs Wellington to make of Foy, who was only a soldier, an orator. Foy falls at Hougomont and rises again in the tribune. Thus does progress proceed. There is no such thing as a bad tool for that workman. It does not become disconcerted, but adjusts to its divine work the man who has bestridden the Alps, and the good old tottering invalid of Father Elysee. It makes use of the gouty man as well as of the conqueror; of the conqueror without, of the gouty man within. Waterloo, by cutting short the demolition of European thrones by the sword, had no other effect than to cause the revolutionary work to be continued in another direction. The slashers have finished; it was the turn of the thinkers. The century that Waterloo was intended to arrest has pursued its march. That sinister victory was vanquished by liberty.
In short, and incontestably, that which triumphed at Waterloo; that which smiled in Wellington's rear; that which brought him all the marshals' staffs of Europe, including, it is said, the staff of a marshal of France; that which joyously trundled the barrows full of bones to erect the knoll of the lion; that which triumphantly inscribed on that pedestal the date "June 18, 1815"; that which encouraged Blucher, as he put the flying army to the sword; that which, from the heights of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean, hovered over France as over its prey, was the counter-revolution. It was the counter-revolution which murmured that infamous word "dismemberment." On arriving in Paris, it beheld the crater close at hand; it felt those ashes which scorched its feet, and it changed its mind; it returned to the stammer of a charter.
Let us behold in Waterloo only that which is in Waterloo. Of intentional liberty there is none. The counter-revolution was involuntarily liberal, in the same manner as, by a corresponding phenomenon, Napoleon was involuntarily revolutionary. On the 18th of June, 1815, the mounted Robespierre was hurled from his saddle.
有个很可敬的自由派丝毫不恨滑铁卢。我们不属于那一派。我们认为滑铁卢只是自由骇然惊异的日子。那样的鹰会出自那样的卵，确实出人意料。
假使我们从最高处观察问题，就可以看出滑铁卢是一次有计划的反革命的胜利。是欧洲反抗法国，彼得堡、柏林和维也纳反抗巴黎，是现状反抗创举，是通过一八一五年三月二十日①向一七八九年七月十四日②进行的打击，是王国集团对法兰西不可驯服的运动的颠覆。总之，他们的梦想就是要扑灭这个爆发了二十六年的强大民族。是不伦瑞克、纳索、罗曼诺夫③、霍亨索伦④、哈布斯堡⑤和波旁⑥的联盟。滑铁卢是神权的伥鬼。的确，帝国既然专制，由于事物的自然反应，王国就必然是自由的了，因而有种不称心的立宪制度从滑铁卢产生出来了，使战胜者大为懊丧。那是因为革命力量不可能受到真正的挫败，天理如此，绝无幸免，革命力量迟早总要抬头，在滑铁卢之前，拿破仑推翻了各国的衰朽王朝，在滑铁卢之后，又出了个宣布服从宪章⑦的路易十八。波拿巴在那不勒斯王位上安插了一个御者，又在瑞典王位上安插了一个中士，在不平等中体现了平等；路易十八在圣旺副署了人权宣言。你要了解革命是什么吗？称它为进步就是；你要了解进步是什么吗？管它叫明天就是。明天一往直前地做它的工作，并且从今天起它已开始了。而且很奇怪，它从来不会不达到目的。富瓦⑧原是个军人，它却借了威灵顿的手使他成为一个雄辩家。富瓦在乌古蒙摔了交，却又在讲坛上抬了头。进步便是那样进行工作的。任何工具，到了那个工人的手里，总没有不好使的。它不感到为难，把横跨阿尔卑斯山的那个人和宫墙中的那个龙锺老病夫⑨都抓在手中，替它做那神圣的工作。它利用那个害足痛风的人，也同样利用那个征服者，利用征服者以对外，足痛风病者以对内。滑铁卢在断然制止武力毁灭王座的同时，却又从另一方面去继续它的革命工作，除此以外，它毫无作用。刀斧手的工作告终，思想家的工作开始。滑铁卢想阻挡时代前进，时代却从它头上跨越过去，继续它的路程。那种丑恶的胜利已被自由征服了。 
①拿破仑从厄尔巴回来，进入巴黎的日子。
②巴黎人民攻破巴士底狱的日子。
③罗曼诺夫，俄国王室。
④霍亨索伦，德国王室。
⑤哈布斯堡，奥国王室。
⑥波旁，法国王室。
⑦路易十八迫于国内资产阶级自由主义思想的力量，不得不宣布服从宪章，以图缓和矛盾。
⑧富瓦（Foy），拿破仑部下的将军，在滑铁卢战役受伤，继在王朝复辟期间当议员。
⑨指拿破仑和路易十八。　
总之，无可否认，曾在滑铁卢获胜的，曾在威灵顿背后微笑的，曾把整个欧洲的大元帅权杖，据说法国大元帅的权杖也包括在内，送到他手里的，曾欢欣鼓舞地推着那些满是枯骨的土车去堆筑狮子墩的，曾趾高气扬在那基石上刻上一八一五年六月十八日那个日期的，曾鼓舞布吕歇尔去趁火打劫的，曾如同鹰犬从圣约翰山向下追击法兰西的，这些都是反革命。都是些阴谋进行无耻分散活动的反革命。他们到了巴黎以后就近观察了火山口，觉得余灰烫脚，便改变主意，回转头来支支吾吾地谈宪章。滑铁卢有什么我们就只能看见什么。自觉的自由，一点也没有。无意中反革命成了自由主义者，而拿破仑却成了革命者，真是无独有偶。一八一五年六月十八日，罗伯斯庇尔从马背上摔下来了。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 18 A Recrudescence of Divine Right
End of the dictatorship. A whole European system crumbled away.
The Empire sank into a gloom which resembled that of the Roman world as it expired. Again we behold the abyss, as in the days of the barbarians; only the barbarism of 1815, which must be called by its pet name of the counter-revolution, was not long breathed, soon fell to panting, and halted short. The Empire was bewept,-- let us acknowledge the fact,--and bewept by heroic eyes. If glory lies in the sword converted into a sceptre, the Empire had been glory in person. It had diffused over the earth all the light which tyranny can give a sombre light. We will say more; an obscure light. Compared to the true daylight, it is night. This disappearance of night produces the effect of an eclipse.
Louis XVIII. re-entered Paris. The circling dances of the 8th of July effaced the enthusiasms of the 20th of March. The Corsican became the antithesis of the Bearnese. The flag on the dome of the Tuileries was white. The exile reigned. Hartwell's pine table took its place in front of the fleur-de-lys-strewn throne of Louis XIV. Bouvines and Fontenoy were mentioned as though they had taken place on the preceding day, Austerlitz having become antiquated. The altar and the throne fraternized majestically. One of the most undisputed forms of the health of society in the nineteenth century was established over France, and over the continent. Europe adopted the white cockade. Trestaillon was celebrated. The device non pluribus impar re-appeared on the stone rays representing a sun upon the front of the barracks on the Quai d'Orsay. Where there had been an Imperial Guard, there was now a red house. The Arc du Carrousel, all laden with badly borne victories, thrown out of its element among these novelties, a little ashamed, it may be, of Marengo and Arcola, extricated itself from its predicament with the statue of the Duc d'Angouleme. The cemetery of the Madeleine, a terrible pauper's grave in 1793, was covered with jasper and marble, since the bones of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette lay in that dust.
In the moat of Vincennes a sepulchral shaft sprang from the earth, recalling the fact that the Duc d'Enghien had perished in the very month when Napoleon was crowned. Pope Pius VII., who had performed the coronation very near this death, tranquilly bestowed his blessing on the fall as he had bestowed it on the elevation. At Schoenbrunn there was a little shadow, aged four, whom it was seditious to call the King of Rome. And these things took place, and the kings resumed their thrones, and the master of Europe was put in a cage, and the old regime became the new regime, and all the shadows and all the light of the earth changed place, because, on the afternoon of a certain summer's day, a shepherd said to a Prussian in the forest, "Go this way, and not that!"
This 1815 was a sort of lugubrious April. Ancient unhealthy and poisonous realities were covered with new appearances. A lie wedded 1789; the right divine was masked under a charter; fictions became constitutional; prejudices, superstitions and mental reservations, with Article 14 in the heart, were varnished over with liberalism. It was the serpent's change of skin.
Man had been rendered both greater and smaller by Napoleon. Under this reign of splendid matter, the ideal had received the strange name of ideology! It is a grave imprudence in a great man to turn the future into derision. The populace, however, that food for cannon which is so fond of the cannoneer, sought him with its glance. Where is he? What is he doing? "Napoleon is dead," said a passer-by to a veteran of Marengo and Waterloo. "He dead!" cried the soldier; "you don't know him." Imagination distrusted this man, even when overthrown. The depths of Europe were full of darkness after Waterloo. Something enormous remained long empty through Napoleon's disappearance.
The kings placed themselves in this void. Ancient Europe profited by it to undertake reforms. There was a Holy Alliance; Belle-Alliance, Beautiful Alliance, the fatal field of Waterloo had said in advance.
In presence and in face of that antique Europe reconstructed, the features of a new France were sketched out. The future, which the Emperor had rallied, made its entry. On its brow it bore the star, Liberty. The glowing eyes of all young generations were turned on it. Singular fact! people were, at one and the same time, in love with the future, Liberty, and the past, Napoleon. Defeat had rendered the vanquished greater. Bonaparte fallen seemed more lofty than Napoleon erect. Those who had triumphed were alarmed. England had him guarded by Hudson Lowe, and France had him watched by Montchenu. His folded arms became a source of uneasiness to thrones. Alexander called him "my sleeplessness." This terror was the result of the quantity of revolution which was contained in him. That is what explains and excuses Bonapartist liberalism. This phantom caused the old world to tremble. The kings reigned, but ill at their ease, with the rock of Saint Helena on the horizon.
While Napoleon was passing through the death struggle at Longwood, the sixty thousand men who had fallen on the field of Waterloo were quietly rotting, and something of their peace was shed abroad over the world. The Congress of Vienna made the treaties in 1815, and Europe called this the Restoration.
This is what Waterloo was.
But what matters it to the Infinite? all that tempest, all that cloud, that war, then that peace? All that darkness did not trouble for a moment the light of that immense Eye before which a grub skipping from one blade of grass to another equals the eagle soaring from belfry to belfry on the towers of Notre Dame.
独裁制度告终。欧洲一整套体系垮了。
帝国隐没在黑影中，有如垂死的罗马世界。黑暗再次出现，如同在蛮族时代。不过一八一五年的蛮族是反革命，我们应当把它这小名叫出来，那些反革命的气力小，一下子就精疲力尽，陡然停止了。我们应当承认，帝国受到人们的悼念，并且是慷慨激昂的悼念。假使武力建国是光荣的，那么帝国便是光荣的本身。凡是专制所能给予的光明，帝国都在世上普及了，那是一种暗淡的光。让我们说得更甚一点，是一种昏暗的光。
和白昼相比，那简直是黑夜。黑夜消失，却逢日蚀。
路易十八回到巴黎。七月八日的团圆舞冲淡了三月二十日的热狂。那科西嘉人和那贝亚恩人①，荣枯迥异。杜伊勒里宫圆顶上的旗子是白的。亡命之君重登王位。在路易十四的百合花宝座前，横着哈特韦尔的杉木桌。大家谈着布维纳②和丰特努瓦③，好象还是昨天的事，因为奥斯特里茨已经过时了。神座和王位交相辉映，亲如手足。十九世纪的一种最完整的社会保安制度在法国和大陆上建立起来了。欧洲采用了白色帽徽。特雷斯达荣④的声名大噪。“自强不息”那句箴言又在奥尔塞河沿营房大门墙上的太阳形拱石中出现了。凡是从前驻过羽林军的地方都有一所红房子。崇武门上堆满了胜利女神，它顶着那些新玩意儿，起了作客他乡之感，也许在回忆起马伦哥和阿尔科拉时有些惭愧，便安上了一个昂古莱姆公爵的塑像敷衍了事。马德兰公墓，九三年的义冢，原来凄凉满目，这时却铺满了大理石和碧云石，因为路易十六和玛丽－安东尼特的骸骨都在那土里。万塞纳坟场里也立了一块墓碑，使人回想起昂吉安公爵死在拿破仑加冕的那一个月。教皇庇护七世在昂吉安公爵死后不久祝福过加冕大典，现在他又安祥地祝贺拿破仑的倾覆，正如当初祝贺他的昌盛一样。在申布龙有个四岁的小眼中钉，谁称他做罗马王便逃不了叛逆罪。这些事当时是这样处理的，而且各国君王都登上了宝座，而且欧洲的霸主被关进了囚笼，而且旧制度又成了新制度，而且整个地球上的光明和黑暗互换了位置，因为在夏季的一个下午，有个牧人⑤在树林里曾对一个普鲁士人说：“请走这边，不要走那边！” 
①贝亚恩人，指路易十八。贝亚恩，为波旁王朝之领地，一六二○年并入法国。贝亚恩人，专指亨利四世。因亨利四世是波旁王朝第一代国王，此处借指路易十八。
②布维纳（Bouvines），十三世纪，法国王室军队战胜德军于此。
③丰特努瓦（Fontenoy），十八世纪，法国王室军队战胜英军于此。
④特雷斯达荣（Trestaillon），制造白色恐怖的保王党人。
⑤指滑铁卢大战中比洛的向导。
一八一五是种阴沉的阳春天气。各种有害有毒的旧东西都蒙上了一层新的外衣。一七八九受到了诬蔑，神权戴上了宪章的假面具，小说也不离宪章，各种成见，各种迷信，各种言外之意，都念念不忘那第十四条，自诩为自由主义。这是蛇的蜕皮而已。
人已被拿破仑变得伟大，同时也被他变得渺小了。理想在那物质昌明的时代得了一个奇怪的名称：空论。伟大人物的严重疏忽，便是对未来的嘲笑。人民，这如此热爱炮手的炮灰，却还睁着眼睛在寻找他。他在什么地方？他在干什么？“拿破仑已经死了。”有个过路人对一个曾参加马伦哥战役和滑铁卢战役的伤兵说。“他还会死！”那士兵喊道，“你应当也认识他吧！”想象已把那个被打垮了的人神化了。滑铁卢过后，欧洲实质上是昏天黑地。拿破仑的消失替欧洲带来了长时期的莫大空虚。
各国的君主填补了那种空虚。旧欧洲抓住机会把自己重新组织起来。出现了神圣同盟。佳盟早已在鬼使神差的滑铁卢战场上出现过了。
对着那个古老的、重新组织起来的欧洲，一个新法兰西的轮廓出现了。皇上嘲笑过的未来已经崭露头角。在它额上，有颗自由的星。年青一代的热烈目光都注视着它。真是不可理解，他们既热爱未来的自由，却又热爱过去的拿破仑。失败反把失败者变得更崇高了。倒了的波拿巴仿佛比立着的拿破仑还高大些。得胜的人害怕起来了。英国派了赫德森·洛去监视他，法国也派了蒙什尼去窥伺他。他那双叉在胸前的胳膊成了各国君王的隐忧。亚历山大称他为“我的梦魇”。那种恐怖是由他心中具有的那种革命力量引起的。波拿巴的信徒的自由主义可以从这里得到说明和谅解。他的阴灵震撼着旧世界。各国的君主，身居统治地位而内心惴惴不安，因为圣赫勒拿岛的岩石出现在天边。
拿破仑在龙坞呻吟待毙，倒在滑铁卢战场上的那六万人也安然腐朽了，他们的那种静谧散布在人间。维也纳会议赖以订立了一八一五年的条约，欧洲叫它做王朝复辟。
这就是滑铁卢。
但那对悠悠宇宙又有什么关系？那一切风云，那样的战斗，又继以那种和平，那一切阴影，都丝毫不曾惊扰那只遍瞩一切的慧眼，在它看来，一只小蚜虫从这片叶子跳到那片叶子和一只鹰从圣母院的这个钟楼飞到那个钟楼之间，是并没有什么区别的。
Part 2 Book 1 Chapter 19 The Battle-Field at Night
Let us return--it is a necessity in this book--to that fatal battle-field.
On the 18th of June the moon was full. Its light favored Blucher's ferocious pursuit, betrayed the traces of the fugitives, delivered up that disastrous mass to the eager Prussian cavalry, and aided the massacre. Such tragic favors of the night do occur sometimes during catastrophes.
After the last cannon-shot had been fired, the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean remained deserted.
The English occupied the encampment of the French; it is the usual sign of victory to sleep in the bed of the vanquished. They established their bivouac beyond Rossomme. The Prussians, let loose on the retreating rout, pushed forward. Wellington went to the village of Waterloo to draw up his report to Lord Bathurst.
If ever the sic vos non vobis was applicable, it certainly is to that village of Waterloo. Waterloo took no part, and lay half a league from the scene of action. Mont-Saint-Jean was cannonaded, Hougomont was burned, La Haie-Sainte was taken by assault, Papelotte was burned, Plancenoit was burned, La Belle-Alliance beheld the embrace of the two conquerors; these names are hardly known, and Waterloo, which worked not in the battle, bears off all the honor.
We are not of the number of those who flatter war; when the occasion presents itself, we tell the truth about it. War has frightful beauties which we have not concealed; it has also, we acknowledge, some hideous features. One of the most surprising is the prompt stripping of the bodies of the dead after the victory. The dawn which follows a battle always rises on naked corpses.
Who does this? Who thus soils the triumph? What hideous, furtive hand is that which is slipped into the pocket of victory? What pickpockets are they who ply their trade in the rear of glory? Some philosophers--Voltaire among the number--affirm that it is precisely those persons have made the glory. It is the same men, they say; there is no relief corps; those who are erect pillage those who are prone on the earth. The hero of the day is the vampire of the night. One has assuredly the right, after all, to strip a corpse a bit when one is the author of that corpse. For our own part, we do not think so; it seems to us impossible that the same hand should pluck laurels and purloin the shoes from a dead man.
One thing is certain, which is, that generally after conquerors follow thieves. But let us leave the soldier, especially the contemporary soldier, out of the question.
Every army has a rear-guard, and it is that which must be blamed. Bat-like creatures, half brigands and lackeys; all the sorts of vespertillos that that twilight called war engenders; wearers of uniforms, who take no part in the fighting; pretended invalids; formidable limpers; interloping sutlers, trotting along in little carts, sometimes accompanied by their wives, and stealing things which they sell again; beggars offering themselves as guides to officers; soldiers' servants; marauders; armies on the march in days gone by,-- we are not speaking of the present,--dragged all this behind them, so that in the special language they are called "stragglers." No army, no nation, was responsible for those beings; they spoke Italian and followed the Germans, then spoke French and followed the English. It was by one of these wretches, a Spanish straggler who spoke French, that the Marquis of Fervacques, deceived by his Picard jargon, and taking him for one of our own men, was traitorously slain and robbed on the battle-field itself, in the course of the night which followed the victory of Cerisoles. The rascal sprang from this marauding. The detestable maxim, Live on the enemy! produced this leprosy, which a strict discipline alone could heal. There are reputations which are deceptive; one does not always know why certain generals, great in other directions, have been so popular. Turenne was adored by his soldiers because he tolerated pillage; evil permitted constitutes part of goodness. Turenne was so good that he allowed the Palatinate to be delivered over to fire and blood. The marauders in the train of an army were more or less in number, according as the chief was more or less severe. Hoche and Marceau had no stragglers; Wellington had few, and we do him the justice to mention it.
Nevertheless, on the night from the 18th to the 19th of June, the dead were robbed. Wellington was rigid; he gave orders that any one caught in the act should be shot; but rapine is tenacious. The marauders stole in one corner of the battlefield while others were being shot in another.
The moon was sinister over this plain.
Towards midnight, a man was prowling about, or rather, climbing in the direction of the hollow road of Ohain. To all appearance he was one of those whom we have just described,--neither English nor French, neither peasant nor soldier, less a man than a ghoul attracted by the scent of the dead bodies having theft for his victory, and come to rifle Waterloo. He was clad in a blouse that was something like a great coat; he was uneasy and audacious; he walked forwards and gazed behind him. Who was this man? The night probably knew more of him than the day. He had no sack, but evidently he had large pockets under his coat. From time to time he halted, scrutinized the plain around him as though to see whether he were observed, bent over abruptly, disturbed something silent and motionless on the ground, then rose and fled. His sliding motion, his attitudes, his mysterious and rapid gestures, caused him to resemble those twilight larvae which haunt ruins, and which ancient Norman legends call the Alleurs.
Certain nocturnal wading birds produce these silhouettes among the marshes.
A glance capable of piercing all that mist deeply would have perceived at some distance a sort of little sutler's wagon with a fluted wicker hood, harnessed to a famished nag which was cropping the grass across its bit as it halted, hidden, as it were, behind the hovel which adjoins the highway to Nivelles, at the angle of the road from Mont-Saint-Jean to Braine l'Alleud; and in the wagon, a sort of woman seated on coffers and packages. Perhaps there was some connection between that wagon and that prowler.
The darkness was serene. Not a cloud in the zenith. What matters it if the earth be red! the moon remains white; these are the indifferences of the sky. In the fields, branches of trees broken by grape-shot, but not fallen, upheld by their bark, swayed gently in the breeze of night. A breath, almost a respiration, moved the shrubbery. Quivers which resembled the departure of souls ran through the grass.
In the distance the coming and going of patrols and the general rounds of the English camp were audible.
Hougomont and La Haie-Sainte continued to burn, forming, one in the west, the other in the east, two great flames which were joined by the cordon of bivouac fires of the English, like a necklace of rubies with two carbuncles at the extremities, as they extended in an immense semicircle over the hills along the horizon.
We have described the catastrophe of the road of Ohain. The heart is terrified at the thought of what that death must have been to so many brave men.
If there is anything terrible, if there exists a reality which surpasses dreams, it is this: to live, to see the sun; to be in full possession of virile force; to possess health and joy; to laugh valiantly; to rush towards a glory which one sees dazzling in front of one; to feel in one's breast lungs which breathe, a heart which beats, a will which reasons; to speak, think, hope, love; to have a mother, to have a wife, to have children; to have the light--and all at once, in the space of a shout, in less than a minute, to sink into an abyss; to fall, to roll, to crush, to be crushed; to see ears of wheat, flowers, leaves, branches; not to be able to catch hold of anything; to feel one's sword useless, men beneath one, horses on top of one; to struggle in vain, since one's bones have been broken by some kick in the darkness; to feel a heel which makes one's eyes start from their sockets; to bite horses' shoes in one's rage; to stifle, to yell, to writhe; to be beneath, and to say to one's self, "But just a little while ago I was a living man!"
There, where that lamentable disaster had uttered its death-rattle, all was silence now. The edges of the hollow road were encumbered with horses and riders, inextricably heaped up. Terrible entanglement! There was no longer any slope, for the corpses had levelled the road with the plain, and reached the brim like a well-filled bushel of barley. A heap of dead bodies in the upper part, a river of blood in the lower part--such was that road on the evening of the 18th of June, 1815. The blood ran even to the Nivelles highway, and there overflowed in a large pool in front of the abatis of trees which barred the way, at a spot which is still pointed out.
It will be remembered that it was at the opposite point, in the direction of the Genappe road, that the destruction of the cuirassiers had taken place. The thickness of the layer of bodies was proportioned to the depth of the hollow road. Towards the middle, at the point where it became level, where Delort's division had passed, the layer of corpses was thinner.
The nocturnal prowler whom we have just shown to the reader was going in that direction. He was searching that vast tomb. He gazed about. He passed the dead in some sort of hideous review. He walked with his feet in the blood.
All at once he paused.
A few paces in front of him, in the hollow road, at the point where the pile of dead came to an end, an open hand, illumined by the moon, projected from beneath that heap of men. That hand had on its finger something sparkling, which was a ring of gold.
The man bent over, remained in a crouching attitude for a moment, and when he rose there was no longer a ring on the hand.
He did not precisely rise; he remained in a stooping and frightened attitude, with his back turned to the heap of dead, scanning the horizon on his knees, with the whole upper portion of his body supported on his two forefingers, which rested on the earth, and his head peering above the edge of the hollow road. The jackal's four paws suit some actions.
Then coming to a decision, he rose to his feet.
At that moment, he gave a terrible start. He felt some one clutch him from behind.
He wheeled round; it was the open hand, which had closed, and had seized the skirt of his coat.
An honest man would have been terrified; this man burst into a laugh.
"Come," said he, "it's only a dead body. I prefer a spook to a gendarme."
But the hand weakened and released him. Effort is quickly exhausted in the grave.
"Well now," said the prowler, "is that dead fellow alive?
Let's see."
He bent down again, fumbled among the heap, pushed aside everything that was in his way, seized the hand, grasped the arm, freed the head, pulled out the body, and a few moments later he was dragging the lifeless, or at least the unconscious, man, through the shadows of hollow road. He was a cuirassier, an officer, and even an officer of considerable rank; a large gold epaulette peeped from beneath the cuirass; this officer no longer possessed a helmet. A furious sword-cut had scarred his face, where nothing was discernible but blood.
However, he did not appear to have any broken limbs, and, by some happy chance, if that word is permissible here, the dead had been vaulted above him in such a manner as to preserve him from being crushed. His eyes were still closed.
On his cuirass he wore the silver cross of the Legion of Honor.
The prowler tore off this cross, which disappeared into one of the gulfs which he had beneath his great coat.
Then he felt of the officer's fob, discovered a watch there, and took possession of it. Next he searched his waistcoat, found a purse and pocketed it.
When he had arrived at this stage of succor which he was administering to this dying man, the officer opened his eyes.
"Thanks," he said feebly.
The abruptness of the movements of the man who was manipulating him, the freshness of the night, the air which he could inhale freely, had roused him from his lethargy.
The prowler made no reply. He raised his head. A sound of footsteps was audible in the plain; some patrol was probably approaching.
The officer murmured, for the death agony was still in his voice:--
"Who won the battle?"
"The English," answered the prowler.
The officer went on:--
"Look in my pockets; you will find a watch and a purse. Take them."
It was already done.
The prowler executed the required feint, and said:--
"There is nothing there."
"I have been robbed," said the officer; "I am sorry for that. You should have had them."
The steps of the patrol became more and more distinct.
"Some one is coming," said the prowler, with the movement of a man who is taking his departure.
The officer raised his arm feebly, and detained him.
"You have saved my life. Who are you?"
The prowler answered rapidly, and in a low voice:--
"Like yourself, I belonged to the French army. I must leave you. If they were to catch me, they would shoot me. I have saved your life. Now get out of the scrape yourself."
"What is your rank?"
"Sergeant."
"What is your name?"
"Thenardier."
"I shall not forget that name," said the officer; "and do you remember mine. My name is Pontmercy."
我们再来谈谈那不幸的战场，这对本书是必要的。
一八一五年六月十八日正是月圆之夜。月色给布吕歇尔的猛烈追击以许多方便，替他指出逃兵的动向，把那浩劫中的人流交付给贪戾的普鲁士骑兵，促成了那次屠杀。天灾人祸中，夜色有时是会那样助人杀兴的。
在放过那最后一炮后，圣约翰山的原野上剩下的只是一片凄凉景象。
英军占了法军的营幕，那是证明胜利的一贯做法，在失败者的榻上高枕而卧。他们越过罗松，安营露宿。普鲁士军奋力穷追，向前推进。威灵顿回到滑铁卢村里写军书，向贵人巴塞司特报捷。
假使“有名无实”这个词能用得恰当，那就一定可以用在滑铁卢村，滑铁卢什么也没有做，它离开作战地点有半法里远。圣约翰山被炮轰击过，乌古蒙烧了，帕佩洛特烧了，普朗尚努瓦烧了，圣拉埃受过攻打，佳盟见过两个胜利者的拥抱；那些地方几乎无人知晓，而滑铁卢在这次战争中毫不出力，却享尽了荣誉。
我们都不是那种赞扬战争的人，所以一有机会，便把战争的实情说出。战争有它那骇人的美，我们一点也不隐讳；但也应当承认，它有它的丑，其中最骇人听闻的一种，便是在胜利过后立即搜刮死人的财物。战争翌日，晨曦往往照着赤身露体的尸首。
是谁干那种事，谁那样污辱胜利？偷偷伸在胜利的衣袋里的那只凶手是谁的？隐在光荣后面实行罪恶勾当的那些无赖是些什么人？有些哲学家，例如伏尔泰诸人，都肯定说干那种事的人恰巧是胜利者。据说他们全是一样的，没有区别，立着的人抢掠倒下的人。白昼的英雄便是夜间的吸血鬼。况且既杀其人，再稍稍沾一点光也是分内应享的权利。至于我们，却不敢轻信。赢得桂冠而又偷窃一个死人的鞋子，在我们看来，似乎不是同一只手干得出来的。
有一点却是确实的，就是常有小偷跟在胜利者后面。但是我们应当撇开士兵不谈，尤其是现代的士兵。
每个军队都有个尾巴，那才是该控诉的地方。一些蝙蝠式的东西，半土匪半仆役，从战争的悲惨日子里产生的各种飞鼠，穿军装而不上阵，装假病，足跛心黑骑着马，有时带着女人，坐上小车，贩卖私货，卖出而又随手偷进的火头兵，向军官们请求作向导的乞丐、勤务兵、扒手之类，从前军队出发棗我们不谈现代棗每每拖着那样一批家伙，因而专业用语里称之谓“押队”。任何军队或任何国家都不对那些人负责。他们说意大利语却跟着德国人，说法语却跟着英国人。切里索尔①战役胜利的那天晚上，费瓦克侯爷遇见一个说法语的西班牙押队，听了他的北方土话，便把他当作一家人，当晚被那无赖谋害在战场上，东西也被他偷走了。有偷就有贼。有句可鄙的口语“靠敌人吃饭”说明了这种麻疯病的由来，只有严厉的军纪才能医治。有些人是徒有其名的，我们不能一一知道为什么某某将军，甚至某某大将军的名气会那样大。蒂雷纳②受到他的士兵的爱戴，正因为他纵容劫掠，纵恶竟成了仁爱的一个组成部分，蒂雷纳仁爱到听凭部下焚毁屠杀巴拉蒂纳③。军队后面窃贼的多寡，全以将领的严弛为准则。奥什④和马尔索⑤绝对没有押队，威灵顿有而不多棗我们乐于为他说句公道话。 
①切里索尔（Cérisolles），村名，在意大利，一五四四年，法军败西班牙军于此。
②蒂雷纳（Turenne），十七世纪法国元帅。
③巴拉蒂纳（Palatinat），即今西德的法尔茨（Pfalz）。
④奥什（Hoche），法国革命时期的将军。
⑤马尔索（Marceau），同上。　　
可是六月十八到十九的那天晚上有人盗尸。威灵顿是严明的，军中有当场拿获格杀勿论的命令，但是盗犯猖獗如故。
正当战场这边枪决盗犯时，战场那边却照样进行盗窃。
惨淡的月光照着那片原野。
夜半前后，有个人在奥安凹路一带徘徊，更确切地说，在那一带匍匐。从他的外貌看去，他正是我们刚才描写过的那种人，既不是法国人，也不是英国人，既不是农民，也不是士兵，三分象人，七分象鬼，他闻尸味而垂涎，以偷盗为胜利，现在前来搜刮滑铁卢。他穿一件蒙头斗篷式布衫，鬼鬼祟祟，却一身都是胆，他往前走，又向后看。那是个什么人？他的来历，黑夜也许要比白昼知道得更清楚些。他没有提囊，但在布衫下面显然有些大口袋。他不时停下来，四面张望，怕有人注意他，他突然弯下腰，翻动地上一些不出声气，动也不动的东西，随即又站起来，偷偷地走了。他那种滑动，那种神气，那种敏捷而神秘的动作，就象黄昏时在荒丘间出没的那种野鬼，也就是诺曼底古代传奇中所说的那种赶路鬼。
夜行陂泽间的某些涉禽是会有那种形象的。
假使有人留意，望穿那片迷雾，便会看到在他眼前不远，在尼维尔路转向从圣约翰山去布兰拉勒的那条路旁的一栋破屋后面，正停着，可以这么说，正躲着一辆小杂货车，车篷是柳条编的，涂了柏油，驾着一匹驽马，它饿到戴着勒口吃荨麻，车子里有个女人坐在一些箱匣包袱上面。也许那辆车和那忽来忽往的人有些关系。
夜色明静。天空无片云。血染沙场并不影响月色的皎洁，正所谓昊天不吊。原隔间，有些树枝已被炮弹折断，却不曾落地，仍旧连皮挂在树上，在晚风中微微动荡。一阵弱如鼻息的气流拂着野草。野草瑟缩，有如灵魂归去。
英军营幕前，夜巡军士来往逡巡的声音从远处传来，隐约可辨。
乌古蒙和圣拉埃，一在西，一在东，都还在燃烧，在那两篷烈火之间，远处的高坡上，英军营帐中的灯火连成一个大半圆形，好象一串解下了的红宝石项圈，两端各缀一块彩色水晶。
我们已经谈过奥安凹路的惨祸。那么多忠勇的人竟会死得那么惨，想来真令人心惊。
假使世间有桩可骇的事，比做梦还更现实的事，那一定是：活着，看见太阳，身强力壮，健康而温暖，能够开怀狂笑，向自己前面的光荣奔去，辉煌灿烂的光荣，觉得自己胸中有呼吸着的肺，跳动的心，明辨是非的意志，能够谈论，思想，希望，恋爱，有母亲，有爱妻，有儿女，有光明，可是陡然一下，在一声号叫里落在坑里，跌着。滚着，压着，被压着，看见麦穗、花、叶和枝，却抓不住，觉得自己的刀已经失去作用，下面是人，上面是马，徒劳挣扎，眼前一片黑，觉得自己是在马蹄的蹴踏之下，骨头折断了，眼珠突出了，疯狂地咬着马蹄铁，气塞了，号着，奋力辗转，被压在那下面，心里在想：“刚才我还是一个活人！”
在那场伤心惨目的灾难暴发的地方，现在连一点声息也没有了。那条凹路的两壁间已填满了马和骑士，层层叠叠，颠倒纵横，错杂骇人心魄。两旁已没有斜壁了。死人死马把那条路填得和旷野一样高，和路边一般平，正象一升量得满满的粟米。上层是一堆尸体，底下是一条血河，那条路在一八一五年六月十八日夜间的情形便是如此。血一直流到尼维尔路，并在砍来拦阻道路的那堆树木前面积成一个大血泊，直到现在，那地方还受人凭吊。我们记得，铁骑军遇险的地方是在对面，近热纳普路那一带。尸层的厚薄和凹路的深浅成正比。靠中间那段路平坑浅的地方，也就是德洛尔部越过的地方，尸层渐薄了。
我们刚才向读者约略谈到的那个夜间行窃的人，正是向那地段走去。他嗅着那条广阔的墓地。他东张西望。他检阅的是一种说不清的令人多么厌恶的死人的队伍。他踏着血泊往前走。
他突然停下。
在他前面相隔几步的地方，在那凹路里尸山的尽头，有一只手在月光下的那堆人马中伸出来。
那只手的指头上有一个明晃晃的东西，是个金戒指。
那人弯下腰去，蹲了一会儿，到他重行立起时，那只手上已没有戒指了。
他并没有真正立起来，他那形态好象一只惊弓的野兽，背朝着死人堆，眼睛望着远处，跪着，上身全部支在两只着地的食指上，头伸出凹路边，向外望。豺狗的四个爪子对某种行动是适合的。
随后，打定了主意，他才立起来。
正在那时，他大吃一惊，他觉得有人从后面拖住他。
他转过去看，正是那只原来张开的手，现已合拢，抓住了他的衣边。
诚实的人一定受惊不小，这一个却笑了起来。
“啐，”他说，“幸好是个死人！我宁肯碰见鬼也不愿碰见宪兵。”
他正说着，那只手气力已尽便丢开了他。死人的气力是有限的。
“怪事！”那贼又说，“这死人是活的吗？让我来看看。”
他重新弯下腰去，搜着那人堆，把碍手脚的东西掀开，抓着那只手，把住他的胳膊，搬出头，拖出身子，过一会儿，他把一个断了气的人，至少也是一个失了知觉的人，拖到凹路的黑影里去了。那是铁骑军的一个军官，并且是一个等级颇高的军官，一条很宽的金肩章从铁甲里露出来，那军官已经丢了铁盔。他脸上血迹模糊，有一长条刀砍的伤口，此外，他不象有什么折断了的肢体，并且侥幸得很，假使此地也可能有侥幸的话，有些尸体在他上面交叉构成一个空隙，因而他没有受压。
他眼睛闭上了。
在他的铁甲上，有个银质的功勋十字章。
那个贼拔下了十字章，塞在他那蒙头斗篷下面的那些无底洞里。
过后，他摸摸那军官的裤腰口袋，摸到一只表，一并拿了去。随后他搜背心，搜出一个钱包，也一并塞在自己的衣袋里。
正当他把那垂死的人救到现阶段时，那军官的眼睛睁开了。
“谢谢。”他气息奄奄地说。
那人翻动他的那种急促动作，晚风的凉爽，呼吸到的流畅的空气，使他从昏迷中醒过来了。
那贼没有答话。他抬起头来。他听见旷野里有脚步声，也许是什么巡逻队来了。
那军官低声说，因为他刚刚转过气来，去死还不远：
“谁胜了？”
“英国人。”那贼回答。
“您搜我的衣袋。我有一个钱包和一只表。您可以拿去。”
他早已拿去了。
那贼照他的话假装寻了一遍，说道：
“什么也没有。”
“已经有人偷去了，”那军官接着说，“岂有此理，不然就是您的了。”
巡逻队的脚步声越来越清楚了。
“有人来了。”那贼说，做出要走的样子。
那军官使尽力气，伸起手来，抓住他：
“您救了我的命。您是谁？”
那贼连忙低声回答说：
“我和您一样，也是法国军队里的。我得走开。假使有人捉住我，他们就会枪毙我。我已经救了您的命。现在您自己去逃生吧。”
“您是那一级的？”
“中士。”
“您叫什么名字？”
“德纳第。”
“我不会忘记这个名字，”那军官说，“您也记住我的名字，我叫彭眉胥。”
Part 2 Book 2 Chapter 1 Number 24,601 becomes Number 9,430
Jean Valjean had been recaptured.
The reader will be grateful to us if we pass rapidly over the sad details. We will confine ourselves to transcribing two paragraphs published by the journals of that day, a few months after the surprising events which had taken place at M. sur M.
These articles are rather summary. It must be remembered, that at that epoch the Gazette des Tribunaux was not yet in existence.
We borrow the first from the Drapeau Blanc. It bears the date of July 25, 1823.
An arrondissement of the Pas de Calais has just been the theatre of an event quite out of the ordinary course. A man, who was a stranger in the Department, and who bore the name of M. Madeleine, had, thanks to the new methods, resuscitated some years ago an ancient local industry, the manufacture of jet and of black glass trinkets. He had made his fortune in the business, and that of the arrondissement as well, we will admit. He had been appointed mayor, in recognition of his services. The police discovered that M. Madeleine was no other than an ex-convict who had broken his ban, condemned in 1796 for theft, and named Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean has been recommitted to prison. It appears that previous to his arrest he had succeeded in withdrawing from the hands of M. Laffitte, a sum of over half a million which he had lodged there, and which he had, moreover, and by perfectly legitimate means, acquired in his business. No one has been able to discover where Jean Valjean has concealed this money since his return to prison at Toulon.
The second article, which enters a little more into detail, is an extract from the Journal de Paris, of the same date. A former convict, who had been liberated, named Jean Valjean, has just appeared before the Court of Assizes of the Var, under circumstances calculated to attract attention. This wretch had succeeded in escaping the vigilance of the police, he had changed his name, and had succeeded in getting himself appointed mayor of one of our small northern towns; in this town he had established a considerable commerce. He has at last been unmasked and arrested, thanks to the indefatigable zeal of the public prosecutor. He had for his concubine a woman of the town, who died of a shock at the moment of his arrest. This scoundrel, who is endowed with Herculean strength, found means to escape; but three or four days after his flight the police laid their hands on him once more, in Paris itself, at the very moment when he was entering one of those little vehicles which run between the capital and the village of Montfermeil (Seine-et-Oise). He is said to have profited by this interval of three or four days of liberty, to withdraw a considerable sum deposited by him with one of our leading bankers. This sum has been estimated at six or seven hundred thousand francs. If the indictment is to be trusted, he has hidden it in some place known to himself alone, and it has not been possible to lay hands on it. However that may be, the said Jean Valjean has just been brought before the Assizes of the Department of the Var as accused of highway robbery accompanied with violence, about eight years ago, on the person of one of those honest children who, as the patriarch of Ferney has said, in immortal verse,
". . . Arrive from Savoy every year, And who, with gentle hands, do clear Those long canals choked up with soot."
This bandit refused to defend himself. It was proved by the skilful and eloquent representative of the public prosecutor, that the theft was committed in complicity with others, and that Jean Valjean was a member of a band of robbers in the south. Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty and was condemned to the death penalty in consequence. This criminal refused to lodge an appeal. The king, in his inexhaustible clemency, has deigned to commute his penalty to that of penal servitude for life. Jean Valjean was immediately taken to the prison at Toulon.
The reader has not forgotten that Jean Valjean had religious habits at M. sur M. Some papers, among others the Constitutional, presented this commutation as a triumph of the priestly party.
Jean Valjean changed his number in the galleys. He was called 9,430.
However, and we will mention it at once in order that we may not be obliged to recur to the subject, the prosperity of M. sur M. Vanished with M. Madeleine; all that he had foreseen during his night of fever and hesitation was realized; lacking him, there actually was a soul lacking. After this fall, there took place at M. Sur M. that egotistical division of great existences which have fallen, that fatal dismemberment of flourishing things which is accomplished every day, obscurely, in the human community, and which history has noted only once, because it occurred after the death of Alexander. Lieutenants are crowned kings; superintendents improvise manufacturers out of themselves. Envious rivalries arose. M. Madeleine's vast workshops were shut; his buildings fell to ruin, his workmen were scattered. Some of them quitted the country, others abandoned the trade. Thenceforth, everything was done on a small scale, instead of on a grand scale; for lucre instead of the general good. There was no longer a centre; everywhere there was competition and animosity. M. Madeleine had reigned over all and directed all. No sooner had he fallen, than each pulled things to himself; the spirit of combat succeeded to the spirit of organization, bitterness to cordiality, hatred of one another to the benevolence of the founder towards all; the threads which M. Madeleine had set were tangled and broken, the methods were adulterated, the products were debased, confidence was killed; the market diminished, for lack of orders; salaries were reduced, the workshops stood still, bankruptcy arrived. And then there was nothing more for the poor. All had vanished.
The state itself perceived that some one had been crushed somewhere. Less than four years after the judgment of the Court of Assizes establishing the identity of Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine, for the benefit of the galleys, the cost of collecting taxes had doubled in the arrondissement of M. sur M.; and M. de Villele called attention to the fact in the rostrum, in the month of February, 1827.
冉阿让又被捕了。
那些惨痛的经过，我们不打算一一细谈，大家想能见谅。我们只把当时滨海蒙特勒伊那一惊人事件发生几个月后报纸所刊载的两则小新闻转录下来。
那两节记载相当简略。我们记得，当时还没有地方法院公报。
第一节是从一八二三年七月二十五日的《白旗报》上录下来的：
加来海峡省①某县发生了一件稀有的事。有个来自他省名叫马德兰先生的人，在最近几年内，曾采用一种新方法，振兴了当地的一种旧工业，即烧料细工业。他成了当地的巨富，并且，应当说明，该县也因以致富。为了报答他的劳绩，大家举荐他当市长。不意警厅发现该马德兰先生者，原名冉阿让，系一苦役犯，一七九六年因盗案入狱，服刑期满，竟又违禁私迁。冉阿让现已重行入狱。据说他在被捕之先，曾从拉菲特银行提取存款五十万，那笔款子，一般人认为是他在商业中获得的非常合法的利润。冉阿让既已回到土伦监狱，那笔款子藏在什么地方，也就无人知晓了。 
①加来海峡省（PasdeCalais），滨海蒙特勒伊所在之省，在法国北部。　
第二节，比较详细，是从同一天的《巴黎日报》摘录下来的。
有个刑满释放的苦役犯名冉阿让者，最近在瓦尔省①高等法院受审，案情颇堪注意。该暴徒曾蒙蔽警察，改名换姓，并窃居我国北部某小城市长之职。他在该城经营一种商业，规模相当可观。由于公安人员的高度服务热忱，终于揭发真相，逮捕归案。他的姘妇是个公娼，已在他被捕时惊恐丧命。该犯膂力过人，曾越狱潜逃，越狱后三四日，又被警方捕获，并且是在巴黎，当时他正待走上一辆行驶在首都和孟费郿村（塞纳·瓦兹省）之间的小车。据说他曾利用那三四天的自由，从某大银行提取了大宗存款。据估计，该款达六七十万法郎。公诉状指出他已将该款藏在某处，除他之外无人知晓，因而没有被发现。总之该冉阿让已在瓦尔省高等法院受审，他被控曾手持凶器，约八年前在大路上抢劫过一个正如费尔内元老在他那流芳千古的诗句中所提及的那种诚实孩子：
…………
岁岁都从萨瓦②来，
妙手轻轻频拂拭，
善为长突去煤炱。 
①瓦尔省（Var），土伦所在之省，在法国南部。
②萨瓦（Savoie），省名，靠意大利，该地的孩子多以通烟囱为业。　
那匪徒放弃了申诉机会。经司法诸公一番崇论雄辩之后，他那盗案已被定为累犯罪，并经指出冉阿让系南方某一匪帮的成员。因而罪证一经宣布，该冉阿让即被判处死刑。该犯拒绝上诉。国王无边宽大，恩准减为终身苦役。冉阿让立即被押赴土伦监狱。
我们没有忘记，冉阿让当初在滨海蒙特勒伊一贯遵守教规。因而有几种报纸，例如《立宪主义者报》便认为那次减刑应当归功于宗教界。
冉阿让在苦役牢里换了号码。他叫九四三○号。
此外，我们一次说清，以后不再提了，滨海蒙特勒伊的繁荣已随马德兰先生消失了，凡是他在那次忧心如焚、迟疑不决的夜晚所预见到的一切都成了事实，丢了他，确也就是丢了灵魂。自从他垮台以后，滨海蒙特勒伊便出现了自私自利、四分五裂的局面，那种局面原是在大事业主持人失败后所常见的，人存事业兴隆，人亡分崩离析，那种悲惨的结局，在人类社会中是每天都在暗中进行着的，历史上却只在亚历山大死后①出现过一次。部将们自封为王，工头们自称业主。竞争猜忌出现了。马德兰先生的大工厂关了门，房屋坍塌，工人四散。有的离开了本乡，有的改了行。从那以后，一切都改用小规模进行，没有大规模的了；全为利己，不以利人。失了中心，处处都是竞争，顽强的竞争。马德兰先生曾主持一切，从中指挥。他倒了，于是每个人都为自身着想；倾轧的精神代替了组合的精神，粗暴代替了赤诚，相互的仇视代替了创办人对大众的关切；马德兰先生所结的丝全乱了，断了；大家偷工减料，降低了质量，失去了信用；销路阻滞，订货减少；工资降低，工场停工，结果破产。从此穷人空无所有。一切如云烟般消散。 
①亚历山大死后，他所征服的领土上出现分裂割据的局面。　
连政府也感到在某处折了一根栋梁。自从那高等法院的判决书为了牢狱的利益，证明马德兰先生和冉阿让确是同一个人以后，不到四年，滨海蒙特勒伊一县的收税费用就增加了一倍，维莱尔先生也曾在一八二七年二月把这种情形在议会里提出过。
Part 2 Book 2 Chapter 2 In which the reader will peruse Two Verses
Before proceeding further, it will be to the purpose to narrate in some detail, a singular occurrence which took place at about the same epoch, in Montfermeil, and which is not lacking in coincidence with certain conjectures of the indictment.
There exists in the region of Montfermeil a very ancient superstition, which is all the more curious and all the more precious, because a popular superstition in the vicinity of Paris is like an aloe in Siberia. We are among those who respect everything which is in the nature of a rare plant. Here, then, is the superstition of Montfermeil: it is thought that the devil, from time immemorial, has selected the forest as a hiding-place for his treasures. Goodwives affirm that it is no rarity to encounter at nightfall, in secluded nooks of the forest, a black man with the air of a carter or a wood-chopper, wearing wooden shoes, clad in trousers and a blouse of linen, and recognizable by the fact, that, instead of a cap or hat, he has two immense horns on his head. This ought, in fact, to render him recognizable. This man is habitually engaged in digging a hole. There are three ways of profiting by such an encounter. The first is to approach the man and speak to him. Then it is seen that the man is simply a peasant, that he appears black because it is nightfall; that he is not digging any hole whatever, but is cutting grass for his cows, and that what had been taken for horns is nothing but a dung-fork which he is carrying on his back, and whose teeth, thanks to the perspective of evening, seemed to spring from his head. The man returns home and dies within the week. The second way is to watch him, to wait until he has dug his hole, until he has filled it and has gone away; then to run with great speed to the trench, to open it once more and to seize the "treasure" which the black man has necessarily placed there. In this case one dies within the month. Finally, the last method is not to speak to the black man, not to look at him, and to flee at the best speed of one's legs. One then dies within the year.
As all three methods are attended with their special inconveniences, the second, which at all events, presents some advantages, among others that of possessing a treasure, if only for a month, is the one most generally adopted. So bold men, who are tempted by every chance, have quite frequently, as we are assured, opened the holes excavated by the black man, and tried to rob the devil. The success of the operation appears to be but moderate. At least, if the tradition is to be believed, and in particular the two enigmatical lines in barbarous Latin, which an evil Norman monk, a bit of a sorcerer, named Tryphon has left on this subject. This Tryphon is buried at the Abbey of Saint-Georges de Bocherville, near Rouen, and toads spawn on his grave.
Accordingly, enormous efforts are made. Such trenches are ordinarily extremely deep; a man sweats, digs, toils all night-- for it must be done at night; he wets his shirt, burns out his candle, breaks his mattock, and when he arrives at the bottom of the hole, when he lays his hand on the "treasure," what does he find? What is the devil's treasure? A sou, sometimes a crown-piece, a stone, a skeleton, a bleeding body, sometimes a spectre folded in four like a sheet of paper in a portfolio, sometimes nothing. This is what Tryphon's verses seem to announce to the indiscreet and curious:--
"Fodit, et in fossa thesauros condit opaca, As, nummas, lapides, cadaver, simulacra, nihilque."
It seems that in our day there is sometimes found a powder-horn with bullets, sometimes an old pack of cards greasy and worn, which has evidently served the devil. Tryphon does not record these two finds, since Tryphon lived in the twelfth century, and since the devil does not appear to have had the wit to invent powder before Roger Bacon's time, and cards before the time of Charles VI.
Moreover, if one plays at cards, one is sure to lose all that one possesses! and as for the powder in the horn, it possesses the property of making your gun burst in your face.
Now, a very short time after the epoch when it seemed to the prosecuting attorney that the liberated convict Jean Valjean during his flight of several days had been prowling around Montfermeil, it was remarked in that village that a certain old road-laborer, named Boulatruelle, had "peculiar ways" in the forest. People thereabouts thought they knew that this Boulatruelle had been in the galleys. He was subjected to certain police supervision, and, as he could find work nowhere, the administration employed him at reduced rates as a road-mender on the cross-road from Gagny to Lagny.
This Boulatruelle was a man who was viewed with disfavor by the inhabitants of the district as too respectful, too humble, too prompt in removing his cap to every one, and trembling and smiling in the presence of the gendarmes,--probably affiliated to robber bands, they said; suspected of lying in ambush at verge of copses at nightfall. The only thing in his favor was that he was a drunkard.
This is what people thought they had noticed:--
Of late, Boulatruelle had taken to quitting his task of stone-breaking and care of the road at a very early hour, and to betaking himself to the forest with his pickaxe. He was encountered towards evening in the most deserted clearings, in the wildest thickets; and he had the appearance of being in search of something, and sometimes he was digging holes. The goodwives who passed took him at first for Beelzebub; then they recognized Boulatruelle, and were not in the least reassured thereby. These encounters seemed to cause Boulatruelle a lively displeasure. It was evident that he sought to hide, and that there was some mystery in what he was doing.
It was said in the village: "It is clear that the devil has appeared. Boulatruelle has seen him, and is on the search. In sooth, he is cunning enough to pocket Lucifer's hoard."
The Voltairians added, "Will Boulatruelle catch the devil, or will the devil catch Boulatruelle?" The old women made a great many signs of the cross.
In the meantime, Boulatruelle's manoeuvres in the forest ceased; and he resumed his regular occupation of roadmending; and people gossiped of something else.
Some persons, however, were still curious, surmising that in all this there was probably no fabulous treasure of the legends, but some fine windfall of a more serious and palpable sort than the devil's bank-bills, and that the road-mender had half discovered the secret. The most "puzzled" were the school-master and Thenardier, the proprietor of the tavern, who was everybody's friend, and had not disdained to ally himself with Boulatruelle.
"He has been in the galleys," said Thenardier. "Eh! Good God! no one knows who has been there or will be there."
One evening the schoolmaster affirmed that in former times the law would have instituted an inquiry as to what Boulatruelle did in the forest, and that the latter would have been forced to speak, and that he would have been put to the torture in case of need, and that Boulatruelle would not have resisted the water test, for example. "Let us put him to the wine test," said Thenardier.
They made an effort, and got the old road-mender to drinking. Boulatruelle drank an enormous amount, but said very little. He combined with admirable art, and in masterly proportions, the thirst of a gormandizer with the discretion of a judge. Nevertheless, by dint of returning to the charge and of comparing and putting together the few obscure words which he did allow to escape him, this is what Thenardier and the schoolmaster imagined that they had made out:--
One morning, when Boulatruelle was on his way to his work, at daybreak, he had been surprised to see, at a nook of the forest in the underbrush, a shovel and a pickaxe, concealed, as one might say.
However, he might have supposed that they were probably the shovel and pick of Father Six-Fours, the water-carrier, and would have thought no more about it. But, on the evening of that day, he saw, without being seen himself, as he was hidden by a large tree, "a person who did not belong in those parts, and whom he, Boulatruelle, knew well," directing his steps towards the densest part of the wood. Translation by Thenardier: A comrade of the galleys. Boulatruelle obstinately refused to reveal his name. This person carried a package--something square, like a large box or a small trunk. Surprise on the part of Boulatruelle. However, it was only after the expiration of seven or eight minutes that the idea of following that "person" had occurred to him. But it was too late; the person was already in the thicket, night had descended, and Boulatruelle had not been able to catch up with him. Then he had adopted the course of watching for him at the edge of the woods. "It was moonlight." Two or three hours later, Boulatruelle had seen this person emerge from the brushwood, carrying no longer the coffer, but a shovel and pick. Boulatruelle had allowed the person to pass, and had not dreamed of accosting him, because he said to himself that the other man was three times as strong as he was, and armed with a pickaxe, and that he would probably knock him over the head on recognizing him, and on perceiving that he was recognized. Touching effusion of two old comrades on meeting again. But the shovel and pick had served as a ray of light to Boulatruelle; he had hastened to the thicket in the morning, and had found neither shovel nor pick. From this he had drawn the inference that this person, once in the forest, had dug a hole with his pick, buried the coffer, and reclosed the hole with his shovel. Now, the coffer was too small to contain a body; therefore it contained money. Hence his researches. Boulatruelle had explored, sounded, searched the entire forest and the thicket, and had dug wherever the earth appeared to him to have been recently turned up. In vain.
He had "ferreted out" nothing. No one in Montfermeil thought any more about it. There were only a few brave gossips, who said, "You may be certain that the mender on the Gagny road did not take all that trouble for nothing; he was sure that the devil had come."
在说下去之先，我们不妨比较详细地谈一件怪事，这桩怪事几乎是同时在孟费郿发生的，并且和公安人员的推测不无暗合之处。
孟费郿地方有一种由来已久的迷信，在巴黎附近，居然还有一种迷信，能够传遍一方，这事的奇离可贵，也正如在西伯利亚出现了沉香。我们是那种重视稀有植物状况的人。那么，我们来谈谈孟费郿的迷信。人们都相信，魔鬼远在无可稽考的年代，便已选定当地的森林作为他藏宝的地方。婆婆妈妈们还肯定说，天快黑时，在树林里那些空旷地方，时常会出现一个黑人，面貌象个车夫或樵夫，脚上穿双木鞋，身上穿套粗布褂裤，他的特点便是他不但不戴帽子，头上还有两只其大无比的角。这一特点确实可以说明他是什么①。这人经常在地上挖洞。遇见了这种事的人，有三种应付办法。第一种，是走去找他谈话。你就会看见他只不过是个普普通通的乡下人，他黑，是因为天黑，他并不挖什么洞，而是在割喂牛的草料，他有角，那也不过是因为他背上背着一把粪叉，从暮色中远远望去，那粪叉的齿就好象是从他头上长出来的。你回到家里，一个星期之内就得死。第二种办法，就是看住他，等他挖好洞掩上土走开以后，你再赶快跑去找他挖的坑，再把它掘开来，取出那黑人必然埋在那里的“宝”。那样做，一个月以内也得死。还有第三种办法，就是绝不和那黑人谈话，也绝不望他，而是连忙逃避。一年以内也得死。 
①法国俗传魔鬼头上有角。
那三种办法都有不妥当的地方，第二种比较有利，至少可以得宝，哪怕只活一个月也值得。因此那是被采用得最广的办法。有些胆大的汉子，要钱不要命，据说他们曾不止一次，并且有凭有据，确实重行挖开那黑人所挖的洞，发了些魔鬼财。收获据说并没有什么了不起的。至少，也该相信那种由来已久的传说，而且尤其应当相信一个叫做特里丰的诺曼底僧人针对这一问题用蛮族拉丁文写的两句费解的歪诗。这僧人懂些巫术，为人凶恶，死后葬在鲁昂附近波什维尔地方的圣乔治修道院，他坟上竟生了些癞虾蟆。
那些坑，经常是挖得很深的，大家费了无穷的力气，流着汗，去搜索，整夜工作，因为那种事总是晚上做的，衬衣汗湿，蜡烛点光，锄头挖缺，等到挖到坑底，“宝物”在握时，会发现什么呢？那魔鬼的宝藏是什么呢？是一个苏，有时是一个金币、一块石头、一具枯骸、一具血淋淋的尸体，有时是个死人，一折四，就象公文包里的一张信纸，有时什么也没有。特里丰那两句歪诗所表达的和那些喜欢惹是生非的人的情形颇有些近似：
他在土坑里埋藏他的宝物，
古钱、银币、石块、尸首、塑像，空无所有。
到今天，据说有人还会找到一个火药瓶连带几粒子弹，有时也会找出一副满是油污颜色黄红的旧纸牌，那显然是魔鬼们玩过的。特里丰一点没有提到后来发现的那两种东西，因为他生在十二世纪，魔鬼们还不够聪明，不能在罗歇·培根①以前发明火药，也不能在查理六世②以前发明纸牌。 
①罗歇·培根（RogerBacon），十三世纪英国僧人。
②查理六世（CharlesVI），十四世纪法王。
并且，如果有人拿了那种牌去赌博，他一定输到精光；至于那瓶里的火药，它的性能是把你的枪管炸在你脸上。
再说，公安人员怀疑过，那被释放了的苦役犯冉阿让，在他潜逃的那几天里，曾在孟费郿一带躲躲藏藏；过后不久，又有人注意到在同一个村子里，有个叫蒲辣秃柳儿的修路老工人，在那树林里也有些“行动”。那地方的人都说蒲辣秃柳儿坐过苦役牢，他在某些方面还受着警察的监视，由于他四处找不到工作，政府便贱价雇了他在加尼和拉尼间的那条便路上当路工。
那蒲辣秃柳儿是被当地人另眼相看的，他为人过于周到，过于谦卑，见了任何人都连忙脱帽，见了警察更一面哆嗦，一面送笑脸，有些人说他很可能和某些匪徒有联系，怀疑他一到傍晚便在一些树丛角落里打埋伏。他唯一的嗜好是醉酒。
一般人的传说是这样的：
近来蒲辣秃柳儿的铺石修路工作收工很早，他带着他的十字镐到树林里去了。有人在黄昏时遇见他在那些景荒凉的空地里，最深密的树丛里，好象在寻什么似的，有时也在地上挖洞。那些过路的婆婆妈妈们撞见了他，还以为是撞见了巴力西卜①，过后才认出是蒲辣秃柳儿，却仍旧放心不下。蒲辣秃柳儿好象也很不喜欢遇见那些过路人。他有意躲避，他显然有不可告人的隐衷。 
①巴力西卜（Belzébuth），又译“别西卜”，《圣经·马太福音》中之鬼王。
村子里有些人说：“很明显，魔鬼又出现过了。蒲辣秃柳儿看见了他，他在找。老实说，他要是能捉到个鬼王就算是了不起了。”一些没有定见的人还补充说：“不知道结果是蒲辣秃柳儿捉鬼，还是鬼捉蒲辣秃柳儿。”那些老太婆画了许多十字。
过些时候，蒲辣秃柳儿在那树林里的勾当停下来了，照旧规规矩矩做他的路工工作。大家也就谈旁的事情了。
有些人却仍在思前想后，认为那里面完全不是什么古代传说中的那种虚无缥缈的宝藏，而是一笔比鬼国银行钞票实在些、地道些的横财，那里面的秘密，一定还只被那路工发现一半。“心里最痒”的人是那小学老师和客店老板德纳第，那小学老师和任何人都有交情，对于蒲辣秃柳儿也不惜结为朋友。
“他坐过苦役牢吗？”德纳第常说，“哼！我的天主！谁也不知道今天有谁在坐牢，也没有人知道明天谁会去坐牢。”
有一天晚上，那小学老师肯定说要是在从前，官家早去调查过蒲辣秃柳儿在树林里做的那些事了，一定也向他了解过，必要时也许还要动刑，蒲辣秃柳儿大致也就供了，他决受不了，比方说，那种水刑。
“我们给他来一次酒刑。”德纳第说。
他们四个人一道，请那路工喝酒。蒲辣秃柳儿大喝了一阵，说话却不多。他以高超的艺术和老练的手法和他们周旋，既能象醉鬼那样开怀畅饮，也能象法官那样沉默寡言。可是德纳第和那小学老师一再提问，把他无意中透露出来的几句费解的话前后连贯起来，紧紧向他追逼，他们认为已了解到这样一些情况：
有一天早晨，蒲辣秃柳儿在拂晓时去上工，看见在树林的一角，一丛荆棘下面，有一把锹和一把镐，好象是别人藏在那里的。同时他想到很可能是那挑水工人西弗尔爷爷的锹和镐，也就不再细想了。可是在当天傍晚，他看见一个人从大路向那树林最密的地方走去，而他自己却不会被人家看见，因为有棵大树遮住了他，他发现“那完全不是个本乡人，并且还是他，蒲辣秃柳儿非常熟识的一个老相知”。据德纳第推测，“是个同坐苦役牢的伙伴了”。蒲辣秃柳儿坚决不肯说出那个人的姓名。那人当时掮着一包东西，方方的，象个大匣子，或是个小箱子。蒲辣秃柳儿颇为诧异。七八分钟过后，他才忽然想起要跟着那“老相知”去看看。但是已经太迟了，那老相知已走进枝叶茂密的地方，天也黑了，蒲辣秃柳儿没能跟上他。于是他决计守在树林外边窥察。“月亮上山了。”两三个钟头过后，蒲辣秃柳儿看见他那老相知又从树丛里出来，可是他现在掮的不是那只小箱，而是一把镐和一把锹。蒲辣秃柳儿让那老相知走了过去，并没有想到要去和他打交道，因为他心想那人的力气比他大三倍，还拿着镐，如果认出了他，并且发现自己已被人识破，就很可能揍死他。旧雨重逢竟如此倾心相待，真使人感叹。蒲辣秃柳儿又猛然想起早晨隐在那荆棘丛中的锹和镐，他跑去瞧，可是锹不在，镐也不在了。他从而作出结论，认为他那老相知在走进树林以后，便用他那把镐挖了一个坑，把他那箱子埋了下去，又用锹填上土，掩了那坑。况且那箱子太小，装不了一个死人，那么它装的一定是钱了。因此，他要找。蒲辣秃柳儿已把整个树林都研究过，猜测过，搜索过，凡是有新近动土迹象的地方他都翻看过。毫无所得。
他什么也没有“逮住”。在孟费郿也就没有人再去想它了。不过还有几个诚实的老婆子在说：“可以肯定，加尼的那个路工决不会无缘无故地费那么大劲，魔鬼是一定又来过了。”
Part 2 Book 2 Chapter 3 The Ankle-Chain must have undergone a Certain
Towards the end of October, in that same year, 1823, the inhabitants of Toulon beheld the entry into their port, after heavy weather, and for the purpose of repairing some damages, of the ship Orion, which was employed later at Brest as a school-ship, and which then formed a part of the Mediterranean squadron.
This vessel, battered as it was,--for the sea had handled it roughly,-- produced a fine effect as it entered the roads. It flew some colors which procured for it the regulation salute of eleven guns, which it returned, shot for shot; total, twenty-two. It has been calculated that what with salvos, royal and military politenesses, courteous exchanges of uproar, signals of etiquette, formalities of roadsteads and citadels, sunrises and sunsets, saluted every day by all fortresses and all ships of war, openings and closings of ports, etc., the civilized world, discharged all over the earth, in the course of four and twenty hours, one hundred and fifty thousand useless shots. At six francs the shot, that comes to nine hundred thousand francs a day, three hundred millions a year, which vanish in smoke. This is a mere detail. All this time the poor were dying of hunger.
The year 1823 was what the Restoration called "the epoch of the Spanish war."
This war contained many events in one, and a quantity of peculiarities. A grand family affair for the house of Bourbon; the branch of France succoring and protecting the branch of Madrid, that is to say, performing an act devolving on the elder; an apparent return to our national traditions, complicated by servitude and by subjection to the cabinets of the North; M. le Duc d'Angouleme, surnamed by the liberal sheets the hero of Andujar, compressing in a triumphal attitude that was somewhat contradicted by his peaceable air, the ancient and very powerful terrorism of the Holy Office at variance with the chimerical terrorism of the liberals; the sansculottes resuscitated, to the great terror of dowagers, under the name of descamisados; monarchy opposing an obstacle to progress described as anarchy; the theories of '89 roughly interrupted in the sap; a European halt, called to the French idea, which was making the tour of the world; beside the son of France as generalissimo, the Prince de Carignan, afterwards Charles Albert, enrolling himself in that crusade of kings against people as a volunteer, with grenadier epaulets of red worsted; the soldiers of the Empire setting out on a fresh campaign, but aged, saddened, after eight years of repose, and under the white cockade; the tricolored standard waved abroad by a heroic handful of Frenchmen, as the white standard had been thirty years earlier at Coblentz; monks mingled with our troops; the spirit of liberty and of novelty brought to its senses by bayonets; principles slaughtered by cannonades; France undoing by her arms that which she had done by her mind; in addition to this, hostile leaders sold, soldiers hesitating, cities besieged by millions; no military perils, and yet possible explosions, as in every mine which is surprised and invaded; but little bloodshed, little honor won, shame for some, glory for no one. Such was this war, made by the princes descended from Louis XIV., and conducted by generals who had been under Napoleon. Its sad fate was to recall neither the grand war nor grand politics.
Some feats of arms were serious; the taking of the Trocadero, among others, was a fine military action; but after all, we repeat, the trumpets of this war give back a cracked sound, the whole effect was suspicious; history approves of France for making a difficulty about accepting this false triumph. It seemed evident that certain Spanish officers charged with resistance yielded too easily; the idea of corruption was connected with the victory; it appears as though generals and not battles had been won, and the conquering soldier returned humiliated. A debasing war, in short, in which the Bank of France could be read in the folds of the flag.
Soldiers of the war of 1808, on whom Saragossa had fallen in formidable ruin, frowned in 1823 at the easy surrender of citadels, and began to regret Palafox. It is the nature of France to prefer to have Rostopchine rather than Ballesteros in front of her.
From a still more serious point of view, and one which it is also proper to insist upon here, this war, which wounded the military spirit of France, enraged the democratic spirit. It was an enterprise of inthralment. In that campaign, the object of the French soldier, the son of democracy, was the conquest of a yoke for others. A hideous contradiction. France is made to arouse the soul of nations, not to stifle it. All the revolutions of Europe since 1792 are the French Revolution: liberty darts rays from France. That is a solar fact. Blind is he who will not see! It was Bonaparte who said it.
The war of 1823, an outrage on the generous Spanish nation, was then, at the same time, an outrage on the French Revolution. It was France who committed this monstrous violence; by foul means, for, with the exception of wars of liberation, everything that armies do is by foul means. The words passive obedience indicate this. An army is a strange masterpiece of combination where force results from an enormous sum of impotence. Thus is war, made by humanity against humanity, despite humanity, explained.
As for the Bourbons, the war of 1823 was fatal to them. They took it for a success. They did not perceive the danger that lies in having an idea slain to order. They went astray, in their innocence, to such a degree that they introduced the immense enfeeblement of a crime into their establishment as an element of strength. The spirit of the ambush entered into their politics. 1830 had its germ in 1823. The Spanish campaign became in their counsels an argument for force and for adventures by right Divine. France, having re-established elrey netto in Spain, might well have re-established the absolute king at home. They fell into the alarming error of taking the obedience of the soldier for the consent of the nation. Such confidence is the ruin of thrones. It is not permitted to fall asleep, either in the shadow of a machineel tree, nor in the shadow of an army.
Let us return to the ship Orion.
During the operations of the army commanded by the prince generalissimo, a squadron had been cruising in the Mediterranean. We have just stated that the Orion belonged to this fleet, and that accidents of the sea had brought it into port at Toulon.
The presence of a vessel of war in a port has something about it which attracts and engages a crowd. It is because it is great, and the crowd loves what is great.
A ship of the line is one of the most magnificent combinations of the genius of man with the powers of nature.
A ship of the line is composed, at the same time, of the heaviest and the lightest of possible matter, for it deals at one and the same time with three forms of substance,--solid, liquid, and fluid,-- and it must do battle with all three. It has eleven claws of iron with which to seize the granite on the bottom of the sea, and more wings and more antennae than winged insects, to catch the wind in the clouds. Its breath pours out through its hundred and twenty cannons as through enormous trumpets, and replies proudly to the thunder. The ocean seeks to lead it astray in the alarming sameness of its billows, but the vessel has its soul, its compass, which counsels it and always shows it the north. In the blackest nights, its lanterns supply the place of the stars. Thus, against the wind, it has its cordage and its canvas; against the water, wood; against the rocks, its iron, brass, and lead; against the shadows, its light; against immensity, a needle.
If one wishes to form an idea of all those gigantic proportions which, taken as a whole, constitute the ship of the line, one has only to enter one of the six-story covered construction stocks, in the ports of Brest or Toulon. The vessels in process of construction are under a bell-glass there, as it were. This colossal beam is a yard; that great column of wood which stretches out on the earth as far as the eye can reach is the main-mast. Taking it from its root in the stocks to its tip in the clouds, it is sixty fathoms long, and its diameter at its base is three feet. The English main-mast rises to a height of two hundred and seventeen feet above the water-line. The navy of our fathers employed cables, ours employs chains. The simple pile of chains on a ship of a hundred guns is four feet high, twenty feet in breadth, and eight feet in depth. And how much wood is required to make this ship? Three thousand cubic metres. It is a floating forest.
And moreover, let this be borne in mind, it is only a question here of the military vessel of forty years ago, of the simple sailing-vessel; steam, then in its infancy, has since added new miracles to that prodigy which is called a war vessel. At the present time, for example, the mixed vessel with a screw is a surprising machine, propelled by three thousand square metres of canvas and by an engine of two thousand five hundred horse-power.
Not to mention these new marvels, the ancient vessel of Christopher Columbus and of De Ruyter is one of the masterpieces of man. It is as inexhaustible in force as is the Infinite in gales; it stores up the wind in its sails, it is precise in the immense vagueness of the billows, it floats, and it reigns.
There comes an hour, nevertheless, when the gale breaks that sixty-foot yard like a straw, when the wind bends that mast four hundred feet tall, when that anchor, which weighs tens of thousands, is twisted in the jaws of the waves like a fisherman's hook in the jaws of a pike, when those monstrous cannons utter plaintive and futile roars, which the hurricane bears forth into the void and into night, when all that power and all that majesty are engulfed in a power and majesty which are superior.
Every time that immense force is displayed to culminate in an immense feebleness it affords men food for thought, Hence in the ports curious people abound around these marvellous machines of war and of navigation, without being able to explain perfectly to themselves why. Every day, accordingly, from morning until night, the quays, sluices, and the jetties of the port of Toulon were covered with a multitude of idlers and loungers, as they say in Paris, whose business consisted in staring at the Orion.
The Orion was a ship that had been ailing for a long time; in the course of its previous cruises thick layers of barnacles had collected on its keel to such a degree as to deprive it of half its speed; it had gone into the dry dock the year before this, in order to have the barnacles scraped off, then it had put to sea again; but this cleaning had affected the bolts of the keel: in the neighborhood of the Balearic Isles the sides had been strained and had opened; and, as the plating in those days was not of sheet iron, the vessel had sprung a leak. A violent equinoctial gale had come up, which had first staved in a grating and a porthole on the larboard side, and damaged the foretop-gallant-shrouds; in consequence of these injuries, the Orion had run back to Toulon.
It anchored near the Arsenal; it was fully equipped, and repairs were begun. The hull had received no damage on the starboard, but some of the planks had been unnailed here and there, according to custom, to permit of air entering the hold.
One morning the crowd which was gazing at it witnessed an accident.
The crew was busy bending the sails; the topman, who had to take the upper corner of the main-top-sail on the starboard, lost his balance; he was seen to waver; the multitude thronging the Arsenal quay uttered a cry; the man's head overbalanced his body; the man fell around the yard, with his hands outstretched towards the abyss; on his way he seized the footrope, first with one hand, then with the other, and remained hanging from it: the sea lay below him at a dizzy depth; the shock of his fall had imparted to the foot-rope a violent swinging motion; the man swayed back and forth at the end of that rope, like a stone in a sling.
It was incurring a frightful risk to go to his assistance; not one of the sailors, all fishermen of the coast, recently levied for the service, dared to attempt it. In the meantime, the unfortunate topman was losing his strength; his anguish could not be discerned on his face, but his exhaustion was visible in every limb; his arms were contracted in horrible twitchings; every effort which he made to re-ascend served but to augment the oscillations of the foot-rope; he did not shout, for fear of exhausting his strength. All were awaiting the minute when he should release his hold on the rope, and, from instant to instant, heads were turned aside that his fall might not be seen. There are moments when a bit of rope, a pole, the branch of a tree, is life itself, and it is a terrible thing to see a living being detach himself from it and fall like a ripe fruit.
All at once a man was seen climbing into the rigging with the agility of a tiger-cat; this man was dressed in red; he was a convict; he wore a green cap; he was a life convict. On arriving on a level with the top, a gust of wind carried away his cap, and allowed a perfectly white head to be seen: he was not a young man.
A convict employed on board with a detachment from the galleys had, in fact, at the very first instant, hastened to the officer of the watch, and, in the midst of the consternation and the hesitation of the crew, while all the sailors were trembling and drawing back, he had asked the officer's permission to risk his life to save the topman; at an affirmative sign from the officer he had broken the chain riveted to his ankle with one blow of a hammer, then he had caught up a rope, and had dashed into the rigging: no one noticed, at the instant, with what ease that chain had been broken; it was only later on that the incident was recalled.
In a twinkling he was on the yard; he paused for a few seconds and appeared to be measuring it with his eye; these seconds, during which the breeze swayed the topman at the extremity of a thread, seemed centuries to those who were looking on. At last, the convict raised his eyes to heaven and advanced a step: the crowd drew a long breath. He was seen to run out along the yard: on arriving at the point, he fastened the rope which he had brought to it, and allowed the other end to hang down, then he began to descend the rope, hand over hand, and then,--and the anguish was indescribable,--instead of one man suspended over the gulf, there were two.
One would have said it was a spider coming to seize a fly, only here the spider brought life, not death. Ten thousand glances were fastened on this group; not a cry, not a word; the same tremor contracted every brow; all mouths held their breath as though they feared to add the slightest puff to the wind which was swaying the two unfortunate men.
In the meantime, the convict had succeeded in lowering himself to a position near the sailor. It was high time; one minute more, and the exhausted and despairing man would have allowed himself to fall into the abyss. The convict had moored him securely with the cord to which he clung with one hand, while he was working with the other. At last, he was seen to climb back on the yard, and to drag the sailor up after him; he held him there a moment to allow him to recover his strength, then he grasped him in his arms and carried him, walking on the yard himself to the cap, and from there to the main-top, where he left him in the hands of his comrades.
At that moment the crowd broke into applause: old convict-sergeants among them wept, and women embraced each other on the quay, and all voices were heard to cry with a sort of tender rage, "Pardon for that man!"
He, in the meantime, had immediately begun to make his descent to rejoin his detachment. In order to reach them the more speedily, he dropped into the rigging, and ran along one of the lower yards; all eyes were following him. At a certain moment fear assailed them; whether it was that he was fatigued, or that his head turned, they thought they saw him hesitate and stagger. All at once the crowd uttered a loud shout: the convict had fallen into the sea.
The fall was perilous. The frigate Algesiras was anchored alongside the Orion, and the poor convict had fallen between the two vessels: it was to be feared that he would slip under one or the other of them. Four men flung themselves hastily into a boat; the crowd cheered them on; anxiety again took possession of all souls; the man had not risen to the surface; he had disappeared in the sea without leaving a ripple, as though he had fallen into a cask of oil: they sounded, they dived. In vain. The search was continued until the evening: they did not even find the body.
On the following day the Toulon newspaper printed these lines:--
"Nov. 17, 1823. Yesterday, a convict belonging to the detachment on board of the Orion, on his return from rendering assistance to a sailor, fell into the sea and was drowned. The body has not yet been found; it is supposed that it is entangled among the piles of the Arsenal point: this man was committed under the number 9,430, and his name was Jean Valjean."
同在那一年，一八二三年，十月将完时，土伦的居民都看见战船“俄里翁号”回港；那条战船日后是停在布雷斯特充练习舰用的，不过在当时隶属于地中海舰队，因为受了大风灾的损害，才回港修理。
那条艨艟巨舰在海里遇了风灾，损伤严重，在驶进船坞时很费了些劲。我已记不起它当时挂的是什么旗，它照例应当接受那十一响礼炮，它也一炮还一炮，总共是二十二炮。礼炮，是王室和陆海军的礼节，是互致敬意的轰鸣，军容的标志，船坞和炮垒的例规，日出日落，开城关城，诸如此类的事，都得由所有的炮垒和所有的战船鸣炮致敬；有人计算过，文明世界在整个地球上鸣放礼炮，每二十四小时要放十五万发，毫无一点用处。按每发六法郎计算，每天就是九十万法郎，每年三千万，全化成了一缕青烟。这不过是件小事。与此同时，穷人却死于饥饿。
一八二三年是复辟王朝所谓的“西班牙战争①时期”。
那次战争在一件事里包含了许多事，并且还有许多奇特之处。那是波旁族的一件重大的家事，法兰西的一支援助和保护了马德里的一支，就是说，维持嫡系承继权的举动，我国民族传统的一次表面的规复；自由主义派报刊称为“安杜哈尔②英雄”的昂古莱姆公爵先生，以一种和他平日镇静态度不大相称的得意之色，抑制了和自由主义派的空想恐怖政策敌对的宗教裁判所的实在的老牌恐怖政策，以赤膊鬼③称号再次出现的无套裤汉④使那些享用亡夫赡养费的寡妇们惊骇万状；还有称进步为无政府状态而横加阻扰的专制主义；在颠覆活动中突然中断过的一七八九年的各种理伦；全欧洲对风行全世界的法兰西思想进行的恫吓；带上羽林军士的红呢肩章、以志愿军人的姿态参加镇压各族人民的君王十字军并和法兰西的儿子、大军统帅并肩作战、化名为查理－阿尔贝的加里昂亲王；休息了八年、已经衰老、又带上白色帽徽⑤垂头丧气地走上征途的帝国士兵；由少数英勇的法国人在国境外高高举起的三色旗令人想起三十年前在科布伦茨⑥出现的白旗；混在我们队伍里的僧侣；被枪刺镇压下去的争取自由和革新的精神；被炮弹挟制住的主义；以武力摧毁自己在思想方面的成就的法兰西；还有，被收买的敌军将领，进退失据的士兵，被亿万金钱围攻着的城市；没有战斗危险却有爆炸可能，正如突然闯进一个炸药坑里那样；流血不多，荣誉不多，几乎个个都有愧色，但无人感到光荣；以上这些，便是西班牙战争，是由路易十四后代中的一些王爷所发动、由当年拿破仑部下的一些将军所导演的。它有这样一种愁惨的特性：既不足比拟前人任何伟大的军事行动，也不能比拟前人任何伟大的政治策略。 
①一八二○年西班牙政权转入自由主义者手中，削弱了专制制度和天主教的统治，俄奥普法四国王室决定进行武装干涉，恢复专制统治。一八二三年，十万法军在当时法国国王路易十八之侄昂古莱姆公爵指挥下入侵西班牙；因政府军中许多将军在被收买后倒戈迎敌，法军遂轻易镇压了西班牙资产阶级革命。
②安杜哈尔（Andujar），城名，在西班牙南部，昂古莱姆公爵在此发布文告，企图调和保王党与自由主义派，无效。
③赤膊鬼（descmisados），原指一八二○年发动西班牙革命的自由主义派。
④无套裤汉（SansCculottes），指法国十八世纪资产阶级革命时期的平民，当时短裤和长统袜是贵族的服饰。
⑤白色帽徽，代表波旁王室。
⑥科布伦茨（Coblentz），德国城名，一七九二年，法国逃亡贵族曾在那里组织反革命军队。　
有几次战役是严肃的，例如特罗卡德洛①的占领，便是一次比较壮丽的军事行动；但是，从总的说来，我们再重复一次，那次战争中的号角既然吹得不响亮，整个动机既暧昧不明，历史也就证实了法兰西确是难于接受那种貌似而实非的光荣。西班牙的某些奉命守土的军官，显然是退让得太轻易了，令人想见贿赂在那种胜利当中所起的腐蚀作用；好象我们赢得的不是战争，而是一些将军，以致胜利回国的士兵羞惭满面。那确是一次丢人的战争，旌旗掩映中透露出“法兰西银行”的字样。 
①特罗卡德洛（Trocadero），西班牙保卫战中加的斯港的堡垒名。　
在一八○八年轰轰烈烈攻破萨拉戈萨①的士兵们，到了一八二三年，看见那些要塞都轻易开门迎敌，他们都皱起了眉头，叹惜自己没有遇到帕拉福克斯②。法兰西的性格欢迎罗斯托普金③更胜于巴列斯帖罗斯④。 
①萨拉戈萨（Saragosse），西班牙城名，一八○八年拿破仑军队攻了七个月，方始攻克。
②帕拉福克斯（Palafox），守萨拉戈萨城的英勇将领。
③罗斯托普金（Rostopchine），一八一二年拿破仑侵俄时的莫斯科总督。
④巴列斯帖罗斯（Ballesteros），一八二三年西班牙抗战将领。
还有一点更为严重，值得强调的，便是那次战争在法国，既伤害了尚武精神，也激怒了民主思想。那是一种奴役人民的事业。法国的士兵是民主思想的儿子，可是在那次战役里，它的任务却是要把枷锁强加在别人的颈上。可耻的不合情理。法兰西的使命是唤醒各族人民的心灵，并不是加以压制。自从一七九二年以来，整个欧洲的革命都是和法国革命分不开的，自由之光从法兰西辐射出去，有如日光的照耀。有眼无珠的人才会瞧不见！这话是波拿巴说的。
一八二三年的战争是对善良的西班牙民族的暴行，同时也是对法兰西革命的暴行。而那种侵犯别人的丑恶暴行，却是法兰西犯下的，并且是强暴的侵犯，因为一切军事行动，除了解放战争以外，全是强暴的侵犯。“被动的服从”这个词就足以表达。军队是一种奇怪的杰作，是由无数薄弱意志综合而成的力量。这样可以说明战争，战争是人类在不由自主的情况下对人类进行侵犯的行为。
对波旁族来说，一八二三年战争正是他的致命伤。他们以为那次战争是一种胜利。他们完全没有看出用强制方法扼杀一种思想的危险。他们在那种天真的想法上，竟会错误到想用犯罪的方法来加强自己统治的力量，而不知道罪行只能大大削弱自己。宵小的伎俩已经渗透了他们的政治。一八三○①已经在一八二三里发芽。西班牙战役在他们的内阁会议上成了武力成功或神权优胜的论争点。法国既然能在西班牙恢复“至尊”的地位，在自己国内自然也就可以恢复专制的君主。他们把军人的服从误认为国民的同意，那是一种可怕的错误。那种信任便是王位倾覆的由来。在毒树的阴影下和军队的阴影下，都不是酣睡的地方。
我们回转来谈那战船“俄里翁号”。
当亲王统帅②率领的军队正在作战时，有一队战船也正穿渡地中海。我们刚才已经说过，“俄里翁号”正是属于那一舰队的，由于海上的风暴，已经驶返土伦港。 
①一八三○年七月革命推翻了波旁王朝。
②亲王统帅指昂古莱姆公爵。
一条战船在港内出现，就有一种说不出的吸引群众的力量。那是因为那东西确是伟大，群众所喜爱的也正是伟大的东西。
战船可以显示出人力和天工的极宏伟的汇合。
战船同时是由最重和最轻的物质构成的，因为它和固体、液体、气体三种状态的物质都发生关系，又得和那三种中的每一种进行斗争。它有十一个铁爪，用以抓住海底的岩石，它比蝴蝶还有更多的翅膀和触须，借以伸入云端，招引风力。它从那一百二十门大炮吐气，好象是奇大的号筒，用以回答雷霆，也无逊色。海洋想使它在那千里一色的惊涛骇浪中迷失方向，但是船有它的灵魂，有它那只始终指向北方，替它担任向导的罗盘。在黑夜里，它有代替星光的探照灯。这样，它有帆、索以御风，有木以防水，有铁、铜、铅以防礁，有灯光以防黑暗，有舵以防茫茫的大海。
如果有人要见识见识战船的庞大究竟达何程度，他只须走进布雷斯特或土伦的那种有顶的六层船坞。建造中的战船，不妨说，好象是罩在玻璃罩里似的。那条巨梁是一根挂帆的横杠，那根倒在地上长到望不见末梢的柱子，是一根大桅杆。从它那深入坞底的根算起，直达那伸在云中的尖端，它有六十脱阿斯长，底的直径也有三尺。英国的大桅杆，从水面算起，就有二百十七英尺高。我们前一辈的海船用铁缆，我们今天的海船用铁链。从一艘有一百门炮的战船来说，单是它的链子堆起来就有四尺高，二十尺长，八尺宽。并且造那样一条船，需要多少木料呢？三千立方公尺。那是整个森林在水上浮动。
此外，我们还得注意，我们在此地谈的只是四十年前的战船，简单的帆船。蒸汽在当时还外在幼稚时期，后来才出现那种巧夺天工的新式军舰。到今天，比方说，一条机帆两备、具有螺旋推进器的船，那真是一种骇人的机器，它的帆的面积达三千平方公尺，汽锅有二千五百匹马力。
不谈这些新的奇迹，克里斯托夫·哥伦布①和吕泰尔②所乘的古代船舶就已是人类的伟大杰作了。它有用不完的动力，犹如太空中有无限的气流，它把风兜在帆里，它在茫茫大海中从不迷失方向，它乘风破浪，来往自如。 
①克里斯托夫·哥伦布（ChristopheColomb），十五世纪末发现美洲的航海家。
②吕泰尔（Ruyter），十七世纪荷兰海军元帅。　
可是有时也会忽然起一阵狂风，把那六十尺长的帆杠当作麦秸似的一折两段，把那四百尺高的桅杆吹得象根芦苇，反复摇晃；体重万斤的锚，也会在狂澜中飘荡翻腾，如同渔人的钓钩，落在鲸鲵的口里；魔怪似的大炮，发出了悲哀的吼声，可是黑夜沉沉，海天寥廓，炮声随风消失，四顾渺冥；那一切威力，那一切雄姿，都沉没在另一种更高更大的威力和雄姿下面了。
人们见一种盛极一时的力量忽然走上末路，总不免黯然深思。因而海港边常有无数闲人，围着那些奇巧的战舰和航船，伫立观望，连他们自己也无法很好说明这究竟是为了什么。
所以每天从早到晚，在土伦的那些码头、堤岸、防波堤上，都站满了成群的无所事事的人和吊儿郎当的人，照巴黎人的说法，他们的正经事便是看“俄里翁号”。
“俄里翁号”是一条早已有了毛病的船。在它已往的历次航行中，船底上已结聚了层层的介壳，以致它航行的速度降低了一半，去年又曾把它拖出水面，剔除介壳，随后又下海了。但是那次的剔除工作损伤了船底的螺栓。它走到巴利阿里群岛时，船身不得劲，开了裂，由于当时的舱座还没有用铁皮铺底，那条船便进了些水。一阵暴风吹来，使船头的左侧和一扇舷窗破裂，并且损坏了前桅绳索的栓柱。由于那些损害，“俄里翁号”又驶回了土伦港。
它停在兵工厂附近，一面调整设备，一面修理船身。在右舷一面，船壳没有受伤，但是为了使船身内部的空气流通，依照习惯，揭开了几处舷板。
有一天早晨，观众们目击了一件意外的事。
当时海员们正忙着上帆。负责管理大方帆右上角的那个海员忽然失了平衡。他身体摇晃不定，挤在兵工厂码头上的观众们齐声叫喊，只见他头重脚轻，绕着那横杠打转，两手临空；他在倒下去时，一手抓住了一根踏脚的绳环，另一只手也立即一同抓住，便那样悬在空中。他下面是海，深极了，使他头晕目眩。他身体落下时的冲力撞着那绳子在空中强烈摆动。那人吊在绳的末端，荡来荡去，就象投石带①上的一块石子。 
①投石带，古代武器，一手握带的两端，带的中间置一石子或铁弹，抛掷出去，可以打人。　
去救他吧，就得冒生命的危险，好不骇人。船上的海员们全是些新近募来当差的渔民，没有一个敢挺身救险。那时，那不幸的帆工气力渐渐不济，人们看不见他脸上的痛苦，却都看得出他四肢的疲乏。他两臂直直地吊在空中，竭力抽搐。他想向上攀援，但是每用一次力，都只能增加那绳子的动荡。他一声也不喊，恐怕耗费气力。大家都眼望着他不久就要松手放弃绳子，所有的人都不时把头转过去，免得看见他下落时的惨象。人的生命常常会系在一小段绳子、一根木竿、一根树枝上，眼见一个活生生的人，好象一个熟了的果子似的，离开树枝往下落，那真是惨不忍睹。
大家忽然看见一个人，矫捷如猫虎，在帆索中间攀登直上。那人身穿红衣，这是苦役犯，他戴一顶绿帽，这是终身苦役犯了。攀到桅棚上面时，一股风吹落了他的帽子，露出了一头白发，他原来不年轻。
那确是一个苦役犯，代替狱中苦役他被调来船上工作，他在刚刚出事时便已跑去找那值班军官，正在全船人员上上下下都惊慌失措束手无策时，他已向军官提出，让他献出生命救那帆工。军官只点了一下头，他就一锤敲断了脚上的铁链，取了一根绳子，飞上了索梯。当时谁也没有注意他那条铁链怎么会那样容易一下便断了。只是在事后大家才回忆起来。
一眨眼，他已到了那横杠上面。他停了几秒钟，仿佛是在估计那距离。他望着那挂在绳子末端的帆工在风中飘荡，那几秒钟，对立在下面观望的人来说，竟好象是几个世纪似的。后来，那苦役犯两眼望着天空，向前走上一步。观众们这才喘了口气。大家望见他顺着那横杠一气向前跑去。跑到杠端以后，他把带去的那根绳子一头结在杠上，一头让它往下垂，接着两手握住绳子，顺势滑下，当时人人心中都有一种说不出的焦急，现在临空悬着的不是一个，而是两个人了。
好象一个蜘蛛刚捉住一只飞虫，不过那是只救命的蜘蛛，而不是来害命的。万众的目光全都盯着那一对生物。谁也没有喊一声，谁也没有说句话，大家全皱着眉头一齐战栗。谁也不肯吐一口气，仿佛吐气会增加风力，会使那两个不幸的人更加飘荡不定似的。
那时，苦役犯已滑到海员的身边。这正是时候，如果再迟一分钟，那人力尽绝望，就会落进深渊；苦役犯一手抓住绳子，一手用那绳子把他紧紧系住。随后，大家望着他重上横杠，把那海员提上去；他又扶着他在那上面立了一会，让他好恢复气力，随后，他双手抱住他，踏着横杠，把他送回桅棚，交给他的伙伴们。
这时，观众齐声喝彩，有些年老的禁子还淌下眼泪，码头上的妇女都互相拥抱，所有的人都带着激发出来的愤怒声一齐喊道：“应当赦免那个人。”
而他呢，那时是遵守规则的，立即下来，赶快归队去干他的苦活。为了早些归队，他顺着帆索滑下，又踏着下面的一根帆杠向前跑。所有的人的眼睛都跟着他。一时，大家全慌了，也许他疲倦了，也许他眼花，大家看见他仿佛有点迟疑，有点摇晃。观众突然一齐大声叫了出来：那苦役犯落到海里去了。那样摔下去是很危险的。轻巡洋舰“阿尔赫西拉斯号”①当时停泊在“俄里翁号”旁边，那可怜的苦役犯正掉在那两条船的中间。可虑的是他会被冲到这一条或那一条船的下面去。四个人连忙跳上一条舢板。观众也一齐鼓励他们，所有的人的心又焦急起来了。那个人再没有浮上水面。他落到海里，水面上没起一丝波纹，这就好象是落进油桶似的。大家从水上打捞，也泅到海底寻找。毫无下落。大家一直找到傍晚，尸体也同样找不到。 
①阿尔赫西拉斯（Algésiras），西班牙港口，位于直布罗陀海峡一侧。这条船以城市命名。　
第二天，土伦的报纸上，登了这样几句话：
一八二三年十一月十七日。昨天，有个在“俄里翁号”船上干活的苦役犯，在救了一个海员回队时，落在海里淹死。没能找到他的尸体。据推测，他也许陷在兵工厂堤岸尽头的那些尖木桩下面。
那人在狱里的号码是九四三○，名叫冉阿让。
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 1 The Water Question at Montfermeil
Montfermeil is situated between Livry and Chelles, on the southern edge of that lofty table-land which separates the Ourcq from the Marne. At the present day it is a tolerably large town, ornamented all the year through with plaster villas, and on Sundays with beaming bourgeois. In 1823 there were at Montfermeil neither so many white houses nor so many well-satisfied citizens: it was only a village in the forest. Some pleasure-houses of the last century were to be met with there, to be sure, which were recognizable by their grand air, their balconies in twisted iron, and their long windows, whose tiny panes cast all sorts of varying shades of green on the white of the closed shutters; but Montfermeil was none the less a village. Retired cloth-merchants and rusticating attorneys had not discovered it as yet; it was a peaceful and charming place, which was not on the road to anywhere: there people lived, and cheaply, that peasant rustic life which is so bounteous and so easy; only, water was rare there, on account of the elevation of the plateau.
It was necessary to fetch it from a considerable distance; the end of the village towards Gagny drew its water from the magnificent ponds which exist in the woods there. The other end, which surrounds the church and which lies in the direction of Chelles, found drinking-water only at a little spring half-way down the slope, near the road to Chelles, about a quarter of an hour from Montfermeil.
Thus each household found it hard work to keep supplied with water. The large houses, the aristocracy, of which the Thenardier tavern formed a part, paid half a farthing a bucketful to a man who made a business of it, and who earned about eight sous a day in his enterprise of supplying Montfermeil with water; but this good man only worked until seven o'clock in the evening in summer, and five in winter; and night once come and the shutters on the ground floor once closed, he who had no water to drink went to fetch it for himself or did without it.
This constituted the terror of the poor creature whom the reader has probably not forgotten,--little Cosette. It will be remembered that Cosette was useful to the Thenardiers in two ways: they made the mother pay them, and they made the child serve them. So when the mother ceased to pay altogether, the reason for which we have read in preceding chapters, the Thenardiers kept Cosette. She took the place of a servant in their house. In this capacity she it was who ran to fetch water when it was required. So the child, who was greatly terrified at the idea of going to the spring at night, took great care that water should never be lacking in the house.
Christmas of the year 1823 was particularly brilliant at Montfermeil. The beginning of the winter had been mild; there had been neither snow nor frost up to that time. Some mountebanks from Paris had obtained permission of the mayor to erect their booths in the principal street of the village, and a band of itinerant merchants, under protection of the same tolerance, had constructed their stalls on the Church Square, and even extended them into Boulanger Alley, where, as the reader will perhaps remember, the Thenardiers' hostelry was situated. These people filled the inns and drinking-shops, and communicated to that tranquil little district a noisy and joyous life. In order to play the part of a faithful historian, we ought even to add that, among the curiosities displayed in the square, there was a menagerie, in which frightful clowns, clad in rags and coming no one knew whence, exhibited to the peasants of Montfermeil in 1823 one of those horrible Brazilian vultures, such as our Royal Museum did not possess until 1845, and which have a tricolored cockade for an eye. I believe that naturalists call this bird Caracara Polyborus; it belongs to the order of the Apicides, and to the family of the vultures. Some good old Bonapartist soldiers, who had retired to the village, went to see this creature with great devotion. The mountebanks gave out that the tricolored cockade was a unique phenomenon made by God expressly for their menagerie.
On Christmas eve itself, a number of men, carters, and peddlers, were seated at table, drinking and smoking around four or five candles in the public room of Thenardier's hostelry. This room resembled all drinking-shop rooms,--tables, pewter jugs, bottles, drinkers, smokers; but little light and a great deal of noise. The date of the year 1823 was indicated, nevertheless, by two objects which were then fashionable in the bourgeois class: to wit, a kaleidoscope and a lamp of ribbed tin. The female Thenardier was attending to the supper, which was roasting in front of a clear fire; her husband was drinking with his customers and talking politics.
Besides political conversations which had for their principal subjects the Spanish war and M. le Duc d'Angouleme, strictly local parentheses, like the following, were audible amid the uproar:--
"About Nanterre and Suresnes the vines have flourished greatly. When ten pieces were reckoned on there have been twelve. They have yielded a great deal of juice under the press." "But the grapes cannot be ripe?" "In those parts the grapes should not be ripe; the wine turns oily as soon as spring comes." "Then it is very thin wine?" "There are wines poorer even than these. The grapes must be gathered while green." Etc.
Or a miller would call out:--
"Are we responsible for what is in the sacks? We find in them a quantity of small seed which we cannot sift out, and which we are obliged to send through the mill-stones; there are tares, fennel, vetches, hempseed, fox-tail, and a host of other weeds, not to mention pebbles, which abound in certain wheat, especially in Breton wheat. I am not fond of grinding Breton wheat, any more than long-sawyers like to saw beams with nails in them. You can judge of the bad dust that makes in grinding. And then people complain of the flour. They are in the wrong. The flour is no fault of ours."
In a space between two windows a mower, who was seated at table with a landed proprietor who was fixing on a price for some meadow work to be performed in the spring, was saying:--
"It does no harm to have the grass wet. It cuts better. Dew is a good thing, sir. It makes no difference with that grass. Your grass is young and very hard to cut still. It's terribly tender. It yields before the iron." Etc.
Cosette was in her usual place, seated on the cross-bar of the kitchen table near the chimney. She was in rags; her bare feet were thrust into wooden shoes, and by the firelight she was engaged in knitting woollen stockings destined for the young Thenardiers. A very young kitten was playing about among the chairs. Laughter and chatter were audible in the adjoining room, from two fresh children's voices: it was Eponine and Azelma.
In the chimney-corner a cat-o'-nine-tails was hanging on a nail.
At intervals the cry of a very young child, which was somewhere in the house, rang through the noise of the dram-shop. It was a little boy who had been born to the Thenardiers during one of the preceding winters,--"she did not know why," she said, "the result of the cold,"--and who was a little more than three years old. The mother had nursed him, but she did not love him. When the persistent clamor of the brat became too annoying, "Your son is squalling," Thenardier would say; "do go and see what he wants." "Bah!" the mother would reply, "he bothers me." And the neglected child continued to shriek in the dark.
孟费郿位于利弗里和谢尔之间，在乌尔克河与马恩河间那片高原的南麓。今天，这已是个相当大的市镇了，全年都一样，粉墙别墅，星期日更有兴高采烈的士绅们。一八二三年的孟费郿却没有这样多的粉墙房屋，也没有这样多的得意士绅。那还只是个林木中的乡村。当时零零落落只有几所悦目的房屋，气势轩敞，有盘花铁栏杆环绕着的阳台，长窗上的小块玻璃在紧闭着的白漆的百叶窗上映出深浅不同的绿色，可以看出，那些房屋是前一世纪留下来的。可是孟费郿还仍旧只是个村子。倦游的商贾和爱好山林的雅士们还没有发现它。那是一片平静宜人、不在任何交通线上的处所，那里的人都过着物价低廉、生计容易、丰衣足食的乡村生活。美中不足的是地势较高，水源缺乏。
人们取水，就得走一段相当远的路。村里靠近加尼那头的居民要到林里一处幽胜的池塘边才能取到水；住在礼拜堂附近靠谢尔那边的人，必须到离谢尔大路不远、到孟费郿约莫一刻钟路程的半山腰里，才能从一处小泉里取得饮水。
因此水的供应对每一家来说都是件相当辛苦的工作。那些大户人家，贵族阶级，也就是德纳第客店所属的那个阶级，通常化一文钱向一个以挑水为业的老汉换一桶水，那老汉在孟费郿卖水，每天大致可以赚八个苏；可是他在夏季只工作到傍晚七点，冬季只工作到五点；天黑以后，当楼下的窗子都关上时，谁没有水喝就得自己去取，或者就不喝。
那正是小珂赛特最害怕的事，那个可怜的小妞儿，读者也许还没有忘记吧。我们记得，珂赛特在德纳第夫妇的眼里是有双重用处的：他们既可从孩子的母亲方面得到钱，又可从孩子方面得到劳力。因此，当她母亲完全停止寄钱以后棗我们在前几章里已经知道她停止寄款的原因棗德纳第夫妇却仍扣留珂赛特。她替他们省下了一个女工。她的地位既是那样，每逢需要水时，她便得去取。那孩子每次想到要在黑夜里摸到泉边取水，便胆战心惊，所以她非常留意，从不让东家缺水。
在孟费郿，一八二三年的圣诞节过得特别热闹。初冬天气温和，没有冰冻，也还没有下雪。从巴黎来了几个耍把戏的人，他们得了乡长先生的许可，在村里的大街上搭起了板棚，同时还有一帮走江湖的商贩，也得到同样的通融，在那礼拜堂前面的空坪上搭了一些临时铺面，并且一直延伸到面包师巷里，我们也许还记得，德纳第的客店正是在那条巷子里。所有的客店和酒店都挤满了人，给这清静的小地方带来了一片热闹欢腾的气象。还有一件事，我们应当提到，这才不失为忠实的话古者。陈列在空坪上的那些光怪陆离的东西中，有个动物陈列馆，那里有几个小丑，真不知道那些人是从什么地方来的，衣服破烂，相貌奇丑，他们在一八二三年便已拿着一头巴西产的那种吓人的秃鹫给孟费郿的乡民看，那种秃鹫的眼睛恰象一个三色帽徽①，王家博物馆直到一八四五年才弄到那样一只。自然科学家称那种鸟为，我想是，卡拉卡拉·波利波鲁斯，属于猛禽类，鹰族。村里有几个善良的退伍老军人，波拿巴的旧部，走去看了那只鸟，恋主之情油然而起。耍把戏的人宣称那三色帽徽式的眼睛是一种独一无二的现相，是慈悲的天主特为他们那动物陈列馆创造出来的。
就在圣诞节那天晚上，有好些人，几个赶车的和货郎，正在德纳第客店的那间矮厅里围着桌上的四五支蜡烛，坐着喝酒。那间厅，和所有酒食店的厅堂一样，有桌子、锡酒罐、玻璃瓶、喝酒的人、吸烟的人，烛光暗淡，语声喧杂。可是一八二三那一年，在有产阶级的桌子上，总少不了两件时髦东西：一个万花筒和一盏闪光白铁灯。德纳第大娘正在一只火光熊熊的烤炉前准备晚餐，德纳第老板陪着他的客人喝酒，谈政治。
那些谈话的主要内容是关于西班牙战争和昂古莱姆公爵先生的，从那一片喧杂的人声中也会传出一两段富有地方色彩的谈论，例如：
“靠楠泰尔和叙雷讷②一带，酒的产量相当高。原来估计只有十成的，却产了十二成。榨里流出的汁水非常多。”“可是葡萄不见得熟吧？”“那些地方的葡萄不到熟就得收。要是收熟的，一到春天，酒就要起垢。”“那么，那些酒都是淡酒了？”“比此地的酒还淡。葡萄还绿的时候就得摘……” 
①三色帽徽，法国革命军的徽志。
②叙雷讷（SureDne，即Suresnes），巴黎圣德尼区地名。　
或是一个磨坊工人喊着说：
“口袋里的东西我们负得了责吗？那里全是小颗小颗的杂种，没法去壳，我们没法开那种玩笑，只好把它们一同送进磨子里去，里面有稗籽、茴香籽、瞿麦籽、鸠豆、麻籽、嘉福萝籽、狐尾草籽，还有一大堆其他的玩意儿，还不算有些麦子里的小石子，尤其是在布列塔尼地方的麦子里，特别多。我真不爱磨布列塔尼麦子，好象锯木板的工人不爱锯有钉子的方料一样。您想想那样磨出来的灰渣子吧。可是人家还老埋怨说面粉不好。他们不了解情况。那种面粉不是我们的错误。”
在两个窗口间，有一个割草工人和一个场主坐在桌旁，正在商量来春草场的工作问题，那割草工人说：
“草湿了，一点坏处也没有，反而好割。露水是种好东西，先生。没有关系，那草，您的草，还嫩着呢，不好办。还是那样软绵绵的，碰着刀口就低头……”
珂赛特待在她的老地方，她坐在壁炉旁一张切菜桌子下面的横杆上。她穿的是破衣，赤着脚，套一双木鞋，凑近炉火的微光，在替德纳第家的小姑娘织绒线袜。有一只小小猫儿在椅子下游戏。可以听到隔壁屋子里有两个孩子的清脆的谈笑声，这是爱潘妮和阿兹玛。
壁炉角上，挂着一根皮鞭。
有个很小的孩子的哭声不时从那房里的某处传到餐厅，在那片嘈杂声中显得高而细。那是德纳第大娘前两年冬天生的一个小男孩，她常说：“不知为什么，这是天冷的影响。”那小男孩已经三岁刚过一点，母亲喂他奶，但是不爱他。当那小把戏的急叫使人太恼火时，德纳第便说：“你的儿子又在鬼哭神号了，去看看他要什么。”妈妈回答说：“管他！讨厌的东西。”那没人管的孩子继续在黑暗中叫喊。
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 2 Two Complete Portraits
So far in this book the Thenardiers have been viewed only in profile; the moment has arrived for making the circuit of this couple, and considering it under all its aspects.
Thenardier had just passed his fiftieth birthday; Madame Thenardier was approaching her forties, which is equivalent to fifty in a woman; so that there existed a balance of age between husband and wife.
Our readers have possibly preserved some recollection of this Thenardier woman, ever since her first appearance,--tall, blond, red, fat, angular, square, enormous, and agile; she belonged, as we have said, to the race of those colossal wild women, who contort themselves at fairs with paving-stones hanging from their hair. She did everything about the house,--made the beds, did the washing, the cooking, and everything else. Cosette was her only servant; a mouse in the service of an elephant. Everything trembled at the sound of her voice,--window panes, furniture, and people. Her big face, dotted with red blotches, presented the appearance of a skimmer. She had a beard. She was an ideal market-porter dressed in woman's clothes. She swore splendidly; she boasted of being able to crack a nut with one blow of her fist. Except for the romances which she had read, and which made the affected lady peep through the ogress at times, in a very queer way, the idea would never have occurred to any one to say of her, "That is a woman." This Thenardier female was like the product of a wench engrafted on a fishwife. When one heard her speak, one said, "That is a gendarme"; when one saw her drink, one said, "That is a carter"; when one saw her handle Cosette, one said, "That is the hangman." One of her teeth projected when her face was in repose.
Thenardier was a small, thin, pale, angular, bony, feeble man, who had a sickly air and who was wonderfully healthy. His cunning began here; he smiled habitually, by way of precaution, and was almost polite to everybody, even to the beggar to whom he refused half a farthing. He had the glance of a pole-cat and the bearing of a man of letters. He greatly resembled the portraits of the Abbe Delille. His coquetry consisted in drinking with the carters. No one had ever succeeded in rendering him drunk. He smoked a big pipe. He wore a blouse, and under his blouse an old black coat. He made pretensions to literature and to materialism. There were certain names which he often pronounced to support whatever things he might be saying,--Voltaire, Raynal, Parny, and, singularly enough, Saint Augustine. He declared that he had "a system." In addition, he was a great swindler. A filousophe [philosophe], a scientific thief. The species does exist. It will be remembered that he pretended to have served in the army; he was in the habit of relating with exuberance, how, being a sergeant in the 6th or the 9th light something or other, at Waterloo, he had alone, and in the presence of a squadron of death-dealing hussars, covered with his body and saved from death, in the midst of the grape-shot, "a general, who had been dangerously wounded." Thence arose for his wall the flaring sign, and for his inn the name which it bore in the neighborhood, of "the cabaret of the Sergeant of Waterloo." He was a liberal, a classic, and a Bonapartist. He had subscribed for the Champ d'Asile. It was said in the village that he had studied for the priesthood.
We believe that he had simply studied in Holland for an inn-keeper. This rascal of composite order was, in all probability, some Fleming from Lille, in Flanders, a Frenchman in Paris, a Belgian at Brussels, being comfortably astride of both frontiers. As for his prowess at Waterloo, the reader is already acquainted with that. It will be perceived that he exaggerated it a trifle. Ebb and flow, wandering, adventure, was the leven of his existence; a tattered conscience entails a fragmentary life, and, apparently at the stormy epoch of June 18, 1815, Thenardier belonged to that variety of marauding sutlers of which we have spoken, beating about the country, selling to some, stealing from others, and travelling like a family man, with wife and children, in a rickety cart, in the rear of troops on the march, with an instinct for always attaching himself to the victorious army. This campaign ended, and having, as he said, "some quibus," he had come to Montfermeil and set up an inn there.
This quibus, composed of purses and watches, of gold rings and silver crosses, gathered in harvest-time in furrows sown with corpses, did not amount to a large total, and did not carry this sutler turned eating-house-keeper very far.
Thenardier had that peculiar rectilinear something about his gestures which, accompanied by an oath, recalls the barracks, and by a sign of the cross, the seminary. He was a fine talker. He allowed it to be thought that he was an educated man. Nevertheless, the schoolmaster had noticed that he pronounced improperly.[12]
[12] Literally "made cuirs"; i. e., pronounced a t or an s at the end of words where the opposite letter should occur, or used either one of them where neither exists.
He composed the travellers' tariff card in a superior manner, but practised eyes sometimes spied out orthographical errors in it. Thenardier was cunning, greedy, slothful, and clever. He did not disdain his servants, which caused his wife to dispense with them. This giantess was jealous. It seemed to her that that thin and yellow little man must be an object coveted by all.
Thenardier, who was, above all, an astute and well-balanced man, was a scamp of a temperate sort. This is the worst species; hypocrisy enters into it.
It is not that Thenardier was not, on occasion, capable of wrath to quite the same degree as his wife; but this was very rare, and at such times, since he was enraged with the human race in general, as he bore within him a deep furnace of hatred. And since he was one of those people who are continually avenging their wrongs, who accuse everything that passes before them of everything which has befallen them, and who are always ready to cast upon the first person who comes to hand, as a legitimate grievance, the sum total of the deceptions, the bankruptcies, and the calamities of their lives,--when all this leaven was stirred up in him and boiled forth from his mouth and eyes, he was terrible. Woe to the person who came under his wrath at such a time!
In addition to his other qualities, Thenardier was attentive and penetrating, silent or talkative, according to circumstances, and always highly intelligent. He had something of the look of sailors, who are accustomed to screw up their eyes to gaze through marine glasses. Thenardier was a statesman.
Every new-comer who entered the tavern said, on catching sight of Madame Thenardier, "There is the master of the house." A mistake. She was not even the mistress. The husband was both master and mistress. She worked; he created. He directed everything by a sort of invisible and constant magnetic action. A word was sufficient for him, sometimes a sign; the mastodon obeyed. Thenardier was a sort of special and sovereign being in Madame Thenardier's eyes, though she did not thoroughly realize it. She was possessed of virtues after her own kind; if she had ever had a disagreement as to any detail with "Monsieur Thenardier,"--which was an inadmissible hypothesis, by the way,--she would not have blamed her husband in public on any subject whatever. She would never have committed "before strangers" that mistake so often committed by women, and which is called in parliamentary language, "exposing the crown." Although their concord had only evil as its result, there was contemplation in Madame Thenardier's submission to her husband. That mountain of noise and of flesh moved under the little finger of that frail despot. Viewed on its dwarfed and grotesque side, this was that grand and universal thing, the adoration of mind by matter; for certain ugly features have a cause in the very depths of eternal beauty. There was an unknown quantity about Thenardier; hence the absolute empire of the man over that woman. At certain moments she beheld him like a lighted candle; at others she felt him like a claw.
This woman was a formidable creature who loved no one except her children, and who did not fear any one except her husband. She was a mother because she was mammiferous. But her maternity stopped short with her daughters, and, as we shall see, did not extend to boys. The man had but one thought,--how to enrich himself.
He did not succeed in this. A theatre worthy of this great talent was lacking. Thenardier was ruining himself at Montfermeil, if ruin is possible to zero; in Switzerland or in the Pyrenees this penniless scamp would have become a millionaire; but an inn-keeper must browse where fate has hitched him.
It will be understood that the word inn-keeper is here employed in a restricted sense, and does not extend to an entire class.
In this same year, 1823, Thenardier was burdened with about fifteen hundred francs' worth of petty debts, and this rendered him anxious.
Whatever may have been the obstinate injustice of destiny in this case, Thenardier was one of those men who understand best, with the most profundity and in the most modern fashion, that thing which is a virtue among barbarous peoples and an object of merchandise among civilized peoples,--hospitality. Besides, he was an admirable poacher, and quoted for his skill in shooting. He had a certain cold and tranquil laugh, which was particularly dangerous.
His theories as a landlord sometimes burst forth in lightning flashes. He had professional aphorisms, which he inserted into his wife's mind. "The duty of the inn-keeper," he said to her one day, violently, and in a low voice, "is to sell to the first comer, stews, repose, light, fire, dirty sheets, a servant, lice, and a smile; to stop passers-by, to empty small purses, and to honestly lighten heavy ones; to shelter travelling families respectfully: to shave the man, to pluck the woman, to pick the child clean; to quote the window open, the window shut, the chimney-corner, the arm-chair, the chair, the ottoman, the stool, the feather-bed, the mattress and the truss of straw; to know how much the shadow uses up the mirror, and to put a price on it; and, by five hundred thousand devils, to make the traveller pay for everything, even for the flies which his dog eats!"
This man and this woman were ruse and rage wedded--a hideous and terrible team.
While the husband pondered and combined, Madame Thenardier thought not of absent creditors, took no heed of yesterday nor of to-morrow, and lived in a fit of anger, all in a minute.
Such were these two beings. Cosette was between them, subjected to their double pressure, like a creature who is at the same time being ground up in a mill and pulled to pieces with pincers. The man and the woman each had a different method: Cosette was overwhelmed with blows--this was the woman's; she went barefooted in winter-- that was the man's doing.
Cosette ran up stairs and down, washed, swept, rubbed, dusted, ran, fluttered about, panted, moved heavy articles, and weak as she was, did the coarse work. There was no mercy for her; a fierce mistress and venomous master. The Thenardier hostelry was like a spider's web, in which Cosette had been caught, and where she lay trembling. The ideal of oppression was realized by this sinister household. It was something like the fly serving the spiders.
The poor child passively held her peace.
What takes place within these souls when they have but just quitted God, find themselves thus, at the very dawn of life, very small and in the midst of men all naked!
在这部书里我们还只见过一下德纳第夫妇的侧影，现在应当在那两位伉俪的前后左右，从各方面去看个清楚。
德纳第刚过五十岁，德纳第大娘将近四十，那也就是妇女的五十，因此他们夫妻俩，从年龄上说是平衡的。
读者和德纳第大娘有过初次的会见，现在应当还有一些印象，记得她是个高大身材、淡黄头发、红皮肤、肥胖、多肉、阔肩巨腰，魁梧奇伟、行动矫健的妇人，我们曾经说过，市集上常有那种巨无霸似的蛮婆，头发上挂着几块铺路的石块，在人前仰身摆弄，德纳第大娘便是属于那一类型的。她在家里照顾一切，整理床榻，打扫房屋，洗衣，煮饭，作威作福，横冲直撞。她唯一的仆人就是珂赛特，一只伺候大象的小鼠。只要地开口，窗玻璃、家具、人，一切都会震动。她的那张宽脸生满了雀斑，看去就象个漏勺。她有胡子。简直是理想中的那种扮成姑娘的彪形大汉。她骂人的本领特别高强，她夸口自己能一拳打碎一个核桃。假使她没有读过那些小说，假使那母夜叉不曾从那些奇书里学到一些娇声媚态，谁也不会想到她是个妇人。德纳第大娘是那种多情女子和泼辣婆的混合体。人们听到她说话，就会说“这是个丘八”；看到她喝酒，就会说“这是个赶骡的车夫”；见到她摆布珂赛特，就会说“这是个刽子手”。她在休息时，嘴角还露出一颗獠牙。
德纳第却是个矮小、瘦弱、青脸、见骨露棱、貌似多病而完全健康的人，他那种表里不一的性格从这里已开始表露。他为了防备他人而脸上经常带笑，几乎对所有的人，即使对一个向他讨一文钱而不得的乞丐，也都客客气气。他目光柔滑如黄鼠，面貌温雅如文人。正象德利尔①神甫的那副神气。他的殷勤，表现在喜欢陪着车夫们喝酒。谁也不曾灌醉过他。他经常抽根大烟斗。穿件粗布罩衫，罩衫下是一身旧黑衣裤。他自以为爱好文学和唯物主义。有些人的名字是他时常挂在嘴边、作为他东拉西扯时的引证的，伏尔泰、雷纳尔②、帕尔尼③，而且，说也奇怪，还有圣奥古斯丁④。他自称有“一套”理论，其实完全是骗人的东西，只能说他是个贼学家。哲和贼的微妙区别那是可以理解的。我们记得他妄称自己有过汗马功劳，他常说得天花乱坠，告诉别人说他在滑铁卢战争时是某个第六或第九轻骑队的中士，他单独抵抗一中队杀人不眨眼的骑兵，用自己的身体遮护过一位“受了重伤的将军”，并且把他从枪林弹雨中救了出来。因此，在他的门墙上才会有那么一块炮火连天的招牌，地方上的人这才称他那客店为“滑铁卢中士客寓”。他是自由主义者、古典主义者、波拿巴的崇拜者。他曾经申请参加美洲殖民组织⑤。村里的人说他受过传教的教育。 
①德利尔（JacquesDelille，1738?813），法国诗人，法兰西学院院士，维吉尔、密尔顿诗歌的法译者。
②雷纳尔（Raynal，1713?796），法国历史学家和哲学家。
③帕尔尼（Parny，1753?814），法国诗人。
④圣奥古斯丁（SaintAugustin，354?30），基督教神学家、哲学家、拉丁教父的主要代表，生于北非，395年任北非希波主教。
⑤拿破仑失败后，拉勒芒将军（Lallemand）曾企图把一些为波旁王室所不容的人组织起来到美洲去殖民，但未能成功。
我们认为他只在荷兰受过当客店老板的教育。这一情况复杂的败类，恬不知耻地经常跨在国境上，随时窥测形势，在佛兰德以自称为来自里尔的佛兰德人，在巴黎便自称为法国人，在布鲁塞尔便自称为比利时人。他在滑铁卢的英勇是我们熟悉的。我们知道，他多少夸大了些。风波的一起一伏，人事的曲折变化都成了他谋生的机会，由于心中暖昧，因而身世飘零，这是很可能的，在一八一五年六月十八那个风狂雨疾的日子里，德纳第正是我们先头说过的那种以随军小贩为名、偷盗为实的货色，一路窥伺敌人，和这些人做点买卖，从那些人偷点东西，夫妻孩子一家人全坐上破车，跟着上前线的队伍沿途滚进，凭着自己的本能，始终尾随着打胜仗的军队。那次战役后，用他自己的话说，他有些“油水”，便来到孟费郿开客店。
那种油水，无非是些钱包和表、金戒指和银十字架，是他在秋收季节从布满尸体的田地里获得的，数字不大，对这位以随军小贩身分发家的客店老板来说并没有多大帮助。
在德纳第的动作中有种说不出的直线条味道，他咒骂时的语调更会使人想起兵营，画十字时的神气也会使人想起教士培养所来。他能说会道。他乐于让人尊他为博学之士。可是一个小学教师也会发现他常“露马脚”。他在给顾客开帐单时也要舞文弄墨，可是有知识的人有时会在那上面发现别字。德纳第为人阴险，贪口福，游手好闲，长于应付。对家里女用人他不难说话，因而他的太太干脆不雇女用人。那泼辣婆娘醋劲大。她觉得她那枯黄干瘪的矮男人可以成为一切女人艳羡的对象。
德纳第的特点足精细阴险，四平八稳，确是个稳扎稳打的恶棍。那种人最恶劣，因为他貌善而心诈。
不要以为德纳第不会象他女人那样发脾气，不过那是很少见的事，可是万一他发作，他是狠到极点的，因为他仇视全人类，因为他心里燃烧着满满一炉怨恨的火，因为他和某些人一样，对人永远采取报复行动，把自己所遭遇的一切，例如合法的要求，生活中的一切失意、破产、受苦受窘的事，都归咎到自己所接触的人身上，并且无时无刻不准备从任何一个落到他手中的人身上取得赔偿，因为那股怨气一直在他的心里膨胀，在他的嘴里眼里焚烧。谁撞在他的怒火头上就得遭殃。
德纳第也有他的长处，例如很谨慎，眼力犀利，根据情况多说或不说话，并且总是保持高度警惕。他有海员对着望远镜眨眼的那种味道。德纳第是个政客。
初次走进客店的人见到德纳第大娘总说：“这一定是这家人的主人了。”没有那回事。她连主妇也不是。主人和主妇，全是她丈夫。她执行，他命令。他有一种连续不断的无形的磁石力量在操纵指使。他说一个字就已发生威力，有时甚至只须丢个眼色，那头大象便惟命是从了。德纳第在他婆娘心中是个独特的主宰，她自己也不甚了然究竟原因何在。她自有一套做人的道德标准，她从来不为一件小事而和“德纳第先生”发生争执，甚至连那样的假设也不会有的，无论发生什么事，她从不当着众人使她丈夫丢面子。她从不犯妇女常犯的那种“出家丑”的错误，也就是用议会的用语来说，所谓揭王冠的那种错误。虽然他们和睦相处的后果只不过是为非作歹，可是德纳第大娘对她丈夫的恭顺却带有虔诚景仰的味儿。那座哼哈咆哮的肉山竟会在一个羸弱专制魔王的小手指下移动，就从那卑微粗鄙的方面看，那也是天地间的一种壮观：是物质对精神的崇拜，因为某些丑恶现象在永恒之美的深度中也还有存在的理由。德纳第有些使人看不透的地方，因而在他们夫妇间产生了那种绝对的主奴关系。某些时候，她把他看作一盏明灯，某些时候，她又觉得他是一只魔掌。
这个妇人是丑恶的创造物，她只爱她的孩子，也只怕她的丈夫。她作了母亲，因为她是哺乳动物。况且她的母爱还只局限在她的两个女儿身上，从不涉及男孩，我们以后还会谈到这种情形。至于他，那汉子，只有一种愿望：发财。
他在这方面毫无成就。蛟龙不得云雨。德纳第在孟费郿已到囊空如洗的地步，假使囊空确能如洗的话，要是那光棍到了瑞士或比利牛斯，他也许早已成为百万富翁。但是命运既已把那个客店老板安顿在那里，他就得在那里啃草根。这里所说的“客店老板”，当然是就狭义而言，并不遍指那整个阶层。
就在一八二三那一年，德纳第负了一千五百法郎左右的紧急债务，使他日夜不安。
无论命运对德纳第是怎样一贯不公平，他本人却极为清醒，能以最透辟的眼光和最现代化的观点去理解那个在野蛮人中称为美德而在文明人中成为交易的问题：待客问题。此外，他还是一个出色的违禁猎人，他的枪法也受到了人们的称羡。他有时会露出一种泰然自若的冷笑，那是特别危险的。
他那些做客店老板的理论，有时会象闪电似的从他头脑里进射出来。他常把职业方面的一些秘诀灌输到他女人的脑子里。有一天，他咬牙切齿地向她低声说：“一个客店老板的任务便是把肉渣、光、火、脏被单、女用人、跳蚤、笑脸卖给任何一个客人；拉客，挤空小钱包，斯斯文文地压缩大钱包，恭恭敬敬地伺候出门的一家人，剥男人的皮，拔女人的毛，挖孩子的肉；所有开着的窗、关着的窗、壁炉角落、围椅、靠椅、圆凳、矮凳、鸭绒被、棉絮褥子、草荐都得定出价钱；应当知道镜子没有灯光照着就容易坏，也得收取费用，应当想出五十万个鬼主意，要来往的客人付尽一切，连他们的狗吃掉的苍蝇也得付钱！”
这两个男女是一对一唱一随的尖刁鬼和女瘟神，是一对丑毛驴和劣马。
丈夫在挖空心思想方设法时，德纳第大娘，她，却不去想那些还没有登门的债主，她对已往和未来都无忧无虑，只知道放开胸怀过着目前的日子。
那两口子的情形便是如此。珂赛特活在他俩中间，受着两方面的压力，就象一头小动物同时受到磨盘的挤压和铁钳的撕裂。那汉子和那婆子各有一套不同的作风，珂赛特遍体鳞伤，那是从婆子那里得来的，她赤脚过冬，那是从汉子那里得来的。
珂赛特上楼，下楼，洗，刷，擦，扫，跑，忙，喘，搬重东西，一个骨瘦如柴的孩子得做各种笨重的工作。绝对得不到一点怜惜心，却有个蛮不讲理的老板娘，有个毒如蛇蝎的老板。德纳第家的客店就好象是个蜘蛛网，珂赛特被缚在那上面发抖。高度的迫害在那缺德的人家实现了。她仿佛是一只为蜘蛛服务的苍蝇。
那可怜的孩子，反应迟钝，一声也不响。
那些刚离开上帝的灵魂趁着晨曦来到人间，当它们看见自己是那么幼弱，那么赤身露体时，它们会想些什么呢？
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 3 Men must have Wine, and Horses must have Water
Four new travellers had arrived.
Cosette was meditating sadly; for, although she was only eight years old, she had already suffered so much that she reflected with the lugubrious air of an old woman. Her eye was black in consequence of a blow from Madame Thenardier's fist, which caused the latter to remark from time to time, "How ugly she is with her fist-blow on her eye!"
Cosette was thinking that it was dark, very dark, that the pitchers and caraffes in the chambers of the travellers who had arrived must have been filled and that there was no more water in the cistern.
She was somewhat reassured because no one in the Thenardier establishment drank much water. Thirsty people were never lacking there; but their thirst was of the sort which applies to the jug rather than to the pitcher. Any one who had asked for a glass of water among all those glasses of wine would have appeared a savage to all these men. But there came a moment when the child trembled; Madame Thenardier raised the cover of a stew-pan which was boiling on the stove, then seized a glass and briskly approached the cistern. She turned the faucet; the child had raised her head and was following all the woman's movements. A thin stream of water trickled from the faucet, and half filled the glass. "Well," said she, "there is no more water!" A momentary silence ensued. The child did not breathe.
"Bah!" resumed Madame Thenardier, examining the half-filled glass, "this will be enough."
Cosette applied herself to her work once more, but for a quarter of an hour she felt her heart leaping in her bosom like a big snow-flake.
She counted the minutes that passed in this manner, and wished it were the next morning.
From time to time one of the drinkers looked into the street, and exclaimed, "It's as black as an oven!" or, "One must needs be a cat to go about the streets without a lantern at this hour!" And Cosette trembled.
All at once one of the pedlers who lodged in the hostelry entered, and said in a harsh voice:--
"My horse has not been watered."
"Yes, it has," said Madame Thenardier.
"I tell you that it has not," retorted the pedler.
Cosette had emerged from under the table.
"Oh, yes, sir!" said she, "the horse has had a drink; he drank out of a bucket, a whole bucketful, and it was I who took the water to him, and I spoke to him."
It was not true; Cosette lied.
"There's a brat as big as my fist who tells lies as big as the house," exclaimed the pedler. "I tell you that he has not been watered, you little jade! He has a way of blowing when he has had no water, which I know well."
Cosette persisted, and added in a voice rendered hoarse with anguish, and which was hardly audible:--
"And he drank heartily."
"Come," said the pedler, in a rage, "this won't do at all, let my horse be watered, and let that be the end of it!"
Cosette crept under the table again.
"In truth, that is fair!" said Madame Thenardier, "if the beast has not been watered, it must be."
Then glancing about her:--
"Well, now! Where's that other beast?"
She bent down and discovered Cosette cowering at the other end of the table, almost under the drinkers' feet.
"Are you coming?" shrieked Madame Thenardier.
Cosette crawled out of the sort of hole in which she had hidden herself. The Thenardier resumed:--
"Mademoiselle Dog-lack-name, go and water that horse."
"But, Madame," said Cosette, feebly, "there is no water."
The Thenardier threw the street door wide open:--
"Well, go and get some, then!"
Cosette dropped her head, and went for an empty bucket which stood near the chimney-corner.
This bucket was bigger than she was, and the child could have set down in it at her ease.
The Thenardier returned to her stove, and tasted what was in the stewpan, with a wooden spoon, grumbling the while:--
"There's plenty in the spring. There never was such a malicious creature as that. I think I should have done better to strain my onions."
Then she rummaged in a drawer which contained sous, pepper, and shallots.
"See here, Mam'selle Toad," she added, "on your way back, you will get a big loaf from the baker. Here's a fifteen-sou piece."
Cosette had a little pocket on one side of her apron; she took the coin without saying a word, and put it in that pocket.
Then she stood motionless, bucket in hand, the open door before her. She seemed to be waiting for some one to come to her rescue.
"Get along with you!" screamed the Thenardier.
Cosette went out. The door closed behind her.
新来了四个旅客。
珂赛特很发愁，因为，虽然她还只有八岁，但已受过那么多的苦，所以当她发愁时那副苦相已象个老太婆了。
她有个黑眼眶，那是德纳第大娘一拳打出来的伤痕，德纳第大娘还时常指着说：
“这丫头真难看，老瞎着一只眼。”
珂赛特当时想的是天已经黑了，已经漆黑了，却又突然来了四个客人，她得立即去把那些客人房间里的水罐和水瓶灌上水，但水槽里已没有水了。
幸而德纳第家的人不大喝水，她的心又稍稍安稳了些。口渴的人当然不少，但是那种渴，在他们看来，水解不如酒解。大家都喝着酒，要是有个人要喝水，所有那些人都会觉得他是个蛮子。可是那孩子还是发了一阵抖：炉上一口锅里的水开了，德纳第大娘揭开了锅盖，又拿起一只玻璃杯，急急忙忙走向那水槽。她旋开水龙头，那孩子早已抬起了头，注视着她的一举一动。一线细水从那龙头里流出来，注满了那杯子的一半。“哼，”她说，“水没了！”接着，她没有立即开口说什么。那孩子也屏住了气。
“就这样吧！”德纳第大娘一面望着那半满的杯子，一面说，“这样大概也够了。”
珂赛特照旧干她的活，可是在那一刻钟里，她觉得她的心就象一个皮球，在胸腔里直跳。
她一分一秒地数着时间的流逝，恨不得一下子便到了第二天的早晨。
不时有一个酒客望着街上大声说：“简直黑得象个洞！”或是说：“只有猫儿才能在这种时刻不带灯笼上街！”珂赛特听了好不心惊肉颤。
忽然有一个要在那客店里过夜的货郎走进来，厉声说：
“你们没有给我的马喝水。”
“给过了，早给过了。”德纳第大娘说。
“我说您没有给过，大娘。”那小贩说。
珂赛特从桌子底下钻出来。
“呵，先生，确是给过了，”她说，“那匹马喝过了，在桶里喝的，喝了一满桶，是我送去给它喝的，我还和它说了许多话。”
那不是真话，珂赛特在说谎。
“这小妞还只有一个拳头大却已会撒弥天大谎了，”那小贩说，“小妖精！我告诉你，它没有喝。它没有喝，吐气的样子就不一样，我一眼就看得出来。”
珂赛特继续强辩，她急了，嗓子僵了，语不成声，别人几乎听不清她在说什么：
“而且它喝得很足！”
“够了，”那小贩动了气，“没有的事，快拿水给我的马喝，不要罗嗦！”
珂赛特又回到桌子下面去了。
“的确，这话有理，”德纳第大娘说，“要是那牲口没有喝水，当然就得喝。”
接着，她四面找。
“怎么，那一个又不见了？”
她弯下腰去，发现珂赛特蜷做一团，缩到桌子的那一头去了，几乎到了酒客们的脚底下。
“你出来不出来？”德纳第大娘吼着说。
珂赛特从她那藏身洞里爬出来。德纳第大娘接着说：
“你这没有姓名的狗小姐，快拿水去喂马。”
“可是，太太，”珂赛特细声说，“水已经没有了。”
德纳第大娘敞开大门说：
“没有水？去取来！”
珂赛特低下了头，走到壁炉角上取了一只空桶。
那桶比她人还大，那孩子如果坐在里面，决不会嫌小。
德纳第大娘回到她的火炉边，拿起一只木勺，尝那锅里的汤，一面叽里咕噜说道：
“泉边就有水。这又不是什么了不起的事。我想不放葱还好些。”
随后她翻着一只放零钱、胡椒、葱蒜的抽屉。
“来，癞虾蟆小姐，”她又说，“你回来的时候，到面包店去带一个大面包来。钱在这儿，一枚值十五个苏的钱。”
珂赛特的围裙侧面有个小口袋，她一声不响，接了钱，塞在口袋里。
她提着桶，对着那扇敞开着的大门，立着不动。她好象是在指望有谁来搭救她。
“还不走！”德纳第大娘一声吼。
珂赛特走了。大门也关上了。
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 4 Entrance on the Scene of a Doll
The line of open-air booths starting at the church, extended, as the reader will remember, as far as the hostelry of the Thenardiers. These booths were all illuminated, because the citizens would soon pass on their way to the midnight mass, with candles burning in paper funnels, which, as the schoolmaster, then seated at the table at the Thenardiers' observed, produced "a magical effect." In compensation, not a star was visible in the sky.
The last of these stalls, established precisely opposite the Thenardiers' door, was a toy-shop all glittering with tinsel, glass, and magnificent objects of tin. In the first row, and far forwards, the merchant had placed on a background of white napkins, an immense doll, nearly two feet high, who was dressed in a robe of pink crepe, with gold wheat-ears on her head, which had real hair and enamel eyes. All that day, this marvel had been displayed to the wonderment of all passers-by under ten years of age, without a mother being found in Montfermeil sufficiently rich or sufficiently extravagant to give it to her child. Eponine and Azelma had passed hours in contemplating it, and Cosette herself had ventured to cast a glance at it, on the sly, it is true.
At the moment when Cosette emerged, bucket in hand, melancholy and overcome as she was, she could not refrain from lifting her eyes to that wonderful doll, towards the lady, as she called it. The poor child paused in amazement. She had not yet beheld that doll close to. The whole shop seemed a palace to her: the doll was not a doll; it was a vision. It was joy, splendor, riches, happiness, which appeared in a sort of chimerical halo to that unhappy little being so profoundly engulfed in gloomy and chilly misery. With the sad and innocent sagacity of childhood, Cosette measured the abyss which separated her from that doll. She said to herself that one must be a queen, or at least a princess, to have a "thing" like that. She gazed at that beautiful pink dress, that beautiful smooth hair, and she thought, "How happy that doll must be!" She could not take her eyes from that fantastic stall. The more she looked, the more dazzled she grew. She thought she was gazing at paradise. There were other dolls behind the large one, which seemed to her to be fairies and genii. The merchant, who was pacing back and forth in front of his shop, produced on her somewhat the effect of being the Eternal Father.
In this adoration she forgot everything, even the errand with which she was charged.
All at once the Thenardier's coarse voice recalled her to reality: "What, you silly jade! you have not gone? Wait! I'll give it to you! I want to know what you are doing there! Get along, you little monster!"
The Thenardier had cast a glance into the street, and had caught sight of Cosette in her ecstasy.
Cosette fled, dragging her pail, and taking the longest strides of which she was capable.
那一排敞篷商店，我们记得，是从礼拜堂一直延展到德纳第客店门前的。由于有钱的人不久就要路过那一带去参加夜半弥撒，所以那些商店都已燃起蜡烛，烛的外面也都加上漏斗形的纸罩，当时有个孟费郿小学的老师正在德纳第店里喝酒，他说那种烛光颇有“魅力”，同时，天上却不见一颗星。
最后的一个摊子恰恰对着德纳第的大门，那是个玩具铺，摆满了晶莹耀眼的金银首饰、玻璃器皿、白铁玩具。那商人在第一排的最前面，在一块洁白的大手巾前陈列着一个大娃娃，二尺来高，穿件粉红绉纱袍，头上围着金穗子，有着真头发、珐琅眼睛。这宝物在那里陈列了一整天，十岁以下的过路人见了没有不爱的，但是在孟费郿就没有一个母亲有那么多钱，或是说有那种挥霍的习惯，肯买来送给孩子。爱潘妮和阿兹玛在那里瞻仰了好几个钟头，至于珂赛特，的确，只敢偷偷地望一两眼。
珂赛特拿着水桶出门时，尽管她是那样忧郁，那样颓丧，却仍不能不抬起眼睛去望那非凡的娃娃，望那“娘娘”，照她的说法。那可怜的孩子立在那儿呆住了。她还不曾走到近处去看过那娃娃。对她来说那整个商店就象是座宫殿，那娃娃也不是玩偶，而是一种幻象。那可怜的小姐，一直深深地沉陷在那种悲惨冷酷的贫寒生活里，现在她见到的，在她的幻想中，自然一齐成为欢乐、光辉、荣华、幸福出现了。珂赛特用她那天真悲愁的智慧去估计那道横亘在她和那玩偶间的深渊。她向她自己说，只有王后，至少也得是个公主，才能得到这样一样“东西”。她细细端详那件美丽的粉红袍，光滑的头发，她心里在想：“这娃娃，她该多么幸福呵！”她的眼睛离不了那家五光十色的店铺。她越看越眼花。她以为看见了天堂。在那大娃娃后面，还有许多小娃娃，她想那一定是一些仙女仙童了。她觉得在那摊子底里走来走去的那个商人有点象永生之父。
在那种仰慕当中，她忘了一切，连别人叫她做的事也忘了。猛然一下，德纳第大娘的粗暴声音把她拉回到现实中来：“怎么，蠢货，你还没有走！等着吧！等我来同你算账！我要问一声，她在那里干什么！小怪物，走！”
德纳第大娘向街上望了一眼，就望见珂赛特正在出神。
珂赛特连忙提着水桶，放开脚步溜走了。
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 5 The Little One All Alone
As the Thenardier hostelry was in that part of the village which is near the church, it was to the spring in the forest in the direction of Chelles that Cosette was obliged to go for her water.
She did not glance at the display of a single other merchant. So long as she was in Boulanger Lane and in the neighborhood of the church, the lighted stalls illuminated the road; but soon the last light from the last stall vanished. The poor child found herself in the dark. She plunged into it. Only, as a certain emotion overcame her, she made as much motion as possible with the handle of the bucket as she walked along. This made a noise which afforded her company.
The further she went, the denser the darkness became. There was no one in the streets. However, she did encounter a woman, who turned around on seeing her, and stood still, muttering between her teeth: "Where can that child be going? Is it a werewolf child?" Then the woman recognized Cosette. "Well," said she, "it's the Lark!"
In this manner Cosette traversed the labyrinth of tortuous and deserted streets which terminate in the village of Montfermeil on the side of Chelles. So long as she had the houses or even the walls only on both sides of her path, she proceeded with tolerable boldness. From time to time she caught the flicker of a candle through the crack of a shutter--this was light and life; there were people there, and it reassured her. But in proportion as she advanced, her pace slackened mechanically, as it were. When she had passed the corner of the last house, Cosette paused. It had been hard to advance further than the last stall; it became impossible to proceed further than the last house. She set her bucket on the ground, thrust her hand into her hair, and began slowly to scratch her head,--a gesture peculiar to children when terrified and undecided what to do. It was no longer Montfermeil; it was the open fields. Black and desert space was before her. She gazed in despair at that darkness, where there was no longer any one, where there were beasts, where there were spectres, possibly. She took a good look, and heard the beasts walking on the grass, and she distinctly saw spectres moving in the trees. Then she seized her bucket again; fear had lent her audacity. "Bah!" said she; "I will tell him that there was no more water!" And she resolutely re-entered Montfermeil.
Hardly had she gone a hundred paces when she paused and began to scratch her head again. Now it was the Thenardier who appeared to her, with her hideous, hyena mouth, and wrath flashing in her eyes. The child cast a melancholy glance before her and behind her. What was she to do? What was to become of her? Where was she to go? In front of her was the spectre of the Thenardier; behind her all the phantoms of the night and of the forest. It was before the Thenardier that she recoiled. She resumed her path to the spring, and began to run. She emerged from the village, she entered the forest at a run, no longer looking at or listening to anything. She only paused in her course when her breath failed her; but she did not halt in her advance. She went straight before her in desperation.
As she ran she felt like crying.
The nocturnal quivering of the forest surrounded her completely.
She no longer thought, she no longer saw. The immensity of night was facing this tiny creature. On the one hand, all shadow; on the other, an atom.
It was only seven or eight minutes' walk from the edge of the woods to the spring. Cosette knew the way, through having gone over it many times in daylight. Strange to say, she did not get lost. A remnant of instinct guided her vaguely. But she did not turn her eyes either to right or to left, for fear of seeing things in the branches and in the brushwood. In this manner she reached the spring.
It was a narrow, natural basin, hollowed out by the water in a clayey soil, about two feet deep, surrounded with moss and with those tall, crimped grasses which are called Henry IV.'s frills, and paved with several large stones. A brook ran out of it, with a tranquil little noise.
Cosette did not take time to breathe. It was very dark, but she was in the habit of coming to this spring. She felt with her left hand in the dark for a young oak which leaned over the spring, and which usually served to support her, found one of its branches, clung to it, bent down, and plunged the bucket in the water. She was in a state of such violent excitement that her strength was trebled. While thus bent over, she did not notice that the pocket of her apron had emptied itself into the spring. The fifteen-sou piece fell into the water. Cosette neither saw nor heard it fall. She drew out the bucket nearly full, and set it on the grass.
That done, she perceived that she was worn out with fatigue. She would have liked to set out again at once, but the effort required to fill the bucket had been such that she found it impossible to take a step. She was forced to sit down. She dropped on the grass, and remained crouching there.
She shut her eyes; then she opened them again, without knowing why, but because she could not do otherwise. The agitated water in the bucket beside her was describing circles which resembled tin serpents.
Overhead the sky was covered with vast black clouds, which were like masses of smoke. The tragic mask of shadow seemed to bend vaguely over the child.
Jupiter was setting in the depths.
The child stared with bewildered eyes at this great star, with which she was unfamiliar, and which terrified her. The planet was, in fact, very near the horizon and was traversing a dense layer of mist which imparted to it a horrible ruddy hue. The mist, gloomily empurpled, magnified the star. One would have called it a luminous wound.
A cold wind was blowing from the plain. The forest was dark, not a leaf was moving; there were none of the vague, fresh gleams of summertide. Great boughs uplifted themselves in frightful wise. Slender and misshapen bushes whistled in the clearings. The tall grasses undulated like eels under the north wind. The nettles seemed to twist long arms furnished with claws in search of prey. Some bits of dry heather, tossed by the breeze, flew rapidly by, and had the air of fleeing in terror before something which was coming after. On all sides there were lugubrious stretches.
The darkness was bewildering. Man requires light. Whoever buries himself in the opposite of day feels his heart contract. When the eye sees black, the heart sees trouble. In an eclipse in the night, in the sooty opacity, there is anxiety even for the stoutest of hearts. No one walks alone in the forest at night without trembling. Shadows and trees--two formidable densities. A chimerical reality appears in the indistinct depths. The inconceivable is outlined a few paces distant from you with a spectral clearness. One beholds floating, either in space or in one's own brain, one knows not what vague and intangible thing, like the dreams of sleeping flowers. There are fierce attitudes on the horizon. One inhales the effluvia of the great black void. One is afraid to glance behind him, yet desirous of doing so. The cavities of night, things grown haggard, taciturn profiles which vanish when one advances, obscure dishevelments, irritated tufts, livid pools, the lugubrious reflected in the funereal, the sepulchral immensity of silence, unknown but possible beings, bendings of mysterious branches, alarming torsos of trees, long handfuls of quivering plants,-- against all this one has no protection. There is no hardihood which does not shudder and which does not feel the vicinity of anguish. One is conscious of something hideous, as though one's soul were becoming amalgamated with the darkness. This penetration of the shadows is indescribably sinister in the case of a child.
Forests are apocalypses, and the beating of the wings of a tiny soul produces a sound of agony beneath their monstrous vault.
Without understanding her sensations, Cosette was conscious that she was seized upon by that black enormity of nature; it was no longer terror alone which was gaining possession of her; it was something more terrible even than terror; she shivered. There are no words to express the strangeness of that shiver which chilled her to the very bottom of her heart; her eye grew wild; she thought she felt that she should not be able to refrain from returning there at the same hour on the morrow.
Then, by a sort of instinct, she began to count aloud, one, two, three, four, and so on up to ten, in order to escape from that singular state which she did not understand, but which terrified her, and, when she had finished, she began again; this restored her to a true perception of the things about her. Her hands, which she had wet in drawing the water, felt cold; she rose; her terror, a natural and unconquerable terror, had returned: she had but one thought now,--to flee at full speed through the forest, across the fields to the houses, to the windows, to the lighted candles. Her glance fell upon the water which stood before her; such was the fright which the Thenardier inspired in her, that she dared not flee without that bucket of water: she seized the handle with both hands; she could hardly lift the pail.
In this manner she advanced a dozen paces, but the bucket was full; it was heavy; she was forced to set it on the ground once more. She took breath for an instant, then lifted the handle of the bucket again, and resumed her march, proceeding a little further this time, but again she was obliged to pause. After some seconds of repose she set out again. She walked bent forward, with drooping head, like an old woman; the weight of the bucket strained and stiffened her thin arms. The iron handle completed the benumbing and freezing of her wet and tiny hands; she was forced to halt from time to time, and each time that she did so, the cold water which splashed from the pail fell on her bare legs. This took place in the depths of a forest, at night, in winter, far from all human sight; she was a child of eight: no one but God saw that sad thing at the moment.
And her mother, no doubt, alas!
For there are things that make the dead open their eyes in their graves.
She panted with a sort of painful rattle; sobs contracted her throat, but she dared not weep, so afraid was she of the Thenardier, even at a distance: it was her custom to imagine the Thenardier always present.
However, she could not make much headway in that manner, and she went on very slowly. In spite of diminishing the length of her stops, and of walking as long as possible between them, she reflected with anguish that it would take her more than an hour to return to Montfermeil in this manner, and that the Thenardier would beat her. This anguish was mingled with her terror at being alone in the woods at night; she was worn out with fatigue, and had not yet emerged from the forest. On arriving near an old chestnut-tree with which she was acquainted, made a last halt, longer than the rest, in order that she might get well rested; then she summoned up all her strength, picked up her bucket again, and courageously resumed her march, but the poor little desperate creature could not refrain from crying, "O my God! my God!"
At that moment she suddenly became conscious that her bucket no longer weighed anything at all: a hand, which seemed to her enormous, had just seized the handle, and lifted it vigorously. She raised her head. A large black form, straight and erect, was walking beside her through the darkness; it was a man who had come up behind her, and whose approach she had not heard. This man, without uttering a word, had seized the handle of the bucket which she was carrying.
There are instincts for all the encounters of life.
The child was not afraid.
德纳第客店在那村里的地点既在礼拜堂附近，珂赛特就得向谢尔方面那片树林中的泉边取水。
她不再看任何商贩陈列的物品了。只要她还走在面包师巷和礼拜堂左近一带地方，总还有店铺里的烛光替她照路，可是最后一个摊子的最后一点微光也终于消逝了。那可怜的孩子便到了黑暗中。她还得走向黑暗的更深处。她向着黑暗更深处走去。只是，因为她的心情已经有些紧张，所以她一面走，一面竭力摇着那水桶的提梁。那样她就有一种声音和她作伴。
她越往前走，四周也越黑。街上行人已经绝迹。可是她还遇到一个妇人，那妇人停下来，转身望着她走过去，嘴里含含糊糊地说：“这孩子究竟有什么地方可去呢？难道她是个小狼精吗？”随后，那妇人认出了是珂赛特，又说：“嘿，原来是百灵鸟！”
珂赛特便那样穿过了孟费郿村靠谢尔一面的那些弯曲、荒凉，迷宫似的街道。只要她还看见有人家，只要她走的路两旁还有墙，她走起来总还相当大胆。有时，她从一家人家的窗板缝里望见一线烛光，那也就是光明，也就是生命，说明那里还有人，她的心也就安了。可是她越往前走，她的脚步好象会自然而然地慢下来。珂赛特，当她过了最后那所房子的墙角，就忽然站住不动了。越过最后那家店铺已经不容易，要越过最后那所房子再往前去，那是不可能的了。她把水桶放在地上，把只手伸进头发，慢慢地搔着头，那是孩子在惊慌到失去主张时特有的姿态。那已不是孟费郿，而是田野了。在她面前的是黑暗荒凉的旷地。她心惊胆颤地望着那漆黑一片、没有人、有野兽、也许还有鬼怪的地方。她仔细看，她听到了在草丛里行走的野兽，也清清楚楚看见了在树林里移动的鬼影。于是她又提起水桶，恐怖给了她勇气：“管他的！”她说，“我回她说没有水就完了！”她坚决转身回孟费郿。
她刚走上百来步，又停下来，搔着自己的头。现在出现在她眼前的是德纳第大娘，那样青面獠牙、眼里怒火直冒的德纳第大娘。孩子眼泪汪汪地望望前面，又望望后面。怎么办？会有什么下场？往哪里走？在她前面有德纳第大娘的魔影，在她后面有黑夜里在林中出没的鬼怪。结果她在德纳第大娘的面前退缩了。她再走上往泉边去的那条路，并且跑起来。她跑出村子，跑进了林子，什么也不再望，什么也不再听，直到气喘不过来时才不跑，但也不停步。她只顾往前走，什么全不知道了。
她一面赶路，一面想哭出来。
在夜间，森林的簌簌声把她整个包围起来了。她不再想，也不再看。无边的黑夜竟敌视那小小的生命，一方面是整个黑暗的天地，一方面是一粒原子。
从林边走到泉边，只须七八分钟。珂赛特认识那条路，因为这是她在白天常走的。说也奇怪，她当时并没有迷路。多少有些残存的本能在引导她。她的眼睛既不向右望，也不向左望，惟恐看到树枝和草丛里有什么东西。她便那样到达了泉边。
那是从粘土里流出后汇聚而成的一个狭窄的天然水潭，二尺来深，周围生着青苔和一种有焦黄斑痕、名为“亨利四世的细布皱领”的草本植物，还铺了几块大石头。水从潭口潺潺流出，形成一条溪流。
珂赛特不想歇下来喘气。当时四周漆黑，但是她有来这泉边的习惯。她伸出左手，在黑暗中摸索一株斜在水面上的小槲树，那是她平日用作扶手的，她摸到了一根树枝，攀在上面，弯下腰，把水桶伸入水中。她心情异常紧张，以致力气登时增加三倍。当她那样俯身取水时，她没有注意围裙袋里的东西落在潭里了。那枚值十五个苏的钱落下去了。珂赛特既没有看见也没有听见它落下去。她提起那水桶，放在草地上，几乎是满满一桶水。
在这以后，她才觉得浑身疲乏，一点力气也没有了。她很想立刻回去，但是她灌那桶水时力气已经用尽了，她一步也走不动了。她不得不坐下来。她让自己落在草地上，蹲在那儿动不了。
她闭上眼睛，继又睁开，她自己也不知道是为了什么，却又非那样做不可。
桶里的水，在她旁边荡出一圈圈的波纹，好象是些白火舌。
天空中乌云滚滚，有如煤烟，罩在她头上。黑夜那副悲惨面孔好象对着那孩子在眈眈垂视。
木星正卧在天边深处。
那孩子不认识那颗巨星，她神色仓皇地注视着它，感到害怕。那颗行星当时离地平线确是很近，透过一层浓雾，映出一种骇目的红光。浓雾呈惨黯的紫色，扩大了那个星的形象，好象是个发光的伤口。
原野上吹来一阵冷风。树林里一片深黑，绝无树叶触擦的声音，也绝无夏夜那种半明半昧的清光。高大的杈桠狰狞张舞。枯萎丛杂的矮树在林边隙地上簌簌作声。长高的野草在寒风中象鳗鲡似的蠕蠕游动。榛莽屈曲招展，有如伸出长臂张爪攫人。一团团的干草在风中急走，好象大祸将至，仓皇逃窜似的。四面八方全是凄凉寥廓的旷地。
黑暗使人见了心悸。人非有光不可。任何人进入无光处都会感到心焦。眼睛见到黑暗时心灵也就失去安宁。当月蚀时，夜里在乌黑的地方，即使是最顽强的人也会感到不安。黑暗和树林是两种深不可测的东西。我们的幻想常以为在阴暗的深处有现实的东西。有种无可捉模的事物会在你眼前几步之外显得清晰逼真。我们时常见到一种若隐若现、可望而不可及、缥缈如卧花之梦的景象在空间或我们自己的脑海中浮动。天边常会有一些触目惊心的形象。我们常会嗅到黑暗中太空的气息。我们会感到恐惧并想朝自己的后面看。黑夜的空旷，凶恶的物形，悄立无声走近去看时却又化为乌有的侧影，错杂散乱的黑影，摇曳的树丛，色如死灰的污池，鬼域似的阴惨，坟墓般的寂静，可能有的幽灵，神秘的树枝的垂拂，古怪骇人的光秃树身，临风瑟缩的丛丛野草，对那一切人们是无法抗拒的，胆壮的人也会战栗，也会有祸在眉睫之感。人们会惴惴不安，仿佛觉得自己的灵魂已和那黑暗凝固在一起。对一个孩子来说，黑暗的那种侵袭会使他感到一种无可言喻的可怕。
森林就是鬼宫，在它那幽寂阴森的穹窿下，一只小鸟的振翅声也会令人毛骨悚然。
珂赛特并不了解她所感受的是什么，她只觉得自己被宇宙的那种无边的黑暗所控制。她当时感受的不止是恐怖，而是一种比恐怖更可怕的东西。她打着寒噤。寒噤使她一直冷到心头，没有言语能表达那种奇怪的滋味。她愕然睁着一双眼睛。她仿佛觉得明天晚上的此时此刻她还必须再来此地。
于是，由于一种本能，为了摆脱那种她所不了解而又使她害怕的处境，她高声数着一、二、三、四，一直到十，数完以后，重又开始。她那样做，可使自己对四周的事物有个真实的感觉。她开始感到手冷，那是先头在取水时弄湿的。她站起来。她又恐惧起来了，那是一种自然的、无法克制的恐惧。她只有一个念头：逃走，拔腿飞奔，穿过林子，穿过田野，逃到有人家、有窗子、有烛光的地方。她低头看到了水桶。她不敢不带那桶水逃，德纳第大娘的威风太可怕了。她双手把住桶上的提梁，她用尽力气才提起那桶水。
她那样大致走了十多步，但是那桶水太满，太重，她只得把它重又放下来。她喘了口气，再提起水桶往前走，这回比较走得久一些。可是她又非再停下不可。休息了几秒钟后，她再走。她走时，俯着身子，低着头，象个老太婆，水桶的重量把她那两条瘦胳膊拉得又直又僵，桶上的铁提梁也把她那双湿手冻木了。她不得不走走停停，而每次停下来时，桶里的水总有些泼在她的光腿上。那些事是在树林深处，夜间，冬季，人的眼睛见不到的地方发生的，并且发生在一个八岁的孩子的身上。
当时只有上帝见到那种悲惨的经过。
也许她的母亲也看见了，咳！
因为有些事是会使墓中的死者睁开眼来的。
她带着痛苦的喘气声呻吟，一阵阵哭泣使她喉头哽塞，但她不敢哭，她太怕那德纳第大娘了，即使她离得很远。她常想象德纳第大娘就在她的附近，那已成了她的习惯。
可是她那样并走不了多远，并且走得很慢。她妄想缩短停留的时间，并尽量延长行走的时间。她估计那样走法，非一个钟头到不了孟费郿，一定会挨德纳第大娘的一顿打，她心中焦灼万分。焦灼又和独自一人深夜陷在林中的恐怖心情绞成一团。她已困惫不堪，但还没有走出那林子。她走到一株熟悉的老槲树旁，作最后一次较长的停顿，以便好好休息一下，随后她又集中全部力气，提起水桶，鼓足勇气往前走。可是那可怜的伤心绝望的孩子不禁喊了出来：
“呵！我的天主！我的天主！”
就在那时，她忽然觉得她那水桶一点也不重了。有一只手，在她看来粗壮无比，抓住了那提梁，轻轻地就把那水桶提起来了。她抬头望。有个高大直立的黑影，在黑暗中陪着她一同往前走。那是一个从她后面走来而她没有发现的汉子。那汉子，一声不响，抓住了她手里的水桶的提梁。
人有本能适应各种不同的遭遇。那孩子并不怕。
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 7 Cosette Side by Side with the Stranger in the Dark
Cosette, as we have said, was not frightened.
The man accosted her. He spoke in a voice that was grave and almost bass.
"My child, what you are carrying is very heavy for you."
Cosette raised her head and replied:--
"Yes, sir."
"Give it to me," said the man; "I will carry it for you."
Cosette let go of the bucket-handle. The man walked along beside her.
"It really is very heavy," he muttered between his teeth. Then he added:--
"How old are you, little one?"
"Eight, sir."
"And have you come from far like this?"
"From the spring in the forest."
"Are you going far?"
"A good quarter of an hour's walk from here."
The man said nothing for a moment; then he remarked abruptly:--
"So you have no mother."
"I don't know," answered the child.
Before the man had time to speak again, she added:--
"I don't think so. Other people have mothers. I have none."
And after a silence she went on:--
"I think that I never had any."
The man halted; he set the bucket on the ground, bent down and placed both hands on the child's shoulders, making an effort to look at her and to see her face in the dark.
Cosette's thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light in the sky.
"What is your name?" said the man.
"Cosette."
The man seemed to have received an electric shock. He looked at her once more; then he removed his hands from Cosette's shoulders, seized the bucket, and set out again.
After a moment he inquired:--
"Where do you live, little one?"
"At Montfermeil, if you know where that is."
"That is where we are going?"
"Yes, sir."
He paused; then began again:--
"Who sent you at such an hour to get water in the forest?"
"It was Madame Thenardier."
The man resumed, in a voice which he strove to render indifferent, but in which there was, nevertheless, a singular tremor:--
"What does your Madame Thenardier do?"
"She is my mistress," said the child. "She keeps the inn."
"The inn?" said the man. "Well, I am going to lodge there to-night. Show me the way."
"We are on the way there," said the child.
The man walked tolerably fast. Cosette followed him without difficulty. She no longer felt any fatigue. From time to time she raised her eyes towards the man, with a sort of tranquillity and an indescribable confidence. She had never been taught to turn to Providence and to pray; nevertheless, she felt within her something which resembled hope and joy, and which mounted towards heaven.
Several minutes elapsed. The man resumed:--
"Is there no servant in Madame Thenardier's house?"
"No, sir."
"Are you alone there?"
"Yes, sir."
Another pause ensued. Cosette lifted up her voice:--
"That is to say, there are two little girls."
"What little girls?"
"Ponine and Zelma."
This was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear to the female Thenardier.
"Who are Ponine and Zelma?"
"They are Madame Thenardier's young ladies; her daughters, as you would say."
"And what do those girls do?"
"Oh!" said the child, "they have beautiful dolls; things with gold in them, all full of affairs. They play; they amuse themselves."
"All day long?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you?"
"I? I work."
"All day long?"
The child raised her great eyes, in which hung a tear, which was not visible because of the darkness, and replied gently:--
"Yes, sir."
After an interval of silence she went on:--
"Sometimes, when I have finished my work and they let me, I amuse myself, too."
"How do you amuse yourself?"
"In the best way I can. They let me alone; but I have not many playthings. Ponine and Zelma will not let me play with their dolls. I have only a little lead sword, no longer than that."
The child held up her tiny finger.
"And it will not cut?"
"Yes, sir," said the child; "it cuts salad and the heads of flies."
They reached the village. Cosette guided the stranger through the streets. They passed the bakeshop, but Cosette did not think of the bread which she had been ordered to fetch. The man had ceased to ply her with questions, and now preserved a gloomy silence.
When they had left the church behind them, the man, on perceiving all the open-air booths, asked Cosette:--
"So there is a fair going on here?"
"No, sir; it is Christmas."
As they approached the tavern, Cosette timidly touched his arm:--
"Monsieur?"
"What, my child?"
"We are quite near the house."
"Well?"
"Will you let me take my bucket now?"
"Why?"
"If Madame sees that some one has carried it for me, she will beat me."
The man handed her the bucket. An instant later they were at the tavern door.
我们说过，珂赛特没有害怕。
那个人和她谈话。他说话的声音是庄重的，几乎是低沉的。
“我的孩子，你提的这东西对你来说是太重了。”
珂赛特抬起头，回答说：
“是呀，先生。”
“给我，”那人接着说；“我来替你拿。”
珂赛特丢了那水桶。那人便陪着她一道走。
“确是很重。”他咬紧了牙说。
随后，他又说：
“孩子，你几岁了？”
“八岁，先生。”
“你是从远地方这样走来的吗？”
“从树林里泉水边来的。”
“你要去的地方还远吗？”
“从此地去，总得足足一刻钟。”
那人停了一会不曾开口，继又突然问道：
“难道你没有妈妈吗？”
“我不知道。”那孩子回答。
那人还没有来得及开口，她又补充一句：
“我想我没有妈。别人都有。我呢，我没有。”
静了一阵，她又说：
“我想我从来不曾有过妈。”
那人停下来，放下水桶，弯着腰，把他的两只手放在那孩子的肩上，想在黑暗中看清她的脸。
来自天空的一点暗淡的微光隐隐照出了珂赛特的瘦削的面貌。
“你叫什么名字？”那人说。
“珂赛特。”
那人好象触了电似的。他又仔细看了一阵，之后，他从珂赛特的肩上缩回了他的手，提起水桶，又走起来。
过了一阵，他问道：
“孩子，你住在什么地方？”
“我住在孟费郿，您知道那地方吗？”
“我们现在是去那地方吗？”
“是的，先生。”
他又沉默了一下，继又问道：
“是谁要你这时到树林里来提水的？”
“是德纳第太太。”
那人想让自己说话的声音显得镇静，可是他的声音抖得出奇，他说：
“她是干什么的，你那德纳弟太太？”
“她是我的东家，”那孩子说，“她是开客店的。”
“客店吗？”那人说，“好的，我今晚就在那里过夜。你领我去。”
“我们正是去那里。”孩子说。
那人走得相当快。珂赛特也不难跟上他。她已不再感到累了。她不时抬起眼睛望着那个人，显出一种无可言喻的宁静和信赖的神情。从来不曾有人教她敬仰上帝和祈祷。可是她感到她心里有样东西，好象是飞向天空的希望和欢乐。
这样过了几分钟，那人又说：
“难道德纳第太太家里没有女用人吗？”
“没有，先生。”
“就你一个吗？”
“是的，先生。”
谈话又停顿了。珂赛特提高了嗓子说：
“应当说，还有两个小姑娘。”
“什么小姑娘？”
“潘妮和兹玛。”
孩子在回答中就那样简化了德纳第大娘心爱的那两个浪漫的名字。
“潘妮和兹玛是什么？”
“是德纳第太太的小姐，就是说，她的女儿。”
“她们两个又干些什么事呢？”
“噢！”那孩子说，“她们有挺漂亮的娃娃，有各色各样装了金的东西，花样多极了。她们做游戏，她们玩。”
“整天玩吗？”
“是的，先生。”
“你呢？”
“我，我工作。”
“整天工作吗？”
那孩子抬起一双大眼睛，一滴眼泪几乎掉下来，不过在黑暗中没有人看见，她细声回答：
“是的，先生。”
她静了一阵，又接着说：
“有时候，我做完了事，人家准许的话我也玩。”
“你怎样玩呢？”
“有什么玩什么。只要别人不来管我。但是我没有什么好玩的东西。潘妮和兹玛都不许我玩她们的娃娃。我只有一把小铅刀，这么长。”
那孩子伸出她的小指头来比。
“那种刀切不动吧？”
“切得动，先生，”孩子说，“切得动生菜和苍蝇脑袋。”
他们已到了村子里，珂赛特领着那陌生人在街上走。他们走过面包铺，可是珂赛特没有想到她应当买个面包带回去。那人没有再问她什么话，只是面带愁容，一声也不响。他们走过了礼拜堂，那人见了那些露天的铺面，便问珂赛特说：
“今天这儿赶集吗？”
“不是的，先生，是过圣诞节。”
他们快到那客店的时候，珂赛特轻轻地推着他的胳膊。
“先生？”
“什么事，我的孩子？”
“我们马上到家了。”
“到家又怎么样呢？”
“您现在让我来提水桶吧。”
“为什么？”
“因为，要是太太看见别人替我提水，她会打我的。”
那人把水桶交还给她。不大一会，他们已到了那客店的大门口。
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 8 The Unpleasantness of receiving
Cosette could not refrain from casting a sidelong glance at the big doll, which was still displayed at the toy-merchant's; then she knocked. The door opened. The Thenardier appeared with a candle in her hand.
"Ah! so it's you, you little wretch! good mercy, but you've taken your time! The hussy has been amusing herself!"
"Madame," said Cosette, trembling all over, "here's a gentleman who wants a lodging."
The Thenardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace, a change of aspect common to tavern-keepers, and eagerly sought the new-comer with her eyes.
"This is the gentleman?" said she.
"Yes, Madame," replied the man, raising his hand to his hat.
Wealthy travellers are not so polite. This gesture, and an inspection of the stranger's costume and baggage, which the Thenardier passed in review with one glance, caused the amiable grimace to vanish, and the gruff mien to reappear. She resumed dryly:--
"Enter, my good man."
The "good man" entered. The Thenardier cast a second glance at him, paid particular attention to his frock-coat, which was absolutely threadbare, and to his hat, which was a little battered, and, tossing her head, wrinkling her nose, and screwing up her eyes, she consulted her husband, who was still drinking with the carters. The husband replied by that imperceptible movement of the forefinger, which, backed up by an inflation of the lips, signifies in such cases: A regular beggar. Thereupon, the Thenardier exclaimed:--
"Ah! see here, my good man; I am very sorry, but I have no room left."
"Put me where you like," said the man; "in the attic, in the stable. I will pay as though I occupied a room."
"Forty sous."
"Forty sous; agreed."
"Very well, then!"
"Forty sous!" said a carter, in a low tone, to the Thenardier woman; "why, the charge is only twenty sous!"
"It is forty in his case," retorted the Thenardier, in the same tone. "I don't lodge poor folks for less."
"That's true," added her husband, gently; "it ruins a house to have such people in it."
In the meantime, the man, laying his bundle and his cudgel on a bench, had seated himself at a table, on which Cosette made haste to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The merchant who had demanded the bucket of water took it to his horse himself. Cosette resumed her place under the kitchen table, and her knitting.
The man, who had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had poured out for himself, observed the child with peculiar attention.
Cosette was ugly. If she had been happy, she might have been pretty. We have already given a sketch of that sombre little figure. Cosette was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years old, but she seemed to be hardly six. Her large eyes, sunken in a sort of shadow, were almost put out with weeping. The corners of her mouth had that curve of habitual anguish which is seen in condemned persons and desperately sick people. Her hands were, as her mother had divined, "ruined with chilblains." The fire which illuminated her at that moment brought into relief all the angles of her bones, and rendered her thinness frightfully apparent. As she was always shivering, she had acquired the habit of pressing her knees one against the other. Her entire clothing was but a rag which would have inspired pity in summer, and which inspired horror in winter. All she had on was hole-ridden linen, not a scrap of woollen. Her skin was visible here and there and everywhere black and blue spots could be descried, which marked the places where the Thenardier woman had touched her. Her naked legs were thin and red. The hollows in her neck were enough to make one weep. This child's whole person, her mien, her attitude, the sound of her voice, the intervals which she allowed to elapse between one word and the next, her glance, her silence, her slightest gesture, expressed and betrayed one sole idea,--fear.
Fear was diffused all over her; she was covered with it, so to speak; fear drew her elbows close to her hips, withdrew her heels under her petticoat, made her occupy as little space as possible, allowed her only the breath that was absolutely necessary, and had become what might be called the habit of her body, admitting of no possible variation except an increase. In the depths of her eyes there was an astonished nook where terror lurked.
Her fear was such, that on her arrival, wet as she was, Cosette did not dare to approach the fire and dry herself, but sat silently down to her work again.
The expression in the glance of that child of eight years was habitually so gloomy, and at times so tragic, that it seemed at certain moments as though she were on the verge of becoming an idiot or a demon.
As we have stated, she had never known what it is to pray; she had never set foot in a church. "Have I the time?" said the Thenardier.
The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette.
All at once, the Thenardier exclaimed:--
"By the way, where's that bread?"
Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Thenardier uplifted her voice, emerged with great haste from beneath the table.
She had completely forgotten the bread. She had recourse to the expedient of children who live in a constant state of fear. She lied.
"Madame, the baker's shop was shut."
"You should have knocked."
"I did knock, Madame."
"Well?"
"He did not open the door."
"I'll find out to-morrow whether that is true," said the Thenardier; "and if you are telling me a lie, I'll lead you a pretty dance. In the meantime, give me back my fifteen-sou piece."
Cosette plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron, and turned green. The fifteen-sou piece was not there.
"Ah, come now," said Madame Thenardier, "did you hear me?"
Cosette turned her pocket inside out; there was nothing in it. What could have become of that money? The unhappy little creature could not find a word to say. She was petrified.
"Have you lost that fifteen-sou piece?" screamed the Thenardier, hoarsely, "or do you want to rob me of it?"
At the same time, she stretched out her arm towards the cat-o'-nine-tails which hung on a nail in the chimney-corner.
This formidable gesture restored to Cosette sufficient strength to shriek:--
"Mercy, Madame, Madame! I will not do so any more!"
The Thenardier took down the whip.
In the meantime, the man in the yellow coat had been fumbling in the fob of his waistcoat, without any one having noticed his movements. Besides, the other travellers were drinking or playing cards, and were not paying attention to anything.
Cosette contracted herself into a ball, with anguish, within the angle of the chimney, endeavoring to gather up and conceal her poor half-nude limbs. The Thenardier raised her arm.
"Pardon me, Madame," said the man, "but just now I caught sight of something which had fallen from this little one's apron pocket, and rolled aside. Perhaps this is it."
At the same time he bent down and seemed to be searching on the floor for a moment.
"Exactly; here it is," he went on, straightening himself up.
And he held out a silver coin to the Thenardier.
"Yes, that's it," said she.
It was not it, for it was a twenty-sou piece; but the Thenardier found it to her advantage. She put the coin in her pocket, and confined herself to casting a fierce glance at the child, accompanied with the remark, "Don't let this ever happen again!"
Cosette returned to what the Thenardier called "her kennel," and her large eyes, which were riveted on the traveller, began to take on an expression such as they had never worn before. Thus far it was only an innocent amazement, but a sort of stupefied confidence was mingled with it.
"By the way, would you like some supper?" the Thenardier inquired of the traveller.
He made no reply. He appeared to be absorbed in thought.
"What sort of a man is that?" she muttered between her teeth. "He's some frightfully poor wretch. He hasn't a sou to pay for a supper. Will he even pay me for his lodging? It's very lucky, all the same, that it did not occur to him to steal the money that was on the floor."
In the meantime, a door had opened, and Eponine and Azelma entered.
They were two really pretty little girls, more bourgeois than peasant in looks, and very charming; the one with shining chestnut tresses, the other with long black braids hanging down her back, both vivacious, neat, plump, rosy, and healthy, and a delight to the eye. They were warmly clad, but with so much maternal art that the thickness of the stuffs did not detract from the coquetry of arrangement. There was a hint of winter, though the springtime was not wholly effaced. Light emanated from these two little beings. Besides this, they were on the throne. In their toilettes, in their gayety, in the noise which they made, there was sovereignty. When they entered, the Thenardier said to them in a grumbling tone which was full of adoration, "Ah! there you are, you children!"
Then drawing them, one after the other to her knees, smoothing their hair, tying their ribbons afresh, and then releasing them with that gentle manner of shaking off which is peculiar to mothers, she exclaimed, "What frights they are!"
They went and seated themselves in the chimney-corner. They had a doll, which they turned over and over on their knees with all sorts of joyous chatter. From time to time Cosette raised her eyes from her knitting, and watched their play with a melancholy air.
Eponine and Azelma did not look at Cosette. She was the same as a dog to them. These three little girls did not yet reckon up four and twenty years between them, but they already represented the whole society of man; envy on the one side, disdain on the other.
The doll of the Thenardier sisters was very much faded, very old, and much broken; but it seemed none the less admirable to Cosette, who had never had a doll in her life, a real doll, to make use of the expression which all children will understand.
All at once, the Thenardier, who had been going back and forth in the room, perceived that Cosette's mind was distracted, and that, instead of working, she was paying attention to the little ones at their play.
"Ah! I've caught you at it!" she cried. "So that's the way you work! I'll make you work to the tune of the whip; that I will."
The stranger turned to the Thenardier, without quitting his chair.
"Bah, Madame," he said, with an almost timid air, "let her play!"
Such a wish expressed by a traveller who had eaten a slice of mutton and had drunk a couple of bottles of wine with his supper, and who had not the air of being frightfully poor, would have been equivalent to an order. But that a man with such a hat should permit himself such a desire, and that a man with such a coat should permit himself to have a will, was something which Madame Thenardier did not intend to tolerate. She retorted with acrimony:--
"She must work, since she eats. I don't feed her to do nothing."
"What is she making?" went on the stranger, in a gentle voice which contrasted strangely with his beggarly garments and his porter's shoulders.
The Thenardier deigned to reply:--
"Stockings, if you please. Stockings for my little girls, who have none, so to speak, and who are absolutely barefoot just now."
The man looked at Cosette's poor little red feet, and continued:--
"When will she have finished this pair of stockings?"
"She has at least three or four good days' work on them still, the lazy creature!"
"And how much will that pair of stockings be worth when she has finished them?"
The Thenardier cast a glance of disdain on him.
"Thirty sous at least."
"Will you sell them for five francs?" went on the man.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed a carter who was listening, with a loud laugh; "five francs! the deuce, I should think so! five balls!"
Thenardier thought it time to strike in.
"Yes, sir; if such is your fancy, you will be allowed to have that pair of stockings for five francs. We can refuse nothing to travellers."
"You must pay on the spot," said the Thenardier, in her curt and peremptory fashion.
"I will buy that pair of stockings," replied the man, "and," he added, drawing a five-franc piece from his pocket, and laying it on the table, "I will pay for them."
Then he turned to Cosette.
"Now I own your work; play, my child."
The carter was so much touched by the five-franc piece, that he abandoned his glass and hastened up.
"But it's true!" he cried, examining it. "A real hind wheel! and not counterfeit!"
Thenardier approached and silently put the coin in his pocket.
The Thenardier had no reply to make. She bit her lips, and her face assumed an expression of hatred.
In the meantime, Cosette was trembling. She ventured to ask:--
"Is it true, Madame? May I play?"
"Play!" said the Thenardier, in a terrible voice.
"Thanks, Madame," said Cosette.
And while her mouth thanked the Thenardier, her whole little soul thanked the traveller.
Thenardier had resumed his drinking; his wife whispered in his ear:--
"Who can this yellow man be?"
"I have seen millionaires with coats like that," replied Thenardier, in a sovereign manner.
Cosette had dropped her knitting, but had not left her seat. Cosette always moved as little as possible. She picked up some old rags and her little lead sword from a box behind her.
Eponine and Azelma paid no attention to what was going on. They had just executed a very important operation; they had just got hold of the cat. They had thrown their doll on the ground, and Eponine, who was the elder, was swathing the little cat, in spite of its mewing and its contortions, in a quantity of clothes and red and blue scraps. While performing this serious and difficult work she was saying to her sister in that sweet and adorable language of children, whose grace, like the splendor of the butterfly's wing, vanishes when one essays to fix it fast.
"You see, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other. She twists, she cries, she is warm. See, sister, let us play with her. She shall be my little girl. I will be a lady. I will come to see you, and you shall look at her. Gradually, you will perceive her whiskers, and that will surprise you. And then you will see her ears, and then you will see her tail and it will amaze you. And you will say to me, `Ah! Mon Dieu!' and I will say to you: `Yes, Madame, it is my little girl. Little girls are made like that just at present.'"
Azelma listened admiringly to Eponine.
In the meantime, the drinkers had begun to sing an obscene song, and to laugh at it until the ceiling shook. Thenardier accompanied and encouraged them.
As birds make nests out of everything, so children make a doll out of anything which comes to hand. While Eponine and Azelma were bundling up the cat, Cosette, on her side, had dressed up her sword. That done, she laid it in her arms, and sang to it softly, to lull it to sleep.
The doll is one of the most imperious needs and, at the same time, one of the most charming instincts of feminine childhood. To care for, to clothe, to deck, to dress, to undress, to redress, to teach, scold a little, to rock, to dandle, to lull to sleep, to imagine that something is some one,--therein lies the whole woman's future. While dreaming and chattering, making tiny outfits, and baby clothes, while sewing little gowns, and corsages and bodices, the child grows into a young girl, the young girl into a big girl, the big girl into a woman. The first child is the continuation of the last doll.
A little girl without a doll is almost as unhappy, and quite as impossible, as a woman without children.
So Cosette had made herself a doll out of the sword.
Madame Thenardier approached the yellow man; "My husband is right," she thought; "perhaps it is M. Laffitte; there are such queer rich men!"
She came and set her elbows on the table.
"Monsieur," said she. At this word, Monsieur, the man turned; up to that time, the Thenardier had addressed him only as brave homme or bonhomme.
"You see, sir," she pursued, assuming a sweetish air that was even more repulsive to behold than her fierce mien, "I am willing that the child should play; I do not oppose it, but it is good for once, because you are generous. You see, she has nothing; she must needs work."
"Then this child is not yours?" demanded the man.
"Oh! mon Dieu! no, sir! she is a little beggar whom we have taken in through charity; a sort of imbecile child. She must have water on the brain; she has a large head, as you see. We do what we can for her, for we are not rich; we have written in vain to her native place, and have received no reply these six months. It must be that her mother is dead."
"Ah!" said the man, and fell into his revery once more.
"Her mother didn't amount to much," added the Thenardier; "she abandoned her child."
During the whole of this conversation Cosette, as though warned by some instinct that she was under discussion, had not taken her eyes from the Thenardier's face; she listened vaguely; she caught a few words here and there.
Meanwhile, the drinkers, all three-quarters intoxicated, were repeating their unclean refrain with redoubled gayety; it was a highly spiced and wanton song, in which the Virgin and the infant Jesus were introduced. The Thenardier went off to take part in the shouts of laughter. Cosette, from her post under the table, gazed at the fire, which was reflected from her fixed eyes. She had begun to rock the sort of baby which she had made, and, as she rocked it, she sang in a low voice, "My mother is dead! my mother is dead! my mother is dead!"
On being urged afresh by the hostess, the yellow man, "the millionaire," consented at last to take supper.
"What does Monsieur wish?"
"Bread and cheese," said the man.
"Decidedly, he is a beggar" thought Madame Thenardier.
The drunken men were still singing their song, and the child under the table was singing hers.
All at once, Cosette paused; she had just turned round and caught sight of the little Thenardiers' doll, which they had abandoned for the cat and had left on the floor a few paces from the kitchen table.
Then she dropped the swaddled sword, which only half met her needs, and cast her eyes slowly round the room. Madame Thenardier was whispering to her husband and counting over some money; Ponine and Zelma were playing with the cat; the travellers were eating or drinking or singing; not a glance was fixed on her. She had not a moment to lose; she crept out from under the table on her hands and knees, made sure once more that no one was watching her; then she slipped quickly up to the doll and seized it. An instant later she was in her place again, seated motionless, and only turned so as to cast a shadow on the doll which she held in her arms. The happiness of playing with a doll was so rare for her that it contained all the violence of voluptuousness.
No one had seen her, except the traveller, who was slowly devouring his meagre supper.
This joy lasted about a quarter of an hour.
But with all the precautions that Cosette had taken she did not perceive that one of the doll's legs stuck out and that the fire on the hearth lighted it up very vividly. That pink and shining foot, projecting from the shadow, suddenly struck the eye of Azelma, who said to Eponine, "Look! sister."
The two little girls paused in stupefaction; Cosette had dared to take their doll!
Eponine rose, and, without releasing the cat, she ran to her mother, and began to tug at her skirt.
"Let me alone!" said her mother; "what do you want?"
"Mother," said the child, "look there!"
And she pointed to Cosette.
Cosette, absorbed in the ecstasies of possession, no longer saw or heard anything.
Madame Thenardier's countenance assumed that peculiar expression which is composed of the terrible mingled with the trifles of life, and which has caused this style of woman to be named megaeras.
On this occasion, wounded pride exasperated her wrath still further. Cosette had overstepped all bounds; Cosette had laid violent hands on the doll belonging to "these young ladies." A czarina who should see a muzhik trying on her imperial son's blue ribbon would wear no other face.
She shrieked in a voice rendered hoarse with indignation:--
"Cosette!"
Cosette started as though the earth had trembled beneath her; she turned round.
"Cosette!" repeated the Thenardier.
Cosette took the doll and laid it gently on the floor with a sort of veneration, mingled with despair; then, without taking her eyes from it, she clasped her hands, and, what is terrible to relate of a child of that age, she wrung them; then--not one of the emotions of the day, neither the trip to the forest, nor the weight of the bucket of water, nor the loss of the money, nor the sight of the whip, nor even the sad words which she had heard Madame Thenardier utter had been able to wring this from her-- she wept; she burst out sobbing.
Meanwhile, the traveller had risen to his feet.
"What is the matter?" he said to the Thenardier.
"Don't you see?" said the Thenardier, pointing to the corpus delicti which lay at Cosette's feet.
"Well, what of it?" resumed the man.
"That beggar," replied the Thenardier, "has permitted herself to touch the children's doll!"
"All this noise for that!" said the man; "well, what if she did play with that doll?"
"She touched it with her dirty hands!" pursued the Thenardier, "with her frightful hands!"
Here Cosette redoubled her sobs.
"Will you stop your noise?" screamed the Thenardier.
The man went straight to the street door, opened it, and stepped out.
As soon as he had gone, the Thenardier profited by his absence to give Cosette a hearty kick under the table, which made the child utter loud cries.
The door opened again, the man re-appeared; he carried in both hands the fabulous doll which we have mentioned, and which all the village brats had been staring at ever since the morning, and he set it upright in front of Cosette, saying:--
"Here; this is for you."
It must be supposed that in the course of the hour and more which he had spent there he had taken confused notice through his revery of that toy shop, lighted up by fire-pots and candles so splendidly that it was visible like an illumination through the window of the drinking-shop.
Cosette raised her eyes; she gazed at the man approaching her with that doll as she might have gazed at the sun; she heard the unprecedented words, "It is for you"; she stared at him; she stared at the doll; then she slowly retreated, and hid herself at the extreme end, under the table in a corner of the wall.
She no longer cried; she no longer wept; she had the appearance of no longer daring to breathe.
The Thenardier, Eponine, and Azelma were like statues also; the very drinkers had paused; a solemn silence reigned through the whole room.
Madame Thenardier, petrified and mute, recommenced her conjectures: "Who is that old fellow? Is he a poor man? Is he a millionaire? Perhaps he is both; that is to say, a thief."
The face of the male Thenardier presented that expressive fold which accentuates the human countenance whenever the dominant instinct appears there in all its bestial force. The tavern-keeper stared alternately at the doll and at the traveller; he seemed to be scenting out the man, as he would have scented out a bag of money. This did not last longer than the space of a flash of lightning. He stepped up to his wife and said to her in a low voice:--
"That machine costs at least thirty francs. No nonsense. Down on your belly before that man!"
Gross natures have this in common with naive natures, that they possess no transition state.
"Well, Cosette," said the Thenardier, in a voice that strove to be sweet, and which was composed of the bitter honey of malicious women, "aren't you going to take your doll?"
Cosette ventured to emerge from her hole.
"The gentleman has given you a doll, my little Cosette," said Thenardier, with a caressing air. "Take it; it is yours."
Cosette gazed at the marvellous doll in a sort of terror. Her face was still flooded with tears, but her eyes began to fill, like the sky at daybreak, with strange beams of joy. What she felt at that moment was a little like what she would have felt if she had been abruptly told, "Little one, you are the Queen of France."
It seemed to her that if she touched that doll, lightning would dart from it.
This was true, up to a certain point, for she said to herself that the Thenardier would scold and beat her.
Nevertheless, the attraction carried the day. She ended by drawing near and murmuring timidly as she turned towards Madame Thenardier:--
"May I, Madame?"
No words can render that air, at once despairing, terrified, and ecstatic.
"Pardi!" cried the Thenardier, "it is yours. The gentleman has given it to you."
"Truly, sir?" said Cosette. "Is it true? Is the `lady' mine?"
The stranger's eyes seemed to be full of tears. He appeared to have reached that point of emotion where a man does not speak for fear lest he should weep. He nodded to Cosette, and placed the "lady's" hand in her tiny hand.
Cosette hastily withdrew her hand, as though that of the "lady" scorched her, and began to stare at the floor. We are forced to add that at that moment she stuck out her tongue immoderately. All at once she wheeled round and seized the doll in a transport.
"I shall call her Catherine," she said.
It was an odd moment when Cosette's rags met and clasped the ribbons and fresh pink muslins of the doll.
"Madame," she resumed, "may I put her on a chair?"
"Yes, my child," replied the Thenardier.
It was now the turn of Eponine and Azelma to gaze at Cosette with envy.
Cosette placed Catherine on a chair, then seated herself on the floor in front of her, and remained motionless, without uttering a word, in an attitude of contemplation.
"Play, Cosette," said the stranger.
"Oh! I am playing," returned the child.
This stranger, this unknown individual, who had the air of a visit which Providence was making on Cosette, was the person whom the Thenardier hated worse than any one in the world at that moment. However, it was necessary to control herself. Habituated as she was to dissimulation through endeavoring to copy her husband in all his actions, these emotions were more than she could endure. She made haste to send her daughters to bed, then she asked the man's permission to send Cosette off also; "for she has worked hard all day," she added with a maternal air. Cosette went off to bed, carrying Catherine in her arms.
From time to time the Thenardier went to the other end of the room where her husband was, to relieve her soul, as she said. She exchanged with her husband words which were all the more furious because she dared not utter them aloud.
"Old beast! What has he got in his belly, to come and upset us in this manner! To want that little monster to play! to give away forty-franc dolls to a jade that I would sell for forty sous, so I would! A little more and he will be saying Your Majesty to her, as though to the Duchess de Berry! Is there any sense in it? Is he mad, then, that mysterious old fellow?"
"Why! it is perfectly simple," replied Thenardier, "if that amuses him! It amuses you to have the little one work; it amuses him to have her play. He's all right. A traveller can do what he pleases when he pays for it. If the old fellow is a philanthropist, what is that to you? If he is an imbecile, it does not concern you. What are you worrying for, so long as he has money?"
The language of a master, and the reasoning of an innkeeper, neither of which admitted of any reply.
The man had placed his elbows on the table, and resumed his thoughtful attitude. All the other travellers, both pedlers and carters, had withdrawn a little, and had ceased singing. They were staring at him from a distance, with a sort of respectful awe. This poorly dressed man, who drew "hind-wheels" from his pocket with so much ease, and who lavished gigantic dolls on dirty little brats in wooden shoes, was certainly a magnificent fellow, and one to be feared.
Many hours passed. The midnight mass was over, the chimes had ceased, the drinkers had taken their departure, the drinking-shop was closed, the public room was deserted, the fire extinct, the stranger still remained in the same place and the same attitude. From time to time he changed the elbow on which he leaned. That was all; but he had not said a word since Cosette had left the room.
The Thenardiers alone, out of politeness and curiosity, had remained in the room.
"Is he going to pass the night in that fashion?" grumbled the Thenardier. When two o'clock in the morning struck, she declared herself vanquished, and said to her husband, "I'm going to bed. Do as you like." Her husband seated himself at a table in the corner, lighted a candle, and began to read the Courrier Francais.
A good hour passed thus. The worthy inn-keeper had perused the Courrier Francais at least three times, from the date of the number to the printer's name. The stranger did not stir.
Thenardier fidgeted, coughed, spit, blew his nose, and creaked his chair. Not a movement on the man's part. "Is he asleep?" thought Thenardier. The man was not asleep, but nothing could arouse him.
At last Thenardier took off his cap, stepped gently up to him, and ventured to say:--
"Is not Monsieur going to his repose?"
Not going to bed would have seemed to him excessive and familiar. To repose smacked of luxury and respect. These words possess the mysterious and admirable property of swelling the bill on the following day. A chamber where one sleeps costs twenty sous; a chamber in which one reposes costs twenty francs.
"Well!" said the stranger, "you are right. Where is your stable?"
"Sir!" exclaimed Thenardier, with a smile, "I will conduct you, sir."
He took the candle; the man picked up his bundle and cudgel, and Thenardier conducted him to a chamber on the first floor, which was of rare splendor, all furnished in mahogany, with a low bedstead, curtained with red calico.
"What is this?" said the traveller.
"It is really our bridal chamber," said the tavern-keeper. "My wife and I occupy another. This is only entered three or four times a year."
"I should have liked the stable quite as well," said the man, abruptly.
Thenardier pretended not to hear this unamiable remark.
He lighted two perfectly fresh wax candles which figured on the chimney-piece. A very good fire was flickering on the hearth.
On the chimney-piece, under a glass globe, stood a woman's head-dress in silver wire and orange flowers.
"And what is this?" resumed the stranger.
"That, sir," said Thenardier, "is my wife's wedding bonnet."
The traveller surveyed the object with a glance which seemed to say, "There really was a time, then, when that monster was a maiden?"
Thenardier lied, however. When he had leased this paltry building for the purpose of converting it into a tavern, he had found this chamber decorated in just this manner, and had purchased the furniture and obtained the orange flowers at second hand, with the idea that this would cast a graceful shadow on "his spouse," and would result in what the English call respectability for his house.
When the traveller turned round, the host had disappeared. Thenardier had withdrawn discreetly, without venturing to wish him a good night, as he did not wish to treat with disrespectful cordiality a man whom he proposed to fleece royally the following morning.
The inn-keeper retired to his room. His wife was in bed, but she was not asleep. When she heard her husband's step she turned over and said to him:--
"Do you know, I'm going to turn Cosette out of doors to-morrow."
Thenardier replied coldly:--
"How you do go on!"
They exchanged no further words, and a few moments later their candle was extinguished.
As for the traveller, he had deposited his cudgel and his bundle in a corner. The landlord once gone, he threw himself into an arm-chair and remained for some time buried in thought. Then he removed his shoes, took one of the two candles, blew out the other, opened the door, and quitted the room, gazing about him like a person who is in search of something. He traversed a corridor and came upon a staircase. There he heard a very faint and gentle sound like the breathing of a child. He followed this sound, and came to a sort of triangular recess built under the staircase, or rather formed by the staircase itself. This recess was nothing else than the space under the steps. There, in the midst of all sorts of old papers and potsherds, among dust and spiders' webs, was a bed--if one can call by the name of bed a straw pallet so full of holes as to display the straw, and a coverlet so tattered as to show the pallet. No sheets. This was placed on the floor.
In this bed Cosette was sleeping.
The man approached and gazed down upon her.
Cosette was in a profound sleep; she was fully dressed. In the winter she did not undress, in order that she might not be so cold.
Against her breast was pressed the doll, whose large eyes, wide open, glittered in the dark. From time to time she gave vent to a deep sigh as though she were on the point of waking, and she strained the doll almost convulsively in her arms. Beside her bed there was only one of her wooden shoes.
A door which stood open near Cosette's pallet permitted a view of a rather large, dark room. The stranger stepped into it. At the further extremity, through a glass door, he saw two small, very white beds. They belonged to Eponine and Azelma. Behind these beds, and half hidden, stood an uncurtained wicker cradle, in which the little boy who had cried all the evening lay asleep.
The stranger conjectured that this chamber connected with that of the Thenardier pair. He was on the point of retreating when his eye fell upon the fireplace--one of those vast tavern chimneys where there is always so little fire when there is any fire at all, and which are so cold to look at. There was no fire in this one, there was not even ashes; but there was something which attracted the stranger's gaze, nevertheless. It was two tiny children's shoes, coquettish in shape and unequal in size. The traveller recalled the graceful and immemorial custom in accordance with which children place their shoes in the chimney on Christmas eve, there to await in the darkness some sparkling gift from their good fairy. Eponine and Azelma had taken care not to omit this, and each of them had set one of her shoes on the hearth.
The traveller bent over them.
The fairy, that is to say, their mother, had already paid her visit, and in each he saw a brand-new and shining ten-sou piece.
The man straightened himself up, and was on the point of withdrawing, when far in, in the darkest corner of the hearth, he caught sight of another object. He looked at it, and recognized a wooden shoe, a frightful shoe of the coarsest description, half dilapidated and all covered with ashes and dried mud. It was Cosette's sabot. Cosette, with that touching trust of childhood, which can always be deceived yet never discouraged, had placed her shoe on the hearth-stone also.
Hope in a child who has never known anything but despair is a sweet and touching thing.
There was nothing in this wooden shoe.
The stranger fumbled in his waistcoat, bent over and placed a louis d'or in Cosette's shoe.
Then he regained his own chamber with the stealthy tread of a wolf.
那个大娃娃还一直摆在玩具店里，珂赛特经过那地方，不能不斜着眼睛再瞅它一下，瞅过后她才敲门。门开了。德纳第大娘端着一支蜡烛走出来。
“啊！是你这个小化子！谢谢天主，你去了多少时间！你玩够了吧，小贱货！”
“太太，”珂赛特浑身发抖地说，“有位先生来过夜。”
德纳第大娘的怒容立即变成了笑脸，这是客店老板们特有的机变，她连忙睁眼去找那新来的客人。
“是这位先生吗？”她说。
“是，太太。”那人一面举手到帽边，一面回答。
有钱的客人不会这么客气。德纳第大娘一眼望见他那手势和他的服装行李，又立即收起了那副笑容，重行摆出她生气的面孔。她冷冰冰地说：
“进来吧，汉子。”
“汉子”进来了。德纳第大娘又重新望了他一眼，特别注意到他那件很旧的大衣和他那顶有点破的帽子，她对她那位一直陪着车夫们喝酒的丈夫点头，皱鼻，眨眼，征求他的意见。她丈夫微微地摇了摇食指，努了努嘴唇，这意思就是说：完全是个穷光蛋。于是，德纳第大娘提高了嗓子说：
“喂！老头儿，对不起，我这儿已经没有地方了。”“请您随便把我安置在什么地方，”那人说，“顶楼上，马棚里，都可以。我仍按一间屋子付账。”
“四十个苏。”
“四十个苏，可以。”
“好吧。”
“四十个苏！”一个赶车的对德纳第大娘细声说，“不是二十就够了吗？”
“对他是四十个苏，”德纳第大娘用原来的口吻回答说，“穷人来住，更不能少给呀！”
“这是真话，”她丈夫斯斯文文地补上一句，“在家接待这种人，算是够倒霉的了。”
这时，那人已把他的包袱和棍子放在板凳上，继又靠近一张桌子坐下来，珂赛特也赶忙摆上了一瓶葡萄酒和一只玻璃杯。那个先头要水的商人亲自提了水桶去喂马。珂赛特也回到她那切菜桌子下面，坐下去打毛活。
那人替自己斟上了一杯酒，刚刚送到嘴边，他已带着一种奇特的神情，留心观察那孩子。
珂赛特的相貌丑。假使她快乐，也许会漂亮些。我们已经约略描绘过这个沉郁的小人儿的形象。珂赛特体瘦面黄，她已快满八岁，但看上去还以为是个六岁的孩子。两只大眼睛深深隐在一层阴影里，已经失去光彩，这是由于经常哭的原故。她嘴角的弧线显示出长时期内心的痛苦，使人想起那些待决的囚犯和自知无救的病人。她的手，正如她母亲猜想过的那样，已经“断送在冻疮里了”。当时炉里的火正照着她，使她身上的骨头显得格外突出，显得她瘦到令人心酸。由于她经常冷到发抖，她已有了紧紧靠拢两个膝头的习惯。她所有的衣服只是一身破布，夏季见到会使人感到可怜，冬季使人感到难受。她身上只有一件满是窟窿的布衣，绝无一寸毛织物。到处都露出她的肉，全身都能看到德纳第婆娘打出来的青块和黑块。两条光腿，又红又细。锁骨的窝使人见了心痛。那孩子，从头到脚，她的态度，她的神情，说话的声音，说话的迟钝，看人的神气，见了人不说话，一举一动，都只表现和透露了一种心情：恐惧。
恐惧笼罩着她，我们可以说，她被恐惧围困了，恐惧使她的两肘紧缩在腰旁，使她的脚跟紧缩在裙下，使她尽量少占地方，尽量少吸不必要的空气，那种恐惧可以说已经变成她的常态，除了有增无减以外，没有其他别的变化。在她眸子的一角有着惊惶不定的神色，那便是恐怖藏身的地方。
珂赛特的恐惧心情竟达到了这样一种程度：她回到家里，浑身透湿，却不敢到火旁去烤干衣服，而只是一声不响地走去干她的活。
这个八岁孩子的眼神常是那么愁闷，有时还那么凄楚，以致某些时刻，她看起来好象正在变成一个白痴或是一个妖怪。
我们已经说过，她从来不知道祈祷是怎么回事，她也从不曾踏进礼拜堂的大门。“我还有那种闲空吗？”德纳第大娘常这么说。
那个穿黄大衣的人一直望着珂赛特，眼睛不曾离开过她。
德纳第大娘忽然喊道：
“我想起了！面包呢？”
珂赛特每次听到德纳第大娘提高了嗓子，总赶忙从那桌子下面钻出来，现在她也照例赶忙钻了出来。
她早已把那面包忘到一干二净了。她只得采用那些经常在惊骇中度日的孩子的应付办法：撒谎。
“太太，面包店已经关了门。”
“你应当敲门呀。”
“我敲过了，太太。”
“敲后怎么样呢？”
“他不开。”
“是真是假，我明天会知道的，”德纳第大娘说，“要是你说谎，看我不抽到你乱蹦乱跳。等着，先把那十五个苏还来。”
珂赛特把她的手插到围裙袋里，脸色变得铁青。那个值十五个苏的钱已经不在了。
“怎么回事！”德纳第大娘说，“你听到我的话没有？”
珂赛特把那口袋翻过来看，什么也没有。那钱到什么地方去了呢？可怜的孩子一句话也说不出来。她吓呆了。
“那十五个苏你丢了吗？”德纳第大娘暴跳如雷，“还是你想骗我的钱？”
同时她伸手去取挂在壁炉边的那条皮鞭。
这一骇人的姿势使珂赛特叫喊得很响：
“饶了我！太太！太太！我不敢了。”
德纳第大娘已经取下了那条皮鞭。
这时，那个穿黄大衣的人在他背心的口袋里掏了一下，别人都没有看见他这一动作，其他的客人都正在喝酒或是玩纸牌，什么也没有注意到。
珂赛特，心惊肉跳，蜷缩在壁炉角落里，只想把她那露在短袖短裙外的肢体藏起来。德纳第大娘举起了胳膊。“对不起，大嫂，”那人说“刚才我看见有个东西从小姑娘的围裙袋里掉出来，在地上滚。也许就是那钱了。”
同时他弯下腰，好象在地上找了一阵。
“没错，在这儿了。”他立起来说。
他把一枚银币递给德纳第大娘。
“对，就是它。”她说。
不是它，因为那是一枚值二十个苏的钱，不过德纳第大娘却因此占了便宜。她把那钱塞进衣袋，横着眼对孩子说：“下次可不准你再这样，绝对不可以！”
珂赛特又回到她的老地方，也就是德纳第大娘叫做“她的窠”的那地方。她的一双大眼睛老望着那个陌生的客人，开始表现出一种从来不曾有过的神情，那还只是一种天真的惊异之色，但已有一种恓惶不定的依慕心情在里面了。
“喂，您吃不吃晚饭？”德纳第大娘问那客人。
他不回答。他仿佛正在细心思考问题。
“这究竟是个什么人？”她咬紧牙说，“一定是个穷光蛋。这种货色哪会有钱吃晚饭？我的房钱也许他还付不出呢。地上的那个银币他没有想到塞进腰包，已算是了不起的了。”
这时，有扇门开了，爱潘妮和阿兹玛走了进来。
那确是两个漂亮的小姑娘，落落大方，很少村气，极惹人爱，一个挽起了又光又滑的栗褐色麻花髻，一个背上拖着两条乌黑的长辫子，两个都活泼、整洁、丰腴、红润、强健、悦目。她们都穿得暖，由于她们的母亲手艺精巧，衣料虽厚，却绝不影响她们服装的秀气，既御冬寒，又含春意。两个小姑娘都喜气洋洋。除此以外，她们颇有一些主人家的气派。她们的装饰、嬉笑、吵闹都表现出一种自以为高人一等的味道。她们进来时，德纳第大娘用一种极慈爱的谴责口吻说：“哈！你们跑来做什么，你们这两个家伙！”
接着，她把她们一个个拉到膝间，替她们理好头发，结好丝带，才放她们走，在放走以前，她用慈母所独有的那种轻柔的手法，把她们摇了一阵，口里喊道：“去你们的，丑八怪！”
她们走去坐在火旁边。她们有个娃娃，她们把它放在膝上，转过来又转过去，嘴里叽叽喳喳，有说有笑。珂赛特的眼睛不时离开毛活，凄惨惨地望着她们玩。
爱潘妮和阿兹玛都不望珂赛特。在她们看来，那好象只是一条狗。这三个小姑娘的年龄合起来都还不到二十四岁，可是她们已经代表整个人类社会了，一方面是羡慕，一方面是鄙视。
德纳第姊妹俩的那个娃娃已经很破很旧，颜色也褪尽了，可是在珂赛特的眼里，却并不因此而显得不可爱，珂赛特出世以来从来不曾有过一个娃娃，照每个孩子都懂得的说法，那就是她从来都不曾有过“一个真的娃娃”。
德纳第大娘原在那厅堂里走来走去，她忽然发现珂赛特的思想开了小差，她没有专心工作，却在留意那两个正在玩耍的小姑娘。
“哈！这下子，你逃不了了吧！”她大声吼着说，“你是这样工作的！我去拿鞭子来教你工作，让我来。”
那个外来人，仍旧坐在椅子上，转过身来望着德纳第大娘。
“大嫂，”他带着笑容，不大敢开口似的说，“算了！您让她玩吧！”
这种愿望，要是出自一个在晚餐时吃过一盘羊腿、喝过两瓶葡萄酒、而没有“穷光蛋”模样的客人的口，也许还有商量余地，但是一个戴着那样一种帽子的人竟敢表示一种希望，穿那样一件大衣的人而竟敢表示一种意愿，这在德纳第大娘看来是不能容忍的。她气冲冲地说：
“她既要吃饭，就得干活。我不能白白养着她。”
“她到底是在干什么活？”那外来人接着说，说话声调的柔和，恰和他那乞丐式的服装和脚夫式的肩膀形成一种异常奇特的对比。
德纳第大娘特别赏脸，回答他说：
“她在打毛袜，这没错吧。我两个小女儿的毛袜，她们没有袜子，等于没有，马上就要赤着脚走路了。”
那个人望着珂赛特的两只红得可怜的脚，接着说：
“她还要多少时间才能打完这双袜子？”
“她至少还得花上整整三四天，这个懒丫头。”
“这双袜子打完了，可以值多少钱呢？”
德纳第大娘对他轻蔑地瞟了一眼。
“至少三十个苏。”
“为这双袜子我给您五个法郎①行吗？”那人接着说。 
①每法郎合二十个苏。　
“老天！”一个留心听着的车夫呵呵大笑说，“五个法郎！真是好价钱！五块钱！”
德纳第认为应当发言了。
“好的，先生，假使您高兴，这双袜子我们就折成五个法郎让给您。我们对客人总是尽量奉承的。”
“得立刻付钱。”德纳第大娘直截了当地说。
“我买这双袜子，”那人说，他从口袋里掏出一个五法郎的钱，放在桌子上说，“我付现钱。”
接着，他转向珂赛特说：
“现在你的工作归我了。玩吧，我的孩子。”
那车夫见了那枚值五法郎的钱大受感动，他丢下酒杯走来看。
“这钱倒是真的呢！”他一面细看一面喊，“一个真正的后轮①！一点不假！” 
①后轮，五法郎钱币的俗称。　
德纳第大娘走过来，一声不响，把那钱揣进了衣袋。
德纳第大娘无话可说，她咬着自己的嘴唇，满脸恨容。
珂赛特仍旧在发抖。她冒险问道：
“太太，是真的吗？我可以玩吗？”
“玩你的！”德纳第大娘猛吼一声。
“谢谢，太太。”珂赛特说。
她嘴在谢德纳第大娘的同时，整个小心灵却在谢那陌生人。
德纳第重行开始喝酒。他婆娘在他耳边说：
“那个黄人究竟是个什么东西？”
“我见过许多百万富翁，”德纳第无限庄严地说，“是穿着这种大衣的。”
珂赛特已经放下了她的毛线活，但是没有从她那地方钻出来。珂赛特已经养成尽量少动的习惯。她从她背后的一只盒子里取出几块破布和她那把小铅刀。
爱潘妮和阿兹玛一点没有注意到当时发生的事。她们刚完成了一件重要工作，她们捉住了那只猫。她们把娃娃丢在地上，爱潘妮，大姐，拿了许许多多红蓝破布去包缠那只猫，不管它叫也不管它辗转挣扎。她一面干着那种严肃艰苦的工作，一面用孩子们那种娇柔可爱的妙语棗就象彩蝶双翼上的光彩，想留也留不住棗对她的小妹说：
“你瞧，妹妹，这个娃娃比那个好玩多了。它会动，它会叫，它是热的。你瞧，妹妹，我们拿它来玩。它做我的小宝宝。我做一个阔太太。我来看你，而你就看着它。慢慢地你看见它的胡子，这会吓你一跳。接着你看见了它的耳朵、它的尾巴，这又吓你一跳。你就对我说：‘唉！我的天主！’我就对你说：‘是呀，太太，我的小姑娘是这个样的。现在的小姑娘都是这个样的。’”
阿兹玛听着爱潘妮说，感到津津有味。
这时，那些喝酒的人唱起了一首淫歌，边唱边笑，天花板也被震动了。德纳第从旁助兴，陪着他们一同唱。
雀鸟营巢，不择泥草，孩子们做玩偶，也可以用任何东西。和爱潘妮、阿兹玛包扎那小猫的同时，珂赛特也包扎了她的刀。包好以后，她把它平放在手臂上，轻轻歌唱，催它入睡。
娃娃是女孩童年时代一种最迫切的需要，同时也是一种最动人的本能。照顾，穿衣，打扮，穿了又脱，脱了又穿，教导，轻轻责骂，摇它，抱它，哄它入睡，把一件东西想象成一个人，女性的未来全在这儿了。在一味幻想，一味闲谈，一味缝小衣裳和小襁褓、小裙袍和小短衫的岁月中，女孩长大成小姑娘，小姑娘长大成大姑娘，大姑娘又成了妇女。第一个孩子接替着最末一个娃娃。
一个没有娃娃的女孩和一个没有孩子的妇女几乎是同样痛苦的，而且也完全是不可能的。
因此珂赛特把她那把刀当成自己的娃娃。
至于德纳第大娘，她朝着那“黄人”走来，她心里想：“我的丈夫说得对，这也许就是拉菲特先生。阔佬们常爱开玩笑。”
她走近前来，用肘支在他的桌子上。
“先生……”她说。
那人听到“先生”两字，便转过身来。德纳第大娘在这以前对他还只称“汉子”或“老头儿”。
“您想想吧，先生，”她装出一副比她原先那种凶横模样更使人受不了的巴结样子往下说，“我很愿意让那孩子玩，我并不反对，而且偶然玩一次也没有什么不好，因为您为人慷慨。
您想，她什么也没有。她就得干活。”
“她难道不是您的吗，那孩子？”那人问。
“呵，我的天主，不是我的，先生！那是个穷苦人家的娃娃，我们为了做好事随便收来的。是个蠢孩子。她的脑袋里一定有水。她的脑袋那么大，您看得出来。我们尽我们的力量帮助她，我们并不是有钱的人。我们写过信，寄到她家乡去，没有用，六个月过去了，再也没有回信来。我想她妈一定死了。”
“啊！”那人说，他又回到他的梦境中去了。
“她妈也是个没出息的东西，”德纳第大娘又补上一句，“她抛弃了自己的孩子。”
在他们谈话的整个过程中，珂赛特，好象受到一种本能的暗示，知道别人正在谈论她的事，她的眼睛便没有离开过德纳第大娘。她似懂非懂地听着，她偶然也听到了几个字。
那时，所有的酒客都已有了七八分醉意，都反复唱着猥亵的歌曲，兴致越来越高。他们唱的是一首趣味高级、有圣母圣子耶稣名字在内的风流曲调。德纳第大娘也混到他们中间狂笑去了。珂赛特待在桌子下面，呆呆地望着火，眼珠反映着火光，她又把她先头做好的那个小包抱在怀里，左右摇摆，并且一面摇，一面低声唱道：“我的母亲死了！我的母亲死了！我的母亲死了！”
通过女主人的再三劝说，那个黄人，“那个百万富翁”，终于同意吃一顿晚饭。
“先生想吃点什么？”
“面包和干酪。”那人说。
“肯定是个穷鬼。”德纳第大娘心里想。
那些醉汉一直在唱他们的歌，珂赛特，在那桌子底下，也唱着她的。
珂赛特忽然不唱了。她刚才回转头，一下发现了小德纳第的那个娃娃，先头她们在玩猫时，把它抛弃在那切菜桌子旁边了。
于是她放下那把布包的小刀，她对那把小刀原来就不大满意，接着她慢慢移动眼珠，把那厅堂四周望了一遍。德纳第大娘正在和她的丈夫谈话，数着零钱，潘妮和兹玛在玩猫，客人们也都在吃，喝，歌唱，谁也没有注意她。她的机会难得。她用膝头和手从桌子底下爬出来，再张望一遍，知道没有人监视她，便连忙溜到那娃娃旁边，一手抓了过来。一会儿过后，她又回到她原来的位置，坐着不动，只不过转了方向，好让她怀里的那个娃娃隐在黑影中。抚弄娃娃的幸福对她来说，确是绝无仅有的，所以一时竟感到极强烈的陶醉。
除了那个慢慢吃着素饭的客人以外，谁也没有看见她。
那种欢乐延续了将近一刻钟。
但是，尽管珂赛特十分注意，她却没有发现那娃娃有只脚“现了形”，壁炉里的火光早已把它照得雪亮了。那只突出在黑影外面显得耀眼的粉红脚，突然引起了阿兹玛的注意，她向爱潘妮说：“你瞧！姐！”
那两个小姑娘呆住了，为之骇然。珂赛特竟敢动那娃娃！
爱潘妮立起来，仍旧抱着猫，走到她母亲身旁去扯她的裙子。
“不要吵！”她母亲说，“你又来找我干什么？”
“妈，”那孩子说，“你瞧嘛！”
同时她用手指着珂赛特。
珂赛特完全浸沉在那种占有所引起的心醉神迷的状态中，什么也看不见，什么也听不见了。
从德纳第大娘脸上表现出来的是那种明知无事却又大惊小怪、使妇女立即转为恶魔的特别表情。
一次，她那受过创伤的自尊心使她更加无法抑制自己的愤怒了。珂赛特行为失检，珂赛特亵渎了“小姐们”的娃娃。
俄罗斯女皇看见农奴偷试皇太子的大蓝佩带，也不见得会有另外一副面孔。
她猛吼一声，声音完全被愤怒梗塞住了：
“珂赛特！”
珂赛特吓了一跳，以为地塌下去了。她转回头。
“珂赛特！”德纳第大娘又叫了一声。
珂赛特把那娃娃轻轻放在地上，神情虔敬而沮丧。她的眼睛仍旧望着它，她叉起双手，并且，对那样年纪的孩子来说也真使人寒心，她还叉着双手的手指拗来拗去，这之后，她哭起来了，她在那一整天里受到的折磨，如树林里跑进跑出，水桶的重压，丢了的钱，打到身边的皮鞭，甚至从德纳第大娘口中听到的那些伤心话，这些都不曾使她哭出来，现在她却伤心地痛哭起来了。
这时，那陌生客人立起来了。
“什么事？”他问德纳第大娘。
“您瞧不见吗？”德纳第大娘指着那躺在珂赛特脚旁的罪证说。
“那又怎么样呢？”那人又问。
“这贱丫头，”德纳第大娘回答说，“好大胆，她动了孩子们的娃娃！”
“为了这一点事就要大叫大嚷！”那个人说，“她玩了那娃娃又怎么样呢？”
“她用她那脏手臭手碰了它！”德纳第大娘紧接着说。
这时，珂赛特哭得更悲伤了。
“不许哭！”德纳第大娘大吼一声。
那人直冲到临街的大门边，开了门，出去了。
他刚出去，德纳第大娘趁他不在，对准桌子底下狠狠地给了珂赛特一脚尖，踢得那孩子连声惨叫。
大门又开了，那人也回来了，双手捧着我们先头谈过的、全村小把戏都瞻仰了一整天的那个仙女似的娃娃，把它立在珂赛特的面前，说：
“你的，这给你。”
那人来到店里已一个多钟头了，当他独坐深思时，他也许从那餐厅的玻璃窗里早已约略望见窗外的那家灯烛辉煌的玩具店。
珂赛特抬起眼睛，看见那人带来的那个娃娃，就好象看见他捧着太阳向她走来似的，她听见了那从来不曾听见过的话：“这给你。”她望望他，又望望那娃娃，她随即慢慢往后退，紧紧缩到桌子底下墙角里躲起来。
她不再哭，也不再叫，仿佛也不敢再呼吸。
德纳第大娘、爱潘妮、阿兹玛都象木头人似的呆住了。那些喝酒的人也都停了下来。整个店寂静无声。
德纳第大娘一点也不动，一声也不响，心里又开始猜想起来：“这老头儿究竟是个什么人？是个穷人还是个百万富翁？也许两样都是，就是说，是个贼。”
她丈夫德纳第的脸上起了一种富有表现力的皱纹，那种皱纹，每当主宰一个人的那种本能凭它全部的粗暴表现出来时，就会显示在那个人的面孔上。那客店老板反反复复地仔细端详那玩偶和那客人，他仿佛是在嗅那人，嗅到了一袋银子似的。那不过是一刹那间的事。他走近他女人的身边，低声对她说：
“那玩意儿至少值三十法郎。傻事干不得。快低声下气好好伺候他。”
鄙俗的性格和天真的性格有一共同点，两者都没有过渡阶段。
“怎么哪，珂赛特！你怎么还不来拿你的娃娃？”德纳第大娘说，她极力想让说话的声音显得柔和，其实那声音里充满了泼辣妇人的又酸又甜的滋味。
珂赛特，半信半疑。从她那洞里钻了出来。
“我的小珂赛特，”德纳第老板也带着一种不胜怜爱的神气跟着说，“这位先生给你一个娃娃。快来拿。它是你的。”
珂赛特怀着恐惧的心情望着那美妙的玩偶。她脸上还满是眼泪，但是她的眼睛，犹如拂晓的天空，已开始显出欢乐奇异的曙光。她当时的感受仿佛是突然听见有人告诉她：“小宝贝，你是法兰西的王后。”
她仿佛觉得，万一她碰一下那娃娃，那就会打雷。
那种想法在一定程度上是正确的，因为她认为德纳第大娘会骂她，并且会打她。
可是诱惑力占了上风。她终于走了过来，侧转头，战战兢兢地向着德纳第大娘细声说：
“我可以拿吗，太太？”
任何语言都无法形容那种又伤心、又害怕、又快乐的神情。
“当然可以，”德纳第大娘说，“那是你的。这位先生已经把它送给你了。”
“真的吗，先生？”珂赛特又问，“是真的吗？是给我的吗，一阵极其微弱而又甜蜜的声音，好象是一个孩子的鼾声。他顺着那声音走去，看见在楼梯下有一间三角形的小屋子，其实就是楼梯本身构成的。不是旁的，只是楼梯底下的空处。那里满是旧筐篮、破瓶罐、灰尘和蜘蛛网，还有一张床，所谓床，只不过是一条露出了草的草褥和一条露出草褥的破被。绝没有垫单。并且是铺在方砖地上的。珂赛特正睡在那床上。
这人走近前去，望着她。
珂赛特睡得正酣。她是和衣睡的。冬天她不脱衣，可以少冷一点。
她抱着那个在黑暗中睁圆着两只亮眼睛的娃娃。她不时深深叹口气，好象要醒似的，再把那娃娃紧紧地抱在怀里。在她床边，只有一只木鞋。
在珂赛特的那个黑洞附近，有一扇门，门里是一间黑魆魆的大屋子。这外来人跨了进去。在屋子尽头，一扇玻璃门后露出一对白洁的小床。那是爱潘妮和阿兹玛的床。小床后面有个没有挂帐子的柳条摇篮，只露出一半，睡在摇篮里的便是那个哭了一整夜的小男孩了。
外来人猜想这间屋子一定和德纳第夫妇的卧室相通，他正预备退出，忽然瞧见一个壁炉，那是客店中那种多少总有一点点火、看去却又使人感到特别冷的大壁炉。在这? 5<亨那种激动却不是她所能忍受得了的。她赶忙叫她的两个女儿去睡，随即又请那黄人“允许”她把珂赛特也送去睡。“她今天已经很累了。”她还慈母似的加上那么一句。珂赛特双手抱着卡特琳走去睡了。
德纳第大娘不时走到厅的那一端她丈夫待的地方，让“她的灵魂减轻负担”，她这样说。她和她丈夫交谈了几句，由于谈话的内容非常刻毒，因而她不敢大声说出。
“这老畜生！他肚里究竟怀着什么鬼胎？跑到这儿来打搅我们！要那小怪物玩！给她娃娃！把一个四十法郎的娃娃送给一个我情愿卖四十个苏的小母狗！再过一会儿，他就会象对待贝里公爵夫人那样称她‘陛下’了！这合情理吗？难道他疯了，那老妖精？”
“为什么吗？很简单，”德纳第回答说，“只要他高兴！你呢，你高兴要那孩子干活，他呢，他高兴要她玩。他有那种权利。一个客人，只要他付钱，什么事都可以做。假使那老头儿是个慈善家，那和你有什么相干？假使他是个傻瓜，那也不关你事。他有钱，你何必多管闲事？”
家主公的吩咐，客店老板的推论，两者都不容反驳。
那人一手托腮，弯着胳膊，靠在桌上，恢复了那种想心事的姿态。所有看他的客人，商贩们和车夫们，都彼此分散开，也不再歌唱了。大家都怀着敬畏的心情从远处望着他。这个怪人，衣服穿得这么破旧，从衣袋里摸出“后轮”来却又这么随便，拿着又高又大的娃娃随意送给一个穿木鞋的邋遢小姑娘，这一定是个值得钦佩、不能乱惹的人了。
好几个钟点过去了。夜半弥撒已经结束，夜宴也已散了，酒客们都走了，店门也关了，厅里冷清清的，火也熄了，那外来人却一直坐在原处，姿势也没有改，只有时替换一下那只托腮的手。如是而已。自从珂赛特走后，他一句话也没有说。惟有德纳第夫妇俩，由于礼貌和好奇，还都留在厅里。“他打算就这样过夜吗？”德纳第大娘咬着牙说。夜里两点钟敲过了，她支持不住，便对丈夫说：“我要去睡了。随你拿他怎么办。”她丈夫坐在厅角上的一张桌子边，燃起一支烛，开始读《法兰西邮报》。
这样又足足过了一个钟头。客店大老板把那份《法兰西邮报》至少念了三遍，从那一期的年月日直到印刷厂的名称全念到了。那位陌生客人还是坐着不动。
德纳第扭动身体
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 9 Thenardier at his Manoeuvres
On the following morning, two hours at least before day-break, Thenardier, seated beside a candle in the public room of the tavern, pen in hand, was making out the bill for the traveller with the yellow coat.
His wife, standing beside him, and half bent over him, was following him with her eyes. They exchanged not a word. On the one hand, there was profound meditation, on the other, the religious admiration with which one watches the birth and development of a marvel of the human mind. A noise was audible in the house; it was the Lark sweeping the stairs.
After the lapse of a good quarter of an hour, and some erasures, Thenardier produced the following masterpiece:--
BILL OF THE GENTLEMAN IN No. 1.
Supper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 francs.
Chamber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 "
Candle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 "
Fire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 "
Service . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 "
----------
Total . . . . . . 23 francs.
Service was written servisse.
"Twenty-three francs!" cried the woman, with an enthusiasm which was mingled with some hesitation.
Like all great artists, Thenardier was dissatisfied.
"Peuh!" he exclaimed.
It was the accent of Castlereagh auditing France's bill at the Congress of Vienna.
"Monsieur Thenardier, you are right; he certainly owes that," murmured the wife, who was thinking of the doll bestowed on Cosette in the presence of her daughters. "It is just, but it is too much. He will not pay it."
Thenardier laughed coldly, as usual, and said:--
"He will pay."
This laugh was the supreme assertion of certainty and authority. That which was asserted in this manner must needs be so. His wife did not insist.
She set about arranging the table; her husband paced the room. A moment later he added:--
"I owe full fifteen hundred francs!"
He went and seated himself in the chimney-corner, meditating, with his feet among the warm ashes.
"Ah! by the way," resumed his wife, "you don't forget that I'm going to turn Cosette out of doors to-day? The monster! She breaks my heart with that doll of hers! I'd rather marry Louis XVIII. than keep her another day in the house!"
Thenardier lighted his pipe, and replied between two puffs:--
"You will hand that bill to the man."
Then he went out.
Hardly had he left the room when the traveller entered.
Thenardier instantly reappeared behind him and remained motionless in the half-open door, visible only to his wife.
The yellow man carried his bundle and his cudgel in his hand.
"Up so early?" said Madame Thenardier; "is Monsieur leaving us already?"
As she spoke thus, she was twisting the bill about in her hands with an embarrassed air, and making creases in it with her nails. Her hard face presented a shade which was not habitual with it,-- timidity and scruples.
To present such a bill to a man who had so completely the air "of a poor wretch" seemed difficult to her.
The traveller appeared to be preoccupied and absent-minded. He replied:--
"Yes, Madame, I am going."
"So Monsieur has no business in Montfermeil?"
"No, I was passing through. That is all. What do I owe you, Madame," he added.
The Thenardier silently handed him the folded bill.
The man unfolded the paper and glanced at it; but his thoughts were evidently elsewhere.
"Madame," he resumed, "is business good here in Montfermeil?"
"So so, Monsieur," replied the Thenardier, stupefied at not witnessing another sort of explosion.
She continued, in a dreary and lamentable tone:--
"Oh! Monsieur, times are so hard! and then, we have so few bourgeois in the neighborhood! All the people are poor, you see. If we had not, now and then, some rich and generous travellers like Monsieur, we should not get along at all. We have so many expenses. Just see, that child is costing us our very eyes."
"What child?"
"Why, the little one, you know! Cosette--the Lark, as she is called hereabouts!"
"Ah!" said the man.
She went on:--
"How stupid these peasants are with their nicknames! She has more the air of a bat than of a lark. You see, sir, we do not ask charity, and we cannot bestow it. We earn nothing and we have to pay out a great deal. The license, the imposts, the door and window tax, the hundredths! Monsieur is aware that the government demands a terrible deal of money. And then, I have my daughters. I have no need to bring up other people's children."
The man resumed, in that voice which he strove to render indifferent, and in which there lingered a tremor:--
"What if one were to rid you of her?"
"Who? Cosette?"
"Yes."
The landlady's red and violent face brightened up hideously.
"Ah! sir, my dear sir, take her, keep her, lead her off, carry her away, sugar her, stuff her with truffles, drink her, eat her, and the blessings of the good holy Virgin and of all the saints of paradise be upon you!"
"Agreed."
"Really! You will take her away?"
"I will take her away."
"Immediately?"
"Immediately. Call the child."
"Cosette!" screamed the Thenardier.
"In the meantime," pursued the man, "I will pay you what I owe you. How much is it?"
He cast a glance on the bill, and could not restrain a start of surprise:--
"Twenty-three francs!"
He looked at the landlady, and repeated:--
"Twenty-three francs?"
There was in the enunciation of these words, thus repeated, an accent between an exclamation and an interrogation point.
The Thenardier had had time to prepare herself for the shock. She replied, with assurance:--
"Good gracious, yes, sir, it is twenty-three francs."
The stranger laid five five-franc pieces on the table.
"Go and get the child," said he.
At that moment Thenardier advanced to the middle of the room, and said:--
"Monsieur owes twenty-six sous."
"Twenty-six sous!" exclaimed his wife.
"Twenty sous for the chamber," resumed Thenardier, coldly, "and six sous for his supper. As for the child, I must discuss that matter a little with the gentleman. Leave us, wife."
Madame Thenardier was dazzled as with the shock caused by unexpected lightning flashes of talent. She was conscious that a great actor was making his entrance on the stage, uttered not a word in reply, and left the room.
As soon as they were alone, Thenardier offered the traveller a chair. The traveller seated himself; Thenardier remained standing, and his face assumed a singular expression of good-fellowship and simplicity.
"Sir," said he, "what I have to say to you is this, that I adore that child."
The stranger gazed intently at him.
"What child?"
Thenardier continued:--
"How strange it is, one grows attached. What money is that? Take back your hundred-sou piece. I adore the child."
"Whom do you mean?" demanded the stranger.
"Eh! our little Cosette! Are you not intending to take her away from us? Well, I speak frankly; as true as you are an honest man, I will not consent to it. I shall miss that child. I saw her first when she was a tiny thing. It is true that she costs us money; it is true that she has her faults; it is true that we are not rich; it is true that I have paid out over four hundred francs for drugs for just one of her illnesses! But one must do something for the good God's sake. She has neither father nor mother. I have brought her up. I have bread enough for her and for myself. In truth, I think a great deal of that child. You understand, one conceives an affection for a person; I am a good sort of a beast, I am; I do not reason; I love that little girl; my wife is quick-tempered, but she loves her also. You see, she is just the same as our own child. I want to keep her to babble about the house."
The stranger kept his eye intently fixed on Thenardier. The latter continued:--
"Excuse me, sir, but one does not give away one's child to a passer-by, like that. I am right, am I not? Still, I don't say-- you are rich; you have the air of a very good man,--if it were for her happiness. But one must find out that. You understand: suppose that I were to let her go and to sacrifice myself, I should like to know what becomes of her; I should not wish to lose sight of her; I should like to know with whom she is living, so that I could go to see her from time to time; so that she may know that her good foster-father is alive, that he is watching over her. In short, there are things which are not possible. I do not even know your name. If you were to take her away, I should say: `Well, and the Lark, what has become of her?' One must, at least, see some petty scrap of paper, some trifle in the way of a passport, you know!"
The stranger, still surveying him with that gaze which penetrates,as the saying goes, to the very depths of the conscience, replied in a grave, firm voice:-- "Monsieur Thenardier, one does not require a passport to travel five leagues from Paris. If I take Cosette away, I shall take her away, and that is the end of the matter. You will not know my name, you will not know my residence, you will not know where she is; and my intention is that she shall never set eyes on you again so long as she lives. I break the thread which binds her foot, and she departs. Does that suit you? Yes or no?"
Since geniuses, like demons, recognize the presence of a superior God by certain signs, Thenardier comprehended that he had to deal with a very strong person. It was like an intuition; he comprehended it with his clear and sagacious promptitude. While drinking with the carters, smoking, and singing coarse songs on the preceding evening, he had devoted the whole of the time to observing the stranger, watching him like a cat, and studying him like a mathematician. He had watched him, both on his own account, for the pleasure of the thing, and through instinct, and had spied upon him as though he had been paid for so doing. Not a movement, not a gesture, on the part of the man in the yellow great-coat had escaped him. Even before the stranger had so clearly manifested his interest in Cosette, Thenardier had divined his purpose. He had caught the old man's deep glances returning constantly to the child. Who was this man? Why this interest? Why this hideous costume, when he had so much money in his purse? Questions which he put to himself without being able to solve them, and which irritated him. He had pondered it all night long. He could not be Cosette's father. Was he her grandfather? Then why not make himself known at once? When one has a right, one asserts it. This man evidently had no right over Cosette. What was it, then? Thenardier lost himself in conjectures. He caught glimpses of everything, but he saw nothing. Be that as it may, on entering into conversation with the man, sure that there was some secret in the case, that the latter had some interest in remaining in the shadow, he felt himself strong; when he perceived from the stranger's clear and firm retort, that this mysterious personage was mysterious in so simple a way, he became conscious that he was weak. He had expected nothing of the sort. His conjectures were put to the rout. He rallied his ideas. He weighed everything in the space of a second. Thenardier was one of those men who take in a situation at a glance. He decided that the moment had arrived for proceeding straightforward, and quickly at that. He did as great leaders do at the decisive moment, which they know that they alone recognize; he abruptly unmasked his batteries.
"Sir," said he, "I am in need of fifteen hundred francs."
The stranger took from his side pocket an old pocketbook of black leather, opened it, drew out three bank-bills, which he laid on the table. Then he placed his large thumb on the notes and said to the inn-keeper:--
"Go and fetch Cosette."
While this was taking place, what had Cosette been doing?
On waking up, Cosette had run to get her shoe. In it she had found the gold piece. It was not a Napoleon; it was one of those perfectly new twenty-franc pieces of the Restoration, on whose effigy the little Prussian queue had replaced the laurel wreath. Cosette was dazzled. Her destiny began to intoxicate her. She did not know what a gold piece was; she had never seen one; she hid it quickly in her pocket, as though she had stolen it. Still, she felt that it really was hers; she guessed whence her gift had come, but the joy which she experienced was full of fear. She was happy; above all she was stupefied. Such magnificent and beautiful things did not appear real. The doll frightened her, the gold piece frightened her. She trembled vaguely in the presence of this magnificence. The stranger alone did not frighten her. On the contrary, he reassured her. Ever since the preceding evening, amid all her amazement, even in her sleep, she had been thinking in her little childish mind of that man who seemed to be so poor and so sad, and who was so rich and so kind. Everything had changed for her since she had met that good man in the forest. Cosette, less happy than the most insignificant swallow of heaven, had never known what it was to take refuge under a mother's shadow and under a wing. For the last five years, that is to say, as far back as her memory ran, the poor child had shivered and trembled. She had always been exposed completely naked to the sharp wind of adversity; now it seemed to her she was clothed. Formerly her soul had seemed cold, now it was warm. Cosette was no longer afraid of the Thenardier. She was no longer alone; there was some one there.
She hastily set about her regular morning duties. That louis, which she had about her, in the very apron pocket whence the fifteen-sou piece had fallen on the night before, distracted her thoughts. She dared not touch it, but she spent five minutes in gazing at it, with her tongue hanging out, if the truth must be told. As she swept the staircase, she paused, remained standing there motionless, forgetful of her broom and of the entire universe, occupied in gazing at that star which was blazing at the bottom of her pocket.
It was during one of these periods of contemplation that the Thenardier joined her. She had gone in search of Cosette at her husband's orders. What was quite unprecedented, she neither struck her nor said an insulting word to her.
"Cosette," she said, almost gently, "come immediately."
An instant later Cosette entered the public room.
The stranger took up the bundle which he had brought and untied it. This bundle contained a little woollen gown, an apron, a fustian bodice, a kerchief, a petticoat, woollen stockings, shoes--a complete outfit for a girl of seven years. All was black.
"My child," said the man, "take these, and go and dress yourself quickly."
Daylight was appearing when those of the inhabitants of Montfermeil who had begun to open their doors beheld a poorly clad old man leading a little girl dressed in mourning, and carrying a pink doll in her arms, pass along the road to Paris. They were going in the direction of Livry.
It was our man and Cosette.
No one knew the man; as Cosette was no longer in rags, many did not recognize her. Cosette was going away. With whom? She did not know. Whither? She knew not. All that she understood was that she was leaving the Thenardier tavern behind her. No one had thought of bidding her farewell, nor had she thought of taking leave of any one. She was leaving that hated and hating house.
Poor, gentle creature, whose heart had been repressed up to that hour!
Cosette walked along gravely, with her large eyes wide open, and gazing at the sky. She had put her louis in the pocket of her new apron. From time to time, she bent down and glanced at it; then she looked at the good man. She felt something as though she were beside the good God.
第二天早晨，离天亮至少还有两个钟头，德纳第老板已经到了酒店的矮厅里，点起了一支烛，捏着一管笔，在桌子上替那穿黄大衣的客人编造账单。
那妇人，立着，半弯着腰，望着他写。他们彼此都不吭声，一方面是深思熟虑，另一方面是一种虔敬心情，那是从人类的智慧中诞生光大的。在那所房子里，只听见一种声音，就是百灵鸟扫楼梯的声音。
经过了足足一刻钟和几次涂改之后，德纳第编出了这样一张杰作：
一号房间贵客账单
晚餐3法郎
房间10法郎
蜡烛5法郎
火炉4法郎
饭采1法郎
共计23法郎
饭菜写成了“饭采”。
“二十三法郎！”那妇人喊了出来，在她那兴奋的口吻中夹杂着怀疑的语气。
德纳第，和所有的大艺术家一样，并不感到满意。他说了一声：
“呸！”
那正是凯塞尔来①在维也纳会议上开列法国赔款清单时的口气。 
①凯塞尔来（Costlereagh），英国政治家，反拿破仑联盟的中心人物。　
“你开得对，德纳第先生，他的确应当出这么多，”那妇人叽叽咕咕地说，心里正想着昨晚当着她两个女儿的面送给珂赛特的那个娃娃，“这是公道的，但是数目太大了。他不见得肯付。”
德纳第冷笑了一下，说道：
“他会付的。”
那种冷笑正说明自信心和家长派头的最高表现，说出的话就得做到。那妇人一点不坚持自己的意见。她开始动手整理桌子，丈夫在厅里纵横来往地走动。过了一会儿，他又补上一句：
“我还足足欠人家一千五百法郎呢，我！”
他走到壁炉角上，坐下来细细打算，两只脚踏在热灰上。
“当真是！”那妇人跟着又说，“我今天要把珂赛特撵出大门，你忘了吗？这妖精！她那娃娃，她使我伤心透了！我宁愿她嫁给路易十八也不愿她多留一天在家里！”
德纳第点着他的烟斗，在连吸两口烟的空隙间回答说：
“你把这账单交给那个人。”
他跟着就走出去了。
他刚走出厅堂门，那客人就进来了。
德纳第立即转身跟在他的后面走来，走到那半开着的门口时，停了下来，立着不动，只让他女人看得见他。
那个穿黄大衣的人，手里捏着他的棍子和包袱。
“这么早就起来了！”德纳第大娘说，“难道先生就要离开我们这里吗？”
她一面这样说，一面带着为难的样子，把那张账单拿在手里翻来复去，并用指甲掐着它，折了又折。她那张横蛮的脸上隐隐带有一种平日很少见的神情，胆怯和狐疑的神情。
拿这样一张账单去送给一个显然是个地道的“穷鬼”的客人，在她看来，这是件为难的事。
客人好象心里正想着旁的事，没有注意她似的。他回答说：
“是呀，大嫂，我就要走。”
“那么，”她说，“先生到孟费郿来就没有要办的事？”
“是的。我路过此地，没有旁的事。”
“大嫂，”他又说，“我欠多少钱？”
德纳第大娘，一声不响，把那账单递给他。
客人把那张纸打开，望着它，但是他的注意力显然是在别的地方。
“大嫂，”他接着说，“你们在孟费郿这地方生意还好吧？”
“就这样，先生，”德纳第大娘回答，她看见那客人并不发作，感到十分诧异。
她用一种缠绵悱恻的声调接着往下说：
“呵！先生，日子是过得够紧的了！在我们这种地方，很少有阔气人家！全是些小家小户，您知道。要是我们不间或遇到一些象先生您这样又慷慨又有钱的过路客人的话！我们的开销又这么多。比方说，这小姑娘，她把我们的血都吸尽了。”
“哪个小姑娘？”
“还不就是那个小姑娘嘛，您知道！珂赛特！这里大家叫做百灵鸟的！”
“啊！”那人说。
她接下去说：
“多么傻，这些乡下人，替别人取这种小名！叫她做蝙蝠还差不多，她哪里象只百灵鸟。请您说说，先生，我们并不求人家布施，可是也不能老布施给旁人。营业执照，消费税，门窗税，附加税！先生知道政府要起钱来是吓坏人的。再说，我还有两个女儿，我。我用不着再养别人的孩子。”
那人接着说：
“要是有人肯替您带开呢？”他说这句话时，极力想使声音显得平常，但那声音仍然有些发抖。
“带开谁？珂赛特吗？”
“是啊。”
店婆子的那张横蛮的红脸立刻显得眉飞色舞，丑恶不堪。
“啊，先生！我的好先生！把她领去吧，你留下她吧，带她走吧，抱她走吧，去加上白糖，配上蘑菇，喝她的血，吃她的肉吧，愿您得到慈悲的童贞圣母和天国所有一切圣人的保佑！”
“就这么办。”
“当真？您带她走？”
“我带她走。”
“马上走？”
“马上走。您去把那孩子叫来。”
“珂赛特！”德纳第大娘大声喊。
“这会儿，”那人紧接着说，“我来付清我的账。是多少？”
他对那账单望了一眼，不禁一惊。
“二十三个法郎！”
他望着那店婆又说了一遍：
“二十三个法郎？”
从重复这两句话的声调里，可以辨出惊叹号和疑问号的区别。
德纳第大娘对这一质问早已作好思想准备。她安安稳稳地回答说：
“圣母，是啊，先生，是二十三个法郎。”
那外来客人把五枚值五法郎的钱放在桌上。
“请把那小姑娘找来。”
正在这时，德纳第走到厅堂的中央说：
“先生付二十六个苏就得。”
“二十六个苏！”那妇人喊道。
“房间二十个苏，”德纳第冷冰冰地接着说，“晚餐六个苏。至于小姑娘的问题，我得和这位先生谈几句。你走开一下，我的娘子。”
德纳第大娘的心里忽然一亮，仿佛见到智慧之光一闪。她感到名角登台了，她一声不响，立即走了出去。
到只剩下他们两人时，德纳第端了一张椅子送给客人。客人坐下，德纳第立着，他脸上显出一种怪驯良淳朴的神情。
“先生，”他说，“是这样，我来向您说明。那孩子，我可疼她呢，我。”
那陌生人用眼睛盯着他说：
“哪个孩子？”
德纳第接着说：
“说来也真奇怪！真是舍不得。这是什么钱？这几枚值一百个苏的钱，您请收回吧。我爱的是个女孩儿。”
“谁？”那陌生人问。
“哎，我们的这个小珂赛特嘛！您不是要把她带走吗？可是，说句老实话，我不能同意，这话一点不假，就象您是一位正人君子一样。这孩子，如果走了，我要挂念的。我亲眼看着她从小长大的。她害我们花钱，那是实在的；她有许多缺点，那也是实在的；我们不是有钱人，那也是实在的；她一次病就让我付出了四百法郎的药钱，那也是实在的！但是人总得替慈悲的上帝做点事。这种东西既没有爹，也没有妈，我把她养大了。我赚了面包给她和我吃。的的确确，我舍不得，这孩子。您懂吗，彼此有了感情，我是一个烂好人，我；道理我说不清，我爱她，这孩子；我女人性子躁，可是她也爱她。您明白，她就好象是我们自己的孩子一样。我需要她待在我家里叽叽喳喳地有说有笑。”
那陌生人一直用眼睛盯着他。他接着说：
“对不起，请原谅，先生，不见得有人肯把自己的孩子随便送给一个过路人吧，我这话，能说不对吗？并且，您有钱，也很象是个诚实人，我不说这对她是不是有好处，但总得搞清楚。您懂吗？假定我让她走，我割爱牺牲，我也希望能知道她去什么地方，我不愿丢了以后就永远摸不着她的门儿。我希望能知道她是在谁的家里，好时常去看看她，好让她知道她的好义父确是在那里照顾她。总而言之，有些事是行不通的。我连您贵姓也还不知道。您带着她走了，我说：‘好，百灵鸟呢？她到什么地方去了呢？’至少也总得先看看一张什么马马虎虎的证件，一张小小的护照吧，什么都行！”
那陌生人一直用那种，不妨这样说，直看到心底的眼光注视着他，又用一种沉重坚定的口吻对他说：
“德纳第先生，从巴黎来，才五法里，不会有人带护照的。假使我要带走珂赛特，我就一定要带她走，干脆就是这样。您不会知道我的姓名，您不会知道我的住址，您也不会知道她将来住在什么地方，我的主意是她今生今世不再和您见面。我要把拴在她脚上的这根绳子一刀两断，让她离开此地。这样合您的意吗？行或是不行，您说。”
正好象魔鬼和妖怪已从某些迹象上看出有个法力更大的神要出现一样，德纳第也了解到他遇到了一个非常坚强的对手。这好象是种直觉，他凭他那种清晰和敏锐的机警，已经了解到这一点。从昨夜起，他尽管一面陪着那些车夫们一道喝酒，抽烟，唱下流歌曲，却没有一刻不在窥伺这陌生客人，没有一刻不象猫儿那样在注视着他，没有一刻不象数学家那样在算计他。他那样侦察，是为了想看出一个究竟，同时也是由于自己的兴趣和本能，而且好象是被人买通了来做这侦察工作似的。那个穿黄大氅的人的每一种姿势和每一个动作全都没有逃过他的眼睛。即使是在那个来历不明的人还没有对珂赛特那样明显表示关切的时候，德纳第就已识破了这一点。他早已察觉到这老年人的深沉的目光随时都回到那孩子身上。为什么这样关切？这究竟是个什么人？为什么，荷包里有那么多的钱，而衣服又穿得这样寒酸？他向自己提出了这些问题，却得不出解答，所以感到愤懑。他在这些问题上揣测了一整夜。这不可能是珂赛特的父亲。难道是祖父辈吗？那么，又为什么不立即说明自己的来历呢？当我们有一种权利，我们总要表现出来。这人对珂赛特显然是没有什么权利的。那么，这又是怎么回事呢？德纳第迷失在种种假设中了。他感到了一切，但是什么也看不清楚。不管怎样，他在和那人进行谈话时，他深信在这一切里有种秘密，也深信这个人不能不深自隐讳，因而他感到自己气壮；可是当他听了这陌生人的那种干脆坚定的回答，看见这神秘的人物竟会神秘到如此单纯的时候，却又感到气馁。他在一瞬间就权衡了这一切。德纳第原是那样一个能一眼认清形势的人。他估计这已是单刀直入的时候了，他正象那些独具慧眼当机立断的伟大将领一样，在这关系成败的重要时刻，突然揭开了他的底牌。
“先生，”他说，“我非有一千五百法郎不可。”
那外来人从他衣服侧面的一只口袋里取出了一个黑色的旧皮夹，打开来，抽出三张银行钞票，放在桌上。接着他把大拇指压在钞票上，对那店主人说：
“把珂赛特找来。”
在发生这些事时，珂赛特在干什么呢？
珂赛特在醒来时，便跑去找她的木鞋。她在那里面找到了那个金币。那不是一个拿破仑，而是王朝复辟时期的那种全新的、值二十金法郎的硬币，在这种新币的面上，原来的桂冠已被一条普鲁士的小尾巴所替代了。珂赛特把眼睛也看花了。她乐不可支，感到自己转运了。她不知道金币是什么，她从来不曾见过，她赶忙把它藏在衣袋里，好象是偷来的一样。她同时觉得这确是属于她的，也猜得到这礼物是从什么地方来的，然而她感受的是一种充满了恐怖的欢乐。她感到满意，尤其感到惊惶。富丽到如此程度，漂亮到如此程度的东西，在她看来，好象都不是真实的。那娃娃使她害怕，这金币也使她害怕。她面对着这些富丽的东西胆战心惊，惟有那个陌生人，她不怕，正相反，她想到了他，心就安了。从昨晚起，在她那惊喜交集的心情中，在她睡眠中，她那幼弱的小脑袋一直在想这个人好象又老又穷，而且那样忧伤，但又那么有钱，那么好。自从她在树林里遇见了这位老人后，好象她周围的一切全变了。珂赛特，她连空中小燕子能享受的快乐也不曾享受过，从来不知道什么叫做躲在母亲的影子里和翅膀下。五年以来，就是说，从她记忆能够追忆的最远的岁月起，她是经常在哆嗦和战栗中过日子的。她经常赤身露体忍受着苦难中的刺骨的寒风，可是现在她仿佛觉得已经穿上了衣服。在过去，她的心感到冷，现在感到温暖了。她对德纳第大娘已不那么害怕。她不再是孤零零的一个，还有另外一个和她在一道了。
她赶快去做她每天早晨的工作。她身上的那枚路易是放在围裙袋里的，也就是昨晚遗失那枚值十五个苏的口袋，这东西使她心慌意乱。她不敢去摸它，但是她不时去看它，每次都得看上五分钟，而且还该说，在看时，她还老伸出舌头。她扫扫楼梯，又停下来，立着不动，把她的扫帚和整个宇宙全忘了，一心只看着那颗在她衣袋底里发光的星星。
德纳第大娘找着她时，她正在再一次享受她的这种眼福。
她奉了丈夫之命走去找她。说也奇怪，她没有请她吃巴掌，也没有对她咒骂。
“珂赛特，”她几乎是轻轻地说，“快来。”
过一会儿，珂赛特进了那矮厅。
这外来人拿起他带来的那个包袱，解开了结子。包里有一件小毛料衣、一条围裙、一件毛布衫、一条短裙、一条披肩、长统毛袜、皮鞋，一套八岁小姑娘的全身服装，全是黑色的。
“我的孩子，”那人说，“把这拿去赶快穿起来。”
天渐渐亮了，孟费郿的居民，有些已经开始开大门了，他们在巴黎街上看见一个穿着破旧衣服的汉子，牵着一个全身孝服，怀里抱着一个粉红大娃娃的小姑娘，他们正朝着利弗里那面走。
那正是我们所谈的这个人和珂赛特。
谁也不认识这个人，珂赛特已经脱去了破衣烂衫，很多人也没有认出她来。
珂赛特走了。跟着谁走？她莫名其妙。去什么地方？她也不知道。她所能认识到的一切，就是她已把德纳第客店丢在她后面了。谁也不曾想到向她告别，她也不曾想到要向谁告别。她离开了那个她痛恨的、同时也痛恨她的那一家。可怜的小人儿，她的心，直到现在，从来就是被压抑着的！
珂赛特一本正经地往前走，她睁开一双大眼睛望着天空。她已把她的那枚路易放在她新围裙的口袋里了。她不时低着头去看它一眼，接着又看看这个老人。她有一种想法，仿佛觉得自己是在慈悲上帝的身旁。
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 10 He who seeks to better himself may render his Situation Worse
Madame Thenardier had allowed her husband to have his own way, as was her wont. She had expected great results. When the man and Cosette had taken their departure, Thenardier allowed a full quarter of an hour to elapse; then he took her aside and showed her the fifteen hundred francs.
"Is that all?" said she.
It was the first time since they had set up housekeeping that she had dared to criticise one of the master's acts.
The blow told.
"You are right, in sooth," said he; "I am a fool. Give me my hat."
He folded up the three bank-bills, thrust them into his pocket, and ran out in all haste; but he made a mistake and turned to the right first. Some neighbors, of whom he made inquiries, put him on the track again; the Lark and the man had been seen going in the direction of Livry. He followed these hints, walking with great strides, and talking to himself the while:--
"That man is evidently a million dressed in yellow, and I am an animal. First he gave twenty sous, then five francs, then fifty francs, then fifteen hundred francs, all with equal readiness. He would have given fifteen thousand francs. But I shall overtake him."
And then, that bundle of clothes prepared beforehand for the child; all that was singular; many mysteries lay concealed under it. One does not let mysteries out of one's hand when one has once grasped them. The secrets of the wealthy are sponges of gold; one must know how to subject them to pressure. All these thoughts whirled through his brain. "I am an animal," said he.
When one leaves Montfermeil and reaches the turn which the road takes that runs to Livry, it can be seen stretching out before one to a great distance across the plateau. On arriving there, he calculated that he ought to be able to see the old man and the child. He looked as far as his vision reached, and saw nothing. He made fresh inquiries, but he had wasted time. Some passers-by informed him that the man and child of whom he was in search had gone towards the forest in the direction of Gagny. He hastened in that direction.
They were far in advance of him; but a child walks slowly, and he walked fast; and then, he was well acquainted with the country.
All at once he paused and dealt himself a blow on his forehead like a man who has forgotten some essential point and who is ready to retrace his steps.
"I ought to have taken my gun," said he to himself.
Thenardier was one of those double natures which sometimes pass through our midst without our being aware of the fact, and who disappear without our finding them out, because destiny has only exhibited one side of them. It is the fate of many men to live thus half submerged. In a calm and even situation, Thenardier possessed all that is required to make--we will not say to be-- what people have agreed to call an honest trader, a good bourgeois. At the same time certain circumstances being given, certain shocks arriving to bring his under-nature to the surface, he had all the requisites for a blackguard. He was a shopkeeper in whom there was some taint of the monster. Satan must have occasionally crouched down in some corner of the hovel in which Thenardier dwelt, and have fallen a-dreaming in the presence of this hideous masterpiece.
After a momentary hesitation:--
"Bah!" he thought; "they will have time to make their escape."
And he pursued his road, walking rapidly straight ahead, and with almost an air of certainty, with the sagacity of a fox scenting a covey of partridges.
In truth, when he had passed the ponds and had traversed in an oblique direction the large clearing which lies on the right of the Avenue de Bellevue, and reached that turf alley which nearly makes the circuit of the hill, and covers the arch of the ancient aqueduct of the Abbey of Chelles, he caught sight, over the top of the brushwood, of the hat on which he had already erected so many conjectures; it was that man's hat. The brushwood was not high. Thenardier recognized the fact that the man and Cosette were sitting there. The child could not be seen on account of her small size, but the head of her doll was visible.
Thenardier was not mistaken. The man was sitting there, and letting Cosette get somewhat rested. The inn-keeper walked round the brushwood and presented himself abruptly to the eyes of those whom he was in search of.
"Pardon, excuse me, sir," he said, quite breathless, "but here are your fifteen hundred francs."
So saying, he handed the stranger the three bank-bills.
The man raised his eyes.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Thenardier replied respectfully:--
"It means, sir, that I shall take back Cosette."
Cosette shuddered, and pressed close to the old man.
He replied, gazing to the very bottom of Thenardier's eyes the while, and enunciating every syllable distinctly:--
"You are go-ing to take back Co-sette?"
"Yes, sir, I am. I will tell you; I have considered the matter. In fact, I have not the right to give her to you. I am an honest man, you see; this child does not belong to me; she belongs to her mother. It was her mother who confided her to me; I can only resign her to her mother. You will say to me, `But her mother is dead.' Good; in that case I can only give the child up to the person who shall bring me a writing, signed by her mother, to the effect that I am to hand the child over to the person therein mentioned; that is clear."
The man, without making any reply, fumbled in his pocket, and Thenardier beheld the pocket-book of bank-bills make its appearance once more.
The tavern-keeper shivered with joy.
"Good!" thought he; "let us hold firm; he is going to bribe me!"
Before opening the pocket-book, the traveller cast a glance about him: the spot was absolutely deserted; there was not a soul either in the woods or in the valley. The man opened his pocket-book once more and drew from it, not the handful of bills which Thenardier expected, but a simple little paper, which he unfolded and presented fully open to the inn-keeper, saying:--
"You are right; read!"
Thenardier took the paper and read:--
"M. SUR M., March 25, 1823.
"MONSIEUR THENARDIER:-- You will deliver Cosette to this person. You will be paid for all the little things. I have the honor to salute you with respect, FANTINE."
"You know that signature?" resumed the man.
It certainly was Fantine's signature; Thenardier recognized it.
There was no reply to make; he experienced two violent vexations, the vexation of renouncing the bribery which he had hoped for, and the vexation of being beaten; the man added:--
"You may keep this paper as your receipt."
Thenardier retreated in tolerably good order.
"This signature is fairly well imitated," he growled between his teeth; "however, let it go!"
Then he essayed a desperate effort.
"It is well, sir," he said, "since you are the person, but I must be paid for all those little things. A great deal is owing to me."
The man rose to his feet, filliping the dust from his thread-bare sleeve:--
"Monsieur Thenardier, in January last, the mother reckoned that she owed you one hundred and twenty francs. In February, you sent her a bill of five hundred francs; you received three hundred francs at the end of February, and three hundred francs at the beginning of March. Since then nine months have elapsed, at fifteen francs a month, the price agreed upon, which makes one hundred and thirty-five francs. You had received one hundred francs too much; that makes thirty-five still owing you. I have just given you fifteen hundred francs."
Thenardier's sensations were those of the wolf at the moment when he feels himself nipped and seized by the steel jaw of the trap.
"Who is this devil of a man?" he thought.
He did what the wolf does: he shook himself. Audacity had succeeded with him once.
"Monsieur-I-don't-know-your-name," he said resolutely, and this time casting aside all respectful ceremony, "I shall take back Cosette if you do not give me a thousand crowns."
The stranger said tranquilly:--
"Come, Cosette."
He took Cosette by his left hand, and with his right he picked up his cudgel, which was lying on the ground.
Thenardier noted the enormous size of the cudgel and the solitude of the spot.
The man plunged into the forest with the child, leaving the inn-keeper motionless and speechless.
While they were walking away, Thenardier scrutinized his huge shoulders, which were a little rounded, and his great fists.
Then, bringing his eyes back to his own person, they fell upon his feeble arms and his thin hands. "I really must have been exceedingly stupid not to have thought to bring my gun," he said to himself, "since I was going hunting!"
However, the inn-keeper did not give up.
"I want to know where he is going," said he, and he set out to follow them at a distance. Two things were left on his hands, an irony in the shape of the paper signed Fantine, and a consolation, the fifteen hundred francs.
The man led Cosette off in the direction of Livry and Bondy. He walked slowly, with drooping head, in an attitude of reflection and sadness. The winter had thinned out the forest, so that Thenardier did not lose them from sight, although he kept at a good distance. The man turned round from time to time, and looked to see if he was being followed. All at once he caught sight of Thenardier. He plunged suddenly into the brushwood with Cosette, where they could both hide themselves. "The deuce!" said Thenardier, and he redoubled his pace.
The thickness of the undergrowth forced him to draw nearer to them. When the man had reached the densest part of the thicket, he wheeled round. It was in vain that Thenardier sought to conceal himself in the branches; he could not prevent the man seeing him. The man cast upon him an uneasy glance, then elevated his head and continued his course. The inn-keeper set out again in pursuit. Thus they continued for two or three hundred paces. All at once the man turned round once more; he saw the inn-keeper. This time he gazed at him with so sombre an air that Thenardier decided that it was "useless" to proceed further. Thenardier retraced his steps.
德纳第大娘，和往常一样，让她丈夫作主。她一心等待大事发生。那人和珂赛特走了以后，又足足过了一刻钟德纳第才把她引到一边，拿出那一千五百法郎给她看。
“就这！”她说。
自从他们开始组织家庭以来，敢向家长采取批评行动她这还是第一次。
这一挑唆起了作用。
“的确，你说得对，”他说，“我是个笨蛋。去把我的帽子拿来。”
他把那三张银行钞票折好，插在衣袋底里，匆匆忙忙出了大门，但是他搞错了方向，出门后转向右边。他向几个邻居打听以后，才摸清路线，有人看见百灵鸟和那人朝着利弗里方面走去。他接受了这些人的指点，一面迈着大步向前走，一面在自言自语。
“这人虽然穿件黄衣，却显然是个百万富翁，而我，竟是个畜生。他起先给了二十个苏，接着又给了五法郎，接着又是五十法郎，接着又是一千五百法郎，全不在乎。他也许还会给一万五千法郎。我一定要追上他。”
还有那事先替小姑娘准备好的衣包，这一切都很奇怪，这里一定有许多秘密。我们抓住秘密就不该放松。有钱人的隐情是浸满金汁的海绵，应当知道怎样来挤它。所有这些想法都在他的脑子里回旋。“我是个畜生。”他说。
出了孟费郿，到了向利弗里去的那条公路的岔路口，人们便能见到那条公路在高原上一直延伸到很远的地方。他到了岔路口，估计一定可以望见那人和小姑娘。他纵目望去，直到他眼力所及之处，可是什么也没看见。他再向旁人打听。这就耽误了时间。有些过路人告诉他，说他所找的那个人和孩子已经走向加尼方面的树林里去了。他便朝那方向赶上去。他们原走在他的前面，但是孩子走得慢，而他呢，走得快。
并且这地方又是他很熟悉的。
他忽然停下来，拍着自己的额头，好象一个忘了什么极重要的东西想转身折回去取的人那样。
“我原该带着我的长枪来的！”他向自己说。
德纳第原是那样一个具有双重性格的人，那种人有时会在我们中蒙混过去，混过去以后也不至于被发现。有许多人便是那样半明半暗度过他们的一生。德纳第在安定平凡的环境中完全可以当一个棗我们不说“是”一个棗够得上称一声诚实的商人、好士绅那样的人。同时，在某种情况下，当某种动力触动他的隐藏的本性时，他也完全可以成为一个暴徒。这是一个具有魔性的小商人。撒旦偶然也会蹲在德纳第过活的那所破屋的某个角落里并对这个丑恶的代表人物做着好梦的。
在踌躇了一会儿之后，他想：
“唔！他们也许已有足够的时间逃跑了！”
他继续赶他的路，快速向前奔，几乎是极有把握的样子，象一只凭嗅觉猎取鹧鸪的狐狸一样敏捷。
果然，当他已走过池塘，从斜刺里穿过美景大道右方的那一大片旷地，走到那条生着浅草、几乎环绕那个土丘而又延展到谢尔修院的古渠的涵洞上的小径时，他忽然望见有顶帽子从丛莽中露出来，对这顶帽子他早已提过多少疑问，那确是那人的帽子。那丛莽并不高。德纳第认为那人和珂赛特都坐在那里。他望不见那孩子，因为她小，可是他望见了那玩偶的头。
德纳第没有搞错。那人确坐在那里，好让珂赛特休息一下。客店老板绕过那堆丛莽，突然出现在他寻找的那两个人的眼前。
“对不起，请原谅，先生，”他一面喘着气，一面说，“这是您的一千五百法郎。”
他这样说着，同时把那三张钞票伸向那陌生人。
那个人抬起眼睛。
“这是什么意思？”
德纳第恭恭敬敬地回答：
“先生，这意思就是说我要把珂赛特带回去。”
珂赛特浑身战栗，紧靠在老人怀里。
他呢，他的眼光直射到德纳第的眼睛底里，一字一顿地回答：
“你棗要棗把棗珂赛特棗带棗回棗去？”
“是的，先生，我要把她带回去。我来告诉您。我考虑过了。事实上，我没有把她送给您的权利。我是一个诚实人，您知道。这小姑娘不是我的，是她妈的。她妈把她托付给我，我只能把她交还给她的妈。您会对我说：‘可是她妈死了。’好。在这种情况下，我就只能把这孩子交给这样一个人，一个带着一封经她母亲签了字的信，信里还得说明要我把孩子交给他的人。这是显而易见的。”
这人，不回答，把手伸到衣袋里，德纳第又瞧见那个装钞票的皮夹出现在他眼前。
客店老板乐得浑身酥软。
“好了！”他心里想，“站稳脚。他要来腐蚀我了！”
那陌生人在打开皮夹以前，先向四周望了一望。那地方是绝对荒凉的。树林里和山谷里都不见一个人影。那人打开皮夹，可是他从那里抽出来的，不是德纳第所期望的那一叠钞票，而是一张简单的小纸，他把那张纸整个儿打开来，送给客店老板看，并且说：
“您说得有理。念吧。”
德纳第拿了那张纸，念道：
德纳第先生：
请将珂赛特交来人。一切零星债款，我负责偿还。此颂大安。
芳汀
滨海蒙特勒伊，一八二三年三月二十五日
“您认得这签字吧？”那人又说。
那确是芳汀的签字。德纳第也认清了。
没有什么可以反驳的了。他感到两种强烈的恚恨，恨自己必须放弃原先期望的腐蚀，又恨自己被击败。那人又说：
“您可以把这张纸留下，好卸责任。”
德纳第向后退却，章法却不乱。
“这签字摹仿得相当好，”他咬紧牙咕哝着，“不过，让它去吧！”
接着，他试图作一次无望的挣扎。
“先生，”他说，“这很好。您既然就是来人。但是那‘一切零星债款’得照付给我。这笔债不少呢。”
那个人立起来了，他一面用中指弹去他那已磨损的衣袖上的灰尘，一面说：
“德纳第先生，她母亲在一月份计算过欠您一百二十法郎，您在二月中寄给她一张五百法郎的账单，您在二月底收到了三百法郎，三月初又收到三百法郎。此后又讲定数目，十五法郎一月，这样又过了九个月，共计一百三十五法郎。您从前多收了一百法郎，我们只欠您三十五法郎的尾数，刚才我给了您一千五百法郎。”①德纳第感受到的，正和豺狼感到自己已被捕兽机的钢牙咬住钳住时的感受一样。
“这人究竟是个什么鬼东西？”他心里想。
他和豺狼一样行动起来。他把身体一抖。他曾用蛮干的办法得到过一次成功。
这次，他把恭敬的样子丢在一边了，斩钉截铁地说：“无棗名棗无棗姓的先生，我一定要领回珂赛特，除非您再给我一千埃居②。” 
①此处数字和前面叙述芳汀遭难时欠款数字不完全相符，原文如此，照译。
②埃居（écu），法国古钱币名，因种类较多，故折合的价值不一。　
这陌生人心平气和地说：
“来，珂赛特。”
他用左手牵着珂赛特，用右手从地上拾起他的那根棍棒。
德纳第望着那根粗壮无比的棍棒和那一片荒凉的地方。
那人带着珂赛特深入到林中去了，把那呆若木鸡的客店老板丢在一边。
正当他们越走越远时，德纳第一直望着他那两只稍微有点伛偻的宽肩膀和他的两个大拳头。
随后，他的眼睛折回到自己身上，望着自己的两条干胳膊和瘦手。“我的确太蠢了，”他想道，“我既然出来打猎，却又没把我的那支长枪带来！”
可是这客店老板还不肯罢休。
“就要知道他去什么地方。”他说。于是他远远地跟着他们。他手里只捏着两件东西，一件是讽刺，芳汀签了字的那张破纸，另一件是安慰，那一千五百法郎。
那人领着珂赛特，朝着利弗里和邦迪的方向走去。他低着头，慢慢走，这姿态显示出他是在运用心思，并且感到悲伤。入冬以后，草木都已凋零，显得疏朗，因此德纳第虽然和他们相隔颇远，但不至于望不见他们。那个人不时回转头来，看看是否有人跟他。忽然，他瞧见了德纳第。他连忙领着珂赛特转进矮树丛里，一下子两人全不见了。“见鬼！”德纳第说。他加紧脚步往前追。
树丛的密度迫使他不得不走近他们。那人走到枝桠最密的地方，把身子转了过来。德纳第想藏到树枝里去也枉然，他没有办法不让他看见。那人带着一种戒备的神情望了他一眼，摇了摇头，再往前走。客店老板仍旧跟着他。突然一下，那人又回转身来。他又瞧见了客店老板。他这一次看人的神气这样阴沉，以致德纳第认为“不便”再跟上去了。德纳第这才转身回家。
Part 2 Book 3 Chapter 11 Number 9,430 reappears, and Cosette wins it in the Lottery
Jean Valjean was not dead.
When he fell into the sea, or rather, when he threw himself into it, he was not ironed, as we have seen. He swam under water until he reached a vessel at anchor, to which a boat was moored. He found means of hiding himself in this boat until night. At night he swam off again, and reached the shore a little way from Cape Brun. There, as he did not lack money, he procured clothing. A small country-house in the neighborhood of Balaguier was at that time the dressing-room of escaped convicts,--a lucrative specialty. Then Jean Valjean, like all the sorry fugitives who are seeking to evade the vigilance of the law and social fatality, pursued an obscure and undulating itinerary. He found his first refuge at Pradeaux, near Beausset. Then he directed his course towards Grand-Villard, near Briancon, in the Hautes-Alpes. It was a fumbling and uneasy flight,-- a mole's track, whose branchings are untraceable. Later on, some trace of his passage into Ain, in the territory of Civrieux, was discovered; in the Pyrenees, at Accons; at the spot called Grange-de-Doumec, near the market of Chavailles, and in the environs of Perigueux at Brunies, canton of La Chapelle-Gonaguet. He reached Paris. We have just seen him at Montfermeil.
His first care on arriving in Paris had been to buy mourning clothes for a little girl of from seven to eight years of age; then to procure a lodging. That done, he had betaken himself to Montfermeil. It will be remembered that already, during his preceding escape, he had made a mysterious trip thither, or somewhere in that neighborhood, of which the law had gathered an inkling.
However, he was thought to be dead, and this still further increased the obscurity which had gathered about him. At Paris, one of the journals which chronicled the fact fell into his hands. He felt reassured and almost at peace, as though he had really been dead.
On the evening of the day when Jean Valjean rescued Cosette from the claws of the Thenardiers, he returned to Paris. He re-entered it at nightfall, with the child, by way of the Barrier Monceaux. There he entered a cabriolet, which took him to the esplanade of the Observatoire. There he got out, paid the coachman, took Cosette by the hand, and together they directed their steps through the darkness,--through the deserted streets which adjoin the Ourcine and the Glaciere, towards the Boulevard de l'Hopital.
The day had been strange and filled with emotions for Cosette. They had eaten some bread and cheese purchased in isolated taverns, behind hedges; they had changed carriages frequently; they had travelled short distances on foot. She made no complaint, but she was weary, and Jean Valjean perceived it by the way she dragged more and more on his hand as she walked. He took her on his back. Cosette, without letting go of Catherine, laid her head on Jean Valjean's shoulder, and there fell asleep.
冉阿让没有死。
他掉在海里时，应当说，他跳到海里去时，他已脱去了脚镣，这是我们已经知道的。他在水里迂回曲折地潜到了一艘泊在港里的海船下面，海船旁又停着一只驳船。他设法在那驳船里躲了起来，一直躲到傍晚。天黑以后，他又跳下水，泅向海岸，在离勃朗岬不远的地方上了岸。他又在那里搞到一身衣服，因为他身边并不缺钱。当时在巴拉基耶附近，有一家小酒店，经常替逃犯们供给服装，这是一种一本万利的特殊行当。这之后冉阿让和所有那些企图逃避法网和社会追击的穷途末路的人一样，走上了一条隐蔽迂回的道路。他在博塞附近的普拉多地方找到了第一个藏身之所。随后，他朝着上阿尔卑斯省布里昂松附近的大维拉尔走去，这是一种摸索前进提心吊胆的逃窜，象田鼠的地道似的，究竟有哪些岔路，谁也不知道。日后才有人发现，他的足迹曾到过安省的西弗利厄地方，也到过比利牛斯省的阿贡斯，在沙瓦依村附近的都美克山峡一带，又到过佩利格附近勃鲁尼的葛纳盖教堂镇。他到了巴黎。我们刚才已看见他在孟费郿。
他到了巴黎。想要做的第一件事，便是替一个七八岁的小姑娘买一身丧服，再替自己找个住处。办妥了这两件事以后他便到了孟费郿。
我们记得，他在第一次逃脱以后曾在那地方，或在那地方附近，有过一次秘密的行动，警务机关在这方面也多少觉察到一些蛛丝马迹。
可是大家都认为他死了，因此更不容易看破他的秘密。他在巴黎偶然得到一张登载此事的报纸。也就放了心，而且几乎安定下来了，好象自己确是死了似的。
冉阿让把珂赛特从德纳第夫妇的魔爪中救出来以后，当天傍晚便回到巴黎。他带着孩子，打蒙梭便门进了城，当时天色刚黑。他在那里坐上一辆小马车到了天文台广场。他下了车，付了车钱，便牵着珂赛特的手，两人在黑夜里一同穿过乌尔辛和冰窖附近的一些荒凉街道，朝着医院路走去。
这一天，对珂赛特来说，是一个奇怪而充满惊恐欢乐的日子，他们在人家的篱笆后面，吃了从荒僻地方的客店里买来的面包和干酪，他们换过好几次车子，他们徒步走了不少路，她并不叫苦，可是疲倦了，冉阿让也感觉到她越走到后来便越拉住他的手。他把她驮在背上，珂赛特，怀里一直抱着卡特琳，头靠在冉阿让的肩上，睡着了。
Part 2 Book 4 Chapter 1 Master Gorbeau
Forty years ago, a rambler who had ventured into that unknown country of the Salpetriere, and who had mounted to the Barriere d'Italie by way of the boulevard, reached a point where it might be said that Paris disappeared. It was no longer solitude, for there were passers-by; it was not the country, for there were houses and streets; it was not the city, for the streets had ruts like highways, and the grass grew in them; it was not a village, the houses were too lofty. What was it, then? It was an inhabited spot where there was no one; it was a desert place where there was some one; it was a boulevard of the great city, a street of Paris; more wild at night than the forest, more gloomy by day than a cemetery.
It was the old quarter of the Marche-aux-Chevaux.
The rambler, if he risked himself outside the four decrepit walls of this Marche-aux-Chevaux; if he consented even to pass beyond the Rue du Petit-Banquier, after leaving on his right a garden protected by high walls; then a field in which tan-bark mills rose like gigantic beaver huts; then an enclosure encumbered with timber, with a heap of stumps, sawdust, and shavings, on which stood a large dog, barking; then a long, low, utterly dilapidated wall, with a little black door in mourning, laden with mosses, which were covered with flowers in the spring; then, in the most deserted spot, a frightful and decrepit building, on which ran the inscription in large letters: POST NO BILLS,--this daring rambler would have reached little known latitudes at the corner of the Rue des Vignes-Saint-Marcel. There, near a factory, and between two garden walls, there could be seen, at that epoch, a mean building, which, at the first glance, seemed as small as a thatched hovel, and which was, in reality, as large as a cathedral. It presented its side and gable to the public road; hence its apparent diminutiveness. Nearly the whole of the house was hidden. Only the door and one window could be seen.
This hovel was only one story high.
The first detail that struck the observer was, that the door could never have been anything but the door of a hovel, while the window, if it had been carved out of dressed stone instead of being in rough masonry, might have been the lattice of a lordly mansion.
The door was nothing but a collection of worm-eaten planks roughly bound together by cross-beams which resembled roughly hewn logs. It opened directly on a steep staircase of lofty steps, muddy, chalky, plaster-stained, dusty steps, of the same width as itself, which could be seen from the street, running straight up like a ladder and disappearing in the darkness between two walls. The top of the shapeless bay into which this door shut was masked by a narrow scantling in the centre of which a triangular hole had been sawed, which served both as wicket and air-hole when the door was closed. On the inside of the door the figures 52 had been traced with a couple of strokes of a brush dipped in ink, and above the scantling the same hand had daubed the number 50, so that one hesitated. Where was one? Above the door it said, "Number 50"; the inside replied, "no, Number 52." No one knows what dust-colored figures were suspended like draperies from the triangular opening.
The window was large, sufficiently elevated, garnished with Venetian blinds, and with a frame in large square panes; only these large panes were suffering from various wounds, which were both concealed and betrayed by an ingenious paper bandage. And the blinds, dislocated and unpasted, threatened passers-by rather than screened the occupants. The horizontal slats were missing here and there and had been naively replaced with boards nailed on perpendicularly; so that what began as a blind ended as a shutter. This door with an unclean, and this window with an honest though dilapidated air, thus beheld on the same house, produced the effect of two incomplete beggars walking side by side, with different miens beneath the same rags, the one having always been a mendicant, and the other having once been a gentleman.
The staircase led to a very vast edifice which resembled a shed which had been converted into a house. This edifice had, for its intestinal tube, a long corridor, on which opened to right and left sorts of compartments of varied dimensions which were inhabitable under stress of circumstances, and rather more like stalls than cells. These chambers received their light from the vague waste grounds in the neighborhood.
All this was dark, disagreeable, wan, melancholy, sepulchral; traversed according as the crevices lay in the roof or in the door, by cold rays or by icy winds. An interesting and picturesque peculiarity of this sort of dwelling is the enormous size of the spiders.
To the left of the entrance door, on the boulevard side, at about the height of a man from the ground, a small window which had been walled up formed a square niche full of stones which the children had thrown there as they passed by.
A portion of this building has recently been demolished. From what still remains of it one can form a judgment as to what it was in former days. As a whole, it was not over a hundred years old. A hundred years is youth in a church and age in a house. It seems as though man's lodging partook of his ephemeral character, and God's house of his eternity.
The postmen called the house Number 50-52; but it was known in the neighborhood as the Gorbeau house.
Let us explain whence this appellation was derived.
Collectors of petty details, who become herbalists of anecdotes, and prick slippery dates into their memories with a pin, know that there was in Paris, during the last century, about 1770, two attorneys at the Chatelet named, one Corbeau (Raven), the other Renard (Fox). The two names had been forestalled by La Fontaine. The opportunity was too fine for the lawyers; they made the most of it. A parody was immediately put in circulation in the galleries of the court-house, in verses that limped a little:--
Maitre Corbeau, sur un dossier perche,[13] Tenait dans son bee une saisie executoire; Maitre Renard, par l'odeur alleche, Lui fit a peu pres cette histoire: He! bonjour. Etc.
[13] Lawyer Corbeau, perched on a docket, held in his beak a writ of execution; Lawyer Renard, attracted by the smell, addressed him nearly as follows, etc.
The two honest practitioners, embarrassed by the jests, and finding the bearing of their heads interfered with by the shouts of laughter which followed them, resolved to get rid of their names, and hit upon the expedient of applying to the king.
Their petition was presented to Louis XV. on the same day when the Papal Nuncio, on the one hand, and the Cardinal de la Roche-Aymon on the other, both devoutly kneeling, were each engaged in putting on, in his Majesty's presence, a slipper on the bare feet of Madame du Barry, who had just got out of bed. The king, who was laughing, continued to laugh, passed gayly from the two bishops to the two lawyers, and bestowed on these limbs of the law their former names, or nearly so. By the kings command, Maitre Corbeau was permitted to add a tail to his initial letter and to call himself Gorbeau. Maitre Renard was less lucky; all he obtained was leave to place a P in front of his R, and to call himself Prenard; so that the second name bore almost as much resemblance as the first.
Now, according to local tradition, this Maitre Gorbeau had been the proprietor of the building numbered 50-52 on the Boulevard de l'Hopital. He was even the author of the monumental window.
Hence the edifice bore the name of the Gorbeau house.
Opposite this house, among the trees of the boulevard, rose a great elm which was three-quarters dead; almost directly facing it opens the Rue de la Barriere des Gobelins, a street then without houses, unpaved, planted with unhealthy trees, which was green or muddy according to the season, and which ended squarely in the exterior wall of Paris. An odor of copperas issued in puffs from the roofs of the neighboring factory.
The barrier was close at hand. In 1823 the city wall was still in existence.
This barrier itself evoked gloomy fancies in the mind. It was the road to Bicetre. It was through it that, under the Empire and the Restoration, prisoners condemned to death re-entered Paris on the day of their execution. It was there, that, about 1829, was committed that mysterious assassination, called "The assassination of the Fontainebleau barrier," whose authors justice was never able to discover; a melancholy problem which has never been elucidated, a frightful enigma which has never been unriddled. Take a few steps, and you come upon that fatal Rue Croulebarbe, where Ulbach stabbed the goat-girl of Ivry to the sound of thunder, as in the melodramas. A few paces more, and you arrive at the abominable pollarded elms of the Barriere Saint-Jacques, that expedient of the philanthropist to conceal the scaffold, that miserable and shameful Place de Grove of a shop-keeping and bourgeois society, which recoiled before the death penalty, neither daring to abolish it with grandeur, nor to uphold it with authority.
Leaving aside this Place Saint-Jacques, which was, as it were, predestined, and which has always been horrible, probably the most mournful spot on that mournful boulevard, seven and thirty years ago, was the spot which even to-day is so unattractive, where stood the building Number 50-52.
Bourgeois houses only began to spring up there twenty-five years later. The place was unpleasant. In addition to the gloomy thoughts which assailed one there, one was conscious of being between the Salpetriere, a glimpse of whose dome could be seen, and Bicetre, whose outskirts one was fairly touching; that is to say, between the madness of women and the madness of men. As far as the eye could see, one could perceive nothing but the abattoirs, the city wall, and the fronts of a few factories, resembling barracks or monasteries; everywhere about stood hovels, rubbish, ancient walls blackened like cerecloths, new white walls like winding-sheets; everywhere parallel rows of trees, buildings erected on a line, flat constructions, long, cold rows, and the melancholy sadness of right angles. Not an unevenness of the ground, not a caprice in the architecture, not a fold. The ensemble was glacial, regular, hideous. Nothing oppresses the heart like symmetry. It is because symmetry is ennui, and ennui is at the very foundation of grief. Despair yawns. Something more terrible than a hell where one suffers may be imagined, and that is a hell where one is bored. If such a hell existed, that bit of the Boulevard de l'Hopital might have formed the entrance to it.
Nevertheless, at nightfall, at the moment when the daylight is vanishing, especially in winter, at the hour when the twilight breeze tears from the elms their last russet leaves, when the darkness is deep and starless, or when the moon and the wind are making openings in the clouds and losing themselves in the shadows, this boulevard suddenly becomes frightful. The black lines sink inwards and are lost in the shades, like morsels of the infinite. The passer-by cannot refrain from recalling the innumerable traditions of the place which are connected with the gibbet. The solitude of this spot, where so many crimes have been committed, had something terrible about it. One almost had a presentiment of meeting with traps in that darkness; all the confused forms of the darkness seemed suspicious, and the long, hollow square, of which one caught a glimpse between each tree, seemed graves: by day it was ugly; in the evening melancholy; by night it was sinister.
In summer, at twilight, one saw, here and there, a few old women seated at the foot of the elm, on benches mouldy with rain. These good old women were fond of begging.
However, this quarter, which had a superannuated rather than an antique air, was tending even then to transformation. Even at that time any one who was desirous of seeing it had to make haste. Each day some detail of the whole effect was disappearing. For the last twenty years the station of the Orleans railway has stood beside the old faubourg and distracted it, as it does to-day. Wherever it is placed on the borders of a capital, a railway station is the death of a suburb and the birth of a city. It seems as though, around these great centres of the movements of a people, the earth, full of germs, trembled and yawned, to engulf the ancient dwellings of men and to allow new ones to spring forth, at the rattle of these powerful machines, at the breath of these monstrous horses of civilization which devour coal and vomit fire. The old houses crumble and new ones rise.
Since the Orleans railway has invaded the region of the Salpetriere, the ancient, narrow streets which adjoin the moats Saint-Victor and the Jardin des Plantes tremble, as they are violently traversed three or four times each day by those currents of coach fiacres and omnibuses which, in a given time, crowd back the houses to the right and the left; for there are things which are odd when said that are rigorously exact; and just as it is true to say that in large cities the sun makes the southern fronts of houses to vegetate and grow, it is certain that the frequent passage of vehicles enlarges streets. The symptoms of a new life are evident. In this old provincial quarter, in the wildest nooks, the pavement shows itself, the sidewalks begin to crawl and to grow longer, even where there are as yet no pedestrians. One morning,--a memorable morning in July, 1845,--black pots of bitumen were seen smoking there; on that day it might be said that civilization had arrived in the Rue de l'Ourcine, and that Paris had entered the suburb of Saint-Marceau.
四十年前，有个行人在妇女救济院附近的荒僻地段独自徘徊，继又穿过林荫大道，走上意大利便门，到达了……我们可以说，巴黎开始消失的地方。那地方并不绝对荒凉，也还有些行人来往，也还不是田野，多少还有几栋房屋和几条街道；既不是城市，因为在这些街道上，正和在大路上一样，也有车轮的辙迹；也不是乡村，因为房屋过于高大。那是个什么地方呢？那是一个没有人住的住宅区，无人而又间或有人的僻静处，是这个大都市的一条大路，巴黎的一条街，它在黑夜比森林还苍凉，在白天比坟场更凄惨。
那是马市所在的古老地区。
那行人，假使他闯过马市那四堵老墙，假使他再穿过小银行家街，走过他右边高墙里的一所庄屋，便会看见一片草场，场上竖着一堆堆栎树皮，好象一些庞大的水獭窠；走过以后，又会看见一道围墙，墙里是一片空地，地上堆满了木料、树根、木屑、刨花，有只狗立在一个堆上狂吠；再往前走，便有一道又长又矮的墙，已经残破不全了，墙上长满了苔藓，春季还开花，并且有一扇黑门，好象穿上了丧服似的；更远一点，便会在最荒凉的地方，看见一所破烂房屋，墙上写了几个大字：禁止招贴；那位漫无目标的行人于是就走到了圣马塞尔葡萄园街的转角上，那是个不大有人知道的地方。当时在那地方，在一家工厂附近和两道围墙间有所破屋，乍看起来好象小茅屋，而实际上却有天主堂那么大。它侧面的山尖对着公路，因而显得狭小。几乎整个房屋全被遮住了。只有那扇大门和一扇窗子露在外面。
那所破屋只有一层楼。
我们仔细看去，最先引人注目的便是那扇只配装在破窑上的大门，至于那窗子，假使它不是装在碎石块上而是装在条石墙上，看起来就会象阔人家的窗子了。
大门是用几块到处有虫蛀的木板和几根不曾好好加工的木条胡乱拼凑起来的。紧靠在大门里面的是一道直挺挺的楼梯，梯级高，满是污泥、石膏、尘土，和大门一样宽，我们可以从街上看见它，象梯子一样直立在两堵墙的中间，上端消失在黑影里。在那不成形的门框上端，有一块狭窄的薄木板，板的中间，锯了一个三角洞，那便是在门关了之后的透光洞和通风洞。在门的背面，有一个用毛笔蘸上墨水胡乱涂写的数字：52，横条上面，同一支毛笔却又涂上了另一数字：50，因而使人没法肯定。这究竟是几号？门的上头说五十号，门的背面却反驳说不对，是五十二号。三角通风洞的上面挂着几块说不上是什么的灰溜溜的破布，当作帘子。
窗子很宽，也相当高，装有百叶窗和大玻璃窗框，不过那些大块玻璃都有各种不同的破损，被许多纸条巧妙地遮掩着，同时也显得更加触目，至于那两扇脱了榫和离了框的百叶窗，与其说它能保护窗内的主人，还不如说它只能引起窗外行人的戒惧。遮光的横板条已经散落，有人随意钉上几块垂直的木板，使原来的百叶窗成了板窗。
大门的形象是非常恶劣的，窗子虽破损但还朴实，它们一同出现在同一所房屋的上面，看去就好象是两个萍水相逢的乞丐，共同乞讨，相依为命，都穿着同样的破衣烂衫，却各有不同的面貌，一个生来就穷苦，一个出身于望族。
走上楼梯，便可以看出那原是一栋极大的房屋，仿佛是由一个仓库改建的。楼上中间，有一条长过道，作为房子里的交通要道；过道的左右两旁有着或大或小的房间，必要时也未尝不可作为住屋，但与其说这是些小屋子，还不如说是些鸽子笼。那些房间从周围的旷野取光，每一间都是昏暗凄凉，令人感到怅惘忧郁，阴森得如同坟墓一样；房门和屋顶处处有裂缝，因缝隙所在处不同而受到寒光或冷风的透入，这种住屋还有一种饶有情趣的特点，那便是蜘蛛体格的庞大。
在那临街的大门外的左边，有个被堵塞了的小四方窗口，离地面约有一人高，里面积满了过路的孩子所丢的石块。
这房子最近已被拆去一部分。保留到今天的这一部分还可使人想见当年的全貌。整栋房子的年龄不过才一百挂零儿。一百岁，对礼拜堂来说这是青年时期，对一般房屋来说却是衰朽时期了。人住的房屋好象会因人而短寿，上帝住的房屋也会因上帝而永存似的。
邮差们管这所房子叫五○一五二号，但是在那附近一带的人都称它为戈尔博老屋。
谈谈这个名称是怎么来的。
一般爱搜集珍闻轶事把一些易忘的日期用别针别在大脑上的人们，都知道在前一个世纪，在一七七○年前后，沙特雷法院有两个检察官，一个叫柯尔博，一个叫勒纳。这两个名字都是拉封丹①预见了的。这一巧合太妙了，为使刑名师爷们不要去耍贫嘴。不久，法院的长廊里便传开了这样一首歪诗：
柯尔博老爷高踞案卷上，
嘴里衔着一张缉捕状，
勒纳老爷逐臭来，
大致向他这样讲：
喂，你好！……②
那两位自重的行家受不了这种戏谑，他们经常听到在他们背后爆发出来的狂笑声，头也听大了，于是他们决定要改姓，并向国王提出申请。申请送到路易十五手里时，正是教皇的使臣和拉洛许－艾蒙红衣主教双双跪在地上等待杜巴丽夫人赤着脚从床上下来，以便当着国王的面，每人捧着一只拖鞋替她套在脚上的那一天。国王原就在说笑，他仍在谈笑，把话题从那两位主教转到这两位检察官，并要为这两位法官老爷赐姓，或者就算是赐姓。国王恩准柯尔博老爷在原姓的第一字母上加一条尾巴③，改称戈尔博；勒纳的运气比较差，他所得到的只是在他原姓的第一字母R前面加上P，改称卜勒纳④，因为这个新改的姓并不见得比他原来的姓和他本人有什么不象的地方⑤。 
①柯尔博，原文是（Corbeau）（乌鸦），勒纳，原文是Renard（狐狸），都是拉封丹（1621?695）寓言中的人物。
②这是把拉封丹的寓言诗《乌鸦和狐狸》改动几字而成的。
③Corbeau（柯尔博）的第一字母C改为G，而成Gorbeau（戈尔博）。
④Renard（勒纳）改为Prenard（卜勒纳）。Prenard含有小偷的意思。
⑤指他为人小正派，说他象狐狸或小偷。　
根据当地历来的传说，这位戈尔博老爷曾是医院路五○一五二号房屋的产业主。他并且还是那扇雄伟的窗子的创造者。
这便是戈尔博老屋这一名称的由来。
在路旁的树木间，有棵死了四分之三的大榆树正对着这五○一五二号，哥白兰便门街的街口也几乎正在对面，当时在这条街上还没有房屋，街心也还没有铺石块，街旁栽着一些怪不顺眼的树，有时发绿，有时沾满了污泥，随着季节而不同，那条街一直通到巴黎的城墙边。阵阵硫酸化合物的气味从附近一家工厂的房顶上冒出来。
便门便在那附近。一八二三年时城墙还存在。
这道便门会使我们想起一些阴惨的情景。那是通往比塞特①的道路。帝国时期和王朝复辟时期的死囚在就刑的那天回到巴黎城里来时，都得经过这个地方。一八二九年的那次神秘的凶杀案，所谓“枫丹白露便门凶杀案”，也就是在这地方发生的，司法机关至今还没有找出凶犯，这仍是一件真相不明的惨案，一个未经揭破的骇人的哑谜。你再向前走几步，便到了那条不祥的落须街，在那街上，于尔巴克，曾象演剧似的，趁着雷声，一刀子刺杀了伊夫里的一个牧羊女。再走几步，你就到了圣雅克便门的那几棵丑恶不堪、断了头的榆树跟前，那几棵树是些慈悲心肠的人用来遮掩断头台的东西，那地方是店铺老板和士绅集团所建的一个卑贱可耻的格雷沃广场①，他们在死刑面前退缩，既没有废止它的气量，也没有保持它的魄力。 
①比塞特（Bicetre），巴黎附近的村子，有个救济院收容年老的男疯子。
三十七年前，如果我们把那个素来阴惨、必然阴惨的圣雅克广场置于一边不谈，那么，五○一五二号这所破屋所在的地方，就整个这条死气沉沉的大路来说，也许是最死气沉沉的地段了，这一带直到今天也还是缺少吸引力的。
有钱人家的房屋直到二十五年前才开始在这里出现。这地方在当时是满目凄凉的。妇女救济院的圆屋顶隐约可辨，通往比塞特的便门也近在咫尺，当你在这里感到悲伤压抑的时候，你会感到自己处在妇女救济院和比塞特之间，就是说，处在妇女的疯病和男子的疯病②之间。我们极目四望，看见的只是些屠宰场、城墙和少数几个类似兵营或修院的工厂的门墙，四处都是破屋颓垣、黑到和尸布一样的旧壁、白到和殓巾一样的新墙，四处都是平行排列着的树木、连成直线的房屋、平凡的建筑物、单调的长线条以及那种令人感到无限凄凉的直角。地势毫无起伏，建筑毫无匠心，毫无丘壑。这是一个冷酷、死板、丑不可耐的整体。再没有比对称的格局更令人感到难受的了，因为对称的形象能使人愁闷，愁闷是悲伤的根源，失望的人爱打呵欠。人们如果能在苦难的地狱以外还找得到更可怕的东西，那一定是使人愁闷的地狱了。假使这种地狱确实存在的话，医院路的这一小段地方可以当作通往这种地狱的门。 
①格雷沃广场（PlacedeGrève），巴黎的刑场，一八○六年改称市政厅广场。
②妇女救济院同时也收容神经错乱和神经衰弱的妇女。　
夜色下沉残辉消逝时，尤其是在冬天，当初起的晚风从成行的榆树上吹落了那最后几片黄叶时，在地黑天昏不见星斗或在风吹云破月影乍明时，这条大路便会陡然显得阴森骇人。那些直线条全会融入消失在黑影中，犹如茫茫宇宙间的寸寸丝缕。路上的行人不能不想到历年来发生在这一带的数不尽的命案，这种流过那么多次血的荒僻地方确会使人不寒而栗。人们认为已感到黑暗中有无数陷阱，各种无可名状的黑影好象也都是可疑的，树与树间的那些望不透的方洞好象是一个个墓穴。这地方，在白天是丑陋的，傍晚是悲凉的，夜间是阴惨的。
夏季，将近黄昏时，这里那里，有些老婆子，带着被雨水浸到发霉的凳子，坐在榆树下向人乞讨。
此外，这个区域的外貌，与其说是古老，不如说是过时，在当时就已有改变面貌的趋势了。从那时起，要看看它的人非赶快不可。这整体每天都在失去它的一小部分。二十年来，直到今天，奥尔良铁路的起点站便建在这老郊区的旁边，对它产生影响。一条铁路的起点站，无论我们把它设在一个都城边缘的任何一处，都等于是一个郊区的死亡和一个城市的兴起。好象在各族人民熙来攘往的这些大中心的四周，在那些强大机车的奔驰中，在吞炭吐火的文明怪马的喘息中，这个活力充沛的大地会震动，吞没人们的旧居并让新的产生出来。旧屋倒下，新屋上升。
自从奥尔良铁路车站侵入到妇女救济院的地段以后，圣维克多沟和植物园附近一带的古老的小街都动摇了，络绎不绝的长途公共马车、出租马车、市区公共马车，每天要在这些小街上猛烈奔驰三四次，并且到了一定时期就把房屋挤向左右两旁。有些奇特而又极其正确的现象是值得一提的，我们常说，大城市里的太阳使房屋的门朝南，这话是实在的，同样，车辆交驰的频繁也一定会扩展街道。新生命的征兆是明显的，在这村气十足的旧城区里，在这些最荒野的角落里，石块路面出现了，即使是在还没有人走的地方，人行道也开始蜿蜒伸展了。在一个早晨，一个值得纪念的早晨，一八四五年七月，人们在这里忽然看到烧沥青的黑锅冒烟；这一天，可以说是文明已来到了鲁尔辛街，巴黎和圣马尔索郊区衔接起来了。
Part 2 Book 4 Chapter 2 A Nest for Owl and a Warbler
It was in front of this Gorbeau house that Jean Valjean halted. Like wild birds, he had chosen this desert place to construct his nest.
He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, drew out a sort of a pass-key, opened the door, entered, closed it again carefully, and ascended the staircase, still carrying Cosette.
At the top of the stairs he drew from his pocket another key, with which he opened another door. The chamber which he entered, and which he closed again instantly, was a kind of moderately spacious attic, furnished with a mattress laid on the floor, a table, and several chairs; a stove in which a fire was burning, and whose embers were visible, stood in one corner. A lantern on the boulevard cast a vague light into this poor room. At the extreme end there was a dressing-room with a folding bed; Jean Valjean carried the child to this bed and laid her down there without waking her.
He struck a match and lighted a candle. All this was prepared beforehand on the table, and, as he had done on the previous evening, he began to scrutinize Cosette's face with a gaze full of ecstasy, in which the expression of kindness and tenderness almost amounted to aberration. The little girl, with that tranquil confidence which belongs only to extreme strength and extreme weakness, had fallen asleep without knowing with whom she was, and continued to sleep without knowing where she was.
Jean Valjean bent down and kissed that child's hand.
Nine months before he had kissed the hand of the mother, who had also just fallen asleep.
The same sad, piercing, religious sentiment filled his heart.
He knelt beside Cosette's bed.
lt was broad daylight, and the child still slept. A wan ray of the December sun penetrated the window of the attic and lay upon the ceiling in long threads of light and shade. All at once a heavily laden carrier's cart, which was passing along the boulevard, shook the frail bed, like a clap of thunder, and made it quiver from top to bottom.
"Yes, madame!" cried Cosette, waking with a start, "here I am! here I am!"
And she sprang out of bed, her eyes still half shut with the heaviness of sleep, extending her arms towards the corner of the wall.
"Ah! mon Dieu, my broom!" said she.
She opened her eyes wide now, and beheld the smiling countenance of Jean Valjean.
"Ah! so it is true!" said the child. "Good morning, Monsieur."
Children accept joy and happiness instantly and familiarly, being themselves by nature joy and happiness.
Cosette caught sight of Catherine at the foot of her bed, and took possession of her, and, as she played, she put a hundred questions to Jean Valjean. Where was she? Was Paris very large? Was Madame Thenardier very far away? Was she to go back? etc., etc. All at once she exclaimed, "How pretty it is here!"
It was a frightful hole, but she felt free.
"Must I sweep?" she resumed at last.
"Play!" said Jean Valjean.
The day passed thus. Cosette, without troubling herself to understand anything, was inexpressibly happy with that doll and that kind man.
冉阿让便是在那戈尔博老屋门前停下来的。和野鸟一样，他选择了这个最荒僻的地方来做窠。
他从坎肩口袋里摸出一把路路通钥匙，开门进去以后，又仔细把门关好，走上楼梯，一直背着珂赛特。
到了楼梯顶上，他又从衣袋里取出另外一把钥匙，用来开另一扇门。他一进门便又把门关上。那是一间相当宽敞的破屋子，地上铺着一条褥子，还有一张桌子和几把椅子。屋角里有个火炉，烧得正旺。路旁的一盏回光灯微微照着这里的贫苦相。底里，有一小间，摆着一张帆布床。冉阿让把孩子抱去放在床上，仍让她睡着。
他擦火石，点燃了一支烛，这一切都是已准备好了摆在桌上的。正和昨晚一样，他呆呆地望着珂赛特，眼里充满了感叹的神态，一片仁慈怜爱的表情几乎达到了不可思议的程度。至于小姑娘那种无忧无虑的信心，是只有最强的人和极弱的人才会有的，她并不知道自己是和谁在一道，却已安然睡去，现在也不用知道自己到了什么地方，仍旧睡着。
冉阿让弯下腰去，吻了吻孩子的手。
他在九个月前吻过她母亲的手，当时她母亲也正刚刚入睡。
同样一种苦痛、虔敬、辛酸的情感充满了他的心。
他跪在珂赛特的床旁边。
天已经大亮了，孩子却还睡着。
岁末的一线惨白的阳光从窗口射到这破屋子的天花板上，拖着一长条一长条的光线和阴影。一辆满载着石块的重车忽然走过街心，象迅雷暴雨似的把房子震到上下摇晃：“是啦，太太！”珂赛特惊醒时连声喊道，“来了！来了！”
她连忙跳下床，眼睛在睡眠的重压下还半闭着，便伸着手摸向墙角。
“啊！我的天主！我的扫帚！”她说。
她完全睁开眼以后才看见冉阿让满面笑容。
“啊！对，是真的！”孩子说，“早安，先生。”
孩子们接受欢乐和幸福最为迅速，也最亲切，因为他们生来便是幸福和欢乐。
珂赛特看见卡特琳躺在床脚边，连忙抱住它，她一面玩，一面对着冉阿让唠唠叨叨问个没完。“她是在什么地方？巴黎是不是个大地方？德纳第太太是不是离得很远？她会不会再来？……”她忽然大声喊道：“这地方多漂亮！”
这是个丑陋不堪的破窑，但她感到自己自由了。
“我不用扫地吗？”她终于问出来。
“你玩吧。”冉阿让说。
这一天便是那样度过的。珂赛特，没有想到去了解什么，只在这娃娃和老人间，感到说不出的愉快。
Part 2 Book 4 Chapter 3 Two Misfortunes make One Piece of Good Fortune
On the following morning, at daybreak, Jean Valjean was still by Cosette's bedside; he watched there motionless, waiting for her to wake.
Some new thing had come into his soul.
Jean Valjean had never loved anything; for twenty-five years he had been alone in the world. He had never been father, lover, husband, friend. In the prison he had been vicious, gloomy, chaste, ignorant, and shy. The heart of that ex-convict was full of virginity. His sister and his sister's children had left him only a vague and far-off memory which had finally almost completely vanished; he had made every effort to find them, and not having been able to find them, he had forgotten them. Human nature is made thus; the other tender emotions of his youth, if he had ever had any, had fallen into an abyss.
When he saw Cosette, when he had taken possession of her, carried her off, and delivered her, he felt his heart moved within him.
All the passion and affection within him awoke, and rushed towards that child. He approached the bed, where she lay sleeping, and trembled with joy. He suffered all the pangs of a mother, and he knew not what it meant; for that great and singular movement of a heart which begins to love is a very obscure and a very sweet thing.
Poor old man, with a perfectly new heart!
Only, as he was five and fifty, and Cosette eight years of age, all that might have been love in the whole course of his life flowed together into a sort of ineffable light.
It was he remembered that it was with the idea of doing evil that he had learned to read in prison. This idea had ended in teaching a child to read. Then the ex-convict smiled with the pensive smile of the angels.
He {￥遴sette, on her side, had also, unknown to herself, become another being, poor little thing! She was so little when her mother left her, that she no longer remembered her. Like all children, who resemble young shoots of the vine, which cling to everything, she had tried to love; she had not succeeded. All had repulsed her,-- the Thenardiers, their children, other children. She had loved the dog, and he had died, after which nothing and nobody would have anything to do with her. It is a sad thing to say, and we have already intimated it, that, at eight years of age, her heart was cold. It was not her fault; it was not the faculty of loving that she lacked; alas! it was the possibility. Thus, from the very first day, all her sentient and thinking powers loved this kind man. She felt that which she had never felt before--a sensation of expansion.
The man no longer produced on her the effect of being old or poor; she thought Jean Valjean handsome, just as she thought the hovel pretty.
These are the effects of the dawn, of childhood, of joy. The novelty of the earth and of life counts for something here. Nothing is so charming as the coloring reflection of happiness on a garret. We all have in our past a delightful garret.
Nature, a difference of fifty years, had set a profound gulf between Jean Valjean and Cosette; destiny filled in this gulf. Destiny suddenly united and wedded with its irresistible power these two uprooted existences, differing in age, alike in sorrow. One, in fact, completed the other. Cosette's instinct sought a father, as Jean Valjean's instinct sought a child. To meet was to find each other. At the mysterious moment when their hands touched, they were welded together. When these two souls perceived each other, they recognized each other as necessary to each other, and embraced each other closely.
Taking the words in their most comprehensive and absolute sense, we may say that, separated from every one by the walls of the tomb, Jean Valjean was the widower, and Cosette was the orphan: this situation caused Jean Valjean to become Cosette's father after a celestial fashion.
And in truth, the mysterious impression produced on Cosette in the depths of the forest of Chelles by the hand of Jean Valjean grasping hers in the dark was not an illusion, but a reality. The entrance of that man into the destiny of that child had been the advent of God.
Moreover, Jean Valjean had chosen his refuge well. There he seemed perfectly secure.
The chamber with a dressing-room, which he occupied with Cosette, was the one whose window opened on the boulevard. This being the only window in the house, no neighbors' glances were to be feared from across the way or at the side.
The ground-floor of Number 50-52, a sort of dilapidated penthouse, served as a wagon-house for market-gardeners, and no communication existed between it and the first story. It was separated by the flooring, which had neither traps nor stairs, and which formed the diaphragm of the building, as it were. The first story contained, as we have said, numerous chambers and several attics, only one of which was occupied by the old woman who took charge of Jean Valjean's housekeeping; all the rest was uninhabited.
It was this old woman, ornamented with the name of the principal lodger, and in reality intrusted with the functions of portress, who had let him the lodging on Christmas eve. He had represented himself to her as a gentleman of means who had been ruined by Spanish bonds, who was coming there to live with his little daughter. He had paid her six months in advance, and had commissioned the old woman to furnish the chamber and dressing-room, as we have seen. It was this good woman who had lighted the fire in the stove, and prepared everything on the evening of their arrival.
Week followed week; these two beings led a happy life in that hovel.
Cosette laughed, chattered, and sang from daybreak. Children have their morning song as well as birds.
It sometimes happened that Jean Valjean clasped her tiny red hand, all cracked with chilblains, and kissed it. The poor child, who was used to being beaten, did not know the meaning of this, and ran away in confusion.
At times she became serious and stared at her little black gown. Cosette was no longer in rags; she was in mourning. She had emerged from misery, and she was entering into life.
Jean Valjean had undertaken to teach her to read. Sometimes, as he made the child spell, he remembered that it was with the idea of doing evil that he had learned to read in prison. This idea had ended in teaching a child to read. Then the ex-convict smiled with the pensive smile of the angels.
He felt in it a premeditation from on high, the will of some one who was not man, and he became absorbed in revery. Good thoughts have their abysses as well as evil ones.
To teach Cosette to read, and to let her play, this constituted nearly the whole of Jean Valjean's existence. And then he talked of her mother, and he made her pray.
She called him father, and knew no other name for him.
He passed hours in watching her dressing and undressing her doll, and in listening to her prattle. Life, henceforth, appeared to him to be full of interest; men seemed to him good and just; he no longer reproached any one in thought; he saw no reason why he should not live to be a very old man, now that this child loved him. He saw a whole future stretching out before him, illuminated by Cosette as by a charming light. The best of us are not exempt from egotistical thoughts. At times, he reflected with a sort of joy that she would be ugly.
This is only a personal opinion; but, to utter our whole thought, at the point where Jean Valjean had arrived when he began to love Cosette, it is by no means clear to us that he did not need this encouragement in order that he might persevere in well-doing. He had just viewed the malice of men and the misery of society under a new aspect-- incomplete aspects, which unfortunately only exhibited one side of the truth, the fate of woman as summed up in Fantine, and public authority as personified in Javert. He had returned to prison, this time for having done right; he had quaffed fresh bitterness; disgust and lassitude were overpowering him; even the memory of the Bishop probably suffered a temporary eclipse, though sure to reappear later on luminous and triumphant; but, after all, that sacred memory was growing dim. Who knows whether Jean Valjean had not been on the eve of growing discouraged and of falling once more? He loved and grew strong again. Alas! he walked with no less indecision than Cosette. He protected her, and she strengthened him. Thanks to him, she could walk through life; thanks to her, he could continue in virtue. He was that child's stay, and she was his prop. Oh, unfathomable and divine mystery of the balances of destiny!
第二天破晓，冉阿让还立在珂赛特的床边。他呆呆地望着她，等她醒来。
他心里有一种新的感受。
冉阿让从不曾爱过什么。二十五年来在这世上，他一向孑然一身。父亲，情人，丈夫，朋友，这些他全没有当过。在苦役牢里时，他是凶恶、阴沉、寡欲、无知、粗野的。这个老苦役犯的心里充满了处子的纯真。他姐姐和姐姐的孩子们只给他留下一种遥远模糊的印象，到后来也几乎完全消逝了。他曾竭力寻找他们，没有找着，也就把他们忘了。人的天性原是那样的。青年时期那些儿女情，如果他也有过的话，也都在岁月的深渊中泯灭了。
当他看见了珂赛特，当他得到了她，领到了她，救了她的时候，他感到满腔血液全沸腾起来了。他胸中的全部热情和慈爱都苏醒过来，灌注在这孩子的身上。他走到她睡着的床边，乐到浑身发抖，他好象做了母亲似的，因而感到十分慌乱，但又不知道这是怎么回事，因为心在开始爱的时候，它那种极伟大奇特的骚动是颇难理解而又相当甘美的。
可怜一颗全新的老人心！
可是，他已经五十五岁，而珂赛特才八岁，他毕生的爱已经全部化为一点无可言喻的星光。
这是的第二次见到光明的启示。主教曾在他心中唤醒了为善的意义，珂赛特又在他心中唤醒了爱的意义。
最初的一些日子便是在这种陶然自得的心境中度过的。
至于珂赛特，在她这方面，她也变成了另外一个人，那是她没有意识到的，可怜的小人儿！当她母亲离开她时，她还那么小，她已经不记得了。孩子好象都是葡萄藤的幼苗，遇到什么，便攀附什么，她和所有的孩子一样，也曾想爱她左右的人。但是她没能做到。所有的人，德纳第夫妇、他们的孩子、其他的孩子，都把她推在一边。她曾爱过一条狗，可是那条狗死了。在这以后便不曾有过什么东西或什么人要过她。说起来这是多么惨，我们也曾指出过，她八岁上便冷了心。这不是她的过错，她并不缺乏爱的天性，她缺少的只是爱的可能。因此，从第一天起，她整个的心，即使是在梦寐中，便已开始爱这老人了。她有一种从来不曾有过的感觉，心花怒放的感觉。
这老人，在她的心目中，好象已成了一个既不老也不穷的人。她觉得冉阿让美，正如她觉得这间破屋子漂亮一样。这是朝气、童年、青春、欢乐的效果。大地上和生活中的新鲜事在这方面也都产生影响。住室虽陋，如果能有幸福的彩光的照耀，那也就是无比美好的环境了。在过去的经验中我们每个人都有过海市蜃楼。
年龄相差五十岁，这在冉阿让和珂赛特之间是一道天生的鸿沟，可是命运把这鸿沟填起来了。命运以它那无可抗拒的力量使这两个无家可归年龄迥异而苦难相同的人骤然摄合在一起了。他们彼此确也能相辅相成。珂赛特出自本能正在寻找一个父亲，冉阿让也出自本能正在寻找一个孩子。萍水相逢，却是如鱼得水，他们的两只手在这神秘的刹那间一经接触，便紧紧握在一起了。两人相互了解后，彼此都意识到相互的需求，于是紧密地团结在一起。
从某些词的最明显和最绝对的意义来解释，我们可以说冉阿让是个鳏夫，正如同珂赛特是个孤女一样，因为他们都是被坟墓的墙在世上隔离的人。在这种情况下，冉阿让天生就是珂赛特的父亲了。
而且，从前在谢尔的树林深处，冉阿让曾牵着珂赛特的手从黑暗中走出来，珂赛特当时得到的那种神秘印象并不是幻觉，而是现实。这个人在这孩子的命运中出现，确也就是上帝的降临。
此外，冉阿让选了一个合适的住处，他在这地方，似乎十分安全。
他和珂赛特所住的这间带一个小间的屋子，便是窗口对着大路的那间。整所房子只有这一扇窗子是临街的，因此无论从侧面或是从对面，都不必担心邻居的窥视。
五○一五二号房屋的楼下，是间破旧的敞棚，是蔬菜工人停放车辆的地方，和楼上是完全隔绝的。楼上楼下相隔一层木板，仿佛是这房子的横隔膜，既没有暗梯，也没有明梯。至于楼上，我们已经说过，有几间住房和几间储藏室，其中只有一间是由一个替冉阿让料理家务的老奶奶住着。其余的屋子全没有人住。
老奶奶的头衔是“二房东”，而实际任务是照管门户，在圣诞节那天，便是这老奶奶把这间住房租给他的。他曾向她作了自我介绍，说自己原先是个靠收利息过日子的人，西班牙军事公债把他的家产弄光了，他要带着孙女儿来住在这里。他预付了六个月的租金，并且委托老奶奶把大小两间屋子里的家具布置好，布置情形是我们见到过的。在他们搬进来的那天晚上烧好炉子准备一切的也就是这老奶奶。
好几个星期过去了。一老一小在这简陋不堪的破屋子里过着幸福的日子。
一到天亮，珂赛特便又说又笑，唱个不停。孩子们都有他们在早晨唱的曲调，正和小鸟一样。
有时，冉阿让捏着她的一只冻到发红发裂的小手，送到嘴边亲一亲。那可怜的孩子，挨惯了揍，全不懂得这是什么意思，觉得怪难为情地溜走了。
有时，她又一本正经地细看自己身上的黑衣服。珂赛特现在所穿的已不是破衣，而是孝服。她已脱离了苦难，走进了人生。
冉阿让开始教她识字。有时，他一面教这孩子练习拼写，心里却想着他当初在苦役牢里学文化原是为了要作恶。最初的动机转变了，现在他要一心教孩子读书。这时，老苦役犯的脸上显出了一种不胜感慨的笑容，宛如天使的庄严妙相。
他感到这里有着上苍的安排，一种凌驾人力之上的天意，他接着又浸沉在遐想中了。善的思想和恶的思想一样，也是深不可测的。
教珂赛特读书，让她玩耍，这几乎是冉阿让的全部生活。
除此以外，他还和她谈到她的母亲，要她祈祷。
她称他做“爹”，不知道用旁的称呼。
他经常一连几个钟头看她替她那娃娃穿衣脱衣，听着她叽叽喳喳地说东说西。他仿佛觉得，从今以后，人生是充满意义的，世上的人也是善良公正的，他思想里不需要再责备什么人，现在这孩子既然爱他，他便找不出任何理由不要求活到极老。他感到珂赛特象盏明灯似的，已把他未来的日子照亮了。最善良的人也免不了会有替自己打算的想法。他有时带着愉快的心情想到她将来的相貌一定丑。
这只是一点个人的看法，但是为了说明我们的全部思想，我们必须说，冉阿让在开始爱珂赛特的情况下，并没有什么可以证明他不需要这股新的力量来支持他继续站在为善的一面，不久以前，他又在不同的情况下看到人的残酷和社会的卑鄙（这固然是局部的情形，只能表现真相的一面），也看到以芳汀为代表的这类妇女的下场以及沙威所体现的法权，他那次因做了好事而又回到苦役牢里，他又饱尝了新的苦味，他又受到厌恶和颓丧心情的控制，甚至那主教的形象也难免有暗淡的时候，虽然过后仍是光明灿烂欢欣鼓舞的，可是后来他那形象终于越来越模糊了。谁能说冉阿让不再有失望和堕落的危险呢？他有所爱，他才能再度坚强起来。唉！他并不见得比珂赛特站得稳些。他保护她，她使他坚强起来。有了他，她才能进入人生，有了她，他才能继续为善。他是这孩子的支柱，孩子又是他的动力。两人的命运必须互相凭倚，才得平衡，这种妙用，天意使然，高深莫测！
Part 2 Book 4 Chapter 4 The Remarks of the Principal Tenant
Jean Valjean was prudent enough never to go out by day. Every evening, at twilight, he walked for an hour or two, sometimes alone, often with Cosette, seeking the most deserted side alleys of the boulevard, and entering churches at nightfall. He liked to go to Saint-Medard, which is the nearest church. When he did not take Cosette with him, she remained with the old woman; but the child's delight was to go out with the good man. She preferred an hour with him to all her rapturous tete-a-tetes with Catherine. He held her hand as they walked, and said sweet things to her.
It turned out that Cosette was a very gay little person.
The old woman attended to the housekeeping and cooking and went to market.
They lived soberly, always having a little fire, but like people in very moderate circumstances. Jean Valjean had made no alterations in the furniture as it was the first day; he had merely had the glass door leading to Cosette's dressing-room replaced by a solid door.
He still wore his yellow coat, his black breeches, and his old hat. In the street, he was taken for a poor man. It sometimes happened that kind-hearted women turned back to bestow a sou on him. Jean Valjean accepted the sou with a deep bow. It also happened occasionally that he encountered some poor wretch asking alms; then he looked behind him to make sure that no one was observing him, stealthily approached the unfortunate man, put a piece of money into his hand, often a silver coin, and walked rapidly away. This had its disadvantages. He began to be known in the neighborhood under the name of the beggar who gives alms.
The old principal lodger, a cross-looking creature, who was thoroughly permeated, so far as her neighbors were concerned, with the inquisitiveness peculiar to envious persons, scrutinized Jean Valjean a great deal, without his suspecting the fact. She was a little deaf, which rendered her talkative. There remained to her from her past, two teeth,--one above, the other below,--which she was continually knocking against each other. She had questioned Cosette, who had not been able to tell her anything, since she knew nothing herself except that she had come from Montfermeil. One morning, this spy saw Jean Valjean, with an air which struck the old gossip as peculiar, entering one of the uninhabited compartments of the hovel. She followed him with the step of an old cat, and was able to observe him without being seen, through a crack in the door, which was directly opposite him. Jean Valjean had his back turned towards this door, by way of greater security, no doubt. The old woman saw him fumble in his pocket and draw thence a case, scissors, and thread; then he began to rip the lining of one of the skirts of his coat, and from the opening he took a bit of yellowish paper, which he unfolded. The old woman recognized, with terror, the fact that it was a bank-bill for a thousand francs. It was the second or third only that she had seen in the course of her existence. She fled in alarm.
A moment later, Jean Valjean accosted her, and asked her to go and get this thousand-franc bill changed for him, adding that it was his quarterly income, which he had received the day before. "Where?" thought the old woman. "He did not go out until six o'clock in the evening, and the government bank certainly is not open at that hour." The old woman went to get the bill changed, and mentioned her surmises. That thousand-franc note, commented on and multiplied, produced a vast amount of terrified discussion among the gossips of the Rue des Vignes Saint-Marcel.
A few days later, it chanced that Jean Valjean was sawing some wood, in his shirt-sleeves, in the corridor. The old woman was in the chamber, putting things in order. She was alone. Cosette was occupied in admiring the wood as it was sawed. The old woman caught sight of the coat hanging on a nail, and examined it. The lining had been sewed up again. The good woman felt of it carefully, and thought she observed in the skirts and revers thicknesses of paper. More thousand-franc bank-bills, no doubt!
She also noticed that there were all sorts of things in the pockets. Not only the needles, thread, and scissors which she had seen, but a big pocket-book, a very large knife, and--a suspicious circumstance-- several wigs of various colors. Each pocket of this coat had the air of being in a manner provided against unexpected accidents.
Thus the inhabitants of the house reached the last days of winter.
冉阿让很谨慎，他白天从不出门。每天下午，到了黄昏时候，他才出去蹓蹓一两个钟头，有时是独自一人，也常带着珂赛特一道，总是找大路旁那些最僻静的小胡同走，或是在天快黑时跨进礼拜堂。他经常去圣美达教堂，那是离家最近的礼拜堂。当他不带珂赛特出门时，珂赛特便待在老奶奶身边，但是这孩子最喜欢陪着老人出去玩。她感到即使是和卡特琳作伴也还不如和他待上个把钟头来得有趣。他牵着她的手，一面走一面和她谈些开心的事。
珂赛特有时玩得兴高采烈。
老奶奶料理家务，做饭菜，买东西。
他们过着节俭的生活，炉子里经常有一点火，但是总活得象个手头拮据的人家。第一天用的那些家具冉阿让从来不曾掉换过，不过珂赛特住的那个小间的玻璃门却换上了一扇木板门。
他的穿戴一直是那件黄大衣、黑短裤和旧帽子。街坊也都把他当作一个穷汉。有时，他会遇见一些软心肠的妇人转过身来给他一个苏。冉阿让收下这个苏，总深深地一鞠躬。有时，他也会遇见一些讨钱的化子，这时，他便回头望望是否有人看他，再偷偷地步向那穷人，拿个钱放在他手里，并且常常是个银币，又连忙走开。这种举动有它不妥的地方。附近一带的人开始称他为“给钱的化子”。
那年老的“二房东”是个心眼狭窄的人，逢人便想占些小便宜，对冉阿让她非常注意，而冉阿让却没有提防。她耳朵有点聋，因而爱多话。她一辈子只留下两颗牙，一颗在上，一颗在下，她老爱让这两个牙捉对儿相叩。她向珂赛特问过好多话，珂赛特什么也不知道，什么也答不上，她只说了她是从孟费郿来的。有一天早晨，这个蓄意窥探的老婆子看见冉阿让走进这座破屋的一间没有人住的房里去了，觉得他的神气有些特别。她便象只老猫似的，踮着脚，跟上去，向虚掩着的门缝里张望，她能望见他却不会被他看见。冉阿让，一定也留了意，把背朝着门。老奶奶望见他从衣袋里摸出一只小针盒、一把剪子和一绺棉线，接着他把自己身上那件大衣一角的里子拆开一个小口，从里面抽出一张发黄的纸币，打开来看。老奶奶大吃一惊，是张一千法郎的钞票。这是她有生以来看见的第二张或是第三张。她吓得瞠目结舌，赶紧逃了。
一会儿过后，冉阿让走来找她，请她去替他换开那一千法郎的钞票，并说这是他昨天取来的这一季度的利息。“从哪儿取来的？”老奶奶心里想，“他是下午六点出去的，那时，国家银行不见得还开着门。”老奶奶走去换钞票，同时也在说长论短。这张一千法郎的钞票经过大家议论夸大以后，在圣马塞尔葡萄园街一带的三姑六婆中就引起一大堆骇人听闻的怪话。
几天过后，冉阿让偶然穿着短褂在过道里锯木头。老奶奶正在打扫他的屋子。她独自一人在里面，珂赛特看着锯着的木头正看得出神，老奶奶一眼看见大衣挂在钉子上，便走去偷看，大衣里子是重新缝好了的。老婆子细心捏了一阵，觉得在大衣的角上和腋下部分，里面都铺了一层层的纸。那一定全是一千法郎一张的钞票了！
此外，她还注意到衣袋里也装着各式各种的东西，不仅有针、线、剪子，这些东西都是她已见过的，并且还有一个大皮夹、一把很长的刀，还有一种可疑的东西：几顶颜色不同的假发套。大衣的每个口袋都装着一套应付各种不同意外事件的物品。
住在这栋破屋里的居民就这样到了冬末。
Part 2 Book 4 Chapter 5 A Five-Franc Piece falls on the Ground and produces a Tumult
Near Saint-Medard's church there was a poor man who was in the habit of crouching on the brink of a public well which had been condemned, and on whom Jean Valjean was fond of bestowing charity. He never passed this man without giving him a few sous. Sometimes he spoke to him. Those who envied this mendicant said that he belonged to the police. He was an ex-beadle of seventy-five, who was constantly mumbling his prayers.
One evening, as Jean Valjean was passing by, when he had not Cosette with him, he saw the beggar in his usual place, beneath the lantern which had just been lighted. The man seemed engaged in prayer, according to his custom, and was much bent over. Jean Valjean stepped up to him and placed his customary alms in his hand. The mendicant raised his eyes suddenly, stared intently at Jean Valjean, then dropped his head quickly. This movement was like a flash of lightning. Jean Valjean was seized with a shudder. It seemed to him that he had just caught sight, by the light of the street lantern, not of the placid and beaming visage of the old beadle, but of a well-known and startling face. He experienced the same impression that one would have on finding one's self, all of a sudden, face to face, in the dark, with a tiger. He recoiled, terrified, petrified, daring neither to breathe, to speak, to remain, nor to flee, staring at the beggar who had dropped his head, which was enveloped in a rag, and no longer appeared to know that he was there. At this strange moment, an instinct-- possibly the mysterious instinct of self-preservation,--restrained Jean Valjean from uttering a word. The beggar had the same figure, the same rags, the same appearance as he had every day. "Bah!" said Jean Valjean, "I am mad! I am dreaming! Impossible!" And he returned profoundly troubled.
He hardly dared to confess, even to himself, that the face which he thought he had seen was the face of Javert.
That night, on thinking the matter over, he regretted not having questioned the man, in order to force him to raise his head a second time.
On the following day, at nightfall, he went back. The beggar was at his post. "Good day, my good man," said Jean Valjean, resolutely, handing him a sou. The beggar raised his head, and replied in a whining voice, "Thanks, my good sir." It was unmistakably the ex-beadle.
Jean Valjean felt completely reassured. He began to laugh. "How the deuce could I have thought that I saw Javert there?" he thought. "Am I going to lose my eyesight now?" And he thought no more about it.
A few days afterwards,--it might have been at eight o'clock in the evening,--he was in his room, and engaged in making Cosette spell aloud, when he heard the house door open and then shut again. This struck him as singular. The old woman, who was the only inhabitant of the house except himself, always went to bed at nightfall, so that she might not burn out her candles. Jean Valjean made a sign to Cosette to be quiet. He heard some one ascending the stairs. It might possibly be the old woman, who might have fallen ill and have been out to the apothecary's. Jean Valjean listened.
The step was heavy, and sounded like that of a man; but the old woman wore stout shoes, and there is nothing which so strongly resembles the step of a man as that of an old woman. Nevertheless, Jean Valjean blew out his candle.
He had sent Cosette to bed, saying to her in a low voice, "Get into bed very softly"; and as he kissed her brow, the steps paused.
Jean Valjean remained silent, motionless, with his back towards the door, seated on the chair from which he had not stirred, and holding his breath in the dark.
After the expiration of a rather long interval, he turned round, as he heard nothing more, and, as he raised his eyes towards the door of his chamber, he saw a light through the keyhole. This light formed a sort of sinister star in the blackness of the door and the wall. There was evidently some one there, who was holding a candle in his hand and listening.
Several minutes elapsed thus, and the light retreated. But he heard no sound of footsteps, which seemed to indicate that the person who had been listening at the door had removed his shoes.
Jean Valjean threw himself, all dressed as he was, on his bed, and could not close his eyes all night.
At daybreak, just as he was falling into a doze through fatigue, he was awakened by the creaking of a door which opened on some attic at the end of the corridor, then he heard the same masculine footstep which had ascended the stairs on the preceding evening. The step was approaching. He sprang off the bed and applied his eye to the keyhole, which was tolerably large, hoping to see the person who had made his way by night into the house and had listened at his door, as he passed. It was a man, in fact, who passed, this time without pausing, in front of Jean Valjean's chamber. The corridor was too dark to allow of the person's face being distinguished; but when the man reached the staircase, a ray of light from without made it stand out like a silhouette, and Jean Valjean had a complete view of his back. The man was of lofty stature, clad in a long frock-coat, with a cudgel under his arm. The formidable neck and shoulders belonged to Javert.
Jean Valjean might have attempted to catch another glimpse of him through his window opening on the boulevard, but he would have been obliged to open the window: he dared not.
It was evident that this man had entered with a key, and like himself. Who had given him that key? What was the meaning of this?
When the old woman came to do the work, at seven o'clock in the morning, Jean Valjean cast a penetrating glance on her, but he did not question her. The good woman appeared as usual.
As she swept up she remarked to him:--
"Possibly Monsieur may have heard some one come in last night?"
At that age, and on that boulevard, eight o'clock in the evening was the dead of the night.
"That is true, by the way," he replied, in the most natural tone possible. "Who was it?"
"It was a new lodger who has come into the house," said the old woman.
"And what is his name?"
"I don't know exactly; Dumont, or Daumont, or some name of that sort."
"And who is this Monsieur Dumont?"
The old woman gazed at him with her little polecat eyes, and answered:--
"A gentleman of property, like yourself."
Perhaps she had no ulterior meaning. Jean Valjean thought he perceived one.
When the old woman had taken her departure, he did up a hundred francs which he had in a cupboard, into a roll, and put it in his pocket. In spite of all the precautions which he took in this operation so that he might not be heard rattling silver, a hundred-sou piece escaped from his hands and rolled noisily on the floor.
When darkness came on, he descended and carefully scrutinized both sides of the boulevard. He saw no one. The boulevard appeared to be absolutely deserted. It is true that a person can conceal himself behind trees.
He went up stairs again.
"Come." he said to Cosette.
He took her by the hand, and they both went out.
在圣美达礼拜堂附近，有一个穷人时常蹲在一口填塞了的公井的井栏上，冉阿让老爱给他钱。他从那人面前走过，总免不了要给他几个苏。他有时还和他谈话。忌妒那乞丐的人都说他是警察的眼线。那是一个七十五岁在礼拜堂里当过杂务的老头儿，他嘴里的祈祷文是从来不断的。
有一天傍晚，冉阿让打那地方走过，他这回没有带珂赛特，路旁的回光灯刚点上，他望见那乞丐蹲在灯光下面，在他的老地方。那人，和平时一样，好象是在祈祷，腰弯得很低。冉阿让走到他面前，把布施照常送到他手里。乞丐突然抬起了眼睛，狠狠地盯了冉阿让一眼，随即又低下了头。这一动作快到和闪光一样，冉阿让为之一惊。他仿佛觉得刚才在路灯的微光下见到的不是那老杂务的平静愚戆的脸，而是一副见过的吓人的面孔。给他的印象好象是在黑暗中撞见了猛虎。他吓得倒退一步，不敢呼吸，不敢说话，不敢停留，也不敢逃走，呆呆地望着那个低着头、头上盖块破布、仿佛早已忘了他还站在面前的乞丐。在这种奇特的时刻，有一种本能，也许就是神秘的自卫的本能使冉阿让说不出话来。那乞丐的身材，那身破烂衣服，他的外貌，都和平时一样。“活见鬼！……”冉阿让说，“我疯了！我做梦！不可能！”他心里乱作一团，回到家里去了。
他几乎不敢对自己说他以为看见的那张面孔是沙威的。
晚上他独自捉摸时，后悔不该不问那人一句话，迫使他再抬起头来。
第二天夜晚时，他又去到那里。那乞丐又在原处。“您好，老头儿。”冉阿让大着胆说，同时给了他一个苏。乞丐抬起头来，带着悲伤的声音说：“谢谢，我的好先生。”这确是那个老杂务。
冉阿让感到自己的心完全安定下来了。他笑了出来。“活见鬼！我几时看见了沙威？”他心里想。“真笑话，难道我现在已老胡涂了？”他不再去想那件事了。
几天过后，大致是在晚上八点钟，他正在自己的屋子里高声教珂赛特拼字时，忽然听见有人推开破屋的大门，继又关上。他觉得奇怪。和他同屋住的那个孤独的老奶奶，为了不耗费蜡烛，素来是天黑便上床的。冉阿让立即向珂赛特示意，要她不要作声。他听见有人上搂梯。充其量，也许只是老奶奶害着病，到药房里去一起回来了。冉阿让仔细听。脚步很沉，听起来象是一个男人的脚步声，不过老奶奶一向穿的是大鞋，再没有比老妇人的脚步更象男人脚步的了。可是冉阿让吹灭了烛。
他打发珂赛特去睡，低声向她说“轻轻地去睡吧”，正当他吻着她额头时，脚步声停下了。冉阿让不吭声，也不动，背朝着门，仍旧照原样坐在他的椅子上，在黑暗中控制住呼吸。过了一段相当长的时间，他听到没声了，才悄悄地转过身子，朝着房门望去，看见锁眼里有光。那一点光，出现在黑暗的墙壁和房门上，正象一颗灾星。显然有人拿着烛在外面偷听。
几分钟过后，烛光远去，不过他没有再听见脚步声，这也许可以说明来到房门口窃听的人已脱去了鞋子。
冉阿让和衣倒在床上，整夜合不上眼。
天快亮时，他正因疲惫而朦胧睡去，忽然又被叫门的声音惊醒过来，这声音是从过道底里的一间破屋子里传来的，接着他又听见有人走路的声音，正和昨夜上楼的那人的脚步声一样。脚步声越走越近。他连忙跳下床，把眼睛凑在锁眼上，锁眼相当大，他希望能趁那人走过时，看看昨夜上楼来到他门口偷听的人究竞是谁。从冉阿让房门口走过的确是个男人，他一径走过没有停。当时过道里的光线还太暗，看不清他的脸。但当这人走近楼梯口时，从外面射进来的一道阳光把他的身体，象个剪影似的突现出来了，冉阿让看见了他的整个背影。这人身材高大，穿一件长大衣，胳膊底下夹着一条短棍。那正是沙威的那副吓坏人的形象。
冉阿让原可设法到临街的窗口去再看他一眼。不过非先开窗不可，他不敢。
很明显，那人是带着一把钥匙进来的，正象回到自己家里一样。不过，钥匙是谁给他的呢？这究竟是怎么回事？
早晨七点，老奶奶进来打扫屋子，冉阿让睁着一双刺人的眼睛望着她，但是没有问她话。老奶奶的神气还是和平日一样。
她一面扫地，一面对他说：
“昨天晚上先生也许听见有人进来吧？”
在那种年头，在那条路上，晚上八点，已是夜深人静的时候了。
“对，听到的，”他用最自然的声音回答说，“是谁？”
“是个新来的房客，”老奶奶说，“我们这里又多一个人了。”
“叫什么名字？”
“我闹不大清楚。都孟或是多孟先生，象是这样一个名字。”
“干什么事的，这位都孟先生？”
老奶奶睁着一双鼠眼，盯着他，回答说：
“吃息钱的，和您一样。”
她也许并没有言外之意，冉阿让听了却不免多心。
老奶奶走开以后，他把放在壁橱里的百来个法郎卷成一卷，收在衣袋里。他做这事时非常小心，恐怕人家听见银钱响，但是，他尽管小心，仍旧有一枚值五法郎的银币脱了手，在方砖地上滚得一片响。
太阳落山时，他跑下楼，到大路上向四周仔细看了一遍。没有人。路上好象是绝对的清静。也很可能有人躲在树后面。
他又回到楼上。
“来。”他向珂赛特说。
他牵着她的手，两个人一道出门走了。
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 1 The Zigzags of Strategy
An observation here becomes necessary, in view of the pages which the reader is about to peruse, and of others which will be met with further on.
The author of this book, who regrets the necessity of mentioning himself, has been absent from Paris for many years. Paris has been transformed since he quitted it. A new city has arisen, which is, after a fashion, unknown to him. There is no need for him to say that he loves Paris: Paris is his mind's natal city. In consequence of demolitions and reconstructions, the Paris of his youth, that Paris which he bore away religiously in his memory, is now a Paris of days gone by. He must be permitted to speak of that Paris as though it still existed. It is possible that when the author conducts his readers to a spot and says, "In such a street there stands such and such a house," neither street nor house will any longer exist in that locality. Readers may verify the facts if they care to take the trouble. For his own part, he is unacquainted with the new Paris, and he writes with the old Paris before his eyes in an illusion which is precious to him. It is a delight to him to dream that there still lingers behind him something of that which he beheld when he was in his own country, and that all has not vanished. So long as you go and come in your native land, you imagine that those streets are a matter of indifference to you; that those windows, those roofs, and those doors are nothing to you; that those walls are strangers to you; that those trees are merely the first encountered haphazard; that those houses, which you do not enter, are useless to you; that the pavements which you tread are merely stones. Later on, when you are no longer there, you perceive that the streets are dear to you; that you miss those roofs, those doors; and that those walls are necessary to you, those trees are well beloved by you; that you entered those houses which you never entered, every day, and that you have left a part of your heart, of your blood, of your soul, in those pavements. All those places which you no longer behold, which you may never behold again, perchance, and whose memory you have cherished, take on a melancholy charm, recur to your mind with the melancholy of an apparition, make the holy land visible to you, and are, so to speak, the very form of France, and you love them; and you call them up as they are, as they were, and you persist in this, and you will submit to no change: for you are attached to the figure of your fatherland as to the face of your mother.
May we, then, be permitted to speak of the past in the present? That said, we beg the reader to take note of it, and we continue.
Jean Valjean instantly quitted the boulevard and plunged into the streets, taking the most intricate lines which he could devise, returning on his track at times, to make sure that he was not being followed.
This manoeuvre is peculiar to the hunted stag. On soil where an imprint of the track may be left, this manoeuvre possesses, among other advantages, that of deceiving the huntsmen and the dogs, by throwing them on the wrong scent. In venery this is called false re-imbushment.
The moon was full that night. Jean Valjean was not sorry for this. The moon, still very close to the horizon, cast great masses of light and shadow in the streets. Jean Valjean could glide along close to the houses on the dark side, and yet keep watch on the light side. He did not, perhaps, take sufficiently into consideration the fact that the dark side escaped him. Still, in the deserted lanes which lie near the Rue Poliveau, he thought he felt certain that no one was following him.
Cosette walked on without asking any questions. The sufferings of the first six years of her life had instilled something passive into her nature. Moreover,--and this is a remark to which we shall frequently have occasion to recur,--she had grown used, without being herself aware of it, to the peculiarities of this good man and to the freaks of destiny. And then she was with him, and she felt safe.
Jean Valjean knew no more where he was going than did Cosette. He trusted in God, as she trusted in him. It seemed as though he also were clinging to the hand of some one greater than himself; he thought he felt a being leading him, though invisible. However, he had no settled idea, no plan, no project. He was not even absolutely sure that it was Javert, and then it might have been Javert, without Javert knowing that he was Jean Valjean. Was not he disguised? Was not he believed to be dead? Still, queer things had been going on for several days. He wanted no more of them. He was determined not to return to the Gorbeau house. Like the wild animal chased from its lair, he was seeking a hole in which he might hide until he could find one where he might dwell.
Jean Valjean described many and varied labyrinths in the Mouffetard quarter, which was already asleep, as though the discipline of the Middle Ages and the yoke of the curfew still existed; he combined in various manners, with cunning strategy, the Rue Censier and the Rue Copeau, the Rue du Battoir-Saint-Victor and the Rue du Puits l'Ermite. There are lodging houses in this locality, but he did not even enter one, finding nothing which suited him. He had no doubt that if any one had chanced to be upon his track, they would have lost it.
As eleven o'clock struck from Saint-Etienne-du-Mont, he was traversing the Rue de Pontoise, in front of the office of the commissary of police, situated at No. 14. A few moments later, the instinct of which we have spoken above made him turn round. At that moment he saw distinctly, thanks to the commissary's lantern, which betrayed them, three men who were following him closely, pass, one after the other, under that lantern, on the dark side of the street. One of the three entered the alley leading to the commissary's house. The one who marched at their head struck him as decidedly suspicious.
"Come, child," he said to Cosette; and he made haste to quit the Rue Pontoise.
He took a circuit, turned into the Passage des Patriarches, which was closed on account of the hour, strode along the Rue de l'Epee-de-Bois and the Rue de l'Arbalete, and plunged into the Rue des Postes.
At that time there was a square formed by the intersection of streets, where the College Rollin stands to-day, and where the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve turns off.
It is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve is an old street, and that a posting-chaise does not pass through the Rue des Postes once in ten years. In the thirteenth century this Rue des Postes was inhabited by potters, and its real name is Rue des Pots.
The moon cast a livid light into this open space. Jean Valjean went into ambush in a doorway, calculating that if the men were still following him, he could not fail to get a good look at them, as they traversed this illuminated space.
In point of fact, three minutes had not elapsed when the men made their appearance. There were four of them now. All were tall, dressed in long, brown coats, with round hats, and huge cudgels in their hands. Their great stature and their vast fists rendered them no less alarming than did their sinister stride through the darkness. One would have pronounced them four spectres disguised as bourgeois.
They halted in the middle of the space and formed a group, like men in consultation. They had an air of indecision. The one who appeared to be their leader turned round and pointed hastily with his right hand in the direction which Jean Valjean had taken; another seemed to indicate the contrary direction with considerable obstinacy. At the moment when the first man wheeled round, the moon fell full in his face. Jean Valjean recognized Javert perfectly.
有一点得在此说明一下，这对我们即将读到的若干页以及今后还会遇到的若干页都是必要的。
本书的作者棗很抱歉，不能不谈到他本人棗离开巴黎，已经多年①。自从他离开以后，巴黎的面貌改变了。这个新型城市，在某些方面，对他来说是陌生的。他用不着说他爱巴黎，巴黎是他精神方面的故乡。由于多方面的拆除和重建，他青年时期的巴黎，他以虔敬的心情保存在记忆中的那个巴黎，现在只是旧时的巴黎了。请允许他谈那旧时的巴黎，好象它现在仍然存在一样。作者即将引着读者到某处，说“在某条街上有某所房子”，而今天在那里却可能既没有房子也没有街了。读者不妨勘查，假使不嫌麻烦的话。至于他，他不认识新巴黎，出现在他眼前的只是旧巴黎，他怀着他所珍惜的幻象而加以叙述。梦想当年在国内看见的事物，现在还有些存留下来并没有完全消失，这对他来说是件快意的事。当人们在祖国的土地上来来往往时，心里总存着一种幻想，以为那些街道和自己无关，这些窗子、这些屋顶、这些门，都和自己不相干，这些墙壁也和自己没有关系，这些树木不过是些无足轻重的树木，自己从来不进去的房屋对自己也都是无足轻重的，脚底下踩着的石块路面只不过是些石块而已。可是，日后一旦离开了祖国，你就会感到你是多么惦记那些街道，多么怀念那些屋顶、窗子和门，你会感到那些墙壁对你是不可少的，那些树木是你热爱的朋友，你也会认识到你从来不进去的那些房屋却是你现在每天都神游的地方，在那些铺路的石块上，你也曾留下了你的肝胆、你的血和你的心。那一切地方，你现在见不到了，也许永远不会再见到了，可是你还记得它们的形象，你会觉得它们妩媚到使你心痛，它们会象幽灵一样忧伤地显现在你的眼前，使你如同见到了圣地，那一切地方，正可以说是法兰西的本来面目，而你热爱它们，不时回想它们的真面目，它们旧时的真面目，并且你在这上面固执己见，不甘心任何改变，因为你眷念祖国的面貌，正如眷念慈母的音容。 
①作者在一八五一年十二月，因反对拿破仑第三发动的政变，被迫离开法国，直到一八七○年九月拿破仑第三垮台后才回国。本书发表于一八六二年。
因此，请容许我们面对现在谈过去，这一层交代清楚以后，还得请读者牢记在心。现在我们继续谈下去。
冉阿让立即离开大路，转进小街，尽可能走着曲折的路线，有时甚至突然折回头，看是否有人跟他。
这种行动是被困的麋鹿专爱采用的。这种行动有多种好处，其中的一种便是在可以留下迹印的地方让倒着走的蹄痕把猎人和猎狗引入歧路。这在狩猎中叫做“假遁”。
那天的月亮正圆。冉阿让并不因此感到不便。当时月亮离地平线还很近，在街道上划出了大块的阴面和阳面。冉阿让可以隐在阴暗的一边，顺着房屋和墙壁朝前走，同时窥伺着明亮的一面。他也许没有充分估计到阴暗的一面也是不容忽视的。不过，他料想在波利弗街附近一带的胡同里，一定不会有人在他后面跟着。
珂赛特只走不问，她生命中最初六年的痛苦已使她的性情变得有些被动了。而且，这一特点，我们今后还会不止一次地要提到，在不知不觉中她早已对这老人的独特行为和自己命运中的离奇变幻习惯了。此外，她觉得和他在一道总是安全的。
珂赛特固然不知道他们要去什么地方，冉阿让也未必知道，他把自己交给了上帝，正如她把自己交给了他。他觉得他也一样牵着一个比他伟大的人的手，他仿佛觉得有个无影无踪的主宰在引导他。除此以外，他没有一点固定的主意，毫无打算，毫无计划。他甚至不能十分确定那究竟是不是沙威，并且即使是沙威，沙威也不一定就知道他是冉阿让。他不是已经改了装吗？人家不是早以为他死了吗？可是最近几天来发生的事却变得有些奇怪。他不能再观望了。他决计不再回戈尔博老屋。好象一头从窠里被撵出来的野兽一样，他得先找一个洞暂时躲躲，以后再慢慢地找个安身之处。
冉阿让在穆夫达区神出鬼没好象左弯右拐地绕了好几个圈子，当时区上的居民都已入睡，他们好象还在遵守中世纪的规定，受着宵禁的管制，他以各种不同的方法，把税吏街和刨花街、圣维克多木杵街和隐士井街配合起来，施展了巧妙的战略。这一带原有一些供人租用的房舍，但是他甚至进都不进去，因为他没有找到合适的。其实，他深信即使万一有人要找他的踪迹，也早已迷失方向了。
圣艾蒂安·德·蒙礼拜堂敲十一点钟时，他正从蓬图瓦兹街十四号警察哨所门前走过。不大一会儿，出自我们上面所说的那种本能，他又转身折回来。这时，他看见有三个紧跟着他的人，在街边黑暗的一面，一个接着一个，从哨所的路灯下面走过，灯光把他们照得清清楚楚。那三个人中的一个走到哨所的甬道里去了。领头走的那个人的神气十分可疑。
“来，孩子。”他对珂赛特说，同时他赶忙离开了蓬图瓦兹街。
他兜了一圈，转过长老通道，胡同口上的门因时间已晚早已关了，大步穿过了木剑街和弩弓街，走进了驿站街。
那地方有个十字路口，便是今天罗兰学校所在的地方，也就是圣热纳维埃夫新街分岔的地方。
（不用说，圣热纳维埃夫新街是条老街，驿站街在每十年中也看不见有辆邮车走过。驿站街在十三世纪时是陶器工人居住的地方，它的真名是瓦罐街。）
月光正把那十字路口照得雪亮。冉阿让隐在一个门洞里，心里打算，那几个人如果还跟着他，就一定会在月光中穿过，他便不会看不清楚。
果然，还不到三分钟，那几个人又出现了。他们现在是四个人，个个都是高大个儿，穿着棕色长大衣，戴着圆边帽，手里拿着粗棍棒。不单是他们的高身材和大拳头使人见了不安，连他们在黑暗中的那种行动也是怪阴森的，看去就象是四个变成士绅的鬼物。
他们走到十字路口中央，停下来，聚拢在一起，仿佛在交换意见。其中有一个象是他们的首领，回转头来，坚决伸出右手，指着冉阿让所在的方向，另一个又好象带着固执的神气指着相反的方向。正当第一个回转头时，月光正照着他的脸，冉阿让看得清清楚楚，那确是沙威。 
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 3 To Wit, the Plan of Paris in 1727
Three hundred paces further on, he arrived at a point where the street forked. It separated into two streets, which ran in a slanting line, one to the right, and the other to the left.
Jean Valjean had before him what resembled the two branches of a Y. Which should he choose? He did not hesitate, but took the one on the right.
Why?
Because that to the left ran towards a suburb, that is to say, towards inhabited regions, and the right branch towards the open country, that is to say, towards deserted regions.
However, they no longer walked very fast. Cosette's pace retarded Jean Valjean's.
He took her up and carried her again. Cosette laid her head on the shoulder of the good man and said not a word.
He turned round from time to time and looked behind him. He took care to keep always on the dark side of the street. The street was straight in his rear. The first two or three times that he turned round he saw nothing; the silence was profound, and he continued his march somewhat reassured. All at once, on turning round, he thought he perceived in the portion of the street which he had just passed through, far off in the obscurity, something which was moving.
He rushed forward precipitately rather than walked, hoping to find some side-street, to make his escape through it, and thus to break his scent once more.
He arrived at a wall.
This wall, however, did not absolutely prevent further progress; it was a wall which bordered a transverse street, in which the one he had taken ended.
Here again, he was obliged to come to a decision; should he go to the right or to the left.
He glanced to the right. The fragmentary lane was prolonged between buildings which were either sheds or barns, then ended at a blind alley. The extremity of the cul-de-sac was distinctly visible,-- a lofty white wall.
He glanced to the left. On that side the lane was open, and about two hundred paces further on, ran into a street of which it was the affluent. On that side lay safety.
At the moment when Jean Valjean was meditating a turn to the left, in an effort to reach the street which he saw at the end of the lane, he perceived a sort of motionless, black statue at the corner of the lane and the street towards which he was on the point of directing his steps.
It was some one, a man, who had evidently just been posted there, and who was barring the passage and waiting.
Jean Valjean recoiled.
The point of Paris where Jean Valjean found himself, situated between the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and la Rapee, is one of those which recent improvements have transformed from top to bottom,-- resulting in disfigurement according to some, and in a transfiguration according to others. The market-gardens, the timber-yards, and the old buildings have been effaced. To-day, there are brand-new, wide streets, arenas, circuses, hippodromes, railway stations, and a prison, Mazas, there; progress, as the reader sees, with its antidote.
Half a century ago, in that ordinary, popular tongue, which is all compounded of traditions, which persists in calling the Institut les Quatre-Nations, and the Opera-Comique Feydeau, the precise spot whither Jean Valjean had arrived was called le Petit Picpus. The Porte Saint-Jacques, the Porte Paris, the Barriere des Sergents, the Porcherons, la Galiote, les Celestins, les Capucins, le Mail, la Bourbe, l'Arbre de Cracovie, la Petite-Pologne--these are the names of old Paris which survive amid the new. The memory of the populace hovers over these relics of the past.
Le Petit-Picpus, which, moreover, hardly ever had any existence, and never was more than the outline of a quarter, had nearly the monkish aspect of a Spanish town. The roads were not much paved; the streets were not much built up. With the exception of the two or three streets, of which we shall presently speak, all was wall and solitude there. Not a shop, not a vehicle, hardly a candle lighted here and there in the windows; all lights extinguished after ten o'clock. Gardens, convents, timber-yards, marshes; occasional lowly dwellings and great walls as high as the houses.
Such was this quarter in the last century. The Revolution snubbed it soundly. The republican government demolished and cut through it. Rubbish shoots were established there. Thirty years ago, this quarter was disappearing under the erasing process of new buildings. To-day, it has been utterly blotted out. The Petit-Picpus, of which no existing plan has preserved a trace, is indicated with sufficient clearness in the plan of 1727, published at Paris by Denis Thierry, Rue Saint-Jacques, opposite the Rue du Platre; and at Lyons, by Jean Girin, Rue Merciere, at the sign of Prudence. Petit-Picpus had, as we have just mentioned, a Y of streets, formed by the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, which spread out in two branches, taking on the left the name of Little Picpus Street, and on the right the name of the Rue Polonceau. The two limbs of the Y were connected at the apex as by a bar; this bar was called Rue Droit-Mur. The Rue Polonceau ended there; Rue Petit-Picpus passed on, and ascended towards the Lenoir market. A person coming from the Seine reached the extremity of the Rue Polonceau, and had on his right the Rue Droit-Mur, turning abruptly at a right angle, in front of him the wall of that street, and on his right a truncated prolongation of the Rue Droit-Mur, which had no issue and was called the Cul-de-Sac Genrot.
It was here that Jean Valjean stood.
As we have just said, on catching sight of that black silhouette standing on guard at the angle of the Rue Droit-Mur and the Rue Petit-Picpus, he recoiled. There could be no doubt of it. That phantom was lying in wait for him.
What was he to do?
The time for retreating was passed. That which he had perceived in movement an instant before, in the distant darkness, was Javert and his squad without a doubt. Javert was probably already at the commencement of the street at whose end Jean Valjean stood. Javert, to all appearances, was acquainted with this little labyrinth, and had taken his precautions by sending one of his men to guard the exit. These surmises, which so closely resembled proofs, whirled suddenly, like a handful of dust caught up by an unexpected gust of wind, through Jean Valjean's mournful brain. He examined the Cul-de-Sac Genrot; there he was cut off. He examined the Rue Petit-Picpus; there stood a sentinel. He saw that black form standing out in relief against the white pavement, illuminated by the moon; to advance was to fall into this man's hands; to retreat was to fling himself into Javert's arms. Jean Valjean felt himself caught, as in a net, which was slowly contracting; he gazed heavenward in despair.
走了三百步后他到了一个岔路口。街道在这里分作两条，一条斜向左边，一条向右。摆在冉阿让面前的仿佛是个Y字的两股叉。选哪一股好呢？
他毫不踌躇，向右走。
为什么？
因为左边去城郊，就是说，去有人住的地方；右边去乡间，就是说，去荒野的地方。
可是他已不象先头那样走得飞快了。珂赛特的脚步拖住了冉阿让的脚步。
他又抱起她来。珂赛特把头靠在老人肩上，一声也不响。
他不时回头望望。他一直留心靠着街边阴暗的一面。他背后的街是直的。他回头看了两三次，什么也没有看见，什么声音全没有，他继续往前走，心里稍微宽了些。忽然，他往后望时，又仿佛看见在他刚刚走过的那段街上，在远处，黑影里，有东西在动。
他现在不是走而是往前奔了，一心只想能有一条侧巷，从那儿逃走，再次脱险。
他撞见一堵墙。
那墙并不挡住去路，冉阿让现在所走的这条街，通到一条横巷，那是横巷旁边的围墙。
到了那里，又得打主意，朝右走，或是朝左。
他向右边望去。巷子两旁有一些敞棚和仓库之类的建筑物，它象一条盲肠似的伸展出去，无路可通。可以清晰地望见巷底，有一堵高粉墙。
他向左望。这边的胡同是通的，而且，在相隔二百来步的地方，便接上另一条街。这一边才是生路。
冉阿让正要转向左边，打算逃到他隐约看到的巷底的那条街上去，他忽然发现在巷口和他要去的那条街相接的拐角上，有个黑魆魆的人形，立着不动。
那确是一个人，明明是刚才派来守在巷口挡住去路的。
冉阿让赶忙往后退。
他当时所在地处于圣安东尼郊区和拉白区之间，巴黎的这一带也是被新建工程彻底改变了的，这种改变，有些人称为丑化，也有些人称为改观。园圃、工场、旧建筑物全取消了。今天在这一带是全新的大街、竞技场、马戏场、跑马场、火车起点站、一所名为马扎斯的监狱，足见进步不离刑罚。
冉阿让当时到达的地方在半个世纪以前，叫做小比克布斯，这名称完全出自传统的民族常用语，正如这种常用语一定要把学院称为“四国”，喜歌剧院称为“费多”一样。圣雅克门、巴黎门、中士便门、波舍隆、加利奥特、则肋斯定、嘉布遣、玛依、布尔白、克拉科夫树、小波兰、小比克布斯，这些全是旧巴黎替新巴黎遗留下来的名称。对这些残存的事物人民一直念念不忘。
小比克布斯从来就是一个区的雏型，存在的年代也不长，它差不多有着西班牙城市那种古朴的外貌。路上多半没有铺石块，街上多半没有盖房屋。除了我们即将谈到的两三条街道外，四处全是墙和旷野。没有一家店铺，没有一辆车子，只偶然有点烛光从几处窗口透出来，十点过后，所有的灯火全灭了。全是些园圃、修院、工场、洼地，有几所少见的矮屋以及和房子一样高的墙。
这个区在前一世纪的形象便是这样的。革命曾替它带来不少灾难，共和时期的建设局把它毁坏，洞穿，打窟窿。残砖破瓦，处处堆积。这个区在三十年前已被新建筑所淹没。今天已一笔勾销了。
小比克布斯，在现在的市区图上已毫无影踪，可是位于巴黎圣雅克街上正对着石膏街的德尼·蒂埃里书店和位于里昂普律丹斯广场针线街上的让·吉兰书店在一七二七年印行的市区图上却标志得相当清楚。小比克布斯有我们刚才说过的象Y字形的街道，Y字下半的一竖，是圣安东尼绿径街，它分为左右两支，左支是比克布斯小街，右支是波隆梭街。这Y字的两个尖又好象是由一横连接起来的。这一横叫直壁街。波隆梭街通到直壁街为止，比克布斯小街却穿过直壁街以后，还上坡通到勒努瓦市场。从塞纳河走来的人，走到波隆梭街的尽头，向他左边转个九十度的急弯，便到了直壁街，在他面前的是沿着这条街的墙，在他右边的是直壁街的街尾，不通别处，叫做让洛死胡同。
冉阿让当时正是到了这地方。
正如我们先头所说的，他望见有一个黑影把守在直壁街和比克布斯小街的转角处，便往后退。毫无疑问，他已成了那鬼影窥伺的对象。
怎么办？
已经来不及退回去了。他先头望见的远远地在他背后黑影里移动的，一定就是沙威和他的队伍。沙威很可能是在这条街的口上，冉阿让则是在这条街的尾上。从所有已知迹象方面看，沙威是熟悉这一小块地方复杂的地形的，他已有了准备，派了他手下的一个人去守住了出口。这种猜测，完全符合事实，于是在冉阿让痛苦的头脑里，象一把在急风中飞散的灰沙，把他搅得心慌意乱。他仔细看了看让洛死胡同，这儿，无路可通，又仔细看了看比克布斯小街，这儿，有人把守。他望见那黑魆魆的人影出现在月光雪亮的街口上。朝前走吧，一定落在那个人的手里。向后退吧，又会和沙威撞个满怀。冉阿让感到自己已经陷在一个越收越紧的罗网里了。他怀着失望的心情望着天空。
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 4 The Gropings of Flight
In order to understand what follows, it is requisite to form an exact idea of the Droit-Mur lane, and, in particular, of the angle which one leaves on the left when one emerges from the Rue Polonceau into this lane. Droit-Mur lane was almost entirely bordered on the right, as far as the Rue Petit-Picpus, by houses of mean aspect; on the left by a solitary building of severe outlines, composed of numerous parts which grew gradually higher by a story or two as they approached the Rue Petit-Picpus side; so that this building, which was very lofty on the Rue Petit-Picpus side, was tolerably low on the side adjoining the Rue Polonceau. There, at the angle of which we have spoken, it descended to such a degree that it consisted of merely a wall. This wall did not abut directly on the Street; it formed a deeply retreating niche, concealed by its two corners from two observers who might have been, one in the Rue Polonceau, the other in the Rue Droit-Mur.
Beginning with these angles of the niche, the wall extended along the Rue Polonceau as far as a house which bore the number 49, and along the Rue Droit-Mur, where the fragment was much shorter, as far as the gloomy building which we have mentioned and whose gable it intersected, thus forming another retreating angle in the street. This gable was sombre of aspect; only one window was visible, or, to speak more correctly, two shutters covered with a sheet of zinc and kept constantly closed.
The state of the places of which we are here giving a description is rigorously exact, and will certainly awaken a very precise memory in the mind of old inhabitants of the quarter.
The niche was entirely filled by a thing which resembled a colossal and wretched door; it was a vast, formless assemblage of perpendicular planks, the upper ones being broader than the lower, bound together by long transverse strips of iron. At one side there was a carriage gate of the ordinary dimensions, and which had evidently not been cut more than fifty years previously.
A linden-tree showed its crest above the niche, and the wall was covered with ivy on the side of the Rue Polonceau.
In the imminent peril in which Jean Valjean found himself, this sombre building had about it a solitary and uninhabited look which tempted him. He ran his eyes rapidly over it; he said to himself, that if he could contrive to get inside it, he might save himself. First he conceived an idea, then a hope.
In the central portion of the front of this building, on the Rue Droit-Mur side, there were at all the windows of the different stories ancient cistern pipes of lead. The various branches of the pipes which led from one central pipe to all these little basins sketched out a sort of tree on the front. These ramifications of pipes with their hundred elbows imitated those old leafless vine-stocks which writhe over the fronts of old farm-houses.
This odd espalier, with its branches of lead and iron, was the first thing that struck Jean Valjean. He seated Cosette with her back against a stone post, with an injunction to be silent, and ran to the spot where the conduit touched the pavement. Perhaps there was some way of climbing up by it and entering the house. But the pipe was dilapidated and past service, and hardly hung to its fastenings. Moreover, all the windows of this silent dwelling were grated with heavy iron bars, even the attic windows in the roof. And then, the moon fell full upon that facade, and the man who was watching at the corner of the street would have seen Jean Valjean in the act of climbing. And finally, what was to be done with Cosette? How was she to be drawn up to the top of a three-story house?
He gave up all idea of climbing by means of the drain-pipe, and crawled along the wall to get back into the Rue Polonceau.
When he reached the slant of the wall where he had left Cosette, he noticed that no one could see him there. As we have just explained, he was concealed from all eyes, no matter from which direction they were approaching; besides this, he was in the shadow. Finally, there were two doors; perhaps they might be forced. The wall above which he saw the linden-tree and the ivy evidently abutted on a garden where he could, at least, hide himself, although there were as yet no leaves on the trees, and spend the remainder of the night.
Time was passing; he must act quickly.
He felt over the carriage door, and immediately recognized the fact that it was impracticable outside and in.
He approached the other door with more hope; it was frightfully decrepit; its very immensity rendered it less solid; the planks were rotten; the iron bands--there were only three of them--were rusted. It seemed as though it might be possible to pierce this worm-eaten barrier.
On examining it he found that the door was not a door; it had neither hinges, cross-bars, lock, nor fissure in the middle; the iron bands traversed it from side to side without any break. Through the crevices in the planks he caught a view of unhewn slabs and blocks of stone roughly cemented together, which passers-by might still have seen there ten years ago. He was forced to acknowledge with consternation that this apparent door was simply the wooden decoration of a building against which it was placed. It was easy to tear off a plank; but then, one found one's self face to face with a wall.
为了懂得下面即将叙述的事，必须正确认识直壁胡同的情况，尤其是当我们走出波隆梭街转进直壁胡同时留在我们左边的这只角。沿着直壁胡同右边直到比克布斯小街，一路上几乎全是一些外表看来贫苦的房子；靠左一面，却只有一栋房屋，那房屋的式样比较严肃，是由好几部分组成的，它高一层或高两层地逐渐向比克布斯小街方面高上去，因此那栋房屋，在靠比克布斯小街一面，非常高，而在靠波隆梭街一面却相当矮。在我们先头提到过的那个转角地方，更是低到只有一道墙了。这道墙并不和波隆梭街构成一个四正四方的角，而是形成一道墙身厚度减薄了的斜壁，这道斜壁在它左右两角的掩护下，无论是站在波隆梭街方面的人或是站在直壁胡同方面的人都望不见。
和这斜壁两角相连的墙，在波隆梭街方面，一直延伸到第四十九号房屋，而在直壁街一面棗这面短多了棗直抵先头提到过的那所黑暗楼房的山尖，并和山尖构成一个新凹角。那山尖的形状也是阴森森的，墙上只有一道窗子，应当说，只有两块板窗，板上钉了锌皮。并且是永远关着的。
我们在这里所作的关于地形的描写和实际情况完全吻合，一定能在曾经住过这一带的人的心中唤起极精确的回忆。
斜壁的面上完全被一种东西遮满了，看起来仿佛是一道又离又大丑陋不堪的门。其实只是一些胡乱拼揍起来直钉在壁面上的一条条木板，上面的板比较宽，下面的比较窄，又用些长条铁皮横钉在板上，把它们连系起来。旁边有一道大车门，大小和普通的大车门一样，从外形看，那道门的年龄大致不出五十年。
一棵菩提树的枝桠从斜壁的顶上伸出来，靠波隆梭街一面的墙上盖满了常春藤。
冉阿让正在走投无路时看见了那所楼房，冷清清，仿佛里面没有人住似的，便想从那里找出路。他赶忙用眼睛打量了一遍。心里盘算，如果能钻到这里面去，也许有救。他先有了一个主意和一线希望。
楼房的后窗有一部分临直壁街，在这部分中的一段，每层楼上的每个窗口，都装有旧铅皮漏斗。从一根总管分出的各种不同排水管连接在各个漏斗上，好象是画在后墙上面的一棵树。这些分支管，曲曲折折，也好象是一棵盘附在庄屋后墙上的枯葡萄藤。
那种奇形怪状由铅皮管和铁管构成的枝桠最先引起冉阿让的注意。他让珂赛特靠着一块石碑坐下，嘱咐她不要作声，再跑到水管和街道相接的地方。也许有办法从这儿翻到楼房里去。可是水管已经烂了，不中用，和墙上的连系也极不牢固。况且那所冷清清的房屋的每个窗口，连顶楼也计算在内，全都装了粗铁条。月光也正照着这一面，守在街口上的那个人可能会看见冉阿让翻墙。并且，珂赛特又怎么办？怎么把她弄上四层楼？
他放弃了爬水管的念头，爬在地上，沿着墙根，又回到了波隆梭街。
他回到珂赛特原先所在的斜壁下面后，发现这地方是别人瞧不见的。我们先头说过，他在这地方，可以逃过从任何一面来的视线，并且是藏在黑影里。再说还有两道门。也许撬得开呢。在见到菩提树和常春藤的那道墙里，显然是个园子，尽管树上还没有树叶，他至少可以在园里躲过下半夜。
时间飞快地过去了。他得赶紧行动。
他推推那道大车门，一下便察觉到它内外两面都被钉得严严实实。
他怀着较大的希望去推那道大门。它已经破敝不堪，再加又高又阔，因而更不牢固，木板是腐朽的，长条铁皮只有三条，也全锈了。在这蛀坏了的木壁上穿个洞也许还能办到。
仔细看了以后，他才知道那并不是门。它既没有门斗，也没有铰链，既没有锁，中间也没有缝。一些长条铁皮胡乱横钉在上面，彼此并不连贯。从木板的裂缝里，他隐隐约约看见三合土里的石碴和石块，十年前走过这地方的人也还能看到。他大失所望，不能不承认那外表象门的东西只不过是一所房子背面的护墙板。撬开板子并不难，可是板子后面还有墙。
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 5 Which would be Impossible with Gas Lanterns
At that moment a heavy and measured sound began to be audible at some distance. Jean Valjean risked a glance round the corner of the street. Seven or eight soldiers, drawn up in a platoon, had just debouched into the Rue Polonceau. He saw the gleam of their bayonets. They were advancing towards him; these soldiers, at whose head he distinguished Javert's tall figure, advanced slowly and cautiously. They halted frequently; it was plain that they were searching all the nooks of the walls and all the embrasures of the doors and alleys.
This was some patrol that Javert had encountered--there could be no mistake as to this surmise--and whose aid he had demanded.
Javert's two acolytes were marching in their ranks.
At the rate at which they were marching, and in consideration of the halts which they were making, it would take them about a quarter of an hour to reach the spot where Jean Valjean stood. It was a frightful moment. A few minutes only separated Jean Valjean from that terrible precipice which yawned before him for the third time. And the galleys now meant not only the galleys, but Cosette lost to him forever; that is to say, a life resembling the interior of a tomb.
There was but one thing which was possible.
Jean Valjean had this peculiarity, that he carried, as one might say, two beggar's pouches: in one he kept under his feet and elbows. Half a minute had not elapsed when he was resting on his knees on the wall.
Cosette gazed at him in stupid amazement, without uttering a word. Jean Valjean's injunction, and the name of Madame Thenardier, had chilled her blood.
All at once she heard Jean Valjean's voice crying to her, though in a very low tone:--
"滜鞙郺ning on the nape of his neck, his shoulders, his hips, and his knees, by helping himself on the rare projections of the stone, in the right angle of a wall, as high as the sixth story, if need be; an art which has rendered so celebrated and so alarming that corner of the wall of the Conciergerie of Paris by which Battemolle, condemned to death, made his escape twenty years ago.
Jean Valjean measured with his eyes the wall above which he espied the linden; it was about eighteen feet in height. The angle which it formed with the gable of the large building was filled, at its lower extremity, by a mass of masonry of a triangular shape, probably intended to preserve that too convenient corner from the rubbish of those dirty creatures called the passers-by. This practice of filling up corners of the wall is much in use in Paris.
This mass was about five feet in height; the space above the summit of this mass which it was necessary to climb was not more than fourteen feet.
The wall was surmounted by a flat stone without a coping.
Cosette was the difficulty, for she did not know how to climb a wall. Should he abandon her? Jean Valjean did not once think of that. It was impossible to carry her. A man's whole strength is required to successfully carry out these singular ascents. The least burden would disturb his centre of gravity and pull him downwards.
A rope would have been required; Jean Valjean had none. Where was he to get a rope at midnight, in the Rue Polonceau? Certainly, if Jean Valjean had had a kingdom, he would have given it for a rope at that moment.
All extreme situations have their lightning flashes which sometimes dazzle, sometimes illuminate us.
Jean Valjean's despairing glance fell on the street lantern-post of the blind alley Genrot.
At that epoch there were no gas-jets in the streets of Paris. At nightfall lanterns placed at regular distances were lighted; they were ascended and descended by means of a rope, which traversed the street from side to side, and was adjusted in a groove of the post. The pulley over which this rope ran was fastened underneath the lantern in a little iron box, the key to which was kept by the lamp-lighter, and the rope itself was protected by a metal case.
Jean Valjean, with the energy of a supreme struggle, crossed the street at one bound, entered the blind alley, broke the latch of the little box with the point of his knife, and an instant later he was beside Cosette once more. He had a rope. These gloomy inventors of expedients work rapidly when they are fighting against fatality.
We have already explained that the lanterns had not been lighted that night. The lantern in the Cul-de-Sac Genrot was thus naturally extinct, like the rest; and one could pass directly under it without even noticing that it was no longer in its place.
Nevertheless, the hour, the place, the darkness, Jean Valjean's absorption, his singular gestures, his goings and comings, all had begun to render Cosette uneasy. Any other child than she would have given vent to loud shrieks long before. She contented herself with plucking Jean Valjean by the skirt of his coat. They could hear the sound of the patrol's approach ever more and more distinctly.
"Father," said she, in a very low voice, "I am afraid. Who is coming yonder?"
"Hush!" replied the unhappy man; "it is Madame Thenardier."
Cosette shuddered. He added:--
"Say nothing. Don't interfere with me. If you cry out, if you weep, the Thenardier is lying in wait for you. She is coming to take you back."
Then, without haste, but without making a useless movement, with firm and curt precision, the more remarkable at a moment when the patrol and Javert might come upon him at any moment, he undid his cravat, passed it round Cosette's body under the armpits, taking care that it should not hurt the child, fastened this cravat to one end of the rope, by means of that knot which seafaring men call a "swallow knot," took the other end of the rope in his teeth, pulled off his shoes and stockings, which he threw over the wall, stepped upon the mass of masonry, and began to raise himself in the angle of the wall and the gable with as much solidity and certainty as though he had the rounds of a ladder under his feet and elbows. Half a minute had not elapsed when he was resting on his knees on the wall.
Cosette gazed at him in stupid amazement, without uttering a word. Jean Valjean's injunction, and the name of Madame Thenardier, had chilled her blood.
All at once she heard Jean Valjean's voice crying to her, though in a very low tone:--
"Put your back against the wall."
She obeyed.
"Don't say a word, and don't be alarmed," went on Jean Valjean.
And she felt herself lifted from the ground.
Before she had time to recover herself, she was on the top of the wall.
Jean Valjean grasped her, put her on his back, took her two tiny hands in his large left hand, lay down flat on his stomach and crawled along on top of the wall as far as the cant. As he had guessed, there stood a building whose roof started from the top of the wooden barricade and descended to within a very short distance of the ground, with a gentle slope which grazed the linden-tree. A lucky circumstance, for the wall was much higher on this side than on the street side. Jean Valjean could only see the ground at a great depth below him.
He had just reached the slope of the roof, and had not yet left the crest of the wall, when a violent uproar announced the arrival of the patrol. The thundering voice of Javert was audible:--
"Search the blind alley! The Rue Droit-Mur is guarded! so is the Rue Petit-Picpus. I'll answer for it that he is in the blind alley."
The soldiers rushed into the Genrot alley.
Jean Valjean allowed himself to slide down the roof, still holding fast to Cosette, reached the linden-tree, and leaped to the ground. Whether from terror or courage, Cosette had not breathed a sound, though her hands were a little abraded.
这时，从远处开始传出一种低沉而有节奏的声音。冉阿让冒险从墙角探出头来望了一眼。七八个大兵，排着队，正走进波隆梭街口。他能望见枪刺闪光，他们正朝着他这方面走来。
他望见沙威的高大个子走在前面，领着那队兵慢慢地审慎地前进。他们时常停下来。很明显，他们是在搜查每一个墙角，每一个门洞和每一条小道。
毫无疑问，那是沙威在路上碰到临时调来的一个巡逻队。
沙威的两个助手也夹在他们的队伍中一道走。
从他们的行进速度和一路上的停留计算起来，还得一刻来钟才能到达冉阿让所在的地方。这是一发千钧之际，冉阿让身临绝地，他生平这是第三次，不出几分钟他又得完了，并且这不只是苦役牢的问题，珂赛特也将从此被断送，这就是说她今后将和孤魂野鬼一样漂泊无依了。
这时只有一件事是可行的。
冉阿让有这样一个特点，我们可以说他身上有个褡裢，一头装着圣人的思想，一头装着囚犯的技巧。他可以斟酌情形，两头选择。
他从前在土伦的苦役牢里多次越狱的岁月中，除了其他一些本领以外还学会了一种绝技，他而且还是这绝技中首屈一指的能手，我们记得，他能不用梯子，不用踏脚，全凭自己肌肉的力量，用后颈、肩头、臀、膝在石块上偶有的一些棱角上稍稍撑持一下，便可在必要时，从两堵墙连接处的直角里，一直升上六层楼。二十来年前，囚犯巴特莫尔便是用这种巧技从巴黎刑部监狱的院角上逃走的，至今人们望着那墙角也还要捏一把汗，院子的那个角落也因而出了名。
冉阿让用眼睛估量了那边墙的高度，并看见有棵菩提树从墙头上伸出来。那墙约莫有十八尺高。它和大楼的山尖相接，形成一个凹角，角下的墙根部分砌了一个三角形的砖石堆，大致是因为这种墙角对于过路的人们太方便了，于是砌上一个斜堆，好让他们“自重远行”。这种防护墙角的填高工事在巴黎是相当普遍的。
那砖石堆有五尺来高。从堆顶到墙头的距离至多不过十四尺。
墙头上铺了平石板，不带椽条。
伤脑筋的是珂赛特。珂赛特，她，不知道爬墙。丢了她吗？冉阿让决不作此想。背着她上去却又不可能。他得使出全身力气才能巧妙地自个儿直升上去。哪怕是一点点累赘，也会使他失去重心栽下来。
非得有一根绳子不可，冉阿让却没有带。在这波隆梭街，半夜里，到哪儿去找绳子呢？的确，在这关头，冉阿让假使有一个王国，他也会拿来换一根绳子的。
任何紧急关头都有它的闪光，有时叫我们眼瞎，有时又叫我们眼明。
冉阿让正在仓皇四顾时，忽然瞥见了让洛死胡同里那根路灯柱子。
当时巴黎的街道上一盏煤气灯也还没有。街上每隔一定距离只装上一盏回光灯，天快黑时便点上。那种路灯的上下是用一根绳子来牵引的，绳子由街这一面横到那一面，并且是安在柱子的槽里的。绕绳子的转盘关在灯下面的一只小铁盒里，钥匙由点灯工人保管，绳子在一定的高度内有一根金属管子保护着。
冉阿让拿出毅力来作生死搏斗，他一个箭步便窜过了街，进了死胡同，用刀尖撬开了小铁盒的锁键，一会儿又回到了珂赛特的身边。他有了一根绳子。偷生人间的急中生智的人到了生死关头，总是眼明手快的。
我们已经说过，当天晚上，没有点路灯。让洛死胡同里的灯自然也和别处一样，是黑着的，甚至有人走过也不会注意到它已不在原来的位置上了。
当时那种时辰，那种地方，那种黑暗，冉阿让的那种神色，他的那些怪举动，忽去忽来，这一切已叫珂赛特安静不下来了。要是别一个孩子早已大喊大叫起来。而她呢，只轻轻扯着冉阿让的大衣边。他们一直都越来越清楚地听着那巡逻队向他们走来的声音。
“爹，”她用极低的声音说，“我怕。是谁来了？”
“不要响！”那伤心人回答说，“是德纳第大娘。”
珂赛特吓了一跳。他又说道：
“不要说话。让我来。要是你叫，要是你哭，德纳第大娘会找来把你抓回去的。”
接着冉阿让，不慌不忙，有条有理。以简捷稳健准确的动作棗尤其是在巡逻队和沙威随时都可以突然出现时，更不容许他一回事情两回做棗解下自己的领带，绕过孩子的胳肢窝，松松结在她身上，留了意，不让她觉得太紧，又把领带结在绳子的一端，打了一个海员们所谓的燕子结，咬着绳子的另一头，脱下鞋袜，丢过墙头，跳上土堆，开始从两墙相会的角上往高处升，动作稳健踏实，好象他脚跟和肘弯都有一定的步法似的。不到半分钟，他已经跪在墙头上了。
珂赛特直望着他发呆，一声不响。冉阿让的叮嘱和德纳第这名字早已使她麻木了。
她忽然听到冉阿让的声音向她轻轻喊道：
“把背靠在墙上。”
她背墙站好。
“不要响，不要怕。”冉阿让又说。
她觉得自己离了地，往上升。
她还来不及弄清楚是怎么回事，便已到了墙头上了。
冉阿让把她抱起，驮在背上，用左手握住她的两只小手，平伏在墙头上，一径爬到那斜壁上面。正如他所猜测的一样，这里有一栋小屋，屋脊和那板墙相连，屋檐离地面颇近，屋顶的斜度相当平和，也接近菩提树。
这情况很有利，因为墙里的一面比临街的一面要高许多。
冉阿让朝下望去，只见地面离他还很深。
他刚刚接触到屋顶的斜面，手还不曾离开墙脊，便听见一阵嘈杂的人声，巡逻队已经来到了。又听见沙威的嗓子，雷霆似的吼道：
“搜这死胡同！直壁街已经有人把守住了，比克布斯小街也把守住了。我准保他在这死胡同里。”
大兵们一齐冲进了让洛死胡同。
冉阿让扶着珂赛特，顺着屋顶滑下去，滑到那菩提树，又跳在地面上。也许是由于恐怖，也许是由于胆大，珂赛特一声也没出。她手上擦去了点皮。
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 6 The Beginning of an Enigma
Jean Valjean found himself in a sort of garden which was very vast and of singular aspect; one of those melancholy gardens which seem made to be looked at in winter and at night. This garden was oblong in shape, with an alley of large poplars at the further end, tolerably tall forest trees in the corners, and an unshaded space in the centre, where could be seen a very large, solitary tree, then several fruit-trees, gnarled and bristling like bushes, beds of vegetables, a melon patch, whose glass frames sparkled in the moonlight, and an old well. Here and there stood stone benches which seemed black with moss. The alleys were bordered with gloomy and very erect little shrubs. The grass had half taken possession of them, and a green mould covered the rest.
Jean Valjean had beside him the building whose roof had served him as a means of descent, a pile of fagots, and, behind the fagots, directly against the wall, a stone statue, whose mutilated face was no longer anything more than a shapeless mask which loomed vaguely through the gloom.
The building was a sort of ruin, where dismantled chambers were distinguishable, one of which, much encumbered, seemed to serve as a shed.
The large building of the Rue Droit-Mur, which had a wing on the Rue Petit-Picpus, turned two facades, at right angles, towards this garden. These interior facades were even more tragic than the exterior. All the windows were grated. Not a gleam of light was visible at any one of them. The upper story had scuttles like prisons. One of those facades cast its shadow on the other, which fell over the garden like an immense black pall.
No other house was visible. The bottom of the garden was lost in mist and darkness. Nevertheless, walls could be confusedly made out, which intersected as though there were more cultivated land beyond, and the low roofs of the Rue Polonceau.
Nothing more wild and solitary than this garden could be imagined. There was no one in it, which was quite natural in view of the hour; but it did not seem as though this spot were made for any one to walk in, even in broad daylight.
Jean Valjean's first care had been to get hold of his shoes and put them on again, then to step under the shed with Cosette. A man who is fleeing never thinks himself sufficiently hidden. The child, whose thoughts were still on the Thenardier, shared his instinct for withdrawing from sight as much as possible.
Cosette trembled and pressed close to him. They heard the tumultuous noise of the patrol searching the blind alley and the streets; the blows of their gun-stocks against the stones; Javert's appeals to the police spies whom he had posted, and his imprecations mingled with words which could not be distinguished.
At the expiration of a quarter of an hour it seemed as though that species of stormy roar were becoming more distant. Jean Valjean held his breath.
He had laid his hand lightly on Cosette's mouth.
However, the solitude in which he stood was so strangely calm, that this frightful uproar, close and furious as it was, did not disturb him by so much as the shadow of a misgiving. It seemed as though those walls had been built of the deaf stones of which the Scriptures speak.
All at once, in the midst of this profound calm, a fresh sound arose; a sound as celestial, divine, ineffable, ravishing, as the other had been horrible. It was a hymn which issued from the gloom, a dazzling burst of prayer and harmony in the obscure and alarming silence of the night; women's voices, but voices composed at one and the same time of the pure accents of virgins and the innocent accents of children,-- voices which are not of the earth, and which resemble those that the newborn infant still hears, and which the dying man hears already. This song proceeded from the gloomy edifice which towered above the garden. At the moment when the hubbub of demons retreated, one would have said that a choir of angels was approaching through the gloom.
Cosette and Jean Valjean fell on their knees.
They knew not what it was, they knew not where they were; but both of them, the man and the child, the penitent and the innocent, felt that they must kneel.
These voices had this strange characteristic, that they did not prevent the building from seeming to be deserted. It was a supernatural chant in an uninhabited house.
While these voices were singing, Jean Valjean thought of nothing. He no longer beheld the night; he beheld a blue sky. It seemed to him that he felt those wings which we all have within us, unfolding.
The song died away. It may have lasted a long time. Jean Valjean could not have told. Hours of ecstasy are never more than a moment.
All fell silent again. There was no longer anything in the street; there was nothing in the garden. That which had menaced, that which had reassured him,--all had vanished. The breeze swayed a few dry weeds on the crest of the wall, and they gave out a faint, sweet, melancholy sound.
冉阿让发现自己落在某种园子里，那园子的面积相当宽广，形象奇特，仿佛是一个供人冬夜观望的荒园。园地作长方形，底里有条小路，路旁有成行的大白桦树，墙角都有相当高的树丛，园子中间，有一棵极高的树孤立在一片宽敞的空地上，另外还有几株果树，枝干蜷曲散乱，好象是一大丛荆棘，又有几方菜地，一片瓜田，月亮正照着玻璃瓜罩，闪闪发光，还有一个蓄水坑。几条石凳分布在各处，凳上仿佛有黑苔痕。纵横的小道两旁栽有色暗枝挺的小树。道上半是杂草，半是苔藓。
冉阿让旁边有栋破屋，他正是从那破屋顶上滑下来的。另外还有一堆柴枝，柴枝后面有一个石刻人像，紧靠着墙，面部已经损坏，在黑暗中隐隐露出一个不成形的脸部。
破屋已经破烂不堪，几间房的门窗墙壁都坍塌了，其中一间里堆满了东西，仿佛是个堆废料的棚子。
那栋一面临直壁街一面临比克布斯小街的大楼房在朝园子的一面，有两个交成曲尺形的正面。朝里的这两个正面，比朝外的两面显得更加阴惨。所有的窗口全装了铁条。一点灯光也望不见。楼上几层的窗口外面还装了通风罩，和监狱里的窗子一样。一个正面的影子正投射在另一个正面上，并象一块黑布似的，盖在园地上。
此外再望不见什么房屋。园子的尽头隐没在迷雾和夜色中了。不过迷蒙中还可以望见一些纵横交错的墙头，仿佛这园子外面也还有一些园子，也可以望见波隆梭街的一些矮屋顶。
不能想象比这园子更加荒旷更加幽僻的地方了。园里一个人也没有，这很简单，是由于时间的关系，但是这地方，即使是在中午，也不象是供人游玩的。
冉阿让要做的第一件事便是把鞋子找回来穿上，再领着珂赛特到棚子里去。逃匿的人总以为自己躲藏的地方不够隐蔽。孩子也一直在想着德纳第大娘，和他一样凭着本能，尽量蜷伏起来。
珂赛特哆哆嗦嗦，紧靠在他身边。他们听到巡逻队搜索那死胡同和街道的一片嘈杂声，枪托撞着石头，沙威对着那些分途把守的密探们的叫喊，他又骂又说，说些什么，却一句也听不清。
一刻钟过后，那种风暴似的怒吼声渐渐远了。冉阿让屏住了呼吸。
他一直把一只手轻轻放在珂赛特的嘴上。
此外他当时所处的孤寂环境是那样异乎寻常的平静，以至在如此凶恶骇人近在咫尺的喧嚣中，也不曾受到丝毫惊扰。
好象他左右的墙壁是用圣书中所说的那种哑石造成的。
忽然，在这静悄悄的环境中，响起了一种新的声音，一种来自天上、美妙到无可言喻的仙音，和先头听到的咆哮声恰成对比。那是从黑黢黢的万籁俱寂的深夜中传来的一阵颂主歌，一种由和声和祈祷交织成的天乐，是一些妇女的歌唱声，不过，从这种歌声里既可听出贞女们那种纯洁的嗓音，也可听出孩子们那种天真的嗓音，这不是人间的音乐，而象是一种初生婴儿继续在听而垂死的人已经听到的那种声音。歌声是从园中最高的那所大楼里传来的。正当魔鬼们的咆哮渐渐远去时，好象黑夜中飞来了天使们的合唱。
珂赛特和冉阿让一同跪了下来。
他们不知道那是什么，他们不知道自己是在什么地方，可是他们俩，老人和孩子，忏悔者和无罪者，都感到应当跪下。
那阵声音还有这么一个特点：尽管有声，它还是使人感到那大楼象是空的。它仿佛是种从空楼里发出来的天外歌声。
冉阿让听着歌声，什么都不再想了。他望见的已经不是黑夜，而是一片青天。他觉得自己的心飘飘然振翅欲飞了。
歌声停止了。它也许曾延续了一段相当长的时间。不过冉阿让说不清。人在出神时，从来就觉得时间过得快。
一切又归于沉寂。墙外墙里都毫无声息。令人发悸的和令人安心的声音全静下去了。墙头上几根枯草在风中发出轻微凄楚的声音。
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 7 Continuation of the Enigma
The night wind had risen, which indicated that it must be between one and two o'clock in the morning. Poor Cosette said nothing. As she had seated herself beside him and leaned her head against him, Jean Valjean had fancied that she was asleep. He bent down and looked at her. Cosette's eyes were wide open, and her thoughtful air pained Jean Valjean.
She was still trembling.
"Are you sleepy?" said Jean Valjean.
"I am very cold," she replied.
A moment later she resumed:--
"Is she still there?"
"Who?" said Jean Valjean.
"Madame Thenardier."
Jean Valjean had already forgotten the means which he had employed to make Cosette keep silent.
"Ah!" said he, "she is gone. You need fear nothing further."
The child sighed as though a load had been lifted from her breast.
The ground was damp, the shed open on all sides, the breeze grew more keen every instant. The goodman took off his coat and wrapped it round Cosette.
"Are you less cold now?" said he.
"Oh, yes, father."
"Well, wait for me a moment. I will soon be back."
He quitted the ruin and crept along the large building, seeking a better shelter. He came across doors, but they were closed. There were bars at all the windows of the ground floor.
Just after he had turned the inner angle of the edifice, he observed that he was coming to some arched windows, where he perceived a light. He stood on tiptoe and peeped through one of these windows. They all opened on a tolerably vast hall, paved with large flagstones, cut up by arcades and pillars, where only a tiny light and great shadows were visible. The light came from a taper which was burning in one corner. The apartment was deserted, and nothing was stirring in it. Nevertheless, by dint of gazing intently he thought he perceived on the ground something which appeared to be covered with a winding-sheet, and which resembled a human form. This form was lying face downward, flat on the pavement, with the arms extended in the form of a cross, in the immobility of death. One would have said, judging from a sort of serpent which undulated over the floor, that this sinister form had a rope round its neck.
The whole chamber was bathed in that mist of places which are sparely illuminated, which adds to horror.
Jean Valjean often said afterwards, that, although many funereal spectres had crossed his path in life, he had never beheld anything more blood-curdling and terrible than that enigmatical form accomplishing some inexplicable mystery in that gloomy place, and beheld thus at night. It was alarming to suppose that that thing was perhaps dead; and still more alarming to think that it was perhaps alive.
He had the courage to plaster his face to the glass, and to watch whether the thing would move. In spite of his remaining thus what seemed to him a very long time, the outstretched form made no movement. All at once he felt himself overpowered by an inexpressible terror, and he fled. He began to run towards the shed, not daring to look behind him. It seemed to him, that if he turned his head, he should see that form following him with great strides and waving its arms.
He reached the ruin all out of breath. His knees were giving way beneath him; the perspiration was pouring from him.
Where was he? Who could ever have imagined anything like that sort of sepulchre in the midst of Paris! What was this strange house? An edifice full of nocturnal mystery, calling to souls through the darkness with the voice of angels, and when they came, offering them abruptly that terrible vision; promising to open the radiant portals of heaven, and then opening the horrible gates of the tomb! And it actually was an edifice, a house, which bore a number on the street! It was not a dream! He had to touch the stones to convince himself that such was the fact.
Cold, anxiety, uneasiness, the emotions of the night, had given him a genuine fever, and all these ideas were clashing together in his brain.
He stepped up to Cosette. She was asleep.
晚风起了，这说明已到了早晨一两点钟左右。可怜的珂赛特一句话也不说。她倚在他身旁，坐在地上，头靠着他，冉阿让以为她睡着了。他低下头去望她。珂赛特的眼睛睁得滚圆，好象在担着心事，冉阿让见了，不禁一阵心酸。
她一直在发抖。
“你想睡吗？”冉阿让说。
“我冷。”她回答。
过一会，她又说：
“她还没有走吗？”
“谁？”冉阿让说。
“德纳第太太。”
冉阿让早已忘了他先头用来噤住珂赛特的方法。
“啊！”他说，“她已经走了。不用害怕。”
孩子叹了一口气，好象压在她胸口上的一块石头拿掉了。
地是潮的，棚子全敞着，风越来越冷了。老人脱下大衣裹着珂赛特。
“这样你冷得好一点了吧？”他说。
“好多了，爹！”
“那么，你等一会儿。我马上就回来。”
他从破棚子里出来、沿着大楼走去，想找一处比较安稳的藏身的地方。他看见好几扇门，但是都是关了的。楼下的窗子全装了铁条。
他刚走过那建筑物靠里一端的墙角，看见面前有几扇圆顶窗，窗子还亮着。他立在一扇这样的窗子前面，踮起脚尖朝里看。这些窗子都通到一间相当大的厅堂，地上铺了宽石板，厅中间有石柱，顶上有穹窿，一点点微光和大片的阴影相互间隔。光是从墙角上的一盏油灯里发出来的。厅里毫无声息，毫无动静。可是，仔细望去，他仿佛看见地面石板上横着一件东西，好象是个人的身体，上面盖着一条裹尸布。那东西直挺挺伏在地上，脸朝石板，两臂向左右平伸，和身体构成一个十字形，丝毫不动，死了似的。那骇人的物体，颈子上仿佛有根绳子，象蛇一象拖在石板上。
整个厅堂全在昏暗的灯影中若隐若现，望去格外令人恐惧。
冉阿让在事后经常说到他一生虽然见过不少次死人，却从来不曾见过比这次更寒心更可怕的景象，他在这阴森的地方、凄清的黑夜里见到这种僵卧的人形，简直无法猜透这里的奥妙。假如那东西是死的，那也已够使人胆寒的了，假如它也许还是活的，那就更足使人胆寒。
他有胆量把额头抵在玻璃窗上，想看清楚那东西究竟还动不动。他看了一会儿，越看越害怕，那僵卧的人形竟一丝不动。忽然，他觉得自己被一种说不出的恐怖控制住了，不得不逃走。他朝着棚子逃回来，一下也不敢往后看，他觉得一回头就会看到那人形迈着大步张牙舞爪地跟在他后面。
他心惊气喘地跑到了破屋边。膝头往下跪，腰里流着汗。
他是在什么地方？谁能想到在巴黎的城中心竟会有这种类似鬼域的地方？那所怪楼究竟是什么？好一座阴森神秘的建筑物，刚才还有天使们的歌声在黑暗中招引人的灵魂，人来了，却又陡然示以这种骇人的景象，既已允诺大开光明灿烂的天国之门，却又享人以触目惊心的坟坑墓穴！而那确是一座建筑物，一座临街的有门牌号数的房屋！这并不是梦境！他得摸摸墙上的石条才敢自信。
寒冷，焦急，忧虑，一夜的惊恐，真使他浑身发烧了，万千思绪在他的脑子里萦绕。
他走到珂赛特身旁，她已经睡着了。
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 8 The Enigma becomes Doubly Mysterious
The child had laid her head on a stone and fallen asleep.
He sat down beside her and began to think. Little by little, as he gazed at her, he grew calm and regained possession of his freedom of mind.
He clearly perceived this truth, the foundation of his life henceforth, that so long as she was there, so long as he had her near him, he should need nothing except for her, he should fear nothing except for her. He was not even conscious that he was very cold, since he had taken off his coat to cover her.
Nevertheless, athwart this revery into which he had fallen he had heard for some time a peculiar noise. It was like the tinkling of a bell. This sound proceeded from the garden. It could be heard distinctly though faintly. It resembled the faint, vague music produced by the bells of cattle at night in the pastures.
This noise made Valjean turn round.
He looked and saw that there was some one in the garden.
A being resembling a man was walking amid the bell-glasses of the melon beds, rising, stooping, halting, with regular movements, as though he were dragging or spreading out something on the ground. This person appeared to limp.
Jean Valjean shuddered with the continual tremor of the unhappy. For them everything is hostile and suspicious. They distrust the day because it enables people to see them, and the night because it aids in surprising them. A little while before he had shivered because the garden was deserted, and now he shivered because there was some one there.
He fell back from chimerical terrors to real terrors. He said to himself that Javert and the spies had, perhaps, not taken their departure; that they had, no doubt, left people on the watch in the street; that if this man should discover him in the garden, he would cry out for help against thieves and deliver him up. He took the sleeping Cosette gently in his arms and carried her behind a heap of old furniture, which was out of use, in the most remote corner of the shed. Cosette did not stir.
From that point he scrutinized the appearance of the being in the melon patch. The strange thing about it was, that the sound of the bell followed each of this man's movements. When the man approached, the sound approached; when the man retreated, the sound retreated; if he made any hasty gesture, a tremolo accompanied the gesture; when he halted, the sound ceased. It appeared evident that the bell was attached to that man; but what could that signify? Who was this man who had a bell suspended about him like a ram or an ox?
As he put these questions to himself, he touched Cosette's hands. They were icy cold.
"Ah! good God!" he cried.
He spoke to her in a low voice:--
"Cosette!"
She did not open her eyes.
He shook her vigorously.
She did not wake.
"Is she dead?" he said to himself, and sprang to his feet, quivering from head to foot.
The most frightful thoughts rushed pell-mell through his mind. There are moments when hideous surmises assail us like a cohort of furies, and violently force the partitions of our brains. When those we love are in question, our prudence invents every sort of madness. He remembered that sleep in the open air on a cold night may be fatal.
Cosette was pale, and had fallen at full length on the ground at his feet, without a movement.
He listened to her breathing: she still breathed, but with a respiration which seemed to him weak and on the point of extinction.
How was he to warm her back to life? How was he to rouse her? All that was not connected with this vanished from his thoughts. He rushed wildly from the ruin.
It was absolutely necessary that Cosette should be in bed and beside a fire in less than a quarter of an hour.
孩子早已把头枕在一块石头上睡着了。
他坐在她身边，望着她睡。望着望着，他的心渐渐安定下来了，思想也渐渐可以自由活动了。
他清醒地认识到这样一点真理，也就是今后他活着的意义，他认识到，只要她在，只要他能把她留在身边，除了为了她，他什么也不需要，除了为她着想，他什么也不害怕。他已脱下自己的大衣裹在珂赛特的身上，他自己身上很冷，可是连这一点他也没有感觉到。
这时，在梦幻中，他不止一次听见一种奇怪的声音。好象是个受到振动的铃铛。那声音来自园里。声音虽弱，却很清楚。有些象夜间在牧场上听到的那种从牲口颈脖上的铃铛所发出的微渺的乐音。
那声音使冉阿让回过头去。
他朝前望，看见园里有个人。
那人好象是个男子，他在瓜田里的玻璃罩子中间走来走去，走走停停，时而弯下腰去，继又立起再走，仿佛他在田里拖着或撒播着什么似的。那人走起路来好象腿有些瘸。
冉阿让见了为之一惊，心绪不宁的人是不断会起恐慌的。他们感到对于自己事事都是敌对的，可疑的。他们提防白天，因为白天可以帮助别人看见自己，也提防黑夜，因为黑夜可以帮助别人发觉自己。他先头为了园里荒凉而惊慌，现在又为了园里有人而惊慌。
他又从空想的恐怖掉进了现实的恐怖。他想道，沙威和密探们也许还没有离开，他们一定留下了一部分人在街上守望，这人如果发现了他在园里，一定会大叫捉贼，把他交出去。他把睡着的珂赛特轻轻抱在怀里，抱到破棚最靠里的一个角落里，放在一堆无用的废家具后面。珂赛特一点也不动。
从这里，他再仔细观察瓜田里那个人的行动。有一件事很奇怪，铃铛的响声是随着那人的行动而起的。人走近，声音也近，人走远，声音也远。他做一个急促的动作，铃子也跟着发出一连串急促的声音，他停着不动，铃声也随即停止。很明显，铃铛是结在那人身上的，不过这是什么意思？和牛羊一样结个铃子在身上，那究竟是个什么人？
他一面东猜西想，一面伸出手摸珂赛特的手。她的手冰冷。
“啊，我的天主！”他说。
他低声喊道：
“珂赛特！”
她不睁眼睛。
他使劲推她。
她也不醒。
“难道死了不成！”他说，随即立了起来，从头一直抖到脚。
他头脑里出现了一阵乱糟糟的无比恐怖的想法。有时，我们是会感到种种骇人的假想象一群魔怪似的，齐向我们袭来，而且猛烈地震撼着我们的神经。当我们心爱的人出了事，我们的谨慎心往往会无端地产生许多狂悖的幻想。他忽然想到冬夜户外睡眠可以送人的命。
珂赛特，脸色发青，在他脚前躺在地上，一动也不动。
他听她的呼吸，她还吐着气，但是他觉得她的气息已经弱到快要停止了。
怎样使她暖过来呢？怎样使她醒过来呢？除了这两件事以外，他什么也不顾了。他发狂似的冲出了破屋子。
一定得在一刻钟里让珂赛特躺在火前和床上。
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 9 The Man with the Bell
He walked straight up to the man whom he saw in the garden. He had taken in his hand the roll of silver which was in the pocket of his waistcoat.
The man's head was bent down, and he did not see him approaching. In a few strides Jean Valjean stood beside him.
Jean Valjean accosted him with the cry:--
"One hundred francs!"
The man gave a start and raised his eyes.
"You can earn a hundred francs," went on Jean Valjean, "if you will grant me shelter for this night."
The moon shone full upon Jean Valjean's terrified countenance.
"What! so it is you, Father Madeleine!" said the man.
That name, thus pronounced, at that obscure hour, in that unknown spot, by that strange man, made Jean Valjean start back.
He had expected anything but that. The person who thus addressed him was a bent and lame old man, dressed almost like a peasant, who wore on his left knee a leather knee-cap, whence hung a moderately large bell. His face, which was in the shadow, was not distinguishable.
However, the goodman had removed his cap, and exclaimed, trembling all over:--
"Ah, good God! How come you here, Father Madeleine? Where did you enter? Dieu-Jesus! Did you fall from heaven? There is no trouble about that: if ever you do fall, it will be from there. And what a state you are in! You have no cravat; you have no hat; you have no coat! Do you know, you would have frightened any one who did not know you? No coat! Lord God! Are the saints going mad nowadays? But how did you get in here?"
His words tumbled over each other. The goodman talked with a rustic volubility, in which there was nothing alarming. All this was uttered with a mixture of stupefaction and naive kindliness.
"Who are you? and what house is this?" demanded Jean Valjean.
"Ah! pardieu, this is too much!" exclaimed the old man. "I am the person for whom you got the place here, and this house is the one where you had me placed. What! You don't recognize me?"
"No," said Jean Valjean; "and how happens it that you know me?"
"You saved my life," said the man.
He turned. A ray of moonlight outlined his profile, and Jean Valjean recognized old Fauchelevent.
"Ah!" said Jean Valjean, "so it is you? Yes, I recollect you."
"That is very lucky," said the old man, in a reproachful tone.
"And what are you doing here?" resumed Jean Valjean.
"Why, I am covering my melons, of course!"
In fact, at the moment when Jean Valjean accosted him, old Fauchelevent held in his hand the end of a straw mat which he was occupied in spreading over the melon bed. During the hour or thereabouts that he had been in the garden he had already spread out a number of them. It was this operation which had caused him to execute the peculiar movements observed from the shed by Jean Valjean.
He continued:--
"I said to myself, `The moon is bright: it is going to freeze. What if I were to put my melons into their greatcoats?' And," he added, looking at Jean Valjean with a broad smile,--"pardieu! you ought to have done the same! But how do you come here?"
Jean Valjean, finding himself known to this man, at least only under the name of Madeleine, thenceforth advanced only with caution. He multiplied his questions. Strange to say, their roles seemed to be reversed. It was he, the intruder, who interrogated.
"And what is this bell which you wear on your knee?"
"This," replied Fauchelevent, "is so that I may be avoided."
"What! so that you may be avoided?"
Old Fauchelevent winked with an indescribable air.
"Ah, goodness! there are only women in this house--many young girls. It appears that I should be a dangerous person to meet. The bell gives them warning. When I come, they go.
"What house is this?"
"Come, you know well enough."
"But I do not."
"Not when you got me the place here as gardener?"
"Answer me as though I knew nothing."
"Well, then, this is the Petit-Picpus convent."
Memories recurred to Jean Valjean. Chance, that is to say, Providence, had cast him into precisely that convent in the Quartier Saint-Antoine where old Fauchelevent, crippled by the fall from his cart, had been admitted on his recommendation two years previously. He repeated, as though talking to himself:--
"The Petit-Picpus convent."
"Exactly," returned old Fauchelevent. "But to come to the point, how the deuce did you manage to get in here, you, Father Madeleine? No matter if you are a saint; you are a man as well, and no man enters here."
"You certainly are here."
"There is no one but me."
"Still," said Jean Valjean, "I must stay here."
"Ah, good God!" cried Fauchelevent.
Jean Valjean drew near to the old man, and said to him in a grave voice:--
"Father Fauchelevent, I saved your life."
"I was the first to recall it," returned Fauchelevent.
"Well, you can do to-day for me that which I did for you in the olden days."
Fauchelevent took in his aged, trembling, and wrinkled hands Jean Valjean's two robust hands, and stood for several minutes as though incapable of speaking. At length he exclaimed:--
"Oh! that would be a blessing from the good God, if I could make you some little return for that! Save your life! Monsieur le Maire, dispose of the old man!"
A wonderful joy had transfigured this old man. His countenance seemed to emit a ray of light.
"What do you wish me to do?" he resumed.
"That I will explain to you. You have a chamber?"
"I have an isolated hovel yonder, behind the ruins of the old convent, in a corner which no one ever looks into. There are three rooms in it."
The hut was, in fact, so well hidden behind the ruins, and so cleverly arranged to prevent it being seen, that Jean Valjean had not perceived it.
"Good," said Jean Valjean. "Now I am going to ask two things of you."
"What are they, Mr. Mayor?"
"In the first place, you are not to tell any one what you know about me. In the second, you are not to try to find out anything more."
"As you please. I know that you can do nothing that is not honest, that you have always been a man after the good God's heart. And then, moreover, you it was who placed me here. That concerns you. I am at your service."
"That is settled then. Now, come with me. We will go and get the child."
"Ah!" said Fauchelevent, "so there is a child?"
He added not a word further, and followed Jean Valjean as a dog follows his master.
Less than half an hour afterwards Cosette, who had grown rosy again before the flame of a good fire, was lying asleep in the old gardener's bed. Jean Valjean had put on his cravat and coat once more; his hat, which he had flung over the wall, had been found and picked up. While Jean Valjean was putting on his coat, Fauchelevent had removed the bell and kneecap, which now hung on a nail beside a vintage basket that adorned the wall. The two men were warming themselves with their elbows resting on a table upon which Fauchelevent had placed a bit of cheese, black bread, a bottle of wine, and two glasses, and the old man was saying to Jean Valjean, as he laid his hand on the latter's knee: "Ah! Father Madeleine! You did not recognize me immediately; you save people's lives, and then you forget them! That is bad! But they remember you! You are an ingrate!"
他望着园里的那个人一径走去。手里捏着一卷从背心口袋里掏出来的钱。
那人正低着脑袋，没有看见他来。冉阿让几大步便跨到了他身边。
冉阿让劈头便喊：
“一百法郎！”
那人吓得一跳，睁圆了眼。
“一百法郎给您挣，”冉阿让接着又说，“假使您今晚给我一个地方过夜！”
月亮正全面照着冉阿让惊慌的面孔。
“啊，是您，马德兰爷爷！”那人说。
这名字，在这样的黑夜里，在这样一个没有到过的地方，从这样一个陌生人的嘴里叫出来，冉阿让听了连忙往后退。
什么他都有准备，却没有料到这一手。和他说话的是一个腰驼腿瘸的老人，穿的衣服几乎象个乡巴佬，左膝上绑着一条皮带，上面吊个相当大的铃铛。他的脸正背着光，因此看不清楚。
这时，老人已经摘下了帽子，哆哆嗦嗦地说道：“啊，我的天主！您怎么会在这儿的，马德兰爷爷？您是从哪儿进来的，天主耶稣！您是从天上掉下来的！这不希奇，要是您掉下来，您一定是从那上面掉下来的。瞧瞧您现在的样子！您没有领带，您没有帽子，您没有大衣！您不知道，要是人家不认识您，您才把人吓坏了呢。没有大衣！我的天主爷爷，敢是今天的诸圣天神全疯了？您是怎样到这里来的？”
一句紧接着一句。老头儿带着乡下人的那种爽利劲儿一气说完，叫人听了一点也不感到别扭。语气中夹杂着惊讶和天真淳朴的神情。
“您是谁？这是什么宅子？”冉阿让问。
“啊，老天爷，您存心开玩笑！”老头儿喊着说，“是您把我安插在这里的，是您把我介绍到这宅子里来的。哪里的话！您会不认识我了？”
“不认识，”冉阿让说，“您怎么会认识我的，您？”
“您救过我的命。”那人说。
他转过身去，一线月光正照着他的半边脸，冉阿让认出了割风老头儿。
“啊！”冉阿让说，“是您吗？对，我认识您。”
“幸亏还好！”老头儿带着埋怨的口气说。
“您在这里干什么？”冉阿让接着又问。
“嘿！我在盖我的瓜嘛！”
割风老头儿，当冉阿让走近他时，他正提着一条草荐的边准备盖在瓜田上。他在园里已经待了个把钟头，已经盖上了相当数量的草荐。冉阿让先头在棚子里注意到的那种特殊动作，正是他干这活的动作。
他又说道：
“我先头在想，月亮这么明，快下霜了。要不要去替我的瓜披上大氅呢？”接着，他又呵呵大笑，望着冉阿让又补上这么一句，“您也得妈拉巴子好好披上这么一件了吧！到底您是怎样进来的？”
冉阿让心里寻思这人既然认得他，至少他认得马德兰这名字，自己就得格外谨慎才行。他从多方面提出问题。大有反客为主的样子，这真算得上是一件怪事。他是不速之客，反而盘问个不停。
“您膝头上带着个什么响铃？”
“这？”割风回答说，“带个响铃，好让人家听了避开我。”
“怎么！好让人家避开您？”
割风老头儿阴阳怪气地挤弄着一只眼。
“啊，妈的！这宅子里尽是些娘儿们，一大半还是小娘儿们。据说撞着我不是好玩儿的。铃儿叫她们留神。我来了，她们好躲开。”
“这是个什么宅子？”
“嘿！您还不知道！”
“的确我不知道。”
“您把我介绍到这里来当园丁，会不知道！”
“您就当作我不知道，回答我了吧。”
“好吧，这不就是小比克布斯女修院！”
冉阿让想起来了。两年前，割风老头儿从车上摔下来，摔坏了一条腿，由于冉阿让的介绍，圣安东尼区的女修院把他收留下来，而他现在恰巧又落在这女修院里，这是巧遇，也是天意。他象对自己说话似的嘟囔着：
“小比克布斯女修院！”
“啊，归根到底，老实说，”割风接着说，“您到底是从什么地方进来的，您，马德兰爷爷？您是一个正人君子，这也白搭，您总是个男人。男人是不许到这里来的。”
“您怎么又能来？”
“就我这么一个男人。”
“可是，”冉阿让接着说，“我非得在这儿待下不成。”
“啊，我的天主！”割风喊看说。
冉阿让向老头儿身边迈了一步，用严肃的声音向他说：
“割风爷，我救过您的命。”
“是我先想起这回事的。”割风回答说。
“那么，我从前是怎样对待您的，您今天也可以怎样对待我。”
割风用他两只已经老到颤巍巍的满是皱皮的手抱住冉阿让的两只铁掌，过了好一阵说不出话来。最后他才喊道：
“呵！要是我能报答您一丁点儿，那才是慈悲上帝的恩典呢！我！救您的命！市长先生，请您吩咐我这老头儿吧！”
一阵眉开眼笑的喜色好象改变了老人的容貌。他脸上也好象有了光彩。
“您说我得干些什么呢？”他接着又说。
“让我慢慢儿和您谈。您有一间屋子吗？”
“我有一个孤零零的破棚子，那儿，在老庵子破屋后面的一个弯角里，谁也瞧不见的地方。一共三间屋子。”
破棚隐在那破庵后面，地位确是隐蔽，谁也瞧不见，冉阿让也不曾发现它。
“好的，”冉阿让说，“现在我要求您两件事。”
“哪两件，市长先生？”
“第一件，您所知道的有关我的事对谁也不说。第二件，您不追问关于我的旁的事。”
“就这么办。我知道您干的全是光明正大的事，也知道您一辈子是慈悲上帝的人。并且是您把我安插在这儿的。那是您的事。我听您吩咐就是。”
“一言为定。现在请跟我来。我们去找孩子。”
“啊！”割风说，“还有个孩子！”
他没有再多说一句话，象条狗①一样跟着冉阿让走。 
①以狗喻忠实朋友，不是侮称。　
小半个钟头过后，珂赛特已经睡在老园丁的床上，面前燃着一炉熊熊好火，脸色又转红了。冉阿让重行结上领带，穿上大衣，从墙头上丢过来的帽子也找到了，拾了回来，正当冉阿让披上大衣时，割风已经取下膝上的系铃带，走去挂在一只背箩旁的钉子上，点缀着墙壁。两个人一齐靠着桌子坐下烤火，割风早在桌上放了一块干酪、一块黑面包、一瓶葡萄酒和两个玻璃杯，老头儿把一只手放在冉阿让的膝头上，向他说：
“啊！马德兰爷爷！您先头想了许久才认出我来！您救了人家的命，又把人家忘掉！呵！这很不应该！人家老惦记着您呢！您这黑良心！”
Part 2 Book 5 Chapter 10 Which explains how Javert got on the Scent
The events of which we have just beheld the reverse side, so to speak, had come about in the simplest possible manner.
When Jean Valjean, on the evening of the very day when Javert had arrested him beside Fantine's death-bed, had escaped from the town jail of M. sur M., the police had supposed that he had betaken himself to Paris. Paris is a maelstrom where everything is lost, and everything disappears in this belly of the world, as in the belly of the sea. No forest hides a man as does that crowd. Fugitives of every sort know this. They go to Paris as to an abyss; there are gulfs which save. The police know it also, and it is in Paris that they seek what they have lost elsewhere. They sought the ex-mayor of M. sur M. Javert was summoned to Paris to throw light on their researches. Javert had, in fact, ren Guillaume Lambert."
Lambert is a respectable and extremely reassuring name. Thereupon Javert returned to Paris.
"Jean Valjean is certainly dead," said he, "and I am a ninny."
He had again begun to forget this history, when, in the course of March, 1824, he heard of a singular personage who dwelt in the parish of Saint-Medard and who had been surnamed "the mendicant who gives alms." This person, the story ran, was a man of means, whose name no one knew exactly, and who lived alone with a little girl of eight years, who knew nothing about herself, save that she had come from Montfermeil. Montfermeil! that name was always coming up, and it made Javert prick up his ears. An old beggar police spy, an ex-beadle, to whom this person had given alms, added a few more details. This gentleman of property was very shy,-- never coming out except in the evening, speaking to nB秘6鄑he bottom of a page. The paper announced that the convict Jean Valjean was dead, and published the fact in such formal terms that Javert did not doubt it. He confined himself to the remark, "That's a good entry." Then he threw aside the paper, and thought no more about it.
Some time afterwards, it chanced that a police report was transmitted from the prefecture of the Seine-et-Oise to the prefecture of police in Paris, concerning the abduction of a child, which had taken place, under peculiar circumstances, as it was said, in the commune of Montfermeil. A little girl of seven or eight years of age, the report said, who had been intrusted by her mother to an inn-keeper of that neighborhood, had been stolen by a stranger; this child answered to the name of Cosette, and was the daughter of a girl named Fantine, who had died in the hospital, it was not known where or when.
This report came under Javert's eye and set him to thinking.
The name of Fantine was well known to him. He remembered that Jean Valjean had made him, Javert, burst into laughter, by asking him for a respite of three days, for the purpose of going to fetch that creature's child. He recalled the fact that Jean Valjean had been arrested in Paris at the very moment when he was stepping into the coach for Montfermeil. Some signs had made him suspect at the time that this was the second occasion of his entering that coach, and that he had already, on the previous day, made an excursion to the neighborhood of that village, for he had not been seen in the village itself. What had he been intending to do in that region of Montfermeil? It could not even be surmised. Javert understood it now. Fantine's daughter was there. Jean Valjean was going there in search of her. And now this child had been stolen by a stranger! Who could that stranger be? Could it be Jean Valjean? But Jean Valjean was dead. Javert, without saying anything to anybody, took the coach from the Pewter Platter, Cul-de-Sac de la Planchette, and made a trip to Montfermeil.
He expected to find a great deal of light on the subject there; he found a great deal of obscurity.
For the first few days the Thenardiers had chattered in their rage. The disappearance of the Lark had created a sensation in the village. He immediately obtained numerous versions of the story, which ended in the abduction of a child. Hence the police report. But their first vexation having passed off, Thenardier, with his wonderful instinct, had very quickly comprehended that it is never advisable to stir up the prosecutor of the Crown, and that his complaints with regard to the abduction of Cosette would have as their first result to fix upon himself, and upon many dark affairs which he had on hand, the glittering eye of justice. The last thing that owls desire is to have a candle brought to them. And in the first place, how explain the fifteen hundred francs which he had received? He turned squarely round, put a gag on his wife's mouth, and feigned astonishment when the stolen child was mentioned to him. He understood nothing about it; no doubt he had grumbled for awhile at having that dear little creature "taken from him" so hastily; he should have liked to keep her two or three days longer, out of tenderness; but her "grandfather" had come for her in the most natural way in the world. He added the "grandfather," which produced a good effect. This was the story that Javert hit upon when he arrived at Montfermeil. The grandfather caused Jean Valjean to vanish.
Nevertheless, Javert dropped a few questions, like plummets, into Thenardier's history. "Who was that grandfather? and what was his name?" Thenardier replied with simplicity: "He is a wealthy farmer. I saw his passport. I think his name was M. Guillaume Lambert."
Lambert is a respectable and extremely reassuring name. Thereupon Javert returned to Paris.
"Jean Valjean is certainly dead," said he, "and I am a ninny."
He had again begun to forget this history, when, in the course of March, 1824, he heard of a singular personage who dwelt in the parish of Saint-Medard and who had been surnamed "the mendicant who gives alms." This person, the story ran, was a man of means, whose name no one knew exactly, and who lived alone with a little girl of eight years, who knew nothing about herself, save that she had come from Montfermeil. Montfermeil! that name was always coming up, and it made Javert prick up his ears. An old beggar police spy, an ex-beadle, to whom this person had given alms, added a few more details. This gentleman of property was very shy,-- never coming out except in the evening, speaking to no one, except, occasionally to the poor, and never allowing any one to approach him. He wore a horrible old yellow frock-coat, which was worth many millions, being all wadded with bank-bills. This piqued Javert's curiosity in a decided manner. In order to get a close look at this fantastic gentleman without alarming him, he borrowed the beadle's outfit for a day, and the place where the old spy was in the habit of crouching every evening, whining orisons through his nose, and playing the spy under cover of prayer.
"The suspected individual" did indeed approach Javert thus disguised, and bestow alms on him. At that moment Javert raised his head, and the shock which Jean Valjean received on recognizing Javert was equal to the one received by Javert when he thought he recognized Jean Valjean.
However, the darkness might have misled him; Jean Valjean's death was official; Javert cherished very grave doubts; and when in doubt, Javert, the man of scruples, never laid a finger on any one's collar.
He followed his man to the Gorbeau house, and got "the old woman" to talking, which was no difficult matter. The old woman confirmed the fact regarding the coat lined with millions, and narrated to him the episode of the thousand-franc bill. She had seen it! She had handled it! Javert hired a room; that evening he installed himself in it. He came and listened at the mysterious lodger's door, hoping to catch the sound of his voice, but Jean Valjean saw his candle through the key-hole, and foiled the spy by keeping silent.
On the following day Jean Valjean decamped; but the noise made by the fall of the five-franc piece was noticed by the old woman, who, hearing the rattling of coin, suspected that he might be intending to leave, and made haste to warn Javert. At night, when Jean Valjean came out, Javert was waiting for him behind the trees of the boulevard with two men.
Javert had demanded assistance at the Prefecture, but he had not mentioned the name of the individual whom he hoped to seize; that was his secret, and he had kept it for three reasons: in the first place, because the slightest indiscretion might put Jean Valjean on the alert; next, because, to lay hands on an ex-convict who had made his escape and was reputed dead, on a criminal whom justice had formerly classed forever as among malefactors of the most dangerous sort, was a magnificent success which the old members of the Parisian police would assuredly not leave to a new-comer like Javert, and he was afraid of being deprived of his convict; and lastly, because Javert, being an artist, had a taste for the unforeseen. He hated those well-heralded successes which are talked of long in advance and have had the bloom brushed off. He preferred to elaborate his masterpieces in the dark and to unveil them suddenly at the last.
Javert had followed Jean Valjean from tree to tree, then from corner to corner of the street, and had not lost sight of him for a single instant; even at the moments when Jean Valjean believed himself to be the most secure Javert's eye had been on him. Why had not Javert arrested Jean Valjean? Because he was still in doubt.
It must be remembered that at that epoch the police was not precisely at its ease; the free press embarrassed it; several arbitrary arrests denounced by the newspapers, had echoed even as far as the Chambers, and had rendered the Prefecture timid. Interference with individual liberty was a grave matter. The police agents were afraid of making a mistake; the prefect laid the blame on them; a mistake meant dismissal. The reader can imagine the effect which this brief paragraph, reproduced by twenty newspapers, would have caused in Paris: "Yesterday, an aged grandfather, with white hair, a respectable and well-to-do gentleman, who was walking with his grandchild, aged eight, was arrested and conducted to the agency of the Prefecture as an escaped convict!"
Let us repeat in addition that Javert had scruples of his own; injunctions of his conscience were added to the injunctions of the prefect. He was really in doubt.
Jean Valjean turned his back on him and walked in the dark.
Sadness, uneasiness, anxiety, depression, this fresh misfortune of being forced to flee by night, to seek a chance refuge in Paris for Cosette and himself, the necessity of regulating his pace to the pace of the child--all this, without his being aware of it, had altered Jean Valjean's walk, and impressed on his bearing such senility, that the police themselves, incarnate in the person of Javert, might, and did in fact, make a mistake. The impossibility of approaching too close, his costume of an emigre preceptor, the declaration of Thenardier which made a grandfather of him, and, finally, the belief in his death in prison, added still further to the uncertainty which gathered thick in Javert's mind.
For an instant it occurred to him to make an abrupt demand for his papers; but if the man was not Jean Valjean, and if this man was not a good, honest old fellow living on his income, he was probably some merry blade deeply and cunningly implicated in the obscure web of Parisian misdeeds, some chief of a dangerous band, who gave alms to conceal his other talents, which was an old dodge. He had trusty fellows, accomplices' retreats in case of emergencies, in which he would, no doubt, take refuge. All these turns which he was making through the streets seemed to indicate that he was not a simple and honest man. To arrest him too hastily would be "to kill the hen that laid the golden eggs." Where was the inconvenience in waiting? Javert was very sure that he would not escape.
Thus he proceeded in a tolerably perplexed state of mind, putting to himself a hundred questions about this enigmatical personage.
It was only quite late in the Rue de Pontoise, that, thanks to the brilliant light thrown from a dram-shop, he decidedly recognized Jean Valjean.
There are in this world two beings who give a profound start,-- the mother who recovers her child and the tiger who recovers his prey. Javert gave that profound start.
As soon as he had positively recognized Jean Valjean, the formidable convict, he perceived that there were only three of them, and he asked for reinforcements at the police station of the Rue de Pontoise. One puts on gloves before grasping a thorn cudgel.
This delay and the halt at the Carrefour Rollin to consult with his agents came near causing him to lose the trail. He speedily divined, however, that Jean Valjean would want to put the river between his pursuers and himself. He bent his head and reflected like a blood-hound who puts his nose to the ground to make sure that he is on the right scent. Javert, with his powerful rectitude of instinct, went straight to the bridge of Austerlitz. A word with the toll-keeper furnished him with the information which he required: "Have you seen a man with a little girl?" "I made him pay two sous," replied the toll-keeper. Javert reached the bridge in season to see Jean Valjean traverse the small illuminated spot on the other side of the water, leading Cosette by the hand. He saw him enter the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine; he remembered the Cul-de-Sac Genrot arranged there like a trap, and of the sole exit of the Rue Droit-Mur into the Rue Petit-Picpus. He made sure of his back burrows, as huntsmen say; he hastily despatched one of his agents, by a roundabout way, to guard that issue. A patrol which was returning to the Arsenal post having passed him, he made a requisition on it, and caused it to accompany him. In such games soldiers are aces. Moreover, the principle is, that in order to get the best of a wild boar, one must employ the science of venery and plenty of dogs. These combinations having been effected, feeling that Jean Valjean was caught between the blind alley Genrot on the right, his agent on the left, and himself, Javert, in the rear, he took a pinch of snuff.
Then he began the game. He experienced one ecstatic and infernal moment; he allowed his man to go on ahead, knowing that he had him safe, but desirous of postponing the moment of arrest as long as possible, happy at the thought that he was taken and yet at seeing him free, gloating over him with his gaze, with that voluptuousness of the spider which allows the fly to flutter, and of the cat which lets the mouse run. Claws and talons possess a monstrous sensuality,-- the obsc"> 
我们刚才见到的，可以说是这事的反面，其实它的经过是非常简单的。
芳汀去世那天，沙威在死者的床边逮捕了冉阿让，冉阿让在当天晚上便已经从滨海蒙特勒伊市监狱逃了出来，警署当局认为这在逃的苦役犯一定要去巴黎。巴黎是淹没一切的漩涡，是大地的渊薮，有如海洋吞没一切漩涡。任何森林都不能象那里的人流那样容易掩藏一个人的踪迹。各色各种的亡命之徒都知道这一点。他们走进巴黎，便好象进了无底洞，有些无底洞也确能解人之厄，警务部门也了解这一点，因此凡是在别处逃脱了的，他们都到巴黎来寻找。他们要在这里侦缉滨海蒙特勒伊的前任市长。沙威被调来巴黎协同破案。沙威在逮捕冉阿让这一公案中，确是作过有力的贡献。昂格勒斯伯爵任内的警署秘书夏布耶先生已经注意到沙威在这件案子上所表现的忠心和智力。夏布耶先生原就提拔过沙威，这次又把滨海蒙特勒伊的这位侦察员调来巴黎警务方面供职。沙威到巴黎之后，曾经多次立功，并且表现得棗让我们把那字眼说出来，虽然它对这种性质的职务显得有些突兀棗忠勤干练。
正如天天打围的猎狗，见了今天的狼便会忘掉昨天的狼一样，后来沙威也不再去想冉阿让了，他也从来不看报纸，可是在一八二三年十二月，他忽然想到要看看报纸，那是因为他是一个拥护君主政体主义者，他要知道凯旋的“亲王大元帅”在巴荣纳①举行入城仪式的详细情况。正当他读完他关心的那一段记载以后，报纸下端有个人名，冉阿让这名字引起了他的注意。那张报纸宣称苦役犯冉阿让已经丧命，叙述了当日的情形。言之凿凿，因而沙威深信不疑。他只说了一句：“这就算是个好下场。”说了，把报纸扔下，便不再去想它了。 
①巴荣纳（Bayonne），法国西南部邻近西班牙的小城。亲王大元帅指昂古莱姆公爵。一八二三年四月昂古莱姆公爵率领十万法军进入西班牙，镇压资产阶级革命，年终班师回国便驻节于此。
　不久以后，塞纳－瓦兹省的省政府送了一份警务通知给巴黎警署，通知上提到在孟费郿镇发生的一件拐带幼童案，据说案情离奇。通知上说，有个七八岁的女孩由她母亲托付给当地一个客店主人抚养，被一个不知名姓的人拐走了，女孩的名字叫珂赛特，是一个叫芳汀的女子的女儿，芳汀已经死在一个医院里，何时何地不详。通知落在沙威手里，又引起了他的疑惑。
芳汀这名字是他熟悉的，他还记得冉阿让曾经要求过他宽限三天，好让他去领取那贼人的孩子，曾使他，沙威，笑不可仰。他又想到冉阿让是从巴黎搭车去孟费郿时被捕的。当时还有某些迹象可以说明他那是第二次搭这路车子，他在前一日，已到那村子附近去过一次，我们说附近，是因为在村子里没有人见到过他。他当时到孟费郿去干什么？没有人能猜透。沙威现在可猜到了。芳汀的女儿住在那里。冉阿让要去找她。而现在这孩子被一个不知名姓的人拐走了。这个不知名姓的人究竟是谁？难道是冉阿让？可是冉阿让早已死了。沙威，没有和任何人谈过这问题，便去小板死胡同，在锡盘车行雇了一辆单人小马车直奔孟费郿。
他满以为可以在那里访个水落石出，结果却仍是漆黑一团。
德纳第夫妇在最初几天中心里有些懊恼，曾走漏过一些风声。百灵鸟失踪的消息在村里传开了。立即就出现了好几种不同的传说，结果这件事被说成了幼童拐带案。这便是那份警务通知的由来。可是德纳第，他一时的气愤平息以后，凭他那点天生的聪明，又很快意识到惊动御前检察大人总不是件好事，他从前已有过一大堆不清不白的事，现在又在“拐带”珂赛特这件事上发牢骚，其后果首先就是把司法当局的炯炯目光引到他德纳第身上以及他其他的暖昧勾当上来。枭鸟最忌讳的事，便是人家把烛光送到它眼前。首先，他怎能开脱当初接受那一千五百法郎的干系呢？于是他立即改变态度，堵住了他老婆的嘴，有人和他谈到那被“拐带”的孩子，他便故意表示诧异，他说他自己也弄不清楚，他确是埋怨过人家一下子便把他那心疼的小姑娘“带”走了，他确是舍不得，原想留她多待两三天，可是来找她的人是她祖父，这也是世上最平常不过的事。他添上一个祖父，效果很好。沙威来到孟费郿，听到的正是这种说法。“祖父”把冉阿让遮掩过去了。
可是沙威在听了德纳第的故事后追问了几句，想探探虚实：
“这祖父是个什么人？他叫什么名字？”德纳第若无其事地回答说：“是个有钱的庄稼人。我见过他的护照。我记得他叫纪尧姆·朗贝尔。”
朗贝尔是个正派人的名字，听了能使人安心。沙威转回巴黎去了。
“冉阿让明明死了，”他心里说，“我真傻。”
他已把这件事完全丢在脑后了，可是在一八二四年三月间，他听见人家谈到圣美达教区有个怪人，外号叫“给钱的化子”。据说那是个靠收利息度日的富翁，可是谁也不知道他的真名实姓，他独自带着一个八岁的小姑娘过活，那小姑娘只知道自己是从孟费郿来的，除此以外，她全不知道。孟费郿！这地名老挂在人们的嘴上，沙威的耳朵又竖起来了。有一个在教堂里当过杂务的老头，原是个作乞丐打扮的密探，他经常受到那怪人的布施，他还提供了其他一些详细的情况。“那富翁是个性情异常孤僻的人”，“他不到天黑，从不出门”，“不和任何人谈话”，“只偶然和穷人们谈谈”，“并且不让人家和他接近，他经常穿一件非常旧的黄大衣，黄大衣里却兜满了银行钞票，得值好几百万”。这些话着实打动了沙威的好奇心。为了非常近地去把那怪诞的富翁看个清楚又不惊动他，有一天他向那当过教堂杂务的老密探借了他那身烂衣服，去蹲在他每天傍晚一面哼祈祷文一面作侦察工作的地方。
那“可疑的家伙”果然朝这化了装的沙威走来了，并且作了布施。沙威乘机抬头望了一眼，冉阿让惊了一下，以为见了沙威，沙威也同样惊了一下，以为见了冉阿让。
可是当时天色已经黑了，他没有看真切，冉阿让的死也是正式公布过的，沙威心里还有疑问，并且是关系重大的疑问，沙威是个谨慎的人，在还有疑问时是决不动手抓人的。
他远远跟着那人，一直跟到戈尔博老屋，找了那“老奶奶”，向她打听，那并不费多大劲儿。老奶奶证实了那件大衣里确有好几百万，还把上次兑换那张一千法郎钞票的经过也告诉了他。她亲眼看见的！她亲手摸到的！沙威租下了一间屋子。他当天晚上便住在里面。他曾到那神秘的租户的房门口去偷听，希望听到他说话的声音，但是冉阿让在锁眼里见到了烛光，没有出声，他识破了那密探的阴谋。
第二天，冉阿让准备溜走。但是那枚五法郎银币的落地声被老奶奶听见了，她听到钱响，以为人家要迁走，赶忙通知沙威。冉阿让晚间出去时，沙威正领着两个人在大路旁的树后等着他。
沙威请警署派了助手，但是没有说出他准备逮捕谁。这是他的秘密。他有三种理由需要保密：第一，稍微泄露一点风声，便会惊动冉阿让；其次，冉阿让是个在逃的苦役犯，并且是大家都认为死了的，司法当局在当年曾把他列入“最危险的匪徒”一类，如果能捉到这样一个罪犯，将是一种非常出色的劳绩，巴黎警务方面资格老的人员决不会把这类要案交给象沙威那样的新进去办；最后，沙威是个艺术家，他要出奇制胜。他厌恶那种事先早就公开让大家谈到乏味了的胜利。他要暗地里立奇功，再突然揭示。
沙威紧跟着冉阿让，从一棵树眼到另一棵树，从一个街角跟到另一个街角，眼睛不曾离开过他一下。即使是在冉阿让自以为极安全时，沙威的眼睛也始终盯在他身上。
沙威当时为什么不逮捕冉阿让呢？那是因为他有所顾虑。
必须记住，当时的警察并不是完全能为所欲为的，因为自由的言论还起些约束作用。报纸曾揭发过几件违法的逮捕案，在议会里也引起了责难，以致警署当局有些顾忌。侵犯人身自由是种严重的事。警察不敢犯错误；警署署长责成他们自己负责，犯下错误，便是停职处分。二十种报纸刊出了这样一则简短新闻，试想这在巴黎会引起的后果吧：“昨天，有个慈祥可亲的白发富翁正和他的八岁的孙女一同散步时，被人认作一个在逃的苦役犯而拘禁在警署监狱里！”
再说，除此以外，沙威也还有他自己的顾虑，除了上级的指示，还得加上他自己良心的指示。他确是拿不大稳。
冉阿让一直是背对着他的，并且走在黑影里。
平日的忧伤、苦恼、焦急、劳顿，加以这次被迫夜遁的新灾难，还得为珂赛特和自己寻找藏身的地方，走路也必须配合孩子的脚步，这一切，冉阿让本人在不知不觉中早已改变他走路的姿势，并且使他的行动添上一种龙钟老态，以致沙威所代表的警署也可能发生错觉，也确实会发生错觉。过分靠近他，是不可能的，他那种落魄的西席老夫子式的服装，德纳第加给他的祖父身份，还有认为他已在服刑期间死去的想法，这些都加深了沙威思想上越来越重的疑忌。
有那么一会儿，他曾想突然走上前去检查他的证件。可是，即使那人不是冉阿让，即使那人不是一个有家财的诚实好老头，他也极可能是一个和巴黎各种为非作歹的秘密组织有着密切和微妙关系的强人，是某一危险黑帮的魁首，平日施些小恩小惠，这也只是一种掩人耳目的老手法，使人看不出他其他方面的能耐。他一定有党羽，有同伙，有随时可去躲藏的住处。他在街上所走的种种迂回曲折的路线好象可以证明他不是一个普通的人。如果逮捕得太早，便等于“宰了下金蛋的母鸡”了。观望一下，有什么不妥当呢？沙威十分有把握，他决逃不了。
所以他一路跟着走，心里着实踌躇，对那哑谜似的怪人，提出了上百个疑问。
只是到了相当晚的时候，在蓬图瓦兹街上，他才借着从一家酒店里射出的强烈灯光，真切地认清了冉阿让。
世上有两种生物的战栗会深入内心：重新找到亲生儿女的母亲和重新找到猎物的猛虎。沙威的心灵深处登时起了那样的寒战。
他认清了那个猛不可当的逃犯冉阿让后，发现他们只是三个人，便赶到蓬图瓦兹街哨所请了援兵。为了要握有刺的棍子，首先得戴上手套。
这一耽搁，又加上在罗兰十字路口又曾停下来和他的部下交换意见，几乎使他迷失了方向。可是他很快就猜到冉阿让一定会利用那条河来把自己和追踪的人隔开。他歪着头细想，好象一条把鼻尖贴近地面来分辨脚迹的猎狗。沙威，凭自己的本能，会非常正确地判断，一径走上了奥斯特里茨桥，和那收过桥税的人交谈以后，他更了解了：“您见着一个带个小女孩的汉子吗？”“我叫他付了两个苏。”收过桥税的人回答说。沙威走到桥上恰好望见冉阿让在河那边牵着珂赛特的手，穿过月光下的一片空地。他看见他走进了圣安东尼绿径街，他想到前面那条陷阱似的让洛死胡同和经过直壁街通到比克布斯小街的唯一出口。正如打围的人所说的，他“包抄出路”，他赶忙派了一名助手绕道去把守那出口。有一队打算回兵工厂营房去的巡逻兵正走过那地方，他一并调了来，跟着他一道走。在这种场合士兵就是王牌。况且，那是一条原则，猎取野猪，就得让猎人劳心猎犬劳力。那样布置停当以后，他感到冉阿让右有让洛死胡同，左有埋伏，而他沙威本人又跟在他后面，想到这里，他不禁闻了一撮鼻烟。
于是他开始扮演好戏。他在那时真是踌躇满志杀气冲天，他故意让他的冤家东游西荡，他明明知道稳操左券，却要尽量拖延下手的时刻，明明知道人家已陷入重围，却又看着人家自由行动，对他来说，这是一种乐趣，正如让苍蝇翻腾的蜘蛛，让鼠儿逃窜的猫儿，他的眼睛不离他，心中感到无上的欢畅。猛兽的牙和鸷鸟的爪都有一种凶残的肉感，那便是去感受被困在它们掌握中的生物的那种轻微的扭动。置人死地，乐不可支！
沙威得意洋洋。他的网是牢固的。他深信一定成功，他现在只需把拳头捏拢就是了。
他有了那么多的人手，无论冉阿让多么顽强，多么勇猛，多么悲愤，即使连抵抗一下的想法也不可能有了。
沙威缓步前进，一路上搜索街旁的每个角落，如同翻看小偷身上的每个衣袋一样。
当他走到蜘蛛网的中心，却不见了苍蝇。
不难想见他胸中的愤怒。
他追问那把守直壁街和比克布斯街街口的步哨，那位探子一直守着他的岗位没有动，绝对没有看见那人走过。
牡鹿在群犬围困中有时也会蒙头混过，这就是说，也会逃脱，老猎人遇到那种事也只好哑口无言。杜维维耶①、利尼维尔和德普勒也都有过气短的时候。阿尔东日在遭到那种失败时曾经喊道：“这不是鹿，是个邪魔。”
沙威当时也许有此同感，要同样大吼一声。
拿破仑在俄罗斯战争中犯了错误，亚历山大②在阿非利加战争中犯了错误，居鲁士在斯基泰③战争中犯了错误，沙威在这次征讨冉阿让的战役中也犯了错误，这都是实在的。他当初也许不该不把那在逃的苦役犯一眼便肯定下来。最初一眼便应当解决问题。在那破屋子里时，他不该不直截了当地把他抓起来。当他在篷图瓦兹街上确已辨认清楚时，他也不该不动手逮捕。他也不该在月光下面在罗兰十字路口，和他的部下交换意见，当然，众人的意见是有用处的，对一条可靠的狗，也不妨了解和征询它的意见。但是在追捕多疑的野兽，例如豺狼和苦役犯时，猎人却不应当过分细密。沙威过于拘谨，他一心要先让犬群辨清足迹，于是野兽察觉了，逃了。最大的错误是：他既已在奥斯特里茨桥上重新发现踪迹，却还要耍那种危险幼稚的把戏，把那样一种人吊在一根线上。他把自己的能力估计得太高了，以为可以拿一只狮子当作小鼠玩。同时他又把自己估计得太渺小，因而会想到必须请援兵。沙威犯了这一系列的错误，但仍不失为历来最精明和最规矩的密探之一。照狩猎的术语他完全够得上被称作一头“乖狗”。并且，谁又能是十全十美的呢？ 
①杜维维耶（Duvivier），路易－菲力浦时代的将军，死于一八四八年巴黎巷战。
②亚历山大在出征北非时，死于恶性疟疾。
③居鲁士（Cyrus），公元前六世纪波斯王，以武力扩大疆土，出征斯基泰（Scythie）时战死。斯基泰是欧洲东北亚洲西北一带的古称。
最伟大的战略家也有失算的时候。
重大的错误和粗绳子一样，是由许多细微部分组成的，你把一根绳子分成丝缕，你把所有起决定性作用的因素一一分开，你便可把它们一一打断，而且还会说：“不过如此！”你如果把它们编起来，扭在一道，却又能产生极大的效果。那是在东方的马尔西安和西方的瓦伦迪尼安之间游移不决的阿蒂拉①，是在卡普亚晚起的汉尼拔②，是在奥布河畔阿尔西酣睡的丹东③。 
①马尔西安（Marcien），五世纪东罗马帝国的皇帝；瓦伦迪尼安（Valentinien），同时代西罗马帝国皇帝；阿蒂拉（Attila）是当时入侵罗马帝国的匈奴王，他从东部帝国获得大宗赎金后，率军转向高卢，而不直趋罗马，最后为罗马大军所败。
②卡普亚（Capoue）在罗马东南，是罗马帝国的大城市。汉尼拔是公元前三世纪入侵罗马帝国后来失败的迦太基将领，攻占卡普亚后曾一度沉湎酒色。
③奥布河畔阿尔西（ArcisCsurCAube），在巴黎东南，是丹东（Danton）的故乡。　
总而言之，当沙威发觉冉阿让已经逃脱以后，他并没有失去主意。他深信那在逃的苦役犯决走不远，他分布了监视哨，设置了陷阱和埋伏，在附近一带搜索了一整夜。他首先发现的东西便是那盏路灯的凌乱情况，灯上的绳子被拉断了。这一宝贵的破绽却正好把他引上歧途，使他的搜捕工作完全转向让洛死胡同。在那死胡同里，有几道相当矮的墙，墙后是些被圈在围墙里的广阔的荒地，冉阿让显然是从那些地方逃跑的。事实是：当初冉阿让假使向让洛死胡同底里多走上几步，他也许真会那样做，那么他确实玩完了。沙威象寻针似的搜查了那些园子和荒地。
黎明时，他留下两个精干的人继续看守，自己回到警署里，满面羞惭，象个被小毛贼暗算了的恶霸。
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 1 Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus
Nothing, half a century ago, more resembled every other carriage gate than the carriage gate of Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. This entrance, which usually stood ajar in the most inviting fashion, permitted a view of two things, neither of which have anything very funereal about them,--a courtyard surrounded by walls hung with vines, and the face of a lounging porter. Above the wall, at the bottom of the court, tall trees were visible. When a ray of sunlight enlivened the courtyard, when a glass of wine cheered up the porter, it was difficult to pass Number 62 Little Picpus Street without carrying away a smiling impression of it. Nevertheless, it was a sombre place of which one had had a glimpse.
The threshold smiled; the house prayed and wept.
If one succeeded in passing the porter, which was not easy,-- which was even nearly impossible for every one, for there was an open sesame! which it was necessary to know,--if, the porter once passed, one entered a little vestibule on the right, on which opened a staircase shut in between two walls and so narrow that only one person could ascend it at a time, if one did not allow one's self to be alarmed by a daubing of canary yellow, with a dado of chocolate which clothed this staircase, if one ventured to ascend it, one crossed a first landing, then a second, and arrived on the first story at a corridor where the yellow wash and the chocolate-hued plinth pursued one with a peaceable persistency. Staircase and corridor were lighted by two beautiful windows. The corridor took a turn and became dark. If one doubled this cape, one arrived a few paces further on, in front of a door which was all the more mysterious because it was not fastened. If one opened it, one found one's self in a little chamber about six feet square, tiled, well-scrubbed, clean, cold, and hung with nankin paper with green flowers, at fifteen sous the roll. A white, dull light fell from a large window, with tiny panes, on the left, which usurped the whole width of the room. One gazed about, but saw no one; one listened, one heard neither a footstep nor a human murmur. The walls were bare, the chamber was not furnished; there was not even a chair.
One looked again, and beheld on the wall facing the door a quadrangular hole, about a foot square, with a grating of interlacing iron bars, black, knotted, solid, which formed squares-- I had almost said meshes--of less than an inch and a half in diagonal length. The little green flowers of the nankin paper ran in a calm and orderly manner to those iron bars, without being startled or thrown into confusion by their funereal contact. Supposing that a living being had been so wonderfully thin as to essay an entrance or an exit through the square hole, this grating would have prevented it. It did not allow the passage of the body, but it did allow the passage of the eyes; that is to say, of the mind. This seems to have occurred to them, for it had been re-enforced by a sheet of tin inserted in the wall a little in the rear, and pierced with a thousand holes more microscopic than the holes of a strainer. At the bottom of this plate, an aperture had been pierced exactly similar to the orifice of a letter box. A bit of tape attached to a bell-wire hung at the right of the grated opening.
If the tape was pulled, a bell rang, and one heard a voice very near at hand, which made one start.
"Who is there?" the voice demanded.
It was a woman's voice, a gentle voice, so gentle that it was mournful.
Here, again, there was a magical word which it was necessary to know. If one did not know it, the voice ceased, the wall became silent once more, as though the terrified obscurity of the sepulchre had been on the other side of it.
If one knew the password, the voice resumed, "Enter on the right."
One then perceived on the right, facing the window, a glass door surmounted by a frame glazed and painted gray. On raising the latch and crossing the threshold, one experienced precisely the same impression as when one enters at the theatre into a grated baignoire, before the grating is lowered and the chandelier is lighted. One was, in fact, in a sort of theatre-box, narrow, furnished with two old chairs, and a much-frayed straw matting, sparely illuminated by the vague light from the glass door; a regular box, with its front just of a height to lean upon, bearing a tablet of black wood. This box was grated, only the grating of it was not of gilded wood, as at the opera; it was a monstrous lattice of iron bars, hideously interlaced and riveted to the wall by enormous fastenings which resembled clenched fists.
The first minutes passed; when one's eyes began to grow used to this cellar-like half-twilight, one tried to pass the grating, but got no further than six inches beyond it. There he encountered a barrier of black shutters, re-enforced and fortified with transverse beams of wood painted a gingerbread yellow. These shutters were divided into long, narrow slats, and they masked the entire length of the grating. They were always closed. At the expiration of a few moments one heard a voice proceeding from behind these shutters, and saying:--
"I am here. What do you wish with me?"
It was a beloved, sometimes an adored, voice. No one was visible. Hardly the sound of a breath was audible. It seemed as though it were a spirit which had been evoked, that was speaking to you across the walls of the tomb.
If one chanced to be within certain prescribed and very rare conditions, the slat of one of the shutters opened opposite you; the evoked spirit became an apparition. Behind the grating, behind the shutter, one perceived so far as the grating permitted sight, a head, of which only the mouth and the chin were visible; the rest was covered with a black veil. One caught a glimpse of a black guimpe, and a form that was barely defined, covered with a black shroud. That head spoke with you, but did not look at you and never smiled at you.
The light which came from behind you was adjusted in such a manner that you saw her in the white, and she saw you in the black. This light was symbolical.
Nevertheless, your eyes plunged eagerly through that opening which was made in that place shut off from all glances. A profound vagueness enveloped that form clad in mourning. Your eyes searched that vagueness, and sought to make out the surroundings of the apparition. At the expiration of a very short time you discovered that you could see nothing. What you beheld was night, emptiness, shadows, a wintry mist mingled with a vapor from the tomb, a sort of terrible peace, a silence from which you could gather nothing, not even sighs, a gloom in which you could distinguish nothing, not even phantoms.
What you beheld was the interior of a cloister.
It was the interior of that severe and gloomy edifice which was called the Convent of the Bernardines of the Perpetual Adoration. The box in which you stood was the parlor. The first voice which had addressed you was that of the portress who always sat motionless and silent, on the other side of the wall, near the square opening, screened by the iron grating and the plate with its thousand holes, as by a double visor. The obscurity which bathed the grated box arose from the fact that the parlor, which had a window on the side of the world, had none on the side of the convent. Profane eyes must see nothing of that sacred place.
Nevertheless, there was something beyond that shadow; there was a light; there was life in the midst of that death. Although this was the most strictly walled of all convents, we shall endeavor to make our way into it, and to take the reader in, and to say, without transgressing the proper bounds, things which story-tellers have never seen, and have, therefore, never described.
比克布斯小街六十二号的那道大车门，在半个世纪前，是和任何一道大车门一模一样的。那道门经常以一种最吸引人的方式半开半掩着，门缝中透出两种不很凄凉的东西：一个周围墙上布满葡萄藤的院子和一个无事徘徊的门房的面孔。院底的墙头上可以见到几棵大树。当一线阳光给那院子带来生气，一杯红葡萄酒给那门房带来喜色时，从比克布斯小街六十二号门前经过的人很难对它不产生欢畅的感觉，可是我们望见的是一个悲惨的地方。
门口在微笑，屋里却在祈祷和哭泣。
假使我们能够棗这是很不容易的事棗通过门房那一关棗这几乎对任何人都是不可能做到的事，因为这里有句“芝麻，开门！”①是我们必须知道的，假使我们在过了门房那一关后向右走进一间有一道夹在两堵墙中、每次只能容一人上下的窄楼梯的小厅，假使我们不害怕墙上鹅黄色的灰浆和楼梯、以及楼梯两侧墙脚上的可可颜色，假使我们壮着胆子往上走，走过楼梯中段的第一宽级，继又走过第二宽级，我们便到了第一层楼的过道里，过道的墙上也刷了黄灰浆，墙根也作可可色，仿佛楼梯两侧的颜色也悄悄地、顽强地跟着我们上了楼似的。阳光从两扇工巧的窗子照进楼梯和过道。过道转了个弯便阴暗了。假使我们也拐弯，向前再走几步，便到了一扇门前，这门并没有关上，因而显得格外神秘。我们推门进去，便到了一间小屋子里，那小屋子约莫有六尺见方，小方块地板，洗过了的，清洁，冷清，墙上裱着十五个苏一卷印了小绿花的南京纸。一片暗淡的白光从左边的一大扇小方格玻璃窗里透进来，窗子和屋子一般宽，我们看时，看不见一个人；我们听，听不到一点声息，没有一丝人间的气息。墙上毫无装饰，地上毫无家具，一把椅子也没有。 
①这原是《一千零一夜》中阿利巴巴为使宝库的门自启而叫喊的咒语，后来成了咒语或秘诀的代名词。
我们再看，便会看见正对着屋门的墙上有一个一尺左右的方洞，洞口装有黑铁条，多节而牢固，交叉成方孔，我几乎要说交织成密网，孔的对角线，还不到一寸半。南京纸上的朵朵小绿花，整齐安静地来和这些阴森的铁条相接触，并不感到惶恐，也不狂奔乱窜。假使有个身材纤丽的人儿想试试从那方洞里进出，也一定会被它的铁网所遮拦。它不让身体出入，却让眼睛通过，就是说，让精神通过。似乎已有人想到了这一点，因为在那墙上稍后一点地方还嵌了一块白铁皮，白铁皮上有无数小孔，比漏勺上的孔还小。在那铁皮的下方，开了一个口，和信箱的口完全同一样。有条棉纱带子，一头垂在那有遮护的洞口右边，一头系在铃上。
假使你拉动那条带子，小铃儿便会丁零当郎一阵响，你也会听到一个人说话的声音，冷不防声音会从你耳边极近的地方发出来，叫你听了寒毛直竖。
“是谁？”那声音问道。
那是一个女人的声音，一种柔和得叫人听了感到悲切的声音。
到了这里，又有一句切口是非知道不可的。假使你不知道，那边说话的声音便沉寂下去了，四面的墙壁又变成静悄悄的了，仿佛隔墙便是阴暗可怕的坟墓。
假使你知道那句话，那边便回答说：
“请从右边进来。”
我们向右边看去，便会看见在窗子对面，有一扇上端嵌了一个玻璃框的灰漆玻璃门。我们拉开门闩，穿过门洞，所得的印象恰恰象进了戏院池座周围那种装了铁栅栏的包厢，看到的是一种铁栅栏还没有放下、分枝挂灯也还没有点上的情景。我们的确是到了一种包厢里，玻璃门上透进一点微弱的阳光，室内阴暗，窄狭，只有两张旧椅子和一条散了的擦脚草垫，那确是一间真正的包厢，还有一道高齐肘弯的栏杆，栏杆上有条黑漆靠板。那包厢是有栅栏的，不过不是歌剧院里的那种金漆栅栏，而是一排奇形怪状杂乱交错的铁条，用些拳头似的铁榫嵌在墙里。
最初几分钟过后，当视力开始适应那种半明不暗的地窖，我们便会朝栅栏的里面望去，但是视线只能达到离栅栏六寸远的地方。望到那里我们的视线又会遇到一排黑板窗，板窗上钉了几条和果子面包一样黄的横木，使它牢固。那些板窗是由几条可以开合的长而薄的木板拼成的，一排板窗遮住了那整个铁栅栏的宽度，总是紧闭着的。
过一会儿，你会听见有人在板窗的后面叫你并且说：
“我在这里。您找我干什么？”
那是一个亲人的声音，有时是爱人的声音。你望不见人，你也几乎听不见呼吸。仿佛是隔着墓壁在和幽灵谈话。
要是你符合某种必要的条件棗这是很少有的事棗板窗上的一条窄木板便会在你的面前转开，那幽灵也就有了形象。你会在铁栅栏所允许的限度内望见在铁栅栏和板窗的后面，出现了一个人头，你只能看见嘴和下巴颏儿，其余的部分都遮没在黑纱里了。那个头在和你谈话，却并不望看你，也从来不朝你笑。
光从你的后面照来。使你看见她是在光明里，而她看见你是在黑暗里。那样的布置是具有象征意义的。
同时你的眼睛会通过那条木板缝，向那和外人完全隔绝的地方贪婪地射去。一片朦胧的迷雾笼罩着那个全身黑衣的人形。你的眼睛在迷雾里搜索，想分辨出那人形四周的东西。你马上就会发现你什么也瞧不见。你所瞧见的只是空蒙、黑暗、夹杂着死气的寒烟、一种骇人的宁静、一种绝无声息连叹息声也听不到的沉寂、一种什么也瞧不见连鬼影也没有的昏暗。
你所看见的是一个修道院的内部。
这就是所谓永敬会伯尔纳女修院的那所阴森肃静的房屋的内部。我们所在的这间厢房是会客室。最先和你说话的那人是传达女，她是一直坐在墙那边有铁网和千孔板双重掩护下的方洞旁边的，从来不动也不吭声。
厢房之所以黑暗，是因为那会客室在通向尘世的这面有扇窗子，而在通向修院的那面却没有。俗眼绝不该窥探圣洁的地方。
可是在黑暗的这面仍有光明，死亡中也仍有生命。尽管那修院的门禁特别森严，我们仍要进去看看，并且要让读者也进去看看，同时我们还要在适当的范围内谈些讲故事的人所从来不曾见过，因而也从来不曾谈到过的事。
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 2 The Obedience of Martin Verga
This convent, which in 1824 had already existed for many a long year in the Rue Petit-Picpus, was a community of Bernardines of the obedience of Martin Verga.
These Bernardines were attached, in consequence, not to Clairvaux, like the Bernardine monks, but to Citeaux, like the Benedictine monks. In other words, they were the subjects, not of Saint Bernard, but of Saint Benoit.
Any one who has turned over old folios to any extent knows that Martin Verga founded in 1425 a congregation of Bernardines-Benedictines, with Salamanca for the head of the order, and Alcala as the branch establishment.
This congregation had sent out branches throughout all the Catholic countries of Europe.
There is nothing unusual in the Latin Church in these grafts of one order on another. To mention only a single order of Saint-Benoit, which is here in question: there are attached to this order, without counting the obedience of Martin Verga, four congregations,-- two in Italy, Mont-Cassin and Sainte-Justine of Padua; two in France, Cluny and Saint-Maur; and nine orders,--Vallombrosa, Granmont, the Celestins, the Camaldules, the Carthusians, the Humilies, the Olivateurs, the Silvestrins, and lastly, Citeaux; for Citeaux itself, a trunk for other orders, is only an offshoot of Saint-Benoit. Citeaux dates from Saint Robert, Abbe de Molesme, in the diocese of Langres, in 1098. Now it was in 529 that the devil, having retired to the desert of Subiaco--he was old--had he turned hermit?-- was chased from the ancient temple of Apollo, where he dwelt, by Saint-Benoit, then aged seventeen.
After the rule of the Carmelites, who go barefoot, wear a bit of willow on their throats, and never sit down, the harshest rule is that of the Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga. They are clothed in black, with a guimpe, which, in accordance with the express command of Saint-Benoit, mounts to the chin. A robe of serge with large sleeves, a large woollen veil, the guimpe which mounts to the chin cut square on the breast, the band which descends over their brow to their eyes,--this is their dress. All is black except the band, which is white. The novices wear the same habit, but all in white. The professed nuns also wear a rosary at their side.
The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga practise the Perpetual Adoration, like the Benedictines called Ladies of the Holy Sacrament, who, at the beginning of this century, had two houses in Paris,-- one at the Temple, the other in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve. However, the Bernardines-Benedictines of the Petit-Picpus, of whom we are speaking, were a totally different order from the Ladies of the Holy Sacrament, cloistered in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve and at the Temple. There were numerous differences in their rule; there were some in their costume. The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Petit-Picpus wore the black guimpe, and the Benedictines of the Holy Sacrament and of the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve wore a white one, and had, besides, on their breasts, a Holy Sacrament about three inches long, in silver gilt or gilded copper. The nuns of the Petit-Picpus did not wear this Holy Sacrament. The Perpetual Adoration, which was common to the house of the Petit-Picpus and to the house of the Temple, leaves those two orders perfectly distinct. Their only resemblance lies in this practice of the Ladies of the Holy Sacrament and the Bernardines of Martin Verga, just as there existed a similarity in the study and the glorification of all the mysteries relating to the infancy, the life, and death of Jesus Christ and the Virgin, between the two orders, which were, nevertheless, widely separated, and on occasion even hostile. The Oratory of Italy, established at Florence by Philip de Neri, and the Oratory of France, established by Pierre de Berulle. The Oratory of France claimed the precedence, since Philip de Neri was only a saint, while Berulle was a cardinal.
Let us return to the harsh Spanish rule of Martin Verga.
The Bernardines-Benedictines of this obedience fast all the year round, abstain from meat, fast in Lent and on many other days which are peculiar to them, rise from their first sleep, from one to three o'clock in the morning, to read their breviary and chant matins, sleep in all seasons between serge sheets and on straw, make no use of the bath, never light a fire, scourge themselves every Friday, observe the rule of silence, speak to each other only during the recreation hours, which are very brief, and wear drugget chemises for six months in the year, from September 14th, which is the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, until Easter. These six months are a modification: the rule says all the year, but this drugget chemise, intolerable in the heat of summer, produced fevers and nervous spasms. The use of it had to be restricted. Even with this palliation, when the nuns put on this chemise on the 14th of September, they suffer from fever for three or four days. Obedience, poverty, chastity, perseverance in their seclusion,-- these are their vows, which the rule greatly aggravates.
The prioress is elected for three years by the mothers, who are called meres vocales because they have a voice in the chapter. A prioress can only be re-elected twice, which fixes the longest possible reign of a prioress at nine years.
They never see the officiating priest, who is always hidden from them by a serge curtain nine feet in height. During the sermon, when the preacher is in the chapel, they drop their veils over their faces. They must always speak low, walk with their eyes on the ground and their heads bowed. One man only is allowed to enter the convent,-- the archbishop of the diocese.
There is really one other,--the gardener. But he is always an old man, and, in order that he may always be alone in the garden, and that the nuns may be warned to avoid him, a bell is attached to his knee.
Their submission to the prioress is absolute and passive. It is the canonical subjection in the full force of its abnegation. As at the voice of Christ, ut voci Christi, at a gesture, at the first sign, ad nutum, ad primum signum, immediately, with cheerfulness, with perseverance, with a certain blind obedience, prompte, hilariter, perseveranter et caeca quadam obedientia, as the file in the hand of the workman, quasi limam in manibus fabri, without power to read or to write without express permission, legere vel scribere non addiscerit sine expressa superioris licentia.
adopt a tone so low that the voices of women can hardly descend to such a depth. The effect produced is striking and tragic.
The nuns of the Petit-Picpus had made a vault under their grand altar for the burial of their community. The Government, as they say, does not permit this vault to receive coffins so they leave the convent when they die. This is an affliction to them, and causes them consternation as an infraction of the rules.
They had obtained a mediocre consolation at best,--permission to be interred at a special hour and in a special corner in the ancient Vaugirard cemetery, which was made of land which had formerly belonged to their community.
On Fridays the nuns hear high mass, vespers, and all the offices, as on Sunday. They scrupulously observe in addition all the little festivals unknown to people of the world, of which the Church of France was so prodigal in the olden days, and o蕠濆鄋, to make reparation or to be at the post. The nuns even prefer, out of humility, this last expression, which contains an idea of torture and abasement.
To make reparation is a function in which the whole soul is absorbed. The sister at the post would not turn round were a thunderbolt to fall directly behind her.
Besides this, there is always a sister kneeling before the Holy Sacrament. This station lasts an hour. They relieve each other like soldiers on guard. This is the Perpetual Adoration.
The prioresses and the mothers almost always bear names stamped with peculiar solemnity, recalling, not the saints and martyrs, but moments in the life of Jesus Christ: as Mother Nativity, Mother Conception, Mother Presentation, Mother Passion. But the names of saints are not interdicted.
When one sees them, one never sees anything but their mouths.
All their teeth are yellow. No tooth-brush ever entered that convent. Brushing one's teeth is at the top of a ladder at whose bottom is the loss of one's soul.
They never say my. They possess nothing of their own, and they must not attach themselves to anything. They call everything our; thus: our veil, our chaplet; if they were speaking of their chemise, they would say our chemise. Sometimes they grow attached to some petty object,-- to a book of hours, a relic, a medal that has been blessed. As soon as they become aware that they are growing attached to this object, they must give it up. They recall the words of Saint Therese, to whom a great lady said, as she was on the point of entering her order, "Permit me, mother, to send for a Bible to which I am greatly attached." "Ah, you are attached to something! In that case, do not enter our order!"
Every person whatever is forbidden to shut herself up, to have a place of her own, a chamber. They live with their cells open. When they meet, one says, "Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar!" The other responds, "Forever." The same ceremony when one taps at the other's door. Hardly has she touched the door when a soft voice on the other side is heard to say hastily, "Forever!" Like all practices, this becomes mechanical by force of habit; and one sometimes says forever before the other has had time to say the rather long sentence, "Praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar."
Among the Visitandines the one who enters says: "Ave Maria," and the one whose cell is entered says, "Gratia plena." It is their way of saying good day, which is in fact full of grace.
At each hour of the day three supplementary strokes sound from the church bell of the convent. At this signal prioress, vocal mothers, professed nuns, lay-sisters, novices, postulants, interrupt what they are saying, what they are doing, or what they are thinking, and all say in unison if it is five o'clock, for instance, "At five o'clock and at all hours praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar!" If it is eight o'clock, "At eight o'clock and at all hours!" and so on, according to the hour.
This custom, the object of which is to break the thread of thought and to lead it back constantly to God, exists in many communities; the formula alone varies. Thus at The Infant Jesus they say, "At this hour and at every hour may the love of Jesus kindle my heart!" The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga, cloistered fifty years ago at Petit-Picpus, chant the offices to a solemn psalmody, a pure Gregorian chant, and always with full voice during the whole course of the office. Everywhere in the missal where an asterisk occurs they pause, and say in a low voice, "Jesus-Marie-Joseph." For the office of the dead they adopt a tone so low that the voices of women can hardly descend to such a depth. The effect produced is striking and tragic.
The nuns of the Petit-Picpus had made a vault under their grand altar for the burial of their community. The Government, as they say, does not permit this vault to receive coffins so they leave the convent when they die. This is an affliction to them, and causes them consternation as an infraction of the rules.
They had obtained a mediocre consolation at best,--permission to be interred at a special hour and in a special corner in the ancient Vaugirard cemetery, which was made of land which had formerly belonged to their community.
On Fridays the nuns hear high mass, vespers, and all the offices, as on Sunday. They scrupulously observe in addition all the little festivals unknown to people of the world, of which the Church of France was so prodigal in the olden days, and of which it is still prodigal in Spain and Italy. Their stations in the chapel are interminable. As for the number and duration of their prayers we can convey no better idea of them than by quoting the ingenuous remark of one of them: "The prayers of the postulants are frightful, the prayers of the novices are still worse, and the prayers of the professed nuns are still worse."
Once a week the chapter assembles: the prioress presides; the vocal mothers assist. Each sister kneels in turn on the stones, and confesses aloud, in the presence of all, the faults and sins which she has committed during the week. The vocal mothers consult after each confession and inflict the penance aloud.
Besides this confession in a loud tone, for which all faults in the least serious are reserved, they have for their venial offences what they call the coulpe. To make one's coulpe means to prostrate one's self flat on one's face during the office in front of the prioress until the latter, who is never called anything but our mother, notifies the culprit by a slight tap of her foot against the wood of her stall that she can rise. The coulpe or peccavi, is made for a very small matter--a broken glass, a torn veil, an involuntary delay of a few seconds at an office, a false note in church, etc. this suffices, and the coulpe is made. The coulpe is entirely spontaneous; it is the culpable person herself (the word is etymologically in its place here) who judges herself and inflicts it on herself. On festival days and Sundays four mother precentors intone the offices before a large reading-desk with four places. One day one of the mother precentors intoned a psalm beginning with Ecce, and instead of Ecce she uttered aloud the three notes do si sol; for this piece of absent-mindedness she underwent a coulpe which lasted during the whole service: what rendered the fault enormous was the fact that the chapter had laughed.
When a nun is summoned to the parlor, even were it the prioress herself, she drops her veil, as will be remembered, so that only her mouth is visible.
The prioress alone can hold communication with strangers. The others can see only their immediate family, and that very rarely. If, by chance, an outsider presents herself to see a nun, or one whom she has known and loved in the outer world, a regular series of negotiations is required. If it is a woman, the authorization may sometimes be granted; the nun comes, and they talk to her through the shutters, which are opened only for a mother or sister. It is unnecessary to say that permission is always refused to men.
Such is the rule of Saint-Benoit, aggravated by Martin Verga.
These nuns are not gay, rosy, and fresh, as the daughters of other orders often are. They are pale and grave. Between 1825 and 1830 three of them went mad.
那个修院到一八二四年已在比克布斯小街存在许多年了，它是属于玛尔丹·维尔加支系的伯尔纳修会的修女们的修院。
因此那些伯尔纳修会的修女们，和伯尔纳修会的修士们不一样，她们不属于明谷①，而是和本笃会的修士们一样，属于西多。换句话说，她们不是圣伯尔纳的门徒，而是圣伯努瓦的门徒。
凡是翻过一些对开本的人都知道玛尔丹·维尔加在一四二五年创立了一个伯尔纳－本笃修会②，并以萨拉曼卡为总会会址，以阿尔卡拉③为分会会址。 
①伯尔纳修会是圣伯尔纳（Saint　Bernard）在公元一一一五年创立的。明谷（Clairvaux）是法国北部奥布省（Aube）的一个小镇，圣伯尔纳在那里建立了一个著名的修院。
②本笃会是意大利人本笃（Benedictus，约480?50），一译本尼狄克，于五二九年在意大利中部蒙特卡西诺（Monte　Cassino）建立的。西多会（Citeaux）由法国罗贝尔（Robert，1027?111）创立于第戎出（Dijon）附近的西多旷野，故名。罗贝尔主张全守本笃会严规，故西多会又称“重整本笃会”。一一一四年伯尔纳率领三十人加入后迅速发展起来，故后之建会者将伯尔纳及本笃之名连称在一起。
③萨拉曼卡（Salamanque）和阿尔卡拉（Alcala）都是西班牙城市。
那个修会的支系伸入了欧洲所有的天主教国家。
一个修会移植于另一修会，这在拉丁教会里并不是少见的事。这里涉及到圣伯努瓦的一系，我们就只谈谈这一系的情形，除了玛尔丹·维尔加一支不算外，和它同一系统的还有四个修会团体，两个在意大利，蒙特卡西诺和圣查斯丁·德·帕多瓦，两个在法国，克吕尼和圣摩尔；此外还有九个修会也和它同一系统，瓦隆白洛查修会，格拉蒙修会，则肋斯定修会，卡玛尔多尔修会，查尔特勒修会，卑微者修会，橄榄山派修会，西尔维斯特修会和西多修会；因为西多修会本身虽是好几个修会的发源地，对圣伯努瓦来说，它只不过是一个分支。西多修会在圣罗贝尔时代就已经存在了，圣罗贝尔在一○九八年是朗格勒主教区摩莱斯姆修院的住持。而魔鬼是在五二九年从阿波罗庙旧址被逐的，当时他已隐退到苏比阿柯沙漠（他已经老了，难道他已改邪归正了吗？），他当初是通过圣伯努瓦才住到阿波罗庙里去的，其时圣伯努瓦才十七岁。
圣衣会修女们赤着脚走路，颈脖上围一根柳条，也从来不坐，除了圣衣会修女们的教规以外，玛尔丹·维尔加一系的伯尔纳－本笃会修女们的教规要算是最严的了。她们全身穿黑，按照圣伯努瓦的特别规定，头兜必须兜住下巴颏儿。一件宽袖哔叽袍，一个宽大的毛质面罩，兜住下巴颏儿的头兜四方四正地垂到胸前，一条压齐眼睛的扎额巾，这便是她们的装束。除了扎额巾是白的以外，其余全是黑的。初学生穿同样的衣服，一色白。已经发愿的修女们另外还有一串念珠，挂在旁边。
玛尔丹·维尔加一系的伯尔纳－本笃会修女们，和那些所谓圣事嬷嬷的本笃会修女们一样，都修永敬仪规，本笃会的修女们，本世纪初，在巴黎有两处修院，一处在大庙，一处在圣热纳维埃夫新街。可是我们现在所谈的小比克布斯的伯尔纳－本笃会修女们，和那些在圣热纳维埃夫新街和大庙出家的圣事嬷嬷们绝对不属于同一个修会。在教规方面有许多不同的地方，在服装方面也有许多不同的地方。小比克布斯的伯尔纳－本笃会修女们戴黑头兜，圣热纳维埃夫新街的本笃会的圣事嬷嬷们却戴白头兜，胸前还挂一个三寸来高银质镀金或铜质镀金的圣体。小比克布斯的修女们从来不挂那种圣体。小比克布斯的修院和大庙的修院都一样修永敬仪规，但是绝不可因这件事而把两个修院混为一谈。关于这一仪式，圣事嬷嬷们和玛尔丹·维尔加系的伯尔纳会的修女们之间，只是貌似而已，正如菲力浦·德·内里在佛罗伦萨设立的意大利经堂和皮埃尔·德·贝鲁尔在巴黎设立的法兰西经堂原是两个截然不同的有时甚至还互相仇视的修会，可是在有关耶稣基督的童年、生活和死以及有关圣母的种种神异的研究和颂扬方面，两个修会之间却有着共同之处。巴黎经堂自居于领先地位，因为菲力浦·德·内里只是个圣者，而贝鲁尔却是个红衣主教。
我们再回到玛尔丹·维尔加的西班牙型严厉的教规上来。
这一支系的伯尔纳－本笃会的修女们整年素食，在封斋节和她们特定的其他许多节日里还得绝食，晚上睡一会儿便得起床，从早晨一点开始念日课经，唱早祈祷，直到三点；一年四季都睡在哔叽被单里和麦秸上，从来不洗澡不烤火，每星期五自我检查纪律，遵守保持肃静的教规，只在课间休息时才谈话，那种休息也是极短的，从九月十四日举荣圣架节到复活节，每年得穿六个月的棕色粗呢衬衫。这六个月并且是一种通融办法，按照规定是整年，可是那种棕色粗呢衬衫在炎热的夏季里是受不了的，经常引起热病和神经性痉挛症，因而必须限制使用期。即使有了这种照顾，修女们在九月十四日穿上那种衬衫，也得发上三四天烧。服从，清苦，寡欲，稳定在寺院里，这是她们发的愿，教规却把她们的心愿歪曲成沉重的担子。
院长的任期是三年，由嬷嬷们选举，参加选举的嬷嬷叫做“参议嬷嬷”，因为她们在宗教事务会议里有发言权。院长只能连任两次，因此一个院长的任期最长也只能九年。
她们从不和主祭神甫见面，她们和主祭神甫之间总挂着一道七尺高的哔叽。宣道士走上圣坛讲经时，她们便拉下面罩遮住脸。任何时候她们都得低声说话，走路时她们也得低看头，眼睛望着地。只有一个男人可以进这修院，就是本教区的大主教。
另外确也还有一个男人，就是园丁，可是那园丁必须是个老年人，并且为了让他永远独自一人住在园子里，为了修女们能及时避开他，便在他膝上挂一个铃铛。
她们对院长是绝对服从的。这是教律所要求的那种百依百顺的牺牲精神。有如亲承基督之命（ut　voci　Christi）①，察言观色，会意立行（ad　nutum，ad　primum　signum），敏捷，愉快，坚忍，绝对服从（prompte，hilariter，perseveranter，et　coecaet　quadam　obedientia），有如工人手中的锉（quasi　limam　in　manibus　fabri），没有明确的许可，便不能读也不能写任何东西（legere　vel　scribere　non　adiscerit　sine　expressa　superioris　licentia）。 
①这里及以下括弧内的每句拉丁文的意义都和它前面的译文相同。　
她们中的每个人都得轮流举行她们的所谓“赎罪礼”。赎罪礼是一种替世人赎免一切过失、一切错误、一切纷扰、一切强暴、一切不义、一切犯罪行为的祈祷。举行“赎罪礼”的修女得连续十二个小时，从傍晚四点到早晨四点，或是从早晨四点到傍晚四点，跪在圣体前面的一块石板上，合掌，颈上有根绳子，累到支持不住时，便全身伏在地上，面朝地，两臂伸出，成十字形，这是唯一的休息方法。在这样一种姿势里，修女替天下所有的罪人祈祷，简直伟大到了卓绝的程度。
这种仪式是在一根木柱前举行的，柱子顶上点一支白蜡烛，因此她们随意将它称为“行赎罪礼”或“跪柱子”。修女们，由于自卑心理，更乐于采用第二种说法，因为它含有受罪和受辱的意义①。 
①耶稣曾被绑在柱子上。
“行赎罪礼”得全神贯注。柱子跟前的修女，即使知道有雷火落在她背后，也不会转过头去望一下的。
此外，圣体前总得有个修女跪着。每班跪一小时。她们象兵士站岗一样，轮流换班。这就是所谓永敬。
院长和嬷嬷几乎人人都要取一个意义特别重大的名字，这些名字不取义于圣者和殉道者的身世，而是出自耶稣基督一生中的某些事迹，例如降生嬷嬷、始孕嬷嬷、奉献嬷嬷、苦难嬷嬷。但并不禁止袭用圣者的名字。
别人和她们见面时，从来就只看见她们的一张嘴。她们每个人的牙全是黄的。从来不曾有过一把牙刷进过这修院的门。
刷牙，在各级断送灵魂的罪过里是属于最高级的。
她们对任何东西从来不说“我的”。她们没有任何属于自己的东西，也没有任何舍不得的东西。她们对一切东西都说“我们的”，如我们的面罩、我们的念珠，如果她们谈到自己的衬衫，也说“我们的衬衫”。有时她们也会爱上一些小物件，一本日课经、一件遗物、一个祝福过的纪念章。她们一发现自己开始对某件东西有点恋恋不舍时，就得拿它送给旁人。她们时常回忆圣泰雷丝的这段话：有个贵妇人在加入圣泰雷丝修会时对她说：“我的嬷嬷，请允许我派人去把一本圣经找来，我很舍不得它。”
“啊！您还有舍不得的东西！既是这样，您就不用到我们这里来！”
任何人都不得把自己单独关在屋子里，也不许有一个“她的环境”，一间“房间”。她们开着牢门过日子。她们在彼此接触时，一个说：“愿祭台上最崇高的圣体受到赞叹和崇拜！”另一个便回答说：“永远如此。”在敲别人的房门时，也用这同一礼节。门还没有怎么敲响，屋子里柔和的声音便已急急忙忙说出了“永远如此！”这和其他一切行为一样，成了习惯以后便变为机械的动作了，有时候，这一个的“永远如此”早已脱口而出，而对方还没来得及说完那句相当冗长的“愿祭台上最崇高的圣体受到赞叹和崇拜！”
访问会的修女们，在走进别人屋子时说：“赞美马利亚”，在屋里迎接的人说“仪态万方”。这是她们互相道好的方式，也确实是仪态万方。
每到一个钟点，这修院的礼拜堂上的钟都要多敲三下。听了这信号以后，院长、参议嬷嬷、发愿修女、服务修女、初学生①、备修生②都要把她们所谈所作所想的事一齐放下，并且大家一齐……如果是五点钟，便齐声说：“在五点钟和每点钟，愿祭台上最崇高的圣体受到赞叹和崇拜！”如果是六点钟，便说：“在六点钟和每点钟……”其他时间，都随着钟点以此类推。
这种习惯，目的在于打断人的思想，随时把它引向上帝，许多教会都有这种习惯，不过公式各各不同而已。例如，在圣子耶稣修会里便这样说：“在这个钟点和每个钟点，愿天主的宠爱振奋我的心！”
五十年前，在小比克布斯隐修的玛尔丹·维尔加系的伯尔纳－本笃会修女们在唱日课经时，都用一种低沉的音调唱着圣歌，地道的平咏颂③，并且还得用饱满的嗓音从日课开始一直唱到课终，可是对弥撒经本上印有星号的地方，她们便停止歌唱，只低声念着“耶稣棗马利亚棗约瑟”。在为死人举行祭礼时，她们的音调更加低沉，低到几乎是女声所不能达到的音域，那样能产生一种凄切动人的效果。 
①初学生是已结束备修阶段，但尚未发愿的修女或修士。
②备修生是请求入院修道的初级修女或修士。
③平咏颂（plain－chant），欧洲中世纪的宗教音乐，旋律很少起伏。
　小比克布斯的修女们曾在她们的正祭台下建造了一个地窖，想当作修院安置灵柩的地方。但是“政府”……这是她们说的，不准在地窖里停柩。因此她们死了，还得出院。她们为这事感到痛心，好象受了非法的干涉，一直惴惴不安。
她们只得到一种微不足道的安慰，在从前的伏吉拉尔公墓里，有一块地原是属于她们这修院的，她们获得批准，死后可以在一个特定的钟点葬在这公墓里一个指定的角上。
那些修女们在星期四和在星期日一样，得做大弥撒、晚祈祷和其他一切日课。除此以外，她们还得严格遵守一切小节日，那些小节日几乎是局外人所不知道的，在从前的法国教会里很盛行，到现在只在西班牙和意大利的教会里盛行了。她们无时无刻不守在圣坛上。为了说明她们祈祷的次数和每次祈祷延续的时间，最好是引用她们中某一个所说的一句天真话：“备修生的祈祷吓得坏人，初学生的祈祷更吓坏人，发愿修女的祈祷更更吓坏人。”
她们每星期集合一次，院长主持，参议嬷嬷们出席。修女一个个顺序走去跪在石板上，当着大众的面，大声交代她在这星期里所犯的大小过失。参议嬷嬷们听了一个人的交代以后，便交换意见，高声宣布惩罚的办法。
在大声交代的过失外，还有所谓补赎轻微过失的补赎礼。行补赎礼，便是在进行日课时，五体投地伏在院长的跟前，直到院长棗她们在任何时候都称院长为“我们的嬷嬷”，从来不用旁的称呼棗在她的神职祷告席上轻轻敲一下，才可以立起来。为了一点极小的事也要行补赎礼，打破一只玻璃杯，撕裂一个面罩，做日课时漫不经心迟到了几秒钟，在礼拜堂里唱走了一个音，诸如此类的事都已够行补赎礼了。行补赎礼是完全自发的，由罪人棗从字源学出发，这个字①用在此地是适当的棗自己反省，自己处罚。在节日和星期日，有四个唱诗嬷嬷在唱诗台上的四个谱架前随着日课歌唱圣诗。一天，有个唱诗嬷嬷在唱一首圣诗时，那首诗原是以“看呵”开始的，但是她没有唱“看呵”而是大声唱了“多，西，梭”这三个音，由于这一疏忽，她就行了一场和日课同始同终的补赎礼。她这过失之所以严重，是因为在场的修女们个个都笑了。 
①指coulpe（补赎礼）和coupable（罪人）两字同出于拉丁文coulpa。
修女被请到会客室去时，即使是院长，我们记得，也得放下面罩，只能把嘴露在外面。
只有院长一人可以和外界的人交谈。其余的人都只能接见最亲的家人，见面的机会也极少。万一有个外面的人要访问一个曾在社交中相识或喜欢的修女，就非千求万恳不行。要是这是一个女人，有时可以得到允许，那修女便走来和她隔着板窗谈话，除了母女和姊妹相见以外，那板窗是从来不开的。男人来访问当然一概拒绝。
这是圣伯努瓦定出的教规，可是已被玛尔丹·维尔加改得更加严厉了。
这里的修女们，和其他修会里的姑娘们不一样，一点也不活泼红润。她们面色苍白，神情沉郁。从一八二五年到一八三○年就疯了三个。
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 3 Austerities
One is a postulant for two years at least, often for four; a novice for four. It is rare that the definitive vows can be pronounced earlier than the age of twenty-three or twenty-four years. The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga do not admit widows to their order.
In their cells, they deliver themselves up to many unknown macerations, of which they must never speak.
On the day when a novice makes her profession, she is dressed in her handsomest attire, she is crowned with white roses, her hair is brushed until it shines, and curled. Then she prostrates herself; a great black veil is thrown over her, and the office for the dead is sung. Then the nuns separate into two files; one file passes close to her, saying in plaintive accents, "Our sister is dead"; and the other file responds in a voice of ecstasy, "Our sister is alive in Jesus Christ!"
At the epoch when this story takes place, a boarding-school was attached to the convent--a boarding-school for young girls of noble and mostly wealthy families, among whom could be remarked Mademoiselle de Saint-Aulaire and de Belissen, and an English girl bearing the illustrious Catholic name of Talbot. These young girls, reared by these nuns between four walls, grew up with a horror of the world and of the age. One of them said to us one day, "The sight of the street pavement made me shudder from head to foot." They were dressed in blue, with a white cap and a Holy Spirit of silver gilt or of copper on their breast. On certain grand festival days, particularly Saint Martha's day, they were permitted, as a high favor and a supreme happiness, to dress themselves as nuns and to carry out the offices and practice of Saint-Benoit for a whole day. In the early days the nuns were in the habit of lending them their black garments. This seemed profane, and the prioress forbade it. Only the novices were permitted to lend. It is remarkable that these performances, tolerated and encouraged, no doubt, in the convent out of a secret spirit of proselytism and in order to give these children a foretaste of the holy habit, were a genuine happiness and a real recreation for the scholars. They simply amused themselves with it. It was new; it gave them a change. Candid reasons of childhood, which do not, however, succeed in making us worldlings comprehend the felicity of holding a holy water sprinkler in one's hand and standing for hours together singing hard enough for four in front of a reading-desk.
The pupils conformed, with the exception of the austerities, to all the practices of the convent. There was a certain young woman who entered the world, and who after many years of married life had not succeeded in breaking herself of the habit of saying in great haste whenever any one knocked at her door, "forever!" Like the nuns, the pupils saw their relatives only in the parlor. Their very mothers did not obtain permission to embrace them. The following illustrates to what a degree severity on that point was carried. One day a young girl received a visit from her mother, who was accompanied by a little sister three years of age. The young girl wept, for she wished greatly to embrace her sister. Impossible. She begged that, at least, the child might be permitted to pass her little hand through the bars so that she could kiss it. This was almost indignantly refused.
备修生至少得当上两年，经常是四年，初学生四年。能在二十三岁或二十四岁以前正式发愿①那是少有的事。玛尔丹·维尔加支系的伯尔纳－本笃会的修女们绝不容许寡妇参加她们的修会。 
①发愿是当众宣誓出家修道，永不还俗的仪式。
她们在自己的斗室里忍受着多种多样的折磨，那是外人无从知道并且她们自己也永远不该说出的。
初学生到了发愿的日子，大家尽量把她打扮得整整齐齐，替她戴上白蔷薇，润泽并蜷曲她的头发，接着她伏在地上，大家替她盖上一大幅黑布，唱起悼亡的诗歌，举行度亡的祭礼。同时，所有的修女分列两行，一行打她跟前绕过，用一种悲伤的声音说“我们的姐姐死了”，另一行却用洪亮的声音回答说“她活在耶稣基督的心中”。
在本书所述故事发生的时代，这个修院里还附设一个寄读学校。是一所为大家闺秀设立的寄读学校，那些闺秀大部分是有钱人，其中有德·圣奥莱尔小姐和德·贝利桑小姐，还有一个英国姑娘，姓德·塔尔波，也是天主教里赫赫有名的大族。这些年轻的姑娘在那四堵围墙里受着修女的教育，在敌视这世界和这世纪的仇恨中成长。一天，她们中的一个曾对我们说过这样一句话：“我见了街上的石块路面便会头晕脚软。”她们都穿蓝衣，戴白帽，胸前佩带一个银质镀金或铜质的圣灵。在某些重大的节日里，特别是在圣玛尔泰节，她们可以整天穿上修女的服装，按照圣伯努瓦规定的仪式做日课，这对她们来说，是一种隆恩和无上的幸福。最初，修女们常把自己的黑衣借给她们穿。后来院长禁止借用，认为有渎圣衣。只有初学生还可借用。那种扮演原是修院中一种通融办法，含有让孩子们预尝圣衣滋味、吸引她们走上出家道路的秘密意图，值得注意的是，寄读生竟会以此为真正的幸福和真正的快乐。她们只不过是感到好玩而已。“这是新鲜花样，可以改变她们。”我们这些俗人却无法从那些天真幼稚的想法中去体会她们何以会那样自得其乐地捏着一根洒圣水的枝条，四个人一排地站在一个谱架前面，毫无间歇地一连唱上好几个钟头。
那些女弟子，除了苦修这点外，也同样遵守修院里所有的教规。有个少妇，还俗以后，结婚也好几年了，却还不能改变习惯，每逢有人敲她房门时，她总还要赶忙回答：“永远如此！”寄读生和修女一样，只能在会客室里接见她们的亲人。连她们的母亲也不能拥抱她们。让我们看看在这方面究竟严到什么程度。一天，有个年轻的姑娘接待她母亲的访问，她母亲还带着一个三岁的小妹妹。那年轻姑娘，很想拥抱她的小妹，于是哭了起来。不可能。她恳求至少让她的小妹把小手从铁栅栏缝里伸过去给她吻一下，这也被拒绝了，这件事几乎还惹起了一场风波。
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 4 Gayeties
None the less, these young girls filled this grave house with charming souvenirs.
At certain hours childhood sparkled in that cloister. The recreation hour struck. A door swung on its hinges. The birds said, "Good; here come the children!" An irruption of youth inundated that garden intersected with a cross like a shroud. Radiant faces, white foreheads, innocent eyes, full of merry light, all sorts of auroras, were scattered about amid these shadows. After the psalmodies, the bells, the peals, and knells and offices, the sound of these little girls burst forth on a sudden more sweetly than the noise of bees. The hive of joy was opened, and each one brought her honey. They played, they called to each other, they formed into groups, they ran about; pretty little white teeth chattered in the corners; the veils superintended the laughs from a distance, shades kept watch of the sunbeams, but what mattered it? Still they beamed and laughed. Those four lugubrious walls had their moment of dazzling brilliancy. They looked on, vaguely blanched with the reflection of so much joy at this sweet swarming of the hives. It was like a shower of roses falling athwart this house of mourning. The young girls frolicked beneath the eyes of the nuns; the gaze of impeccability does not embarrass innocence. Thanks to these children, there was, among so many austere hours, one hour of ingenuousness. The little ones skipped about; the elder ones danced. In this cloister play was mingled with heaven. Nothing is so delightful and so august as all these fresh, expanding young souls. Homer would have come thither to laugh with Perrault; and there was in that black garden, youth, health, noise, cries, giddiness, pleasure, happiness enough to smooth out the wrinkles of all their ancestresses, those of the epic as well as those of the fairy-tale, those of the throne as well as those of the thatched cottage from Hecuba to la Mere-Grand.
In that house more than anywhere else, perhaps, arise those children's sayings which are so graceful and which evoke a smile that is full of thoughtfulness. It was between those four gloomy walls that a child of five years exclaimed one day: "Mother! one of the big girls has just told me that I have only nine years and ten months longer to remain here. What happiness!"
It was here, too, that this memorable dialogue took place:--
A Vocal Mother. Why are you weeping, my child?
The child (aged six). I told Alix that I knew my French history. She says that I do not know it, but I do.
Alix, the big girl (aged nine). No; she does not know it.
The Mother. How is that, my child?
Alix. She told me to open the book at random and to ask her any question in the book, and she would answer it.
"Well?"
"She did not answer it."
"Let us see about it. What did you ask her?"
"I opened the book at random, as she proposed, and I put the first question that I came across."
"And what was the question?"
"It was, `What happened after that?'"
It was there that that profound remark was made anent a rather greedy paroquet which belonged to a lady boarder:--
"How well bred! it eats the top of the slice of bread and butter just like a person!"
It was on one of the flagstones of this cloister that there was once picked up a confession which had been written out in advance, in order that she might not forget it, by a sinner of seven years:--
"Father, I accuse myself of having been avaricious.
"Father, I accuse myself of having been an adulteress.
"Father, I accuse myself of having raised my eyes to the gentlemen."
It was on one of the turf benches of this garden that a rosy mouth six years of age improvised the following tale, which was listened to by blue eyes aged four and five years:--
"There were three little cocks who owned a country where there were a great many flowers. They plucked the flowers and put them in their pockets. After that they plucked the leaves and put them in their playthings. There was a wolf in that country; there was a great deal of forest; and the wolf was in the forest; and he ate the little cocks."
And this other poem:--
"There came a blow with a stick.
"It was Punchinello who bestowed it on the cat.
"It was not good for her; it hurt her.
"Then a lady put Punchinello in prison."
It was there that a little abandoned child, a foundling whom the convent was bringing up out of charity, uttered this sweet and heart-breaking saying. She heard the others talking of their mothers, and she murmured in her corner:--
"As for me, my mother was not there when I was born!"
There was a stout portress who could always be seen hurrying through the corridors with her bunch of keys, and whose name was Sister Agatha. The big big girls--those over ten years of age-- called her Agathocles.
The refectory, a large apartment of an oblong square form, which received no light except through a vaulted cloister on a level with the garden, was dark and damp, and, as the children say, full of beasts. All the places round about furnished their contingent of insects.
Each of its four corners had received, in the language of the pupils, a special and expressive name. There was Spider corner, Caterpillar corner, Wood-louse corner, and Cricket corner.
Cricket corner was near the kitchen and was highly esteemed. It was not so cold there as elsewhere. From the refectory the names had passed to the boarding-school, and there served as in the old College Mazarin to distinguish four nations. Every pupil belonged to one of these four nations according to the corner of the refectory in which she sat at meals. One day Monseigneur the Archbishop while making his pastoral visit saw a pretty little rosy girl with beautiful golden hair enter the class-room through which he was passing.
He inquired of another pupil, a charming brunette with rosy cheeks, who stood near him:--
"Who is that?"
"She is a spider, Monseigneur."
"Bah! And that one yonder?"
"She is a cricket."
"And that one?"
"She is a caterpillar."
"Really! and yourself?"
"I am a wood-louse, Monseigneur."
Every house of this sort has its own peculiarities. At the beginning of this century Ecouen was one of those strict and graceful places where young girls pass their childhood in a shadow that is almost august. At Ecouen, in order to take rank in the procession of the Holy Sacrament, a distinction was made between virgins and florists. There were also the "dais" and the "censors,"--the first who held the cords of the dais, and the others who carried incense before the Holy Sacrament. The flowers belonged by right to the florists. Four "virgins" walked in advance. On the morning of that great day it was no rare thing to hear the question put in the dormitory, "Who is a virgin?"
Madame Campan used to quote this saying of a "little one" of seven years, to a "big girl" of sixteen, who took the head of the procession, while she, the little one, remained at the rear, "You are a virgin, but I am not."
那些年轻的姑娘在这严肃的院子里并不是没有留下一些动人事迹的。
某些时候，那修院里也会洋溢着天真的气氛。休息的钟声响了，园门豁然洞开。小鸟们说：“好啊！孩子们快出来了！”随即涌出一群娃娃，在那片象殓巾一样被一个十字架划分的园地上散开来。无数光艳的面容、白皙的头额、晶莹巧笑的眼睛和种种曙光晓色都在那阴惨的园里缤纷飞舞。在颂歌、钟声、铃声、报丧钟、日课之后，突然出现了小女孩的声音，比蜂群的声音更为悦耳。欢乐的蜂窝开放了，并且每一个都带来了蜜汁。大家一同游戏，彼此招唤，三五成群地互相奔逐；在角落里娇小的皓齿在喃喃私语，而那些面罩则隐在远处在窃听她们的笑声黑暗窥伺光明，但是没有关系！大家照样乐，照样笑。那四道死气沉沉的墙也有了它们片时的欢畅。它们处在蜂群的嬉戏纷扰中，面对那么多的欢笑，也多少受到一些春光的反映。那好象是阵荡涤悲哀的玫瑰雨。小姑娘们在那些修女的眼前尽情戏谑，吹毛求疵的眼光并不能影响活泼天真的性格。幸而有这些孩子，这才在那么多的清规戒律中见到一点天真之乐。小的跳，大的舞。在那修院里，游戏的欢乐，乐如上青天。没有什么能比所有这些欢腾皎洁的灵魂更为窈窕庄严的了。荷马有知，也当来此与贝洛①同乐，在这凄惨的园子里有青春，有健康，有人声，有叫嚷，有稚气，有乐趣，有幸福，这能使所有的老妈妈喜笑颜开，无论是史诗里的或是童话里的，宫廷中的或是茅舍中的，从赫卡伯②直到老大妈。 
①贝洛（Perrault），十七世纪法国诗人和童话作家。
②赫卡伯（Hécube），特洛伊最后一个国王普里阿摩之妻，赫克托尔之母。
“孩儿话”总是饶有风趣的，能令人发笑，发人深省，任何其他地方说的孩儿话也许都不及那修院里的多。下面这句是个五岁的孩子一天在那四道惨不忍睹的墙里说出来的：“妈！一个大姐姐刚才告我说，我只需在这里再待上九年十个月就够了。多好的运气啊！”这一段难忘的对话也是发生在那里的：
一个参议嬷嬷：“你为什么哭，我的孩子？”
孩子（六岁）痛哭着说：“我对阿利克斯说，我读熟了法国史。她说我没有读熟，我读熟了。”
阿利克斯（大姑娘，九岁）：“不对。她没有读熟。”
嬷嬷：“怎么会呢，我的孩子？”
阿利克斯：“她要我随便打开书本，把书里的问题提出一个来问她，她说她都能答。”
“后来呢？”
“她没有答出来。”
“你说。你向她提了什么问题？”
“我照她的话随便翻开书，把我最先见到的一个问题提出来问她。”
“那问题是怎样的？”
“那问题是：后来发生了什么事？”
也是在那里，有位太太带着孩子在那里奇读，那小丫头有些嘴馋，有人对她作了这样一种深刻的观察：
“这孩子多乖！她只吃面包上的那层果酱，简直就象个大人！”
下面这张忏悔词是在那修院里石板地上拾到的，这是一个七岁的犯罪姑娘事先写好以免忘记的：
“父啊，我控告自己吝啬。
“父啊，我控告自己淫乱。
“父啊，我控告自己曾抬起眼睛望男人。”
下面这篇童话是一张六岁的粉红嘴在那园里草地上临时编出来给四五岁的蓝眼睛听的：
“从前有三只小公鸡，它们有一块地，那里有许多花。它们采了花，放在它们的口袋里。后来，它们采了叶子，放在它们的小玩具里。在那地方有只狼，也有许多树林，狼在树林里，吃了那些小公鸡。”
还有这样一首诗：
来了一棍。
那是波里希内儿①给猫的一棍。
那对猫没有好处，只有痛苦。
于是有位太太就把波里希内儿监禁。
有一个被遗弃的私生女，是由修院作为行善收来抚养的，她在那里说过这样一句天真恼人的话。她听到别人在谈她们的母亲，她便在自己的角落里悄悄地说：
“我嘛，我生出来的时候，我母亲不在旁边！”
那里有个跑街的肥胖女用人，经常带着一大串钥匙，匆匆忙忙地在那些过道里跑来跑去，她的名字叫阿加特嬷嬷。那些“大大姑娘”棗十岁以上的棗称她为阿加多克莱②。 
①波里希内儿（Polichinelle），法国木偶剧中的小丑，鸡胸龟背，大长鼻子，声音尖哑，爱吵闹。
②阿加多克莱（Agathoclès）是公元前三世纪西西里锡腊库扎城的暴君，读音又和Agatheauxclés（带着许多钥匙的阿加特）相同。
食堂是一间长方形的大厅，阳光从和花园处于同一水平面的圆拱回廊那里照进去，厅里黑暗潮湿，按照孩子们的说法，满是虫子。周围四处都替它供给昆虫。于是四个角落的每个角，用那些寄读生的话来说，都得到了一个形象化的专用名词。有蜘蛛角、毛虫角、草鞋虫角和蛐蛐角。蛐蛐角靠着厨房，是很受重视的。那里比别处暖。食堂里的这些名称继又转用到寄读学校，用来区别四个区，正如从前的马萨林①学院那样。每个学生都按她吃饭时在食堂里所坐的地方而属于某一个区。一天，大主教来巡视，正穿过课室，看见一个金发朱唇的美丽小姑娘走进来，便问他身边的另一个桃腮褐发的漂亮姑娘：
“那个小姑娘叫什么？”
“大人，这是个蜘蛛。”
“哟！那一个呢？”
“那是个蛐蛐。”
“还有那一个呢？”
“那是条毛虫。”
“真是怪事，那么你自己呢？”
“大人，我是个草鞋虫。” 
①马萨林（Mazarin），红衣主教，路易十三和路易十四的首相。他创立了一个马萨林学院，招收新占领地区的学生并将学院按照新占领地区分为四区。　
凡是这类性质的团体都各有各的特点。在本世纪初，艾古安也是一处教小姑娘们在阴沉环境中成长的那种庄严有致的地方。在艾古安参加圣体游行的行列里，有所谓童贞女和献花女。也还有幔亭队和香炉队，前者牵幔亭的挽带，后者持香炉熏圣体。鲜花当然由献花女捧着。四个“童贞女”走在前面。在那隆重节日的早晨，寝室里常会听到这样的问话：
“谁是童贞女？”
康邦夫人曾谈过一个七岁小姑娘对一个在游行行列前面领头的十六岁大姑娘说的一句话，当时那小姑娘走在行列的最后：“你是童贞女，你；我，我不是童贞女。”
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 5 Distractions
Above the door of the refectory this prayer, which was called the white Paternoster, and which possessed the property of bearing people straight to paradise, was inscribed in large black letters:--
"Little white Paternoster, which God made, which God said, which God placed in paradise. In the evening, when I went to bed, I found three angels sitting on my bed, one at the foot, two at the head, the good Virgin Mary in the middle, who told me to lie down without hesitation. The good God is my father, the good Virgin is my mother, the three apostles are my brothers, the three virgins are my sisters. The shirt in which God was born envelopes my body; Saint Margaret's cross is written on my breast. Madame the Virgin was walking through the meadows, weeping for God, when she met M. Saint John. `Monsieur Saint John, whence come you?' `I will confine ourselves to recording here and to briefly mentioning a real and incontestable fact, which, however, bears no reference in itself to, and is not connected by any thread whatever with the story which we are relating. We mention the fact for the sake of completing the physiognomy of the convent in the reader's mind.
About this time there was in the convent a mysterious person who was not a nun, who was treated with great respect, and who was addressed as Madame Albertine. Nothing was known about her, save that she was mad, and that in the world she passed for dead. Beneath this history it was said there lay the arrangements of fortune necessary for a great marriage.
This woman, hardly thirty years of age, of dark complexion and tolerably pretty, had a vague look in her large black eyes. Could she see? There was some doubt about this. She glided rather than walked, she never spoke; it was not quit鎺?鄐 were plain, and the food of the children themselves severe. A single dish of meat and vegetables combined, or salt fish--such was their luxury. This meagre fare, which was reserved for the pupils alone, was, nevertheless, an exception. The children ate in silence, under the eye of the mother whose turn it was, who, if a fly took a notion to fly or to hum against the rule, opened and shut a wooden book from time to time. This silence was seasoned with the lives of the saints, read aloud from a little pulpit with a desk, which was situated at the foot of the crucifix. The reader was one of the big girls, in weekly turn. At regular distances, on the bare tables, there were large, varnished bowls in which the pupils washed their own silver cups and knives and forks, and into which they sometimes threw some scrap of tough meat or spoiled fish; this was punished. These bowls were called ronds d'eau. The child who broke the silence "made a cross with her tongue." Where? On the ground. She licked the pavement. The dust, that end of all joys, was charged with the chastisement of those poor little rose-leaves which had been guilty of chirping.
There was in the convent a book which has never been printed except as a unique copy, and which it is forbidden to read. It is the rule of Saint-Benoit. An arcanum which no profane eye must penetrate. Nemo regulas, seu constitutiones nostras, externis communicabit.
The pupils one day succeeded in getting possession of this book, and set to reading it with avidity, a reading which was often interrupted by the fear of being caught, which caused them to close the volume precipitately.
From the great danger thus incurred they derived but a very moderate amount of pleasure. The most "interesting thing" they found were some unintelligible pages about the sins of young boys.
They played in an alley of the garden bordered with a few shabby fruit-trees. In spite of the extreme surveillance and the severity of the punishments administered, when the wind had shaken the trees, they sometimes succeeded in picking up a green apple or a spoiled apricot or an inhabited pear on the sly. I will now cede the privilege of speech to a letter which lies before me, a letter written five and twenty years ago by an old pupil, now Madame la Duchesse de---- one of the most elegant women in Paris. I quote literally: "One hides one's pear or one's apple as best one may. When one goes up stairs to put the veil on the bed before supper, one stuffs them under one's pillow and at night one eats them in bed, and when one cannot do that, one eats them in the closet." That was one of their greatest luxuries.
Once--it was at the epoch of the visit from the archbishop to the convent-- one of the young girls, Mademoiselle Bouchard, who was connected with the Montmorency family, laid a wager that she would ask for a day's leave of absence--an enormity in so austere a community. The wager was accepted, but not one of those who bet believed that she would do it. When the moment came, as the archbishop was passing in front of the pupils, Mademoiselle Bouchard, to the indescribable terror of her companions, stepped out of the ranks, and said, "Monseigneur, a day's leave of absence." Mademoiselle Bouchard was tall, blooming, with the prettiest little rosy face in the world. M. de Quelen smiled and said, "What, my dear child, a day's leave of absence! Three days if you like. I grant you three days." The prioress could do nothing; the archbishop had spoken. Horror of the convent, but joy of the pupil. The effect may be imagined.
This stern cloister was not so well walled off, however, but that the life of the passions of the outside world, drama, and even romance, did not make their way in. To prove this, we will confine ourselves to recording here and to briefly mentioning a real and incontestable fact, which, however, bears no reference in itself to, and is not connected by any thread whatever with the story which we are relating. We mention the fact for the sake of completing the physiognomy of the convent in the reader's mind.
About this time there was in the convent a mysterious person who was not a nun, who was treated with great respect, and who was addressed as Madame Albertine. Nothing was known about her, save that she was mad, and that in the world she passed for dead. Beneath this history it was said there lay the arrangements of fortune necessary for a great marriage.
This woman, hardly thirty years of age, of dark complexion and tolerably pretty, had a vague look in her large black eyes. Could she see? There was some doubt about this. She glided rather than walked, she never spoke; it was not quite known whether she breathed. Her nostrils were livid and pinched as after yielding up their last sigh. To touch her hand was like touching snow. She possessed a strange spectral grace. Wherever she entered, people felt cold. One day a sister, on seeing her pass, said to another sister, "She passes for a dead woman." "Perhaps she is one," replied the other.
A hundred tales were told of Madame Albertine. This arose from the eternal curiosity of the pupils. In the chapel there was a gallery called L'OEil de Boeuf. It was in this gallery, which had only a circular bay, an oeil de boeuf, that Madame Albertine listened to the offices. She always occupied it alone because this gallery, being on the level of the first story, the preacher or the officiating priest could be seen, which was interdicted to the nuns. One day the pulpit was occupied by a young priest of high rank, M. Le Duc de Rohan, peer of France, officer of the Red Musketeers in 1815 when he was Prince de Leon, and who died afterward, in 1830, as cardinal and Archbishop of Besancon. It was the first time that M. de Rohan had preached at the Petit-Picpus convent. Madame Albertine usually preserved perfect calmness and complete immobility during the sermons and services. That day, as soon as she caught sight of M. de Rohan, she half rose, and said, in a loud voice, amid the silence of the chapel, "Ah! Auguste!" The whole community turned their heads in amazement, the preacher raised his eyes, but Madame Albertine had relapsed into her immobility. A breath from the outer world, a flash of life, had passed for an instant across that cold and lifeless face and had then vanished, and the mad woman had become a corpse again.
Those two words, however, had set every one in the convent who had the privilege of speech to chattering. How many things were contained in that "Ah! Auguste!" what revelations! M. de Rohan's name really was Auguste. It was evident that Madame Albertine belonged to the very highest society, since she knew M. de Rohan, and that her own rank there was of the highest, since she spoke thus familiarly of so great a lord, and that there existed between them some connection, of relationship, perhaps, but a very close one in any case, since she knew his "pet name."
Two very severe duchesses, Mesdames de Choiseul and de Serent, often visited the community, whither they penetrated, no doubt, in virtue of the privilege Magnates mulieres, and caused great consternation in the boarding-school. When these two old ladies passed by, all the poor young girls trembled and dropped their eyes.
Moreover, M. de Rohan, quite unknown to himself, was an object of attention to the school-girls. At that epoch he had just been made, while waiting for the episcopate, vicar-general of the Archbishop of Paris. It was one of his habits to come tolerably often to celebrate the offices in the chapel of the nuns of the Petit-Picpus. Not one of the young recluses could see him, because of the serge curtain, but he had a sweet and rather shrill voice, which they had come to know and to distinguish. He had been a mousquetaire, and then, he was said to be very coquettish, that his handsome brown hair was very well dressed in a roll around his head, and that he had a broad girdle of magnificent moire, and that his black cassock was of the most elegant cut in the world. He held a great place in all these imaginations of sixteen years.
Not a sound from without made its way into the convent. But there was one year when the sound of a flute penetrated thither. This was an event, and the girls who were at school there at the time still recall it.
It was a flute which was played in the neighborhood. This flute always played the same air, an air which is very far away nowadays,--"My Zetulbe, come reign o'er my soul,"--and it was heard two or three times a day. The young girls passed hours in listening to it, the vocal mothers were upset by it, brains were busy, punishments descended in showers. This lasted for several months. The girls were all more or less in love with the unknown musician. Each one dreamed that she was Zetulbe. The sound of the flute proceeded from the direction of the Rue Droit-Mur; and they would have given anything, compromised everything, attempted anything for the sake of seeing, of catching a glance, if only for a second, of the "young man" who played that flute so deliciously, and who, no doubt, played on all these souls at the same time. There were some who made their escape by a back door, and ascended to the third story on the Rue Droit-Mur side, in order to attempt to catch a glimpse through the gaps. Impossible! One even went so far as to thrust her arm through the grating, and to wave her white handkerchief. Two were still bolder. They found means to climb on a roof, and risked their lives there, and succeeded at last in seeing "the young man." He was an old emigre gentleman, blind and penniless, who was playing his flute in his attic, in order to pass the time.
在食堂门的上面，有一篇用大黑字写的祈祷文，叫做《白色主祷文》，据说有指引正直的人进入天堂的法力：
小小的白色主祷文，天主所创，天主所说，天主曾贴在天堂上。夜晚我去睡，看见三个天使躺在我床上，一个在脚边，两个在头边，仁慈的童贞圣母在中间，她叫我去睡，切莫要迟疑。仁慈的天主是我的父，仁慈的圣母是我的母，那三个使徒是我的兄弟，那三个贞女是我的姊妹。天主降世的那件衬衣，现在裹了在我身上，圣玛格丽特十字架已经画在我胸前；圣母夫人去田里，正想着天主掉眼泪，遇见了圣约翰先生。圣约翰先生，您从什么地方来？我从祷祝永生来。您没有看见仁慈的天主吗？一定看见了，对吗？他在十字架上，脚垂着，手钉着，一顶白荆棘帽子戴头上。谁在晚上念三遍，早上念三遍，结果一定进天堂。
一八二七年，那篇具有独特风格的祈祷文在墙上已消失在三层灰浆下面了。到现在，它也快从几个当年的年轻姑娘，今天的老太婆的记忆中澌灭了。
我们好象已谈到过那食堂只有一道门，开向园子，墙上挂着一个大的受难十字架，用以完成食堂里的装饰。两张窄桌子，每张两旁各有一条木板凳，从食堂的这一端伸到那一端，形成两长条平行线。墙是白的，桌子是黑的，这两种办丧事的颜色是修院里唯一的色调。饮食是粗糙的，孩子们的营养也扣得紧。只有一盘菜，肉和蔬菜拼在一起，或者是咸鱼，这就得算上是打牙祭了。这种为寄读生特备的简单便饭却已是一种例外。孩子们在一个值周嬷嬷的监视下，一声不响地吃着饭，如果有只苍蝇敢于违反院规嗡嗡飞翔的话，那嬷嬷便随时打开一本木板书，年的寄读生们都还记得。
有人在那附近吹笛子。吹的始终是个老调，到今天那调子已显得相当久远了：《我的泽蒂贝姑娘，来主宰我的灵魂吧。》
白天里，总能听到他吹上两三阵子。
那些年轻姑娘能一连几个钟头听下去，嬷嬷们急了，开动脑筋，处罚象雨点似的落在各人的头上。这情形延续了好几个月。寄读生们对那个不曾露面的乐师都多少有些爱慕。人人都梦想自己是泽蒂贝。笛声是从直壁街那面传来的，她们愿抛弃一切，冒一切危险，想尽方法?谵栢，负有惩罚那些因一时叽喳而获罪的玫瑰花瓣的责任。
在那修院里有本书，从来就只印一册“孤本”，而且还是禁止阅读的，那是圣伯努瓦的教规，是俗眼不许窥探的秘密。“我们的规章或我们的制度，不足为外人道。”
有一天寄读生们居然偷出了那本书，聚精会神地读起来，同时又提心吊胆，惟恐被人发觉，多次停下来忙把书合上。她们冒了那么大的危险而获得的快乐却有限。她们认为“最有趣”的是那几页看不大懂的有关男孩子们犯罪的部分。
她们常在那园里的小路上玩耍，小路旁栽有几棵长得不好的果树。监督尽管周密，处罚尽管严厉，当大风摇撼了树枝，她们有时也能偷偷摸摸地拾起一个未熟的苹果、烂了的杏子或一个有虫的梨。现在我让我手边的一封信来说话，这封信是二十五年前的一个寄读生写的，她今天是××公爵夫人，巴黎最风雅的妇人之一。我把原文照抄下来：“我们想尽方法把我们的梨或苹果藏起来。我们趁晚饭前上楼去放面罩时把那些东西塞在枕头底下，等到晚上，睡在床上吃，做不到的话，使在厕所里吃。”那是她们一种最来劲的销魂事儿。
一次，又是在那大主教先生到那修院去视察的时期，有个布沙尔小姐，和蒙莫朗西①多少有些瓜葛，她打赌说要请一天假，这在那样严肃的场合里是件大荒唐事。许多人和她打了赌，但是没有一个人相信那是可能的。到了时候，大主教从那些寄读生的面前走过，布沙尔小姐，在她同学们惊骇万状的情况下，走出了行列并且说：“大人，请给一天假。”布沙尔小姐是个光艳服人、身材挺秀、有着世上最漂亮红润的小脸蛋的姑娘。德·桂朗先生笑眯眯地说：“哪里的话，我亲爱的孩子，一天假！三天，成吗？我准三天假。”院长无可奈何，大主教的话已经说出了口。所有的修女都觉得不成体统，可是所有的寄读生没有一个不欢天喜地。请想想那种后果吧。 
①蒙莫朗西（Montmorency），法国的一个大族。　
然而那横眉怒目的修院并不封锁得怎么严密，外面的情魔孽障并不是一点也飞不进去的。为了证明这一点，我们只在这里简单陈述和指出一件无可争辩的真事，那件事并且和我们叙述的故事丝毫没有关连。我们把那件事谈出来是要让读者在思想上对那个修院的面貌有个全面的认识。
当时在那修院里有个神秘的人物，她并不是出家人，大家对她却非常尊敬，并称她为阿尔贝尔丁夫人。大家只知道她神经错乱而不知她的身世，世人也都把她看成死人。据说在她的个人遭遇里，有着一桩和名门缔姻而引起的财产纠纷问题。那妇人将近三十岁，深色发肤，相当美丽，秀长眼睛，黑眼珠，看起人来却没有神。她能看得见吗？没有人敢肯定。她走起路来象飘而不象走，她从不说话，别人也无法确定她究竟呼吸不呼吸。她的鼻孔，削而青，象人断气后的那种样子。碰着她的手就象碰着了雪。她有一种奇特的幽灵似的神韵。她到哪里，哪里便有一股冷气。一天，有个修女看见她走过，就对另外一个修女说：“人家都把她看成死人。”“她也许真是死人。”
另一个回答说。
关于阿尔贝尔丁夫人的传说层出不穷。她是寄读生们百谈不厌的怪人。在那礼拜堂里有个台子，叫“牛眼台”。台上只有一个圆窗，“牛眼窗”，这是阿尔贝尔丁夫人参加日课的地方。她经常独自一人待在上面，因为那个台在楼上，从那上面望去，可以看见宣道神甫或主祭神甫，那是修女们不许望的。一天，来到那讲坛上的是一个年轻的高级神甫，罗安公爵先生，法兰西世卿，一八一五年的红火枪队军官，当时他也是莱翁亲王，一八三○年后死在红衣主教兼贝桑松大主教任上。德·罗安先生到小比克布斯修院去讲道，那还是第一次。阿尔贝尔丁夫人平日参加听道和日课素来沉静，是丝毫不动的。那天，她一望见德·罗安先生，便半站起来，从礼拜堂那种寂静中大声说道：“哟！奥古斯特！”所有在场的人都大吃一惊，把头掉过去看，宣道神甫也抬头望了一眼，但阿尔贝尔丁夫人又已回到她那种绝无动静的状态中去了。外界的一阵微风，人生的一线微光，一时曾在那冷却了的冰透了的脸上飘拂过去，但是一切又随即消逝了，疯人又成了尸体。
可是那几个字已使修院中可以谈的话全引起来了。“哟！奥古斯特！”这里隐藏着多少东西！泄露了多少消息！德·罗安先生的小名确是奥古斯特，这说明阿尔贝尔丁夫人出身于上层社会，因为她认得德·罗安先生，也说明她自己在那社会里的地位也高，因为她用那样亲昵的口吻称呼一个那样崇高的贵人，也说明她和他有一种关系，也许是亲戚关系，但是必然是相当密切的，因为她知道他的“小名”。
两个非常严厉的公爵夫人，舒瓦瑟尔夫人和塞朗夫人，时常访问那修院，她们一定是以贵妇人的特殊地位钻进去的，惹得那些寄读生非常害怕。当那两位老夫人走过时，那些可怜的年轻姑娘都低着眼睛发抖。
再说德·罗安先生还是那些寄读生注意的对象，他本人却并不知道。当时他被任命为巴黎大主教的大助理主教还不久，并且有升为主教的希望。他到小比克布斯修女们的礼拜堂里来参加日课唱圣诗，那是常有的事。所有那些年轻的女隐修士，谁也见不着他，因为有那条哔叽帷幕遮着，但是他有一种柔和而稍单薄的嗓音，那是她们能够分辨出来的。他当过火枪手，并且大家都说他爱修饰，一头美丽的栗色头发梳成转筒式，整整齐齐地绕着脑袋，腰上结一条华美的黑宽带，他的黑道袍也是世上裁剪得最漂亮的。他使那些二八年华的少女们相当的心烦意乱。
外界的声音从来不会到达那修院里去。可是有一年，有个人的笛声却飞进去了。那是一件大事，当年的寄读生们都还记得。
有人在那附近吹笛子。吹的始终是个老调，到今天那调子已显得相当久远了：《我的泽蒂贝姑娘，来主宰我的灵魂吧。》
白天里，总能听到他吹上两三阵子。
那些年轻姑娘能一连几个钟头听下去，嬷嬷们急了，开动脑筋，处罚象雨点似的落在各人的头上。这情形延续了好几个月。寄读生们对那个不曾露面的乐师都多少有些爱慕。人人都梦想自己是泽蒂贝。笛声是从直壁街那面传来的，她们愿抛弃一切，冒一切危险，想尽方法要去看看，哪怕只是一秒钟，去看一下，去瞄一眼那个能把笛子吹得那样美妙、同时也必然把整个灵魂都投入吹奏中的“青年”。有几个从仆人进出的门偷偷出去，爬到临直壁街一面的三楼上，想从那些钉死了的窗口望出去，没有成功。有一个甚至把她的胳膊高高地伸在铁条外面，扬起她的白手帕。另外两个还更大胆，她们找到了办法，一直爬上屋顶，总算看到了那个“青年”。那是一个年老的流亡贵族，又瞎又穷，待在他那间顶楼上，吹着笛子来解解闷的。
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 6 The Little Convent
In this enclosure of the Petit-Picpus there were three perfectly distinct buildings,--the Great Convent, inhabited by the nuns, the Boarding-school, where the scholars were lodged; and lastly, what was called the Little Convent. It was a building with a garden, in which lived all sorts of aged nuns of various orders, the relics of cloisters destroyed in the Revolution; a reunion of all the black, gray, and white medleys of all communities and all possible varieties; what might be called, if such a coupling of words is permissible, a sort of harlequin convent.
When the Empire was established, all these poor old dispersed and exiled women had been accorded permission to come and take shelter under the wings of the Bernardines-Benedictines. The government paid them a small pension, the ladies of the Petit-Picpus receiver presence only by the folding seats of the stalls noisily rising and falling.
Abit of her order, which was a white robe with a scarlet scapulary, had piously put it on a little manikin, which she exhibited with complacency and which she bequeathed to the house at her death. In 1824, only one nun of this order remained; to-day, there remains only a doll.
In addition to these worthy mothers, some old society women had obtained permission of the prioress, like Madame Albertine, to retire into the Little Convent. Among the number were Madame Beaufort d'Hautpoul and Marquise Dufresne. Another was never known in the convent except by the formidable noise which she made when she blew her nose. The pupils called her Madame Vacarmini (hubbub).
About 1820 or 1821, Madame de Genlis, who was at that time editing a little periodical publication called l'Intrepide, asked to be allowed to enter the convent of the Petit-Picpus as lady resident. The Duc d'Orleans recommended her. Uproar in the hive; the vocal-mothers were all in a flutter; Madame de Genlis had made romances. But she declared that she was the first to detest them, and then, she had reached her fierce stage of devotion. With the aid of God, and of the Prince, she entered. She departed at the end of six or eight months, alleging as a reason, that there was no shade in the garden. The nuns were delighted. Although very old, she still played the harp, and did it very well.
When she went away she left her mark in her cell. Madame de Genlis was superstitious and a Latinist. These two words furnish a tolerably good profile of her. A few years ago, there were still to be seen, pasted in the inside of a little cupboard in her cell in which she locked up her silverware and her jewels, these five lines in Latin, written with her own hand in red ink on yellow paper, and which, in her opinion, possessed the property of frightening away robbers:--
Imparibus meritis pendent tria corpora ramis:[15] Dismas et Gesmas, media est divina potestas; Alta petit Dismas, infelix, infima, Gesmas; Nos et res nostras conservet summa potestas. Hos versus dicas, ne tu furto tua perdas.
[15] On the boughs hang three bodies of unequal merits: Dismas and Gesmas, between is the divine power. Dismas seeks the heights, Gesmas, unhappy man, the lowest regions; the highest power will preserve us and our effects. If you repeat this verse, you will not lose your things by theft.
These verses in sixth century Latin raise the question whether the two thieves of Calvary were named, as is commonly believed, Dismas and Gestas, or Dismas and Gesmas. This orthography might have confounded the pretensions put forward in the last century by the Vicomte de Gestas, of a descent from the wicked thief. However, the useful virtue attached to these verses forms an article of faith in the order of the Hospitallers.
The church of the house, constructed in such a manner as to separate the Great Convent from the Boarding-school like a veritable intrenchment, was, of course, common to the Boarding-school, the Great Convent, and the Little Convent. The public was even admitted by a sort of lazaretto entrance on the street. But all was so arranged, that none of the inhabitants of the cloister could see a face from the outside world. Suppose a church whose choir is grasped in a gigantic hand, and folded in such a manner as to form, not, as in ordinary churches, a prolongation behind the altar, but a sort of hall, or obscure cellar, to the right of the officiating priest; suppose this hall to be shut off by a curtain seven feet in height, of which we have already spoken; in the shadow of that curtain, pile up on wooden stalls the nuns in the choir on the left, the school-girls on the right, the lay-sisters and the novices at the bottom, and you will have some idea of the nuns of the Petit-Picpus assisting at divine service. That cavern, which was called the choir, communicated with the cloister by a lobby. The church was lighted from the garden. When the nuns were present at services where their rule enjoined silence, the public was warned of their presence only by the folding seats of the stalls noisily rising and falling.
在小比克布斯的花园内，有三个彼此能完全划分开来的院落：修女们住的大院，小学生们住的寄读学校，最后还有所谓小院。那是个带园子和房屋的小院，一些被革命毁了的修院留下来的、原属不同修会的形形色色的老修女都一起住在那里，那是黑色、灰色、白色的杂配，是各种各种的修会团体和五花八门、应有尽有的品种的汇合，我们可以管它叫棗如果词儿可以这样联缀的话棗什锦院。
从帝国时期起，便已允许所有那些可怜的流离失所的姑娘们到这里来，栖息在伯尔纳－本笃会修女们的翅膀下。政府还发给她们一点点津贴，小比克布斯的修女们热忱地接待了她们。那是一种光怪陆离的杂拌儿。各人遵守着各人的教规。寄读的小学生们有时会得到准许去访问她们，这仿佛是她们的一大乐趣，因此在那些年轻姑娘的记忆里留下了圣巴西尔嬷嬷、圣斯柯拉斯狄克嬷嬷、圣雅各嬷嬷和其他一些嬷嬷的形象。
在那些避难的修女中，有一个认为自己差不多是回到了老家。那是一个圣奥尔会的修女，她是那修会里唯一活着的人。圣奥尔修女们的修院旧址，从十八世纪初起，恰巧是小比克布斯的这所房屋，过后才由玛尔丹·维尔加支系的本笃会修女们接管。那个圣女，过于穷困，穿不起她那修会规定的华美服装：白袍和朱红披肩，便一片诚心地做一套穿在一个小小的人体模型上，欢欢喜喜地摆出来给大家看，临死时，还捐给了修院。那个修会，在一八二四年只留下一个修女，到今天，只留下一个玩偶。
除了这些真正够得上称为嬷嬷的以外，还有几个红尘中的老妇人也和阿尔贝尔丁夫人一样，获得了院长的许可，退隐在那小院里。在那一批人中，有波弗多布夫人和迪费雷纳侯爵夫人。另外还有一个专以擤鼻涕声的洪亮震耳而著名于小院，小学生们都管她叫哗啦啦啦夫人。
将近一八二○或一八二一时，有个让利斯夫人，她当时编辑一本名为《勇士》的期刊，她要求进入小比克布斯修院当一个独修修女。她的介绍人是奥尔良公爵。那修院顿时乱得象一窝蜂，参议嬷嬷们慌到发抖，因为让利斯夫人写过小说。但是她宣布她比任何人都更痛恨小说，并且已经进入勇猛精进的阶段。承上帝庇佑，也承那亲王庇佑，她进了院。六个月或八个月以后她又走了，理由是那园里没有树荫，修女们因而大为高兴。尽管她年纪已经很大，但却仍在弹竖琴，并且弹得相当好。
她离开时，她在她的静室里留下了痕迹。让利斯夫人有些迷信而且还是个拉丁语学者。这两个特点使她的形象相当鲜明。在她的静室里有个小柜，是她平日藏银钱珍宝的地方，几年以前，大家都能看到在那柜子里还贴着一张由她亲笔用红墨水写在黄纸上的这样五句拉丁诗，那些诗句，在她看来，是具有辟盗的魔力的：
三个善恶悬殊的尸体挂在木架上，
狄斯马斯和哲斯马斯，真主在中央，
狄斯马斯升天国，哲斯马斯入地狱，
祈求尊神保护我们和我们的财产，
念了这首诗，你的财宝再不会被盗贼窃夺。
那几句用六世纪的拉丁文写成的诗引起了这样一个问题，那就是我们想知道髑髅地的那两个强盗的名字，究竟是象我们通常所承认的那样，叫狄马斯和哲斯塔斯呢还是叫做狄斯马斯和哲斯马斯。前一世纪的哲斯塔斯子爵自诩是那坏强盗的后代，他如果见了这种写法，也许不大高兴吧。此外，那几句诗所具有的那种有益的魔力是仁爱会修女们所深信的。
那修院的礼拜堂，从方位上说，确是大院和寄读学校之间的间隔，不过它仍是由寄读学校、大院和小院共同使用的。甚至公众也可由一道特设在街旁的大门进去。可是整个布置能使修院的任何女人望不见外界的一张面孔。你想象有个礼拜堂被一只极大的手捏住了它那唱诗台所在的一段，并把它捏变了样棗不是变得象一般的礼拜堂那样在祭台后面突出去一段，而是在主祭神甫的右边捏出了一间大厅或是一个黑洞；你再想象那间大厅正如我们在前面已经说过的那样，被一道七尺高的哔叽帷幕所拦住，在帷幕后面的黑影里有一行行的活动坐板椅，你把唱诗的修女们堆在左边，寄读生们堆在右边，勤务嬷嬷和初学生们堆在底里，你对小比克布斯的修女们参与圣祭的情形便有一个概念了。那个黑洞，大家称它为唱诗台，经过一条过道，和修院相通。礼拜堂里的阳光来自园里。修女们参加日课，按照规矩是肃静无声的，外界的人，如果不听见她们椅子上的活动坐板在起落时相撞的声音都不会知道她们在堂里。
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 7 Some Silhouettes of this Darkness
During the six years which separate 1819 from 1825, the prioress of the Petit-Picpus was Mademoiselle de Blemeur, whose name, in religion, was Mother Innocente. She came of the family of Marguerite de Blemeur, author of Lives of the Saints of the Order of Saint-Benoit. She had been re-elected. She was a woman about sixty years of age, short, thick, "singing like a cracked pot," says the letter which we have already quoted; an excellent woman, moreover, and the only merry one in the whole convent, and for that reason adored. She was learned, erudite, wise, competent, curiously proficient in history, crammed with Latin, stuffed with Greek, full of Hebrew, and more of a Benedictine monk than a Benedictine nun.
The sub-prioress was an old Spanish nun, Mother Cineres, who was almost blind.
The most esteemed among the vocal mothers were Mother Sainte-Honorine; the treasurer, Mother Sainte-Gertrude, the chief mistress of the novices; Mother-Saint-Ange, the assistant mistress; Mother Annonciation, the sacristan; Mother Saint-Augustin, the nurse, the only one in the convent who was malicious; then Mother Sainte-Mechtilde (Mademoiselle Gauvain), very young and with a beautiful voice; Mother des Anges (Mademoiselle Drouet), who had been in the convent of the Filles-Dieu, and in the convent du Tresor, between Gisors and Magny; Mother Saint-Joseph (Mademoiselle de Cogolludo), Mother Sainte-Adelaide (Mademoiselle d'Auverney), Mother Misericorde (Mademoiselle de Cifuentes, who could not resist austerities), Mother Compassion (Mademoiselle de la Miltiere, received at the age of sixty in defiance of the rule, and very wealthy); Mother Providence (Mademoiselle de Laudiniere), Mother Presentation (Mademoiselle de Siguenza), who was prioress in 1847; and finally, Mother Sainte-Celigne (sister of the sculptor Ceracchi), who went mad; Mother Sainte-Chantal (Mademoiselle de Suzon), who went mad.
There was also, among the prettiest of them, a charming girl of three and twenty, who was from the Isle de Bourbon, a descendant of the Chevalier Roze, whose name had been Mademoiselle Roze, and who was called Mother Assumption.
Mother Sainte-Mechtilde, intrusted with the singing and the choir, was fond of making use of the pupils in this quarter. She usually took a complete scale of them, that is to say, seven, from ten to sixteen years of age, inclusive, of assorted voices and sizes, whom she made sing standing, drawn up in a line, side by side, according to age, from the smallest to the largest. This presented to the eye, something in the nature of a reed-pipe of young girls, a sort of living Pan-pipe made of angels.
Those of the lay-sisters whom the scholars loved most were Sister Euphrasie, Sister Sainte-Marguerite, Sister Sainte-Marthe, who was in her dotage, and Sister Sainte-Michel, whose long nose made them laugh.
All these women were gentle with the children. The nuns were severe only towards themselves. No fire was lighted except in the school, and the food was choice compared to that in the convent. Moreover, they lavished a thousand cares on their scholars. Only, when a child passed near a nun and addressed her, the nun never replied.
This rule of silence had had this effect, that throughout the whole convent, speech had been withdrawn from human creatures, and bestowed on inanimate objects. Now it was the church-bell which spoke, now it was the gardener's bell. A very sonorous bell, placed beside the portress, and which was audible throughout the house, indicated by its varied peals, which formed a sort of acoustic telegraph, all the actions of material life which were to be performed, and summoned to the parlor, in case of need, such or such an inhabitant of the house. Each person and each thing had its own peal. The prioress had one and one, the sub-prioress one and two. Six-five announced lessons, so that the pupils never said "to go to lessons," but "to go to six-five." Four-four was Madame de Genlis's signal. It was very often heard. "C'est le diable a quatre,--it's the very deuce--said the uncharitable. Tennine strokes announced a great event. It was the opening of the door of seclusion, a frightful sheet of iron bristling with bolts which only turned on its hinges in the presence of the archbishop.
With the exception of the archbishop and the gardener, no man entered the convent, as we have already said. The schoolgirls saw two others: one, the chaplain, the Abbe Banes, old and ugly, whom they were permitted to contemplate in the choir, through a grating; the other the drawing-master, M. Ansiaux, whom the letter, of which we have perused a few lines, calls M. Anciot, and describes as a frightful old hunchback.
It will be seen that all these men were carefully chosen.
Such was this curious house.
从一八一九到一八二五那六年中，小比克布斯修院的院长是德·勃勒麦尔小姐，宗教界称她为纯贞嬷嬷。她和《圣伯努瓦会诸圣传》的作者玛格丽特·德·勃勒麦尔是一家。她两次当选。她是一个六十来岁的矮胖妇人，我们在前面提到过的那封信里说她“唱起诗来象个破罐”，除此以外，人非常好，在那修院里，只有她一个人是性情愉快的，因此为大家所热爱。
她能继承先人玛格丽特棗修会中的泰斗棗的遗风。能文，识掌故，博学，多才，谙悉奇闻异事，满脑子的拉丁文，满腔的希腊文，满肚子的希伯来文，虽是女流，却有丈夫气。
副院长是个眼睛几乎瞎了的西班牙籍老修女，西内莱斯嬷嬷。
在那些“参议”中最受重视的是圣奥诺雷嬷嬷，司库；圣热尔特律德嬷嬷，初学生们的第一导师；圣安琪嬷嬷，第二导师；领报嬷嬷，司衣；圣奥古斯丁嬷嬷，护士，她是全院中唯一的恶人；还有圣梅克蒂尔德嬷嬷（戈梵小姐），极年轻，嗓音美妙；安琪嬷嬷（德鲁埃小姐），她曾在圣女修院和吉索尔与马尼间的宝藏修院里待过；圣约瑟嬷嬷（柯戈鲁多小姐）；圣阿德拉依德嬷嬷（奥威尔涅小姐）；慈悲嬷嬷（西弗安特小姐，她受不了刻苦的生活）；温情嬷嬷（米尔齐埃小姐，六十岁破例特许入院，极有钱）；神德嬷嬷（罗第尼埃小姐）；入庙嬷嬷（西甘查小姐），一八四七年当院长；最后，圣赛利尼嬷嬷（雕塑家赛拉奇的姐妹），后来疯了；圣尚达尔嬷嬷（苏松小姐），也疯了。
在那些最漂亮的姑娘里，还有一个芳龄二十三的美人，她出生在波旁岛①，是罗兹骑士的后裔，社会上叫她罗兹小姐，在那里名叫升天嬷嬷。 
①波旁岛，即留尼汪岛，在印度洋。　
圣梅克蒂尔德嬷嬷负责指导唱歌和唱诗，她喜欢选用寄读生。她经常把她们组成一个完整的音阶，就是说，七个人，从十岁到十六岁，每岁一个，声音和身材都要相称，她要求她们立着唱，从最小到最大，按照年龄，看去好象一座锦屏，一种由天使组成的排箫。
在那些勤务嬷嬷中，寄读生们最喜欢的是圣欧福拉吉嬷嬷、圣玛格丽特嬷嬷，老糊涂圣玛尔泰嬷嬷和那教人见了就要笑的长鼻子圣米歇尔嬷嬷。
所有那些妇女对每个孩子都是亲亲热热的。修女们只对自己才严厉。只有寄读学校里才生火，她们的伙食，和修院里的伙食比较起来，算是讲究的了。具他的照顾也是无微不至的。不过，当孩子打修女身旁走过和她说话时，修女却从来不答话。
那种保持肃静的院规产生了这样一种后果，那就是在全院，语言已从人的身上消退并交给了无生命的东西。有时是礼拜堂上的钟在说话，有时是那园丁的铃。在担任传达的嬷嬷旁边，挂着一口声音非常洪亮全院都能听到的铜钟，通过各种不同的敲法，好象是种有声电报似的，来表达在物质生活中所应进行的全部活动，并且，在必要时，还可把修院里的这个或那个人找到会客室里去。每个人和每件东西都有一定的敲法。院长是一下接一下，副院长是一下接两下。六下接五下表示上课，以致小学生们从来不说去上课，而是说去六五。四下接四下是让利斯夫人的呼号。大家听到这呼号的次数非常多。“四头鬼又来了，”一些一点也不厚道的姑娘们常那样说。十下接九下报告一件大事。就是“围墙大门”的开放，那是一道闩杠累累、吓得坏人的铁板门，只是在迎送大主教时才开放。
我们说过，除了他和园丁，任何男人都不许进修院。寄读生还见过另外两个，一个是又老又丑的教义导师，巴内斯神甫，这是可以让她们从唱诗台上隔着铁栅栏看看的，另一个是图画教师昂西奥先生，也就是我们在前面见了几行的那封信里所提到的“安西奥先生”和“驼背老妖怪”。
可以看出，每一个男人都是经过挑选的。
这就是那个怪修院的面貌。　
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 8 Post Corda Lapides
After having sketched its moral face, it will not prove unprofitable to point out, in a few words, its material configuration. The reader already has some idea of it.
The convent of the Petit-Picpus-Sainte-Antoine filled almost the whole of the vast trapezium which resulted from the intersection of the Rue Polonceau, the Rue Droit-Mur, the Rue Petit-Picpus, and the unused lane, called Rue Aumarais on old plans. These four streets surrounded this trapezium like a moat. The convent was composed of several buildings and a garden. The principal building, taken in its entirety, was a juxtaposition of hybrid constructions which, viewed from a bird's-eye view, outlined, with considerable exactness, a gibbet laid flat on the ground. The main arm of the gibbet occupied the whole of the fragment of the Rue Droit-Mur comprised between the Rue Petit-Picpus and the Rue Polonceau; the lesser arm was a lofty, gray, severe grated facade which faced the Rue Petit-Picpus; the carriage entrance No. 62 marked its extremity. Towards the centre of this facade was a low, arched door, whitened with dust and ashes, where the spiders wove their webs, and which was open only for an hour or two on Sundays, and on rare occasions, when the coffin of a nun left the convent. This was the public entrance of the church. The elbow of the gibbet was a square hall which was used as the servants' hall, and which the nuns called the buttery. In the main arm were the cells of the mothers, the sisters, and the novices. In the lesser arm lay the kitchens, the refectory, backed up by the cloisters and the church. Between the door No. 62 and the corner of the closed lane Aumarais, was the school, which was not visible from without. The remainder of the trapezium formed the garden, which was much lower than the level of the Rue Polonceau, which caused the walls to be very much higher on the inside than on the outside. The garden, which was slightly arched, had in its centre, on the summit of a hillock, a fine pointed and conical fir-tree, whence ran, as from the peaked boss of a shield, four grand alleys, and, ranged by twos in between the branchings of these, eight small ones, so that, if the enclosure had been circular, the geometrical plan of the alleys would have resembled a cross superposed on a wheel. As the alleys all ended in the very irregular walls of the garden, they were of unequal length. They were bordered with currant bushes. At the bottom, an alley of tall poplars ran from the ruins of the old convent, which was at the angle of the Rue Droit-Mur to the house of the Little Convent, which was at the angle of the Aumarais lane. In front of the Little Convent was what was called the little garden. To this whole, let the reader add a courtyard, all sorts of varied angles formed by the interior buildings, prison walls, the long black line of roofs which bordered the other side of the Rue Polonceau for its sole perspective and neighborhood, and he will be able to form for himself a complete image of what the house of the Bernardines of the Petit-Picpus was forty years ago. This holy house had been built on the precise site of a famous tennis-ground of the fourteenth to the sixteenth century, which was called the "tennis-ground of the eleven thousand devils."
All these streets, moreover, were more ancient than Paris. These names, Droit-Mur and Aumarais, are very ancient; the streets which bear them are very much more ancient still. Aumarais Lane was called Maugout Lane; the Rue Droit-Mur was called the Rue des Eglantiers, for God opened flowers before man cut stones.
在初步描绘了那修院的精神面貌以后，再说几句话把它的物质外形描述一下也不会是无益的。读者在这方面也早已有个概念了。
小比克布斯圣安东尼修院几乎全部占用了那个广阔的不等边四边形，这是由波隆梭街、直壁街、比克布斯小街和那条已被堵塞而在老地图上则被称为奥玛莱街的死巷交叉形成的。那四条街俨如一道壕沟圈住那不等边四边形。那修院是由好几栋房屋和一个园子构成的。那栋主要的房屋，就它的整体说，是由几座风格不一致的建筑物凑合起来的，从空中望下去，那一连串建筑物就很象一把放在地上的曲尺。曲尺的长臂从比克布斯小街一直延伸到波隆梭街，占有整条直壁街的街边；短臂面临比克布斯小街，那一面的房屋高而灰暗，形象严肃，正面的门窗都装有铁栅栏，六十二号的大车门标志着那一带房屋的尽头。在那一带房屋的正中，有一道老式的矮圆拱门，门上处处是白灰土，门洞里布满了蜘蛛网，那道门只在星期日才开放一两个钟点，或在有修女的灵柩要抬出修院时才偶然开一次。那也就是公众进礼拜堂的地方。在曲尺转角的地方，有一间当作储藏室用的方厅，修女们却称它为“账房”。沿着长臂一带，是各级嬷嬷和初学生的静室所在地段。沿着短臂一带，有厨房、带走廊的食堂和礼拜堂。在六十二号大门和封闭了的奥玛莱巷巷口之间的是寄读学校，人们从外面看去，却看不见那学校。不等边四边形的其余部分便是园子，园子要比波隆梭街的街面低许多，因此围墙在园里一面和外面比起来要高些。园里的地面是微微隆起的，中间有个稍高部分，一株美丽的圆锥形的枞树耸立在那上面，宛如圆盾中心的突刺，四条宽道从那中心出发，伸向四方，每一条宽道又都有两条小路，各向左右分展出去，各各相通，因此那片园地，假使是圆的话，那些道路所构成的几何图形就象一个加在轮子上面的十字架。所有道路都抵达围墙，由于那园子的围墙很不规则，道路的长短也就不一致。道路两旁，都栽了醋栗树。在直壁街的角上有着老院的遗迹，有条小道，在两行高大的白桦下面，从那里伸向奥玛莱巷转角处的小院。小院的前面，有所谓小园。我们在这样一个整体中再加上一个天井，加上由内部各院房屋所形成的各种不同的弯角、监狱的围墙、一长列相距不远可以望见的沿着波隆梭街那一边的黑房顶，我们便能想象出四十五年前存在于小比克布斯的伯尔纳女修院的整个面貌了。从十四世纪到十六世纪，那里是个著名的球场，叫“一万一千个魔鬼的俱乐部”，这正是日后建造那圣洁的修院的基地。所有那些街道，对巴黎来说，都是最古老的。直壁、奥玛莱这类名称，已够古老的了，以这类名称命名的街道则更为古老。奥玛莱巷原称摩古巷，直壁街原称野蔷薇街，因为上帝使百花开放远在人类开凿石头以前。
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 9 A Century under a Guimpe
Since we are engaged in giving details as to what the convent of the Petit-Picpus was in former times, and since we have ventured to open a window on that discreet retreat, the reader will permit us one other little digression, utterly foreign to this book, but characteristic and useful, since it shows that the cloister even has its original figures.
In the Little Convent there was a centenarian who came from the Abbey of Fontevrault. She had even been in society before the Revolution. She talked a great deal of M. de Miromesnil, Keeper of the Seals under Louis XVI. and of a Presidentess Duplat, with whom she had been very intimate. It was her pleasure and her vanity to drag in these names on every pretext. She told wonders of the Abbey of Fontevrault,-- that it was like a city, and that there were streets in the monastery.
She talked with a Picard accent which amused the pupils. Every year, she solemnly renewed her vows, and at the moment of taking the oath, she said to the priest, "Monseigneur Saint-Francois gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Julien, Monseigneur Saint-Julien gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius, Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Procopius, etc., etc.; and thus I give it to you, father." And the school-girls would begin to laugh, not in their sleeves, but under their veils; charming little stifled laughs which made the vocal mothers frown.
On another occasion, the centenarian was telling stories. She said that in her youth the Bernardine monks were every whit as good as the mousquetaires. It was a century which spoke through her, but it was the eighteenth century. She told about the custom of the four wines, which existed before the Revolution in Champagne and Bourgogne. When a great personage, a marshal of France, a prince, a duke, and a peer, traversed a town in Burgundy or Champagne, the city fathers came out to harangue him and presented him with four silver gondolas into which they had poured four different sorts of wine. On the first goblet this inscription could be read, monkey wine; on the second, lion wine; on the third, sheep wine; on the fourth, hog wine. These four legends express the four stages descended by the drunkard; the first, intoxication, which enlivens; the second, that which irritates; the third, that which dulls; and the fourth, that which brutalizes.
In a cupboard, under lock and key, she kept a mysterious object of which she thought a great deal. The rule of Fontevrault did not forbid this. She would not show this object to anyone. She shut herself up, which her rule allowed her to do, and hid herself, every time that she desired to contemplate it. If she heard a footstep in the corridor, she closed the cupboard again as hastily as it was possible with her aged hands. As soon as it was mentioned to her, she became silent, she who was so fond of talking. The most curious were baffled by her silence and the most tenacious by her obstinacy. Thus it furnished a subject of comment for all those who were unoccupied or bored in the convent. What could that treasure of the centenarian be, which was so precious and so secret? Some holy book, no doubt? Some unique chaplet? Some authentic relic? They lost themselves in conjectures. When the poor old woman died, they rushed to her cupboard more hastily than was fitting, perhaps, and opened it. They found the object beneath a triple linen cloth, like some consecrated paten. It was a Faenza platter representing little Loves flitting away pursued by apothecary lads armed with enormous syringes. The chase abounds in grimaces and in comical postures. One of the charming little Loves is already fairly spitted. He is resisting, fluttering his tiny wings, and still making an effort to fly, but the dancer is laughing with a satanical air. Moral: Love conquered by the colic. This platter, which is very curious, and which had, possibly, the honor of furnishing Moliere with an idea, was still in existence in September, 1845; it was for sale by a bric-a-brac merchant in the Boulevard Beaumarchais.
This good old woman would not receive any visits from outside because, said she, the parlor is too gloomy.
我们既然在谈小比克布斯修院已往的一些琐事，也敢于把那禁宫的一扇窗子敞了开来，读者谅能允许我们再另生一小小枝节，叙述一件与本书实际无关的故事，这故事不但有它特殊之处，并对帮助我们了解那座修院的一些奇特现象也有好处。
在那小院里有个从封特弗罗修院来的百岁老人。她在革命前还是个红尘中人。她经常谈到路易十六的掌玺官米罗迈尼尔先生和她所深知的一个狄勃拉首席法官夫人。由于爱好，也由于虚荣，她无论谈什么事总要扯到那两个名字上去。她常把那封特弗罗修院说得天花乱坠，说那简直象个城市，修院里有许多大街。
她谈话，富有庇卡底人的风度，使寄读生们听了特别高兴。她每年要隆重地发一次誓愿，在发愿时，她总向那神甫说：“圣方济各大人向圣于连大人发过这个愿，圣于连大人向圣欧塞勃大人发过这个愿，圣欧塞勃大人向圣普罗柯帕大人发过这个愿，”等等，“因此我也向您，我的神父，发这个愿。”寄读生们听了，都咯咯地笑，不是在兜帽底下笑，而是在面纱底下笑，多么可爱的抑制着的娇笑啊，这使那些参议嬷嬷都皱起眉来。另外一次，那百岁老人讲故事，她说“在她的青年时代，伯尔纳修士不肯在火枪手面前让步。”那是一个世纪在谈话，不过，这是十八世纪。她叙述香槟和勃艮第人献四道酒的风俗。革命前，如果有一个大人物，法兰西大元帅、亲王、公爵和世卿，经过勃艮第或香槟的一个城市，那城里的文武官员便来向他致欢迎词，并用四个银爵杯，敬给他四种不同的酒。在第一个爵杯上刻着“猴酒”两字，第二个上刻着“狮酒”，第三个上刻着“羊酒”，第四个上刻着“猪酒”那四种铭文标志着人饮酒入醉的四个阶段：第一阶段是活跃阶段，第二，激怒，第三，迟钝，最后，胡涂。
她有一件非常喜爱的东西，老锁在一个柜子里，秘不告人。封特弗罗修院的院规并不禁止她那样做。她从不把那件东西给任何人看。她独自关在屋里，那是她的院规允许的，偷偷欣赏那东西。如果她听见过道里有人走路，那双枯手便急忙锁上柜门。一到人家向她谈到这事时，她又立即闭口，尽管她平时最爱谈话。最好奇的人在她那种沉默面前，最顽强的人在她那种固执面前也都毫无办法。这也就成了修院里所有一切闲得无聊的人苦心探讨的题材。那百岁老人那样珍借、那样隐藏的东西究竟是什么宝贝呢？这无疑是本什么天书了？某种独一无二的念珠？某种经过考证的遗物？百般猜测也无从打破那闷葫芦。在可怜的老妇人死了后，大家跑到那柜子跟前棗按理说，也许不该跑得那么快棗开了柜门。那东西找出来了，好象保护一个祝福过的祭品盘似的，裹在三层布里。那是一个法恩扎①窑的盘子，上面画的是几个当药剂师的孩子，手里拿着其大无比的注射器，在追逐一群飞着的爱神。追逐的神情和姿态各各不同，但却都能引人发笑。在那些娇小可爱的爱神中，已有一个被注射器扎通了。它仍在挣扎，鼓动着翅膀想飞走，但是那个滑稽小丑望着它发出邪恶的笑。含义是爱情在痛苦下面屈服了。那个盘子确是稀有之物，也许曾荣幸地触发过莫里哀的文思，它在一八四五年还在，存放在博马舍林荫大道的一家古董店里待售。 
①法恩扎（Faenza），意大利城市。　
那个慈祥的老妇人生前从不接待外来的亲友，“因为，”她说，“那会客室太阴惨了。”
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 10 Origin of the Perpetual Adoration
However, this almost sepulchral parlor, of which we have sought to convey an idea, is a purely local trait which is not reproduced with the same severity in other convents. At the convent of the Rue du Temple, in particular, which belonged, in truth, to another order, the black shutters were replaced by brown curtains, and the parlor itself was a salon with a polished wood floor, whose windows were draped in white muslin curtains and whose walls admitted all sorts of frames, a portrait of a Benedictine nun with unveiled face, painted bouquets, and even the head of a Turk.
It is in that garden of the Temple convent, that stood that famous chestnut-tree which was renowned as the finest and the largest in France, and which bore the reputation among the good people of the eighteenth century of being the father of all the chestnut trees of the realm.
As we have said, this convent of the Temple was occupied by Benedictines of the Perpetual Adoration, Benedictines quite different from those who depended on Citeaux. This order of the Perpetual Adoration is not very ancient and does not go back more than two hundred years. In 1649 the holy sacrament was profaned on two occasions a few days apart, in two churches in Paris, at Saint-Sulpice and at Saint-Jean en Greve, a rare and frightful sacrilege which set the whole town in an uproar. M. the Prior and Vicar-General of Saint-Germain des Pres ordered a solemn procession of all his clergy, in which the Pope's Nuncio officiated. But this expiation did not satisfy two sainted women, Madame Courtin, Marquise de Boucs, and the Comtesse de Chateauvieux. This outrage committed on "the most holy sacrament of the altar," though but temporary, would not depart from these holy souls, and it seemed to them that it could only be extenuated by a "Perpetual Adoration" in some female monastery. Both of them, one in 1652, the other in 1653, made donations of notable sums to Mother Catherine de Bar, called of the Holy Sacrament, a Benedictine nun, for the purpose of founding, to this pious end, a monastery of the order of Saint-Benoit; the first permission for this foundation was given to Mother Catherine de Bar by M. de Metz, Abbe of Saint-Germain, "on condition that no woman could be received unless she contributed three hundred livres income, which amounts to six thousand livres, to the principal." After the Abbe of Saint-Germain, the king accorded letters-patent; and all the rest, abbatial charter, and royal letters, was confirmed in 1654 by the Chamber of Accounts and the Parliament.
Such is the origin of the legal consecration of the establishment of the Benedictines of the Perpetual Adoration of the Holy Sacrament at Paris. Their first convent was "a new building" in the Rue Cassette, out of the contributions of Mesdames de Boucs and de Chateauvieux.
This order, as it will be seen, was not to be confounded with the Benedictine nuns of Citeaux. It mounted back to the Abbe of Saint-Germain des Pres, in the same manner that the ladies of the Sacred Heart go back to the general of the Jesuits, and the sisters of charity to the general of the Lazarists.
It was also totally different from the Bernardines of the Petit-Picpus, whose interior we have just shown. In 1657, Pope Alexander VII. had authorized, by a special brief, the Bernardines of the Rue Petit-Picpus, to practise the Perpetual Adoration like the Benedictine nuns of the Holy Sacrament. But the two orders remained distinct none the less.
此外，我们刚才指出来的那间近似坟墓的会客室，那也只是种个别情况，在其他修院里不至于严厉到那种程度。尤其是在大庙街，老实说在属于另一系统的那个修院里，那种暗无天日的板窗是由栗黄色帷幕替代的，会客室也是一间装了镶花地板的小厅，窗上挂着雅致的白纱窗帘，墙上挂着各种不同的玻璃框，一幅露出了脸的本笃会修女的画像、几幅油画花卉，甚至还有一个土耳其人的头。
号称法兰西全国最美最大并在十八世纪善良的人民口中誉为“王国一切栗树之父”的那棵印度栗树，正是栽在大庙街上那个修院的园子里的。
我们说过，大庙街上的这座修院是属于永敬会－本笃会的修女的，那里的本笃会修女和隶属于西多的本笃会修女完全是两回事。永敬会的历史并不很久，不会超过两百年。一六四九年，在巴黎的两个礼拜堂里，圣稣尔比斯和格雷沃的圣约翰，圣体曾两次被亵渎，前后两次相隔不过几天，那种少见的渎神罪发生后全城的人都为之骇然。圣日耳曼·德·勃雷的大助理主教兼院长先生传谕给他的全体圣职人员，举行了一次隆重的迎神游行仪式，那次仪式并由罗马教皇的使臣主持。但有两个尊贵的妇人，古尔丹夫人（即布克侯爵夫人）和沙多维安伯爵夫人，感到那样赎罪还不够。那种对“神坛上极其崇高的圣体”所犯的罪行，虽是偶然发生的，但在那两位圣女看来，却认为不该就那样草草了事，她们认为只有在某个女修院里进行“永恒的敬礼”才能补赎。她们俩，一个在一六五二年，一个在一六五三年，为这虔诚的心愿捐款了大笔的钱给一个叫卡特琳·德·巴尔嬷嬷，又名圣体嬷嬷的本笃会修女，要她替圣伯努瓦系创建一个修院。圣日耳曼修院院长梅茨先生首先许可卡特琳·德·巴尔嬷嬷建院，“约定申请入院的女子必须年缴住院费三百利弗，也就是六千利弗的本金，否则不许入院。”继圣日耳曼修院院长之后，国王又颁发了准许状，到一六五四年，修院的许可证和国王的准许状又一并经财务部门和法院通过批准。
这就是本笃会修女们在巴黎建立圣体永敬会的起源和法律根据。她们的第一个修院是用布克夫人和沙多维安夫人的钱在卡塞特街“修建一新”的。
因此我们知道，那个修会绝不能和西多的本笃会修女混为一谈。它隶属于圣日耳曼·德·勃雷的修院院长，正如圣心会的嬷嬷隶属于耶稣会会长，仁慈会的嬷嬷隶属于辣匝禄会会长一样。
它和小比克布斯的伯尔纳修女也完全是另一回事，小比克布斯的内部情况是我们前面已经谈过了的。罗马教皇亚历山大七世在一六五七年有过专牒，准许小比克布斯的伯尔纳修女和圣体会的本笃系的修女一样，修持永敬仪轨。但是那两个修会并不因此而属于同一体系。
Part 2 Book 6 Chapter 11 End of the Petit-Picpus
At the beginning of the Restoration, the convent of the Petit-Picpus was in its decay; this forms a part of the general death of the order, which, after the eighteenth century, has been disappearing like all the religious orders. Contemplation is, like prayer, one of humanity's needs; but, like everything which the Revolution touched, it will be transformed, and from being hostile to social progress, it will become favorable to it.
The house of the Petit-Picpus was becoming rapidly depopulated. In 1840, the Little Convent had disappeared, the school had disappeared. There were no longer any old women, nor young girls; the first were dead, the latter had taken their departure. Volaverunt.
The rule of the Perpetual Adoration is so rigid in its nature that it alarms, vocations recoil before it, the order receives no recruits. In 1845, it still obtained lay-sisters here and there. But of professed nuns, none at all. Forty years ago, the nuns numbered nearly a hundred; fifteen years ago there were not more than twenty-eight of them. How many are there to-day? In 1847, the prioress was young, a sign that the circle of choice was restricted. She was not forty years old. In proportion as the number diminishes, the fatigue increases, the service of each becomes more painful; the moment could then be seen drawing near when there would be but a dozen bent and aching shoulders to bear the heavy rule of Saint-Benoit. The burden is implacable, and remains the same for the few as for the many. It weighs down, it crushes. Thus they die. At the period when the author of this book still lived in Paris, two died. One was twenty-five years old, the other twenty-three. This latter can say, like Julia Alpinula: "Hic jaceo. Vixi annos viginti et tres." It is in consequence of this decay that the convent gave up the education of girls.
We have not felt able to pass before this extraordinary house without entering it, and without introducing the minds which accompany us, and which are listening to our tale, to the profit of some, perchance, of the melancholy history of Jean Valjean. We have penetrated into this community, full of those old practices which seem so novel to-day. It is the closed garden, hortus conclusus. We have spoken of this singular place in detail, but with respect, in so far, at least, as detail and respect are compatible. We do not understand all, but we insult nothing. We are equally far removed from the hosanna of Joseph de Maistre, who wound up by anointing the executioner, and from the sneer of Voltaire, who even goes so far as to ridicule the cross.
An illogical act on Voltaire's part, we may remark, by the way; for Voltaire would have defended Jesus as he defended Calas; and even for those who deny superhuman incarnations, what does the crucifix represent? The assassinated sage.
In this nineteenth century, the religious idea is undergoing a crisis. People are unlearning certain things, and they do well, provided that, while unlearning them they learn this: There is no vacuum in the human heart. Certain demolitions take place, and it is well that they do, but on condition that they are followed by reconstructions.
In the meantime, let us study things which are no more. It is necessary to know them, if only for the purpose of avoiding them. The counterfeits of the past assume false names, and gladly call themselves the future. This spectre, this past, is given to falsifying its own passport. Let us inform ourselves of the trap. Let us be on our guard. The past has a visage, superstition, and a mask, hypocrisy. Let us denounce the visage and let us tear off the mask.
As for convents, they present a complex problem,--a question of civilization, which condemns them; a question of liberty, which protects them.
一到王朝复辟时期，小比克布斯修院便渐渐衰败下去了，那是它那支系所有修会全面死亡的局部现象，那一支系，到了十八世纪以后，也随着所有其他宗教团体一同进入了衰亡期。静观和祈祷一样，也是人类的一种需要，可是，也和所有一切经革命接触过的事物一样，它自己也会转变，并且会由敌视社会的进步，转变为有利于社会的进步。
小比克布斯院里的人口减得很快。到一八四○年，小院消灭了，寄读学校消灭了。那里既没有老妇，也没有小姑娘，老的死了，小的走了。天各一方。
永敬会的规章严厉到了令人望而生畏的地步，有愿望的人畏缩不前，会中人找不到新生力量。到一八四五年，担任杂务的修女还多少可以找到几个，至于唱诗的修女，绝对没有。四十年前，修女的人数几乎到一百，十五年前，只有二十八个人了。今天还有多少呢？一八四七年，院长是个年轻人，这说明选择的范围缩小了。她当时还不到四十岁。人数减少，负担便越重，每个人的任务也更加艰苦，当时大家已经预见到不久就会只剩下十来个人、压弯伤痛的肩头来扛圣伯努瓦的那套沉重的教规。那副重担子是一成不变的，人少人多都一样。它压着，狠狠地压着，于是她们死了。在本书作者还住在巴黎时，死了两个。一个二十五岁，一个二十三岁。后面的那个可以象朱利亚·阿尔比尼拉所说：“我葬在这里，享年二十三。”正是由于那种萧条，修院才放弃了对小姑娘们的教养。
我们从那所不平凡的没人知道的黑院子门前经过，不能不拐进去看看，不能不领着我们的同伴和听我们叙述冉阿让伤心史的人的思想一同进去走走，这对某些人来说也许是有益的。我们已对那有着许多古老习惯的团体望了一眼，在今天看来，那些古老习惯是够新奇的了。那是个封闭了的园子，是座禁宫。对那奇特场所我们谈得相当详细，但仍然是怀着恭敬的心情来谈的，至少是在详细和恭敬还能协调起来的范围内谈的。我们并不是一概全懂，但是我们不污蔑任何东西。约瑟夫·德·梅斯特尔大声疾呼，他连刽子手也歌颂，伏尔泰则喜笑怒骂，连耶稣受难像也讥诮，我们是站在他们两人相等距离之间的。
伏尔泰缺少逻辑，这是顺便谈谈，因为伏尔泰很可能用为卡拉斯①辩护的态度同样来为耶稣辩护，而且，对那些根本否认神的化身的人，耶稣受难像又能代表什么呢？一个被害的哲人而已。 
①卡拉斯（Calas），十八世纪法国商人，被人诬告因不让其子脱离新教而将其杀害，被判处轮刑。死后三年，伏尔泰为他申雪，追判无罪。　
到十九世纪，宗教思想处于危机阶段。人们忘记了某些事物，那是好的，只要在忘记那些事物的同时又能学到另一些事物就好了。人的心里不能有空虚感。某些破坏行动在进行，进行得好，但是破坏之后必须有建设。
在此期间，让我们研究研究那些已经不存在的东西，认识那些东西是必要的，即使仅仅是为了避开它们。人们对复古的行动常爱加上一个伪造的名称，叫做维新。古，是个还魂鬼，惯于制造假护照。我们要提防陷阱，提高警惕。古有副真面目，那就是迷信，也有套假面具，那就是虚伪。让我们揭露它的真面目，撕破它的假面具。
至于修院，那是个错综复杂的问题。这是个文化问题，而文化排斥它；这是个自由问题，而自由又袒护它。
Part 2 Book 7 Chapter 1 The Convent as an Abstract Idea
This book is a drama, whose leading personage is the Infinite.
Man is the second.
Such being the case, and a convent having happened to be on our road, it has been our duty to enter it. Why? Because the convent, which is common to the Orient as well as to the Occident, to antiquity as well as to modern times, to paganism, to Buddhism, to Mahometanism, as well as to Christianity, is one of the optical apparatuses applied by man to the Infinite.
This is not the place for enlarging disproportionately on certain ideas; nevertheless, while absolutely maintaining our reserves, our restrictions, and even our indignations, we must say that every time we encounter man in the Infinite, either well or ill understood, we feel ourselves overpowered with respect. There is, in the synagogue, in the mosque, in the pagoda, in the wigwam, a hideous side which we execrate, and a sublime side, which we adore. What a contemplation for the mind, and what endless food for thought, is the reverberation of God upon the human wall!
本书是一个剧本，其中的主要角色是无极。
人是次要角色。
既是这样，我们在路上又遇到了一个修院，我们便应当走进去。为什么？因为修院，西方有，东方也有，现代有，古代也有，基督教有，异教、佛教、伊斯兰教也都有，它是人类指向无极的测量仪。
这里不是过分发挥某些思想的地方，不过，在绝对坚持我们的保留态度时，我们的容忍，甚至我们的愤慨，我们应当这样说，每次当我们遇见无极存在于一个人的心中时，无论他的理解程度如何，我们总会感到肃然起敬。圣殿、清真寺、菩萨庙、神舍，所有那些地方都有它丑恶的一面，是我们所唾弃的，同时也有它卓绝的一面，是我们所崇敬的。人类心中的静观和冥想是了无止境的，是照射在人类墙壁上的上帝的光辉。
Part 2 Book 7 Chapter 2 The Convent as an Historical Fact
From the point of view of history, of reason, and of truth, monasticism is condemned. Monasteries, when they abound in a nation, are clogs in its circulation, cumbrous establishments, centres of idleness where centres of labor should exist. Monastic communities are to the great social community what the mistletoe is to the oak, what the wart is to the human body. Their prosperity and their fatness mean the impoverishment of the country. The monastic regime, good at the beginning of civilization, useful in the reduction of the brutal by the spiritual, is bad when peoples have reached their manhood. Moreover, when it becomes relaxed, and when it enters into its period of disorder, it becomes bad for the very reasons which rendered it salutary in its period of purity, because it still continues to set the example.
Claustration has had its day. Cloisters, useful in the early education of modern civilization, have embarrassed its growth, and are injurious to its development. So far as institution and formation with relation to man are concerned, monasteries, which were good in the tenth century, questionable in the fifteenth, are detestable in the nineteenth. The leprosy of monasticism has gnawed nearly to a skeleton two wonderful nations, Italy and Spain; the one the light, the other the splendor of Europe for centuries; and, at the present day, these two illustrious peoples are but just bclised with a lid of granite like a tomb, with this difference, that the dead man here was a living being, that soil which is but mud, that vault hole, those oozing walls,-- what declaimers!
从历史、理性和真理的角度出发，僧侣制度是该受谴责的。
修院在一个国家，如果发展过多，它便成了行动的累赘，绊脚的机构，它应是劳动的中心却成为懒惰的中心。修道团体，对广大的人类社会来说，正如檞树上的寄生物，人体上的瘤。它们的兴盛和肥壮正是地方的贫瘠。僧侣制度对早期的文化是有好处的，在精神方面它可以减少强暴的习气，但到了人民精力饱满时它却是有害的。而且当它已衰败时，当它已进入腐化时，正如层出不穷的事例所表现的那样，所有一切在它纯洁时期使它成为有益的因素，都变成使它成为有害的因素。
修院制度已经完成了它的历史使命。修院对现代文化的初步形成是有用处的，可是也会妨碍它的成长，更能毒害它的发展。从组织和教育人的方式着眼，修院在十世纪是好的，在十五世纪开始有了问题，到十九世纪却已令人厌恶。意大利和西班牙在多少世纪中，一个是欧洲的光辉，一个是欧洲的异彩，僧侣制度这一麻疯病侵入那两个灿烂的国家的骨髓后，到我们这时代，那两个出类拔萃的民族只是在一七八九年那次健康而有力的治疗中才开始康复。
修院，尤其是古代的女修院，正如本世纪初还继续在意大利、奥地利、西班牙存在，确是一种最悲惨的中世纪的体现。修院，这种修院，是各种恐怖的集中点。地道的天主教修院是完全充满了死亡的黑光的。
西班牙的修院最是阴惨，在那里，有一座座大得象教堂高得象宝塔那样的祭台伸向昏暗的高处，烟云迷漫的圆拱，黑影重重的穹窿；在那里，黑暗中一条条铁链挂着无数白色的又高又大的耶稣受难像；在那里，有魁伟裸体的基督，一个个都用象牙雕成，陈列在乌木架上；那些像，不仅是血淋淋的，而且是血肉模糊的，既丑恶，又富丽，肘端露出白骨，髌骨露着外皮，伤口有血肉，戴一顶白银荆棘冠，用金钉钉在十字架上，额上有一串串用红宝石雕琢的血珠，眼里有金刚钻制成的泪珠。金刚钻和红宝石都好象是湿润的，一些妇女戴着面纱，腰肢被毡毛内衣和铁针制成的鞭子扎得遍体鳞伤，双乳被柳条网紧紧束住，膝头因祈祷而皮破血流，伏在雕像下的黑暗中哭泣，那是些以神妻自居的凡妇，以天女自居的幽灵。那些妇女在想什么吗？没有。有所求吗？没有。有所爱吗？没有。是活的吗？不是。她们的神经已成骨头，她们的骨头已成瓦石。她们的面纱是夜神织的。她们面纱下的呼吸好象是死人那种无以名之的悲惨气息。修院的女院长，恶鬼一个，在圣化她们，吓唬她们。圣洁之主在她们之上，冷冰冰的。那便是西班牙古老修院的面貌。残忍的苦行窟，处女们的火坑，蛮不讲理的地方。
信奉天主教的西班牙，和罗马相比实有过之而无不及。西班牙修院是天主教修院的典型。它具有东方情趣。大主教，天国的宦官头目，他重重封锁，密切注视着为上帝留下的后宫。修女是宫嫔，神甫是太监。怨慕深切的信女们常在梦中被选，并受基督的宠幸。夜里，那赤裸裸的美少年从十字架上下来，于是静室里意狂心醉。重重高墙使那个把十字架上人当作苏丹的苏丹妃子幽禁起来，不许她得到一点点人生乐趣。朝墙外望一眼也算不守清规。“地下室”代替革囊。东方抛到海里去的，西方丢在坑里。东西两地的妇女都一样扼腕呼天，一方面是波涛，一方面是黄土，这里水淹，那边土掩，无独有偶，惨绝人寰。
到今天，厚古的人们，在无法否认那些事的情况下，便决计以一笑了之，并且还盛行一种奇特而方便的办法，用来抹杀历史的揭示，歪曲哲学的批判，掩饰一切恼人的事实和暖昧问题。灵活的人说：“这是提供花言巧语的好题材。”笨伯跟着说：“这是花言巧语。”于是卢梭是花言巧语的人，伏尔泰在卡拉斯，拉巴尔①和西尔旺②的问题上也成了花言巧语的人。不知道是谁，最近还有所发明，说塔西佗是个花言巧语的人，而尼禄③则是被中伤，并且毫无疑问，我们应当同情“那位可怜的奥勒非④”。 
①拉巴尔（Labarre），十八世纪法国的世家子，因折断了一个耶稣受难像被判处斩首，又被焚尸。伏尔泰曾替他申诉，无效。
②西尔旺（Sirven），十八世纪法国新教徒，因不许其女信天主教，想迫害她，被判处死刑。伏尔泰代为申诉，死后五年，追判无罪。
③尼禄（Néron），一世纪罗马帝国暴君。
④奥勒非（Holopherne），公世前六世纪新巴比伦王国的大将，在进犯犹太时被一个犹太美女所诱杀。
事实并不是能轻易击退的，它不动摇。本书的作者曾到过离布鲁塞尔八法里的维莱修道院，那是摆在大家眼前的中世纪的缩影，曾亲眼见过旷野中那个古修院遗址上的土牢洞，又在迪尔河旁，亲眼见过四个一半在地下一半在水下的石砌地牢。那就是所谓“地下室”。每一个那样的地牢都还留下了一扇铁门、一个粪坑和一个装了铁条的通风洞，那洞，在墙外高出河面两尺，在墙内离地却有六尺。四尺深的河水在墙外边流过。地是终年潮湿的。住在“地下室”里的人便以那湿土为卧榻。在那些地牢中，有一个还留下一段固定在石壁里的颈镣的一段；在另外一个地牢里，可以看到一种用四块花岗石砌成的四方匣子，长不够一个人躺下，高也不够一个人直立。当年却有人把一个活生生的人安置在那里，上面再盖上一块石板。那是实实在在的。大家都看得见，大家都摸得到的。那些“地下室”，那些地牢，那些铁门斗，那些颈镣，那种开得老高、却有河水齐着洞口流过的通风洞，那种带花岗石盖子的石板匣子，象不埋死人单埋活人的坟墓，那种泥泞的地面，那种粪坑，那种浸水的墙壁，难道这些东西也能花言巧语！
Part 2 Book 7 Chapter 3 On What Conditions One can respect the Past
Monasticism, such as it existed in Spain, and such as it still exists in Thibet, is a sort of phthisis for civilization. It stops life short. It simply depopulates. Claustration, castration. It has been the scourge of Europe. Add to this the violence so often done to the conscience, the forced vocations, feudalism bolstered up by the cloister, the right of the first-born pouring the excess of the family into monasticism, the ferocities of which we have just spoken, the in pace, the closed mouths, the walled-up brains, so many unfortunate minds placed in the dungeon of eternal vows, the taking of the habit, the interment of living souls. Add individual tortures to national degradations, and, whoever you may be, you will shudder before the frock and the veil,--those two winding-sheets of human devising. Nevertheless, at certain points and in certain places, in spite of philosophy, in spite of progress, the spirit of the cloister persists in the midst of the nineteenth century, and a singular ascetic recrudescence is, at this moment, astonishing the civilized world. The obstinacy of antiquated institutions in perpetuating themselves resembles the stubbornness of the rancid perfume which should claim our hair, the pretensions of the spoiled fish which should persist in being eaten, the persecution of the child's garment which should insist on clothing the man, the tenderness of corpses which should return to embrace the living.
"Ingrates!" says the garment, "I protected you in inclement weather. Why will you have nothing to do with me?" "I have just come from the deep sea," says the fish. "I have been a rose," says the perfume. "I have loved you," says the corpse. "I have civilized you," says the convent.
To this there is but one reply: "In former days."
To dream of the indefinite prolongation of defunct things, and of the government of men by embalming, to restore dogmas in a bad condition, to regild shrines, to patch up cloisters, to rebless reliquaries, to refurnish superstitions, to revictual fanaticisms, to put new handles on holy water brushes and militarism, to reconstitute monasticism and militarism, to believe in the salvation of society by the multiplication of parasites, to force the past on the present,-- this seems strange. Still, there are theorists who hold such theories. These theorists, who are in other respects people of intelligence, have a very simple process; they apply to the past a glazing which they call social order, divine right, morality, family, the respect of elders, antique authority, sacred tradition, legitimacy, religion; and they go about shouting, "Look! take this, honest people." This logic was known to the ancients. The soothsayers practise it. They rubbed a black heifer over with chalk, and said, "She is white, Bos cretatus."
As for us, we respect the past here and there, and we spare it, above all, provided that it consents to be dead. If it insists on being alive, we attack it, and we try to kill it.
Superstitions, bigotries, affected devotion, prejudices, those forms all forms as they are, are tenacious of life; they have teeth and nails in their smoke, and they must be clasped close, body to body, and war must be made on them, and that without truce; for it is one of the fatalities of humanity to be condemned to eternal combat with phantoms. It is difficult to seize darkness by the throat, and to hurl it to the earth.
A convent in France, in the broad daylight of the nineteenth century, is a college of owls facing the light. A cloister, caught in the very act of asceticism, in the very heart of the city of '89 and of 1830 and of 1848, Rome blossoming out in Paris, is an anachronism. In ordinary times, in order to dissolve an anachronism and to cause it to vanish, one has only to make it spell out the date. But we are not in ordinary times.
Let us fight.
Let us fight, but let us make a distinction. The peculiar property of truth is never to commit excesses. What need has it of exaggeration? There is that which it is necessary to destroy, and there is that which it is simply necessary to elucidate and examine. What a force is kindly and serious examination! Let us not apply a flame where only a light is required.
So, given the nineteenth century, we are opposed, as a general proposition, and among all peoples, in Asia as well as in Europe, in India as well as in Turkey, to ascetic claustration. Whoever says cloister, says marsh. Their putrescence is evident, their stagnation is unhealthy, their fermentation infects people with fever, and etiolates them; their multiplication becomes a plague of Egypt. We cannot think without affright of those lands where fakirs, bonzes, santons, Greek monks, marabouts, talapoins, and dervishes multiply even like swarms of vermin.
This said, the religious question remains. This question has certain mysterious, almost formidable sides; may we be permitted to look at it fixedly.
象存在于西班牙和西藏那样的僧侣制度，对文化来说，那是一种痨病。它干脆扼杀生命。简单地说，它削减人口。进修院，等于受宫刑。那已在欧洲成了灾害。此外，还得添上经常加在信仰上的粗暴手段，言不由衷的志愿，以修院为支柱的封建势力，使人口过多家庭的子女出家的宗子制，我们刚才谈过的那些横蛮作风棗“地下室”，闭住的嘴，封锁的头脑，多少终身在地牢里受折磨的智慧，服装的改变，灵魂的活埋。除了民族的堕落以外，还得加上个人所受的苦难，无论你是谁，你在僧衣和面纱棗人类发明的两种装殓死人的服饰棗面前，你总会不寒而栗。
可是，在某些角落和某些地方，出家修道的风气竟无视哲学，无视进步，继续盛行在十九世纪光天化日之下，更奇怪的是苦修习气目前竟有再接再厉的趋势，使文明的世界为之震惊。一些过了时的团体还想永远存在下去，那种倔强的想法，就象要人把哈喇了的头油往头发上抹的那种固执，把发臭的鱼吃到肚里的那种妄想，要大人穿孩子衣服的那种蛮劲，象回到家的僵尸要和活人捆抱的那种慈爱。
衣服说：“你这忘恩负义的人！我在风雨中保护过你。现在你为什么就不要我了呢？”鱼说：“我出身于大海。”头油说：“我是从玫瑰花里来的。”僵尸说：“我爱过你们。”修院说：“我教养过你们。”
对那一切，我们只有一个回答：那是过去的事。
梦想死亡的东西无尽期地存在下去，并采用以香料防止尸体腐烂的方法来管理人群，修整腐朽的教条，在法宝箱上重行涂上金漆，把修院修缮一新，重行净化圣器匣，补缀迷信上面的破绽，鼓动信仰狂的劲头，替圣水瓶和马刀重行装柄，重行建立僧侣制度和军事制度，坚信社会的幸福系于寄生虫的繁殖，把过去强加于现在，那一切，这好象很奇怪。可是确有支持那些理论的理论家。那些理论家，而且还都是些有才智的人，他们有一套极简单的办法，他们替过去涂上一层色彩，这就是他们所谓的社会秩序、神权、道德、家庭、敬老、古代法度、神圣传统、合法地位、宗教，于是逢人便喊：“瞧啊！接受这些东西吧，诚实的人们。”那种逻辑是古人早知道了的。罗马的祭司们便能运用那种逻辑。他们替一头小黑牛抹上石膏粉，便说：
“你已经白了。”
至于我们，我们处处都心存敬意，也随时随地避免和过去发生接触，只要过去肯承认它是死了。假使它要表示它还活着，我们便打它，并且要把它打死。
迷信、过分虔诚、口信心不信、成见，那些魑魅魍魉，尽管全是鬼物，却有顽强的生命力，它们的鬼影全有爪有牙，必须和它们肉搏，和它们战斗，不停地和它们战斗，因为和鬼魅进行永久性的斗争是人类必然的听天由命的思想之一。要扼住鬼影的咽喉，把它制伏在地上，那是不容易的事。
法国的修院，在十九世纪太阳当顶时，是些阳光下枭鸟的窝。修院在一七八九、一八三○和一八四八年革命发祥地的中心鼓吹出家修行，让罗马的幽灵横行在巴黎，那是种违反时代的现象。在正常的年代，如果要制止一种过时的事物，使它消亡，我们只须让它念念公元年代的数字便可以了。但是我们现在绝不是在正常的年代。
我们必须斗争。
我们必须斗争，也必须有所区别。真理的要旨是从不过分。真理还需要矫枉过正吗？有些东西是必须毁灭的，有些东西却只需要拿到阳光下看清就是了。严肃而与人为善的检查，那是种多么强的力量！阳光充足的地方一点不需要我们点起火炬。
因此，现在既是十九世纪，那么，无论是在亚洲或欧洲，无论是在印度或土耳其，一般说，我们都反对那种出家修行的制度。修院等于污池。那些地方的腐臭是明显的，淤滞是有害的，发酵作用能使里面的生物得热病，并促使衰亡。它们的增长成了埃及的祸根，我们想到那些国家里的托钵僧、比丘、苦行僧、圣巴西勒会修士、隐修士、和尚、行脚僧都在蠕蠕攒动，如蚁如蛆，不禁毛骨悚然。
说了那些后宗教问题仍然存在。这问题在某些方面是神秘的，也几乎是骇人的，希望能让我们细心观察一下。
Part 2 Book 7 Chapter 4 The Convent from the Point of View of Principles
Men unite themselves and dwell in communities. By virtue of what right? By virtue of the right of association.
They shut themselves up at home. By virtue of what right? By virtue of the right which every man has to open or shut his door.
They do not come forth. By virtue of what right? By virtue of the right to go and come, which implies the right to remain at home.
There, at home, what do they do?
They speak in low tones; they drop their eyes; they toil. They renounce the world, towns, sensualities, pleasures, vanities, pride, interests. They are clothed in coarse woollen or coarse linen. Not one of them possesses in his own right anything whatever. On entering there, each one who was rich makes himself poor. What he has, he gives to all. He who was what is called noble, a gentleman and a lord, is the equal of him who was a peasant. The cell is identical for all. All undergo the same tonsure, wear the same frock, eat the same black bread, sleep on the same straw, die on the same ashes. The same sack on their backs, the same rope around their loins. If the decision has been to go barefoot, all go barefoot. There may be a prince among them; that prince is the same shadow as the rest. No titles. Even family names have disappeared. They bear only first names. All are bowed beneath the equality of baptismal names. They have dissolved the carnal family, and constituted in their community a spiritual family. They have no other relatives than all men. They succor the poor, they care for the sick. They elect those whom they obey. They call each other "my brother."
You stop me and exclaim, "But that is the ideal convent!"
It is sufficient that it may be the possible convent, that I should take notice of it.
Thence it results that, in the preceding book, I have spoken of a convent with respectful accents. The Middle Ages cast aside, Asia cast aside, the historical and political question held in reserve, from the purely philosophical point of view, outside the requirements of militant policy, on condition that the monastery shall be absolutely a voluntary matter and shall contain only consenting parties, I shall always consider a cloistered community with a certain attentive, and, in some respects, a deferential gravity.
Wherever there is a community, there is a commune; where there is a commune, there is right. The monastery is the product of the formula: Equality, Fraternity. Oh! how grand is liberty! And what a splendid transfiguration! Liberty suffices to transform the monastery into a republic.
Let us continue.
But these men, or these women who are behind these four walls. They dress themselves in coarse woollen, they are equals, they call each other brothers, that is well; but they do something else?
Yes.
What?
They gaze on the darkness, they kneel, and they clasp their hands.
What does this signify?
一些人聚集拢来，住在一起。凭什么权利？凭结社的权利。
他们闭门幽居。凭什么权利？凭每人都有的那种开门或关门的权利。
他们不出门。凭什么权利？凭每人都有的来和去的权利，这里也就包含了待在自己屋里的权利。
他们待在自己的屋里干些什么？
他们低声说话，他们眼睛向下，他们工作。他们放弃社交、城市、感官的享受、快乐、虚荣、傲气和利益。他们穿粗呢或粗布。他们中的任何人没有任何财物。进了那扇大门后有钱人都自动地变成穷人。他把自己所有的东西分给大家。当初被称作贵族、世家子、大人的人和当初被称作乡下佬的人，现在都一律平等。每个人的静室都完全一模一样。大家都剃同样的发式，穿同样的僧衣，吃同样的黑面包，睡在同样的麦秸上，死在同样的柴灰上。背上背一个同样的口袋，腰上围一条同样的绳子。如果决定要赤脚走路，大家便一齐赤着脚走。其中也许有个王子，王子和其他的人一样也是个影子。不再有什么头衔，连姓也没有了。他们只有名字。大家都在洗名的平等前低下头去。他们离开了家庭骨肉，在修会里组成了精神方面的家庭。除了整个人类，他们没有其他亲人。他们帮助穷人，他们照顾病人，他们选举自己服从的人，他们彼此以友朋相称。
你拖住我，兴奋地说：“这才真是理想的修院呢！”
只要那是可能存在的修院，就足已使我加以重视了。
因此，在前一卷书里，我曾以尊敬的口吻谈到一个修院的情况。除了中世纪，除了亚洲，在保留历史和政治问题之后，从纯哲学观点出发，站在宗教争论的束缚之外，处在进修院绝对出自志愿、完全基于协议的情况下，我对修道团体就能以关切严肃的态度相待，甚至在某些方面以尊敬的态度相待。凡有团体的地方都有共同生活，有共同生活的地方也都有权利。修院是从“平等、博爱”这样一个公式里产生的。啊！自由真伟大！
转变真灿烂！自由已足使修院转变为共和国。
让我们继续谈下去。
可是这些男人，这些妇女，住在四堵高墙里，穿着棕色粗呢服，彼此平等，以兄弟姊妹相称，这很好，不过他们是否还做旁的事呢？
做。
做些什么？
他们注视着黑影，他们双膝跪下，两手合十。
那是什么意思？
Part 2 Book 7 Chapter 5 Prayer
They pray.
To whom?
To God.
To pray to God,--what is the meaning of these words?
Is there an infinite beyond us? Is that infinite there, inherent, permanent; necessarily substantial, since it is infinite; and because, if it lacked matter it would be bounded; necessarily intelligent, since it is infinite, and because, if it lacked intelligence, it would end there? Does this infinite awaken in us the idea of essence, while we can attribute to ourselves only the idea of existence? In other terms, is it not the absolute, of which we are only the relative?
At the same time that there is an infinite without us, is there not an infinite within us? Are not these two infinites (what an alarming plural!) superposed, the one upon the other? Is not this second infinite, so to speak, subjacent to the first? Is it not the latter's mirror, reflection, echo, an abyss which is concentric with another abyss? Is this second infinity intelligent also? Does it think? Does it love? Does it will? If these two infinities are intelligent, each of them has a will principle, and there is an _I_ in the upper infinity as there is an _I_ in the lower infinity. The _I_ below is the soul; the _I_ on high is God.
To place the infinity here below in contact, by the medium of thought, with the infinity on high, is called praying.
Let us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad. We must reform and transform. Certain faculties in man are directed towards the Unknown; thought, revery, prayer. The Unknown is an ocean. What is conscience? It is the compass of the Unknown. Thought, revery, prayer,--these are great and mysterious radiations. Let us respect them. Whither go these majestic irradiations of the soul? Into the shadow; that is to say, to the light.
The grandeur of democracy is to disown nothing and to deny nothing of humanity. Close to the right of the man, beside it, at the least, there exists the right of the soul.
To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law. Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree of creation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars. We have a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery against the miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject the absurd, to admit, as an inexplicable fact, only what is necessary, to purify belief, to remove superstitions from above religion; to clear God of caterpillars.
他们祈祷。
向谁？
上帝。
向上帝祈祷，这话怎么理解？
在我们的身外，不是有个无极吗？那个无极是不是统一的，自在的，永恒的呢？它既是无极，是否必然是物质的，并以物质告罄的地方为其止境呢？它既是无极，是否必然有理智，并以理智穷尽的地方为其终点呢？那个无极是不是在我们心中唤起本体的概念，而我们只能赋予自己以存在的概念呢？换言之，难道它不是绝对而我们是它的相对吗？
在我们的身外既然有个无极，是否在我们的心中也同时有个无极呢？这两个无极（这复数好不吓人！）是不是重叠着的呢？第二个无极是不是第一个的里层呢？它是不是另一个太虚的翻版、反映、回声，有同一中心的太虚呢？这第二个无极是不是也有智力呢？它能想吗？它有愿望吗？假如那两个无极都有智力，那么，每个都会有一种能产生愿望的本原，而且，正如在下面的这个无极里有我一样，在上面的那个无极里也会有个我。下面的这个我就是灵魂，上面的那个我就是上帝。
让下面的这个无极通过思想和上面的那个无极发生接触，那便是祈祷。
不要从人的意识中除去任何东西，抹杀是件坏事，应当改革和转变。人的某些官能是指向未知世界的，那是思想、梦想和祈祷。未知世界浩瀚无垠。良知是什么？是未知世界的指针。思想、梦想、祈祷是神秘之光的大辐射。我们应当加以尊敬。灵魂的那种庄严光辉放射到什么地方去呢？到黑暗中去，这也就是说，到光明中去。
民主的伟大便是什么也不否认，对人类什么也不放弃。紧靠人的权利，至少在它近旁，还有感情之权。
压制热狂，崇敬无极，这才是正道。仅仅拜倒在造物主的功果下面，景仰八方围拱的群星是不够的。我们有责任，要为人类的灵魂工作，保护玄义，反对奇迹，崇拜未知，唾弃邪说，在不可理解的事物前只接受必然的，使信仰健康起来，除去宗教方面的迷信，剪除上帝左右的群丑。
Part 2 Book 7 Chapter 6 The Absolute Goodness of Prayer
With regard to the modes of prayer, all are good, provided that they are sincere. Turn your book upside down and be in the infinite.
There is, as we know, a philosophy which denies the infinite. There is also a philosophy, pathologically classified, which denies the sun; this philosophy is called blindness.
To erect a sense which we lack into a source of truth, is a fine blind man's self-sufficiency.
The curious thing is the haughty, superior, and compassionate airs which this groping philosophy assumes towards the philosophy which beholds God. One fancies he hears a mole crying, "I pity them with their sun!"
There are, as we know, powerful and illustrious atheists. At bottom, led back to the truth by their very force, they are not absolutely sure that they are atheists; it is with them only a question of definition, and in any case, if they do not believe in God, being great minds, they prove God.
We salute them as philosophers, while inexorably denouncing their philosophy.
Let us go on.
The remarkable thing about it is, also, their facility in paying themselves off with words. A metaphysical school of the North, impregnated to some extent with fog, has fancied that it has worked a revolution in human understanding by replacing the word Force with the word Will.
To say: "the plant wills," instead of: "the plant grows": this would be fecund in results, indeed, if we were to add: "the universe wills." Why? Because it would come to this: the plant wills, therefore it has an _I_; the universe wills, therefore it has a God.
As for us, who, however, in contradistinction to this school, reject nothing a priori, a will in the plant, accepted by this school, appears to us more difficult to admit than a will in the universe denied by it.
To deny the will of the infinite, that is to say, God, is impossible on any other conditions than a denial of the infinite. We have demonstrated this.
The negation of the infinite leads straight to nihilism. Everything becomes "a mental conception."
With nihilism, no discussion is possible; for the nihilist logic doubts the existence of its interlocutor, and is not quite sure that it exists itself.
From its point of view, it is possible that it may be for itself, only "a mental conception."
Only, it does not perceive that all which it has denied it admits in the lump, simply by the utterance of the word, mind.
In short, no way is open to the thought by a philosophy which makes all end in the monosyllable, No.
To No there is only one reply, Yes.
Nihilism has no point.
There is no such thing as nothingness. Zero does not exist. Everything is something. Nothing is nothing.
Man lives by affirmation even more than by bread.
Even to see and to show does not suffice. Philosophy should be an energy; it should have for effort and effect to ameliorate the condition of man. Socrates should enter into Adam and produce Marcus Aurelius; in other words, the man of wisdom should be made to emerge from the man of felicity. Eden should be changed into a Lyceum. Science should be a cordial. To enjoy,--what a sad aim, and what a paltry ambition! The brute enjoys. To offer thought to the thirst of men, to give them all as an elixir the notion of God, to make conscience and science fraternize in them, to render them just by this mysterious confrontation; such is the function of real philosophy. Morality is a blossoming out of truths. Contemplation leads to action. The absolute should be practicable. It is necessary that the ideal should be breathable, drinkable, and eatable to the human mind. It is the ideal which has the right to say: Take, this is my body, this is my blood. Wisdom is a holy communion. It is on this condition that it ceases to be a sterile love of science and becomes the one and sovereign mode of human rallying, and that philosophy herself is promoted to religion.
Philosophy should not be a corbel erected on mystery to gaze upon it at its ease, without any other result than that of being convenient to curiosity.
For our part, adjourning the development of our thought to another occasion, we will confine ourselves to saying that we neither understand man as a point of departure nor progress as an end, without those two forces which are their two motors: faith and love.
Progress is the goal, the ideal is the type.
What is this ideal? It is God.
Ideal, absolute, perfection, infinity: identical words.
至于祈祷的方式，只要诚挚，任何方式都是好的。翻转你的书本，到无极里去。
我们知道有一种否认无极的哲学。按病理分类，也还有一种否认太阳的哲学，那种哲学叫做瞎眼论。
把人们所没有的一种感觉定为真理的本原，那真是盲人的一种大胆的杰作。
奇怪的是那种瞎摸哲学在寻求上帝的哲学面前所采取的那种自负而又悯人的傲慢态度。人们好象听到一只田鼠在叫嚷：“他们真可怜，老说有太阳！”
我们知道有些人是鼎鼎大名的强有力的无神论者。事实上，那些以自身的力量重返真理的人，究竟是不是无神论者也还不能十分肯定，对他们来说这只是个下定义的问题，况且，无论如何，即使他们不信上帝，他们的高度才智便已证实上帝的存在。
我们尽管不留情地驳斥他们的哲学，但却仍把他们当作哲学家来尊敬。
让我们继续谈下去。
可佩服的，还有那种玩弄字眼的熟练技巧。北方有个形而上学的学派，多少被雾气搞迷糊了，以为只要用愿望两字代替力量便可改变人们的认识。
不说“草木长”，而说“草木要”，的确，如果再加上“宇宙要”意义就更丰富了。为什么呢？因为可以得出这样的结论：草木既能“要”，草木便有一个我；宇宙“要”，宇宙便有一个上帝。
我们和那个学派不一样，我们不会凭空反对别人的任何意见，可是那个学派所接受的所谓草木有愿望的说法，据我们看，和他们所否认的宇宙有愿望的说法比起来更难成立。
否认无极的愿望就是否认上帝，这只在否认无极的前提下才有可能。那是我们已经阐述过的。
对无极的否认会直接导向虚无主义。一切都成了“精神的概念”。
和虚无主义没有论争的可能。因为讲逻辑的虚无主义者怀疑和他进行争辩的对方是否存在，因而也就不能肯定他自己是否存在。
从他的观点看，他自己，对他自己来说，也只能是“他精神的一个概念”。
不过，他丝毫没有发现，他所否认的一切在他一提到“精神”一词时，又都被他一总接受了。
总之，把一切都归纳为虚无的哲学思想是没有出路的。
承认虚无的人也必然有个虚无要承认。
虚无主义是不能自圆其说的。
无所谓虚空。零是不存在的。任何东西都是些东西。没有什么东西没有东西。
人靠肯定来生活比靠面包更甚。
眼看和手指，这都是不够的。哲学应是一种能量，它的努力方向应是有效地改善人类。苏格拉底应和亚当合为一体，并且产生马可·奥里略，换句话说，就是要使享乐的人转为明理的人，把乐园转为学园。科学应是一种强心剂。享乐，那是一种多么可怜的目的，一种多么低微的愿望！糊涂虫才享乐。思想，那才是心灵的真正的胜利。以思想来为人类解渴，象以醇酒相劝来教导他们认识上帝，使良知和科学水乳似的在他们心中交融，让那种神秘的对晤把他们变成正直的人，那才真正是哲学的作用。道德是真理之花，静观导致行动。绝对应能起作用，理想应是人类精神能呼能吸能吃能喝的。理想有权利说：“请用吧，这是我的肉，这是我的血。”智慧是一种神圣的相互感应。在这种情况下智慧不再是对科学的枯燥的爱好，而是唯一和至高无上的团结人类的方式，并且从哲学升为宗教。
宗教不应只是一座为了观赏神秘而建造在它之上的除了满足好奇心外别无他用的花楼。
等到以后再有机会时我们再来进一步发表我们的意见，目前我们只想说：“如果没有信和爱这两种力量的推动，我们便无从了解怎样以人为出发点，又以进步为目的。”
进步是目的而理想是标准。
什么是理想呢？上帝是理想。
理想，绝对，完善，无极，都是一些同义词。
Part 2 Book 7 Chapter 7 Precautions to be observed in Blame
History and philosophy have eternal duties, which are, at the same time, simple duties; to combat Caiphas the High-priest, Draco the Lawgiver, Trimalcion the Legislator, Tiberius the Emperor; this is clear, direct, and limpid, and offers no obscurity.
But the right to live apart, even with its inconveniences and its abuses, insists on being stated and taken into account. Cenobitism is a human problem.
When one speaks of convents, those abodes of error, but of innocence, of aberration but of good-will, of ignorance but of devotion, of torture but of martyrdom, it always becomes necessary to say either yes or no.
A convent is a contradiction. Its object, salvation; its means thereto, sacrifice. The convent is supreme egoism having for its result supreme abnegation.
To abdicate with the object of reigning seems to be the device of monasticism.
In the cloister, one suffers in order to enjoy. One draws a bill of exchange on death. One discounts in terrestrial gloom celestial light. In the cloister, hell is accepted in advance as a post obit on paradise.
The taking of the veil or the frock is a suicide paid for with eternity.
It does not seem to us, that on such a subject mockery is permissible. All about it is serious, the good as well as the bad.
The just man frowns, but never smiles with a malicious sneer. We understand wrath, but not malice.
历史和哲学负有多种永恒的责任。同时也是简单的责任，斗争大祭司该亚法①、法官德拉孔②、立法官特利马尔西翁③、皇帝提比利乌斯④，毫无疑义，那是明显、直接而清楚的。但是独居的权利以及它的一些不利之处和种种弊端，却必须加以研究和慎重对待。寺院生活是人类社会的一个重大问题。 
①该亚法（Caiphe），迫害耶稣的犹太大祭司。
②德拉孔（Dracon），公元前七世纪末雅典的酷吏。
③特利马尔西翁（Trimalcion），一世纪拉丁作家伯特洛尼所作小说《萨蒂尼翁》里的一个色情人物。
④提比利乌斯（Tibère，前42?7），罗马帝国暴君。
修院是这样一种场所，既荒谬而又清净无垢，既使人误入歧途却又劝人存心为善，既使人愚昧又使人虔诚，既使人备受苦难又使人为之殉教，当我们谈到它时，几乎每次都要说又对又不对。
修院是一种矛盾，其目的是为了幸福，其方式是牺牲。修院表现的是极端的自私，而结果是极端的克己。
以退为进，这好象是僧侣制度的座右铭。
在修院里，人们以受苦为达到欢乐的途径。人们签发由死神兑现的期票。人们在尘世的黑暗里预支天上的光明。在修院里，地狱生活是当作换取天堂的代价而被人接受的。
戴上面纱或穿上僧衣是一种取得永生的自杀。
在这样一种问题前，我们感到嘲笑是不能允许的。这里无论好坏全是严肃的。
公正的人蹙起眉头，但从不会有那种恶意的微笑。我们能理解人的愤怒，而不能理解恶意的中伤。
Part 2 Book 7 Chapter 8 Faith, Law
A few words more.
We blame the church when she is saturated with intrigues, we despise the spiritual which is harsh toward the temporal; but we everywhere honor the thoughtful man.
We salute the man who kneels.
A faith; this is a necessity for man. Woe to him who believes nothing.
One is not unoccupied because one is absorbed. There is visible labor and invisible labor.
To contemplate is to labor, to think is to act.
Folded arms toil, clasped hands work. A gaze fixed on heaven is a work.
Thales remained motionless for four years. He founded philosophy.
In our opinion, cenobites are not lazy men, and recluses are not idlers.
To meditate on the Shadow is a serious thing.
Without invalidating anything that we have just said, we believe that a perpetual memory of the tomb is proper for the living. On this point, the priest and the philosopher agree. We must die. The Abbe de la Trappe replies to Horace.
To mingle with one's life a certain presence of the sepulchre,-- this is the law of the sage; and it is the law of the ascetic. In this respect, the ascetic and the sage converge. There is a material growth; we admit it. There is a moral grandeur; we hold to that. Thoughtless and vivacious spirits say:--
"What is the good of those motionless figures on the side of mystery? What purpose do they serve? What do they do?"
Alas! In the presence of the darkness which environs us, and which awaits us, in our ignorance of what the immense dispersion will make of us, we reply: "There is probably no work more divine than that performed by these souls." And we add: "There is probably no work which is more useful."
There certainly must be some who pray constantly for those who never pray at all.
In our opinion the whole question lies in the amount of thought that is mingled with prayer.
Leibnitz praying is grand, Voltaire adoring is fine. Deo erexit Voltaire.
We are for religion as against religions.
We are of the number who believe in the wretchedness of orisons, and the sublimity of prayer.
Moreover, at this minute which we are now traversing,--a minute which will not, fortunately, leave its impress on the nineteenth century,-- at this hour, when so many men have low brows and souls but little elevated, among so many mortals whose morality consists in enjoyment, and who are busied with the brief and misshapen things of matter, whoever exiles himself seems worthy of veneration to us.
The monastery is a renunciation. Sacrifice wrongly directed is still sacrifice. To mistake a grave error for a duty has a grandeur of its own.
Taken by itself, and ideally, and in order to examine the truth on all sides until all aspects have been impartially exhausted, the monastery, the female convent in particular,--for in our century it is woman who suffers the most, and in this exile of the cloister there is something of protestation,--the female convent has incontestably a certain majesty.
This cloistered existence which is so austere, so depressing, a few of whose features we have just traced, is not life, for it is not liberty; it is not the tomb, for it is not plenitude; it is the strange place whence one beholds, as from the crest of a lofty mountain, on one side the abyss where we are, on the other, the abyss whither we shall go; it is the narrow and misty frontier separating two worlds, illuminated and obscured by both at the same time, where the ray of life which has become enfeebled is mingled with the vague ray of death; it is the half obscurity of the tomb.
We, who do not believe what these women believe, but who, like them, live by faith,--we have never been able to think without a sort of tender and religious terror, without a sort of pity, that is full of envy, of those devoted, trembling and trusting creatures, of these humble and august souls, who dare to dwell on the very brink of the mystery, waiting between the world which is closed and heaven which is not yet open, turned towards the light which one cannot see, possessing the sole happiness of thinking that they know where it is, aspiring towards the gulf, and the unknown, their eyes fixed motionless on the darkness, kneeling, bewildered, stupefied, shuddering, half lifted, at times, by the deep breaths of eternity.
还有几句话。
我们谴责充满阴谋的教会，蔑视政权的教权，但是我们处处尊崇那种思考问题的人。
我们向跪着的人致敬。
信仰，为人所必须。什么也不信的人不会有幸福。
人并不因为潜心静思而成为无所事事的人。有有形的劳动和无形的劳动。
静观，这是劳动，思想，这是行动。交叉着的胳膊能工作，合拢了的手掌能有所作为。注视苍穹也是一种业绩。
泰勒斯①静坐四年，他奠定了哲学。 
①泰勒斯（Thalès），第一个有史可考的古希腊哲学的代表，自发唯物主义米和都学派的奠基者，生于公元前六世纪。　　
在我们看来，静修者不是游手好闲的人，违世遁俗的人也不是懒汉。
神游窈冥昏默之乡是一件严肃的事。
如果不故意歪曲我们刚才所说的那些话，我们认为对坟墓念念不忘，这对世人是适当的。在这一点上，神甫和哲学家的见解是一致的。“人都有一死。”特拉帕苦修会①的修院院长和贺拉斯②所见略同。
生不忘死，那是先哲的法则，也是苦修僧的法则。在这方面，修士和哲人的见解一致。
物质的繁荣，我们需要，意识的崇高，我们坚持。
心浮气躁的人说：
“那些一动不动待在死亡边缘上的偶像要他们干什么？他们有什么用？他们干些什么？”
唉！围绕我们和等待我们的是一团黑暗，我们也不知道那无边的散射将怎样对待我们，因此我们回答：“也许那些人的建树是无比卓绝的。”而且我们还得补充一句：“也许没有更为有效的工作了。”
总得有这么一些人来为不肯祈祷的人不停地祈祷。
我们认为问题的关健在于蕴藏在祈祷中的思想的多少。
祈祷中的莱布尼茨③是伟大的，崇拜中的伏尔泰是壮美的。“伏尔泰仰望上帝。” 
①特拉帕苦修会（la　Trappe），天主教隐修院修会之一，一六六四年建立。
②贺拉斯（Horace），纪元前一世纪罗马著名诗人。
③莱布尼茨（Leibnitz，1646?716），伟大的德国数学家、唯心主义哲学家。
我们为保护宗教而反对各种宗教。
我们相信经文的空洞和祈祷的卓越。
此外，在我们现在所处的这一会儿棗这一幸而没留下该会规章十分严格，主张终身素食，永久缄口，只以手势示意，足不出院，故有“哑巴会”和“苦修会”之称。
十九世纪痕迹的一会儿，这多少人低着头鼓不起劲的一会儿，在这充满以享乐为荣、以追求短促无聊的物质享受为急务的行尸走肉的环境中，凡是离群遁世的人总是可敬的。修院是退让的地方，意义不明的自我牺牲总还是牺牲。把一种严重的错误当作天职来奉行，这自有它的伟大之处。
如果我们把修院，尤其是女修院棗因为在我们的社会里，妇女受苦最深，并且在那种与世隔绝的修院生活里，也有隆重的诺言棗置于真理的光中，用理想的尺度，就其本质，从各个角度加以公正和彻底的分析，我们便会感到妇女的修院，无可否认，确有其庄严的地方。
我们指出了一鳞半爪的那种极其严峻惨淡的修院生涯，那不是人生，因为没有自由，也不是坟墓，因为还不圆满，那是一种奇特的场所，在那里人们有如置身高山之巅，朝这一面可以望见我们现在所处的世界，朝另一面又可以望见我们即将前往的世界，那是两个世界接壤的狭窄地带，那里雾霭茫茫，依稀隐现在两个世界之中，生命的残晖和死亡的冥色交相辉映，这是墓中半明半暗的光。
至于我们，虽不相信这些妇女所信之事物，却也和她们一样是生活在信仰中的，当我们想到这些心惊胆战而又充满信心和诚意的女性，这些谦卑严肃的心灵，她们敢于生活在神秘世界的边缘，守在已经谢绝的人世和尚未开放的天国之间，朝着那看不见的光辉，仅凭心中一点所谓自知之明而引为无上幸福，一心向往着万仞深渊和未知世界，两眼注视着毫无动静的黑暗，双膝下跪，胸中激动，惊愕，战栗，有时一阵来自太空的长风把她们吹得飘飘欲起，当我们想到那些情形时，总不免愀然动容，又惊又敬，如见神明，悲悯和钦羡之情油然而起。
Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 1 Which treats of the Manner of entering a Convent
It was into this house that Jean Valjean had, as Fauchelevent expressed it, "fallen from the sky."
He had scaled the wall of the garden which formed the angle of the Rue Polonceau. That hymn of the angels which he had heard in the middle of the night, was the nuns chanting matins; that hall, of which he had caught a glimpse in the gloom, was the chapel. That phantom which he had seen stretched on the ground was the sister who was making reparation; that bell, the sound of which had so strangely surprised him, was the gardener's bell attached to the knee of Father Fauchelevent.
Cosette once put to bed, Jean Valjean and Fauchelevent had, as we have already seen, supped on a glass of wine and a bit of cheese before a good, crackling fire; then, the only bed in the hut being occupied by Cosette, each threw himself on a truss of straw.
Before he shut his eyes, Jean Valjean said: "I must remain here henceforth." This remark trotted through Fauchelevent's head all night long.
To tell the truth, neither of them slept.
Jean Valjean, feeling that he was discovered and that Javert was on his scent, understood that he and Cosette were lost if they returned to Paris. Then the new storm which had just burst upon him had stranded him in this cloister. Jean Valjean had, henceforth, but one thought,-- to remain there. Now, for an unfortunate man in his position, this convent was both the safest and the most dangerous of places; the most dangerous, because, as no men might enter there, if he were discovered, it was a flagrant offence, and Jean Valjean would find but one step intervening between the convent and prison; the safest, because, if he could manage to get himself accepted there and remain there, who would ever seek him in such a place? To dwell in an impossible place was safety.
On his side, Fauchelevent was cudgelling his brains. He began by declaring to himself that he understood nothing of the matter. How had M. Madeleine got there, when the walls were what they were? Cloister walls are not to be stepped over. How did he get there with a child? One cannot scale a perpendicular wall with a child in one's arms. Who was that child? Where did they both come from? Since Fauchelevent had lived in the convent, he had heard nothing of M. sur M., and he knew nothing of what had taken place there. Father Madeleine had an air which discouraged questions; and besides, Fauchelevent said to himself: "One does not question a saint." M. Madeleine had preserved all his prestige in Fauchelevent's eyes. Only, from some words which Jean Valjean had let fall, the gardener thought he could draw the inference that M. Madeleine had probably become bankrupt through the hard times, and that he was pursued by his creditors; or that he had compromised himself in some political affair, and was in hiding; which last did not displease Fauchelevent, who, like many of our peasants of the North, had an old fund of Bonapartism about him. While in hiding, M. Madeleine had selected the convent as a refuge, and it was quite simple that he should wish to remain there. But the inexplicable point, to which Fauchelevent returned constantly and over which he wearied his brain, was that M. Madeleine should be there, and that he should have that little girl with him. Fauchelevent saw them, touched them, spoke to them, and still did not believe it possible. The incomprehensible had just made its entrance into Fauchelevent's hut. Fauchelevent groped about amid conjectures, and could see nothing clearly but this: "M. Madeleine saved my life." This certainty alone was sufficient and decided his course. He said to himself: "It is my turn now." He added in his conscience: "M. Madeleine did not stop to deliberate when it was a question of thrusting himself under the cart for the purpose of dragging me out." He made up his mind to save M. Madeleine.
Nevertheless, he put many questions to himself and made himself divers replies: "After what he did for me, would I save him if he were a thief? Just the same. If he were an assassin, would I save him? Just the same. Since he is a saint, shall I save him? Just the same."
But what a problem it was to manage to have him remain in the convent! Fauchelevent did not recoil in the face of this almost chimerical undertaking; this poor peasant of Picardy without any other ladder than his self-devotion, his good will, and a little of that old rustic cunning, on this occasion enlisted in the service of a generous enterprise, undertook to scale the difficulties of the cloister, and the steep escarpments of the rule of Saint-Benoit. Father Fauchelevent was an old man who had been an egoist all his life, and who, towards the end of his days, halt, infirm, with no interest left to him in the world, found it sweet to be grateful, and perceiving a generous action to be performed, flung himself upon it like a man, who at the moment when he is dying, should find close to his hand a glass of good wine which he had never tasted, and should swallow it with avidity. We may add, that the air which he had breathed for many years in this convent had destroyed all personality in him, and had ended by rendering a good action of some kind absolutely necessary to him.
So he took his resolve: to devote himself to M. Madeleine.
We have just called him a poor peasant of Picardy. That description is just, but incomplete. At the point of this story which we have now reached, a little of Father Fauchelevent's physiology becomes useful. He was a peasant, but he had been a notary, which added trickery to his cunning, and penetration to his ingenuousness. Having, through various causes, failed in his business, he had descended to the calling of a carter and a laborer. But, in spite of oaths and lashings, which horses seem to require, something of the notary had lingered in him. He had some natural wit; he talked good grammar; he conversed, which is a rare thing in a village; and the other peasants said of him: "He talks almost like a gentleman with a hat." Fauchelevent belonged, in fact, to that species, which the impertinent and flippant vocabulary of the last century qualified as demi-bourgeois, demi-lout, and which the metaphors showered by the chateau upon the thatched cottage ticketed in the pigeon-hole of the plebeian: rather rustic, rather citified; pepper and salt. Fauchelevent, though sorely tried and harshly used by fate, worn out, a sort of poor, threadbare old soul, was, nevertheless, an impulsive man, and extremely spontaneous in his actions; a precious quality which prevents one from ever being wicked. His defects and his vices, for he had some, were all superficial; in short, his physiognomy was of the kind which succeeds with an observer. His aged face had none of those disagreeable wrinkles at the top of the forehead, which signify malice or stupidity.
At daybreak, Father Fauchelevent opened his eyes, after having done an enormous deal of thinking, and beheld M. Madeleine seated on his truss of straw, and watching Cosette's slumbers. Fauchelevent sat up and said:--
"Now that you are here, how are you going to contrive to enter?"
This remark summed up the situation and aroused Jean Valjean from his revery.
The two men took counsel together.
"In the first place," said Fauchelevent, "you will begin by not setting foot outside of this chamber, either you or the child. One step in the garden and we are done for."
"That is true."
"Monsieur Madeleine," resumed Fauchelevent, "you have arrived at a very auspicious moment, I mean to say a very inauspicious moment; one of the ladies is very ill. This will prevent them from looking much in our direction. It seems that she is dying. The prayers of the forty hours are being said. The whole community is in confusion. That occupies them. The one who is on the point of departure is a saint. In fact, we are all saints here; all the difference between them and me is that they say `our cell,' and that I say `my cabin.' The prayers for the dying are to be said, and then the prayers for the dead. We shall be at peace here for to-day; but I will not answer for to-morrow."
"Still," observed Jean Valjean, "this cottage is in the niche of the wall, it is hidden by a sort of ruin, there are trees, it is not visible from the convent."
"And I add that the nuns never come near it."
"Well?" said Jean Valjean.
The interrogation mark which accentuated this "well" signified: "it seems to me that one may remain concealed here?" It was to this interrogation point that Fauchelevent responded:--
"There are the little girls."
"What little girls?" asked Jean Valjean.
Just as Fauchelevent opened his mouth to explain the words which he had uttered, a bell emitted one stroke.
"The nun is dead," said he. "There is the knell."
And he made a sign to Jean Valjean to listen.
The bell struck a second time.
"It is the knell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bell will continue to strike once a minute for twenty-four hours, until the body is taken from the church.--You see, they play. At recreation hours it suffices to have a ball roll aside, to send them all hither, in spite of prohibitions, to hunt and rummage for it all about here. Those cherubs are devils."
"Who?" asked Jean Valjean.
"The little girls. You would be very quickly discovered. They would shriek: `Oh! a man!' There is no danger to-day. There will be no recreation hour. The day will be entirely devoted to prayers. You hear the bell. As I told you, a stroke each minute. It is the death knell."
"I understand, Father Fauchelevent. There are pupils."
And Jean Valjean thought to himself:--
"Here is Cosette's education already provided."
Fauchelevent exclaimed:--
"Pardine! There are little girls indeed! And they would bawl around you! And they would rush off! To be a man here is to have the plague. You see how they fasten a bell to my paw as though I were a wild beast."
Jean Valjean fell into more and more profound thought.--"This convent would be our salvation," he murmured.
Then he raised his voice:--
"Yes, the difficulty is to remain here."
"No," said Fauchelevent, "the difficulty is to get out."
Jean Valjean felt the blood rush back to his heart.
"To get out!"
"Yes, Monsieur Madeleine. In order to return here it is first necessary to get out."
And after waiting until another stroke of the knell had sounded, Fauchelevent went on:--
"You must not be found here in this fashion. Whence come you? For me, you fall from heaven, because I know you; but the nuns require one to enter by the door."
All at once they heard a rather complicated pealing from another bell.
"Ah!" said Fauchelevent, "they are ringing up the vocal mothers. They are going to the chapter. They always hold a chapter when any one dies. She died at daybreak. People generally do die at daybreak. But cannot you get out by the way in which you entered? Come, I do not ask for the sake of questioning you, but how did you get in?"
Jean Valjean turned pale; the very thought of descending again into that terrible street made him shudder. You make your way out of a forest filled with tigers, and once out of it, imagine a friendly counsel that shall advise you to return thither! Jean Valjean pictured to himself the whole police force still engaged in swarming in that quarter, agents on the watch, sentinels everywhere, frightful fists extended towards his collar, Javert at the corner of the intersection of the streets perhaps.
"Impossible!" said he. "Father Fauchelevent, say that I fell from the sky."
"But I believe it, I believe it," retorted Fauchelevent. "You have no need to tell me that. The good God must have taken you in his hand for the purpose of getting a good look at you close to, and then dropped you. Only, he meant to place you in a man's convent; he made a mistake. Come, there goes another peal, that is to order the porter to go and inform the municipality that the dead-doctor is to come here and view a corpse. All that is the ceremony of dying. These good ladies are not at all fond of that visit. A doctor is a man who does not believe in anything. He lifts the veil. Sometimes he lifts something else too. How quickly they have had the doctor summoned this time! What is the matter? Your little one is still asleep. What is her name?"
"Cosette."
"She is your daughter?
You are her grandfather, that is?"
"Yes."
"It will be easy enough for her to get out of here. I have my service door which opens on the courtyard. I knock. The porter opens; I have my vintage basket on my back, the child is in it, I go out. Father Fauchelevent goes out with his basket--that is perfectly natural. You will tell the child to keep very quiet. She will be under the cover. I will leave her for whatever time is required with a good old friend, a fruit-seller whom I know in the Rue Chemin-Vert, who is deaf, and who has a little bed. I will shout in the fruit-seller's ear, that she is a niece of mine, and that she is to keep her for me until to-morrow. Then the little one will re-enter with you; for I will contrive to have you re-enter. It must be done. But how will you manage to get out?"
Jean Valjean shook his head.
"No one must see me, the whole point lies there, Father Fauchelevent. Find some means of getting me out in a basket, under cover, like Cosette."
Fauchelevent scratched the lobe of his ear with the middle finger of his left hand, a sign of serious embarrassment.
A third peal created a diversion.
"That is the dead-doctor taking his departure," said Fauchelevent. "He has taken a look and said: `She is dead, that is well.' When the doctor has signed the passport for paradise, the undertaker's company sends a coffin. If it is a mother, the mothers lay her out; if she is a sister, the sisters lay her out. After which, I nail her up. That forms a part of my gardener's duty. A gardener is a bit of a grave-digger. She is placed in a lower hall of the church which communicates with the street, and into which no man may enter save the doctor of the dead. I don't count the undertaker's men and myself as men. It is in that hall that I nail up the coffin. The undertaker's men come and get it, and whip up, coachman! that's the way one goes to heaven. They fetch a box with nothing in it, they take it away again with something in it. That's what a burial is like. De profundis."
A horizontal ray of sunshine lightly touched the face of the sleeping Cosette, who lay with her mouth vaguely open, and had the air of an angel drinking in the light. Jean Valjean had fallen to gazing at her. He was no longer listening to Fauchelevent.
That one is not listened to is no reason for preserving silence. The good old gardener went on tranquilly with his babble:--
"The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery. They declare that they are going to suppress that Vaugirard cemetery. It is an ancient cemetery which is outside the regulations, which has no uniform, and which is going to retire. It is a shame, for it is convenient. I have a friend there, Father Mestienne, the grave-digger. The nuns here possess one privilege, it is to be taken to that cemetery at nightfall. There is a special permission from the Prefecture on their behalf. But how many events have happened since yesterday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine--"
"Is buried," said Jean Valjean, smiling sadly.
Fauchelevent caught the word.
"Goodness! if you were here for good, it would be a real burial."
A fourth peal burst out. Fauchelevent hastily detached the belled knee-cap from its nail and buckled it on his knee again.
"This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. Good, now I am pricking myself on the tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine, don't stir from here, and wait for me. Something new has come up. If you are hungry, there is wine, bread and cheese."
And he hastened out of the hut, crying: "Coming! coming!"
Jean Valjean watched him hurrying across the garden as fast as his crooked leg would permit, casting a sidelong glance by the way on his melon patch.
Less than ten minutes later, Father Fauchelevent, whose bell put the nuns in his road to flight, tapped gently at a door, and a gentle voice replied: "Forever! Forever!" that is to say: "Enter."
The door was the one leading to the parlor reserved for seeing the gardener on business. This parlor adjoined the chapter hall. The prioress, seated on the only chair in the parlor, was waiting for Fauchelevent.
冉阿让，按照割风的说法，“从天上掉下来”时，正是掉在那修院里。
他在波隆梭街的转角处翻过了园子的围墙。他半夜听到的那阵仙乐，是修女们做早弥撒的歌声；他在黑暗中探望过的那个大厅，是小礼拜堂；他看见伏在地上的那个鬼影，是一个行补赎礼的修女；使他惊奇的那种铃声，是结在园丁割风爷膝弯上的铜铃。
珂赛特上床以后，我们知道，冉阿让和割风俩便对着一炉好柴火进晚餐，喝了一盅葡萄酒，吃了一块干酪；过后，由于那破屋里唯一的一张床已由珂赛特占用，他们便分头躺在一堆麦秸上面。冉阿让合眼以前说道：“从此以后，我得住在此地了。”那句话在割风的脑子里翻腾了一整夜。
其实，他们俩，谁也没有睡着。
冉阿让感到自己已被人发觉，而且沙威紧跟在后面，他知道如果他回到巴黎城里，他和珂赛特准定会玩完。新起的那阵风既然已把他吹到这修院里来，冉阿让唯一的想法便是在那里待下去。对一个处在他那种情况下的苦命人来说，那修院是个最危险也最安全的地方，说最危险，是因为那里不许任何男人进去，万一被人发现，就得给人当作现行犯，冉阿让只要走一步路，便又从修院跨进监牢；说最安全，是因为如果能得到许可，在那里住下来，谁又会找到那里去呢？住在一个不可能住下的地方，正是万全之策。
在割风方面，他心里也正打开了鼓。最先，他承认自己什么也闹不清楚。围墙那么高，马德兰先生怎么进来的呢？修院的围墙是没有人敢翻的。怎么又会有个孩子呢？手里抱个孩子，就翻不了那样一道笔直的墙。那孩子究竟是谁？他们俩是从什么地方来的？割风自从来到这修院后，他再也没有听人谈到过滨海蒙特勒伊，也完全不知道外面发生过什么事。马德兰爷爷那副神气又使人不敢多开口，此外割风心里在想：“在圣人面前不能瞎问。”马德兰先生在他的心中仍和往日一样崇高。不过，从冉阿让透露出来的几句话里，那园丁觉得可以作出这样的推断：由于时局艰难，马德兰先生也许亏了本，正受着债主们的追逼，或许他受到什么政治问题的牵累，不得不隐藏起来。割风想到这一点，也没有什么不高兴，因为，正和我们北部的许多农民一样，他在思想深处是早已靠拢波拿巴①的。马德兰先生既然要躲起来，并且已把这修院当作他的避难所，那么，他要在此地待下去，那也是极自然的事。但不可理解的是，割风在反复思索，老捉摸不出的一点是：马德兰是怎样进来的，他又怎么会带个小姑娘。割风看得见他们，摸得着他们，和他们谈过话，却无法信以为真。闷葫芦刚刚掉进了割风的茅舍。割风象盲人摸路似的，胡乱猜想了一阵，越想越糊涂，但有一点却搞清楚了：马德兰先生救过我的命。这唯一可以确定下来的一点已足使他下定决心了。他背着他想道：“现在轮到我来救他的命了。”他心里还加上这么一句：“当初需要人钻到车子底下救我出来时，马德兰先生却没有象我这样思前想后。” 
①就是说，对当时的王朝不满。
他决定搭救马德兰先生。
可是他心里仍七上八下，考虑到许多事情：“他从前待我那么好，万一他是匪徒，我该不该救他呢？还是应该救他。假使他是个杀人犯，我该不该救他呢？还是应该救他。他既然是个圣人，我救不救他呢？当然救他。”
但是要让他能留在这修院里那可是个难题！但割风在那种近乎荒唐的妄想前仍一点不动摇。那个来自庇卡底的可怜的农民决计要越过修院的种种难关和圣伯努瓦的教规所设下的种种危崖峭壁，但是他除了赤忱的心、坚定的意志和为乡下老头子所常有而这次打算用来扶危济困的那一点点小聪明外，便没有其他的梯子。割风爷，这个老汉，生平为人一向自私，晚年腿也瘸了，身体也残废了，对人世已没什么可留恋了，这时他觉得感恩图报是件饶有趣味的事，当看见有件善事可做时便连忙扑了上去，正如一个从来不曾尝过好酒的人临死时忽然发现手边有着一杯美酒，便想取来痛饮一番一样。我们还可以说，许多年来他在那修院里吸取的空气已消灭了他原来的性格，最后使他感到他有做任何一件好事的必要。
因此他下定决心，要替马德兰先生出力。
我们刚才称他为“来自庇卡底的可怜的农民”。那种称呼是恰当的，不过不全面。在故事发展到现阶段，把割风的面貌叙述一下还是有好处的。他原是一个农民，但是他当过公证人，因此他在原有的精明以外又添上了辩才，在原有的质朴以外又添上了剖析能力。由于多方面的原因，他的事业失败了，后来便沦为车夫和手工工人。但是，尽管他经常说粗话挥鞭子棗据说那样做对牲口是必要的棗在内心深处他却仍是个公证人。他生来就有些小聪明，不犯常见之语病，他能攀谈，那是乡下少见的事，农民都说他谈起话来俨然象个戴帽的老爷。割风正是前一世纪那种轻浮不得体的文词所指的那种“半绅士半平民”的人，也就是达官贵人在对待贫寒人家时所用的那些形容平民的隐语所标注的“略似乡民，略似市民，胡椒和盐”。割风是那种衣服磨损到露出麻线底子的穷老汉，他虽然饱受命运的考验和折磨，却还是一个直肠人，很爽朗，那是一种使人从来不生恶念的宝贵品质。因为他有过的缺点和短处全是表面的，总之，他的面貌在观察者的眼里是成功的。老人的额上绝没有那种暗示凶恶、愚蠢或惹人厌恶的皱纹。
破晓时，割风从四面八方全想过了，他睁开眼睛看见马德兰先生坐在他的麦秸堆上，望着珂赛特睡觉。割风翻身坐起来说：
“您现在既已来到此地，您打算怎样来说你进来的事呢？”
一句话概括了当时的处境，把冉阿让从梦境状态中唤醒了。
两个人开始商量。
“首先，”割风说，“您应当注意的第一件事，便是小姑娘和您，不要到这间屋子外面去。跨进园子一步，我们便完了。”
“对。”
“马德兰先生，”割风又说，“您到这儿来，拣了一个极好的日子，我是要说，拣了一个极坏的日子，我们有个嬷嬷正害着重病，因此大家都不大注意我们这面的事。听说她快死了。她们正在做四十小时的祈祷。整个修院都天翻地覆了。她们全在为那件事忙乱着。正准备上路的那位嬷嬷是位圣女。其实，我们这儿的人全是圣人。在她们和我之间，唯一不同的地方便是：她们说‘我们的静室，’而我说‘我的窠。’马上就要替断气的人做祷告了，接着又得替死人做祷告。今天一天，我们这里不会有事，明天，我却不敢担保。”
“可是，”冉阿让指出说，“这所房子是在墙角里，被那破房子遮住了，还有树木，修院那边的人望不见。”
“而且，我告诉您，修女们也从来不到这边来的。”
“那岂不更好？”冉阿让说。
强调“岂不更好”的疑问语气是想说：“我认为可以偷偷在此地住下来。”割风针对这疑问回答说：
“还有那些小姑娘呢。”
“哪些小姑娘？”冉阿让问。
割风张着嘴正要解释他刚说出的那句话，有口钟响了一下。
“那嬷嬷死了，”他说，“这是报丧的钟。”
同时他作出手势要冉阿让听。
钟又敲了一下。
“这是报丧钟，马德兰先生。这钟将要一分钟一分钟地敲下去，连续敲上二十四小时，直到那尸首离开礼拜堂为止。您瞧，又是一下。在课间游戏时，只要有个皮球滚来了，她们全会追上来，什么规矩也不管了，跑到这儿来乱找乱翻的。这些小天使全是些小鬼。”
“谁？”冉阿让问。
“那些小姑娘们。您马上会被她们发现的，您放心好了。她们会叫嚷说：‘嘿！一个男人！’不过今天不会有危险。今天她们不会有游戏的时间。整整一天全是祷告。您听钟声。我早告诉过您了，一分钟一下。这是报丧钟。”
“我懂了，割风爷。您说的是寄读学校的孩子们。”
冉阿让心里又独自想道：
“这样，珂赛特的教养问题也全解决了。”
割风嚷着说：
“妈的！有的是小姑娘！她们会围着您起哄！她们会逃走！在这儿做个男人，就等于害了瘟病。您知道她们在我的蹄子上系了一个铃，把我当作野兽看待。”
冉阿让越想越深。“这修院能救我们，”他嘟囔着，接着他提高嗓子说：
“对。问题在于怎样才能待下来。”
“不对。问题在于怎样才能出去。”
冉阿让觉得血全涌到心里去了。
“出去！”
“是呀，马德兰先生。为了回来，您得先出去啊。”
等到那钟又敲了一下，割风才接着说：
“她们不会就这样让您待在此地。您是从哪里来的？对我来说，您是从天上掉下来的，因为我认识您，可是那些修女们，她们只许人家走大门进来。”
忽然，另一口钟敲出了一阵相当复杂的声音。
“啊！”割风说，“这是召集参议嬷嬷们的。她们要开会。每次有人死了，总得开会。她是天亮时死的。人死多半是在天亮时。难道您就不能打您进来的那条路出去吗？我们来谈谈，我不是有意来问您，您是打什么地方进来的？”
冉阿让脸色发白了。只要想到再回到那条吓得坏人的街上去，他便浑身颤栗。你从一处虎豹横行的森林里出来，已经到了外面，却又有一个朋友要你回到那里去，你想想那种味儿吧。冉阿让一闭上眼就看见那批警务人员还全在附近一带东寻西找，密探在侦察，四处都布置了眼线，无数只手伸向他的衣领，沙威也许就在那岔路口的角上。
“不可能！”他说，“割风爷，您就认为我是从那上面掉下来的吧。”
“那不成问题，我就是那么想的，”割风接着说，“您不用再向我说那些话了。慈悲的天主也许曾把您捏在他的手心里，要把您看清楚随即又把您放了。不过他原是要把您放在一个男人的修院里，结果他搞错了。您听，又是一阵钟声。这是敲给门房听的，要他通知市政机关去通知那位验尸的医生到这儿来看看死人。所有这些，全是死了以后的麻烦事。那些好嬷嬷们，她们并不见得怎么喜欢这种访问。一个医生，啥也不管。他揭开面罩。有时还要揭开旁的东西。她们这次通知医生，会这么快！这里难道有些什么名堂不成？您的小姑娘还睡着老不醒。她叫什么名字？”
“珂赛特。”
“是您的闺女？看样子，您是她的爷爷吧？”
“对。”
“对她来说，要从这里出去，倒好办。我有一扇通大门院子的便门。我敲门。门房开门。我背上背个背箩，小姑娘待在箩里。我走出大门。割风爷背着背箩出大门，那再简单没有。您嘱咐一声，要小妞待在箩里不吭气就成。她上面盖着块油布。要不了多少时候，我把她寄托在绿径街一个卖水果的老朋友家里，要住多久就住多久，那是个聋子，她家里有张小床。我会对着那卖水果的婆子的耳朵喊，说这是我的侄女，要她照顾一下，我明天就会来领的。这之后，小妞再和您一道回来。可是您，您怎样才能出去呢？”
冉阿让点了点头。
“只要没有人看见我。关键就在这儿，割风爷。您想个办法让我也和珂赛特一样躲在背箩里和油布下面，再把我送出去。”
割风用左手的中指搔着耳垂，那是表示十分为难的样子。
第三阵钟声打断了他们的思路。
“验尸医生走了，”割风说，“他看过了，并且说：‘她死了，好的。’医生签了去天国的护照以后，殡仪馆便会送来一口棺材。如果是个老嬷嬷，就由老嬷嬷们入殓，如果是个小嬷嬷，就由小嬷嬷们入殓。殓过以后，我去钉钉子。这是我的园丁工作的一部分。园丁多少也是埋葬工人。女尸停放在礼拜堂的一间临街的矮厅里，那里除了验尸的医生外，其余的男人全不许进去。我不算男人，殡仪馆的执事们和我都不算男人。我到那厅里去把棺材钉上，殡仪馆的执事们把它抬走，车夫扬起马鞭，人去天国就是这样去的。送来的是个空匣子，抬走的却是个装了东西的，这就叫送葬。‘入土为安’。”
一线阳光横照在珂赛特的脸上，她还没有醒来，嘴微微张着，就象一个饮光的天使。冉阿让早就呆望着她，不再听割风唠叨了。
没有人听，那并不成为一种住嘴的理由，那个管园子的老好人仍罗罗嗦嗦说下去：
“到伏吉拉尔公墓去挖一个坑。据说那伏吉拉尔公墓不久就要取消了。那是个旧时的公墓，不合章程，没有制服，快要退休了。真可惜，有这么一个公墓多方便。在那里。我有一个朋友，叫梅斯千爷爷，是个埋葬工人。这里的修女有种特权，她们在天快黑时被送进那公墓。省公署特别为她们订了这样一条规则。可是，从昨天起，发生了多少事啊！受难嬷嬷死了，马德兰爷爷……”
“完了。”冉阿让一面苦笑一面说。
割风把那个字弹了回去：
“圣母！要是您要在这儿永远待下去，那可真是种埋葬了。”
第四阵钟声突起。割风连忙把那条系铃铛的带子从钉子上取下来，系在自己的膝弯上。
“这一次，是我。院长嬷嬷叫我。好家伙，这皮带上的扣针扎了我一下。马德兰先生，您不要动，等我回来。有新玩意儿呢。您要是饿，那儿有酒、面包、干酪。”
接着，他往屋子外面走，嘴里一面说：“来啦！来啦！”
冉阿让望着他急忙从园中穿过去，尽量迈开他的瘸腿，边走边望两旁的瓜田。
割风一路走去，铃声响个不停，把那些修女们全吓跑了，不到十分钟，他在一扇门上轻轻敲了一下，一个柔和的声音回答说：“永远如此。永远如此。”那就是说：“请进。”
那扇门是接待室的门，接待室是由于工作需要留下来接待园丁的。隔壁便是会议室。院长正坐在接待室里唯一的一张椅子上等待着割风。
Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 2 Fauchelevent in the Presence of a Difficulty
It is the peculiarity of certain persons and certain professions, notably priests and nuns, to wear a grave and agitated air on critical occasions. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, this double form of preoccupation was imprinted on the countenance of the prioress, who was that wise and charming Mademoiselle de Blemeur, Mother Innocente, who was ordinarily cheerful.
The gardener made a timid bow, and remained!at the door of?àhe cell. The prioress, who was telling her beads, raised her eyes and said:--
"Ah! it is you, Father Fauvent."
This abbreviation had been adopted in the convent.
Fauchelevent bowed a``in.
"Father Fauvent, I have sent for you."
"Here I am, reverend Mother."
"I have something to say to you."
"And so have I," said Fauchelevent with a boldness which caused him inward terror, "I have something to say to the very reverend Mother."
The prioress stared at him.
"Ah! you have a communication to make to me."
"A request."
"Very well, speak."
Goodman Fauchelevent, the ex-notary, belonged to the category of peasants who have assurance. A certain clever ignorance constitutes a force; you do not distrust it, and you are caug`` by it. Fauched!vent had been a success during the something more than two years which he had passed in the convent. Always solitary and busied about his gardening, he had nothing else to do than to indulge his curiosity. As he was at a distance from all those veiled women passing to and fro, he saw before him only an agitation of shadows. By dint of attention and sharpness he had succeeded in clothing all those phantoms with flesh, and those corpses were alive for him. He was like a deaf man whose sight grows keener, and like a blind man whose hearing becomes more acute. He had applied himself to riddling out the significance of the different peals, and he had succeeded, so that this taciturn and enigmatical cloister possessed no secrets for him; the sphinx babbled all her secrets in his ear. Fauchelevent knew all and concealed all; that constituted his art. The whole convent thought him stupid. A great merit in religion. The vocal mothers made much of Fauchelevent. He was a curious mute. He inspired confidence. Moreover, he was regular, and never went out except for well-demonstrated requirements of the orchard and vegetable garden. This discretion of conduct had inured to his credit. None the less, he had set two men to chattering: the porter, in the convent, and he knew the singularities of their parlor, and the grave-digger, at the cemetery, and he was acquainted with the peculiarities of their sepulture; in this way, he possessed a double light on the subject of these nuns, one as to their life, the other as to their death. But he did not abuse his knowledge. The congregation thought a great deal of him. Old, lame, blind to everything, probably a little deaf into the bargain,--what qualities! They would have found it difficult to replace him.
The goodman, with the assurance of a person who feels that he is appreciated, entered into a rather diffuse and very deep rustic harangue to the reverend prioress. He talked a long time about his age, his infirmities, the surcharge of years counting double for him henceforth, of the increasing demands of his work, of the great size of the garden, of nights which must be passed, like the last, for instance, when he had been obliged to put straw mats over the melon beds, because of the moon, and he wound up as follows: "That he had a brother"--(the prioress made a movement),--"a brother no longer young"--(a second movement on the part of the prioress, but one expressive of reassurance),--"that, if he might be permitted, this brother would come and live with him and help him, that he was an excellent gardener, that the community would receive from him good service, better than his own; that, otherwise, if his brother were not admitted, as he, the elder, felt that his health was broken and that he was insufficient for the work, he should be obliged, greatly to his regret, to go away; and that his brother had a little daughter whom he would bring with him, who might be reared for God in the house, and who might, who knows, become a nun some day."
When he had finished speaking, the prioress stayed the slipping of her rosary between her fingers, and said to him:--
"Could you procure a stout iron bar between now and this evening?"
"For what purpose?"
"To serve as a lever."
"Yes, reverend Mother," replied Fauchelevent.
The prioress, without adding a word, rose and entered the adjoining room, which was the hall of the chapter, and where the vocal mothers were probably assembled. Fauchelevent was left alone.
在紧急关头露出紧张和沉郁的神情，这对某些性格和某些职业的人，尤其是对神甫和教徒们来说，是特别的。院长纯贞嬷嬷，原是那位有才有貌的德·勃勒麦尔小姐，她平日素来轻松活泼，可是当割风走进屋子时，她脸上却露出那两种显示心神不定的神情。
园丁小心翼翼地行了个礼，立在屋门口。院长正拨动着手里的念珠，抬起眼睛说道：
“啊，是您，割爷。”
这个简称是在那修院里用惯了的。
割风又行了个礼。
“割爷，是我叫人把您找来的。”
“我来了，崇高的嬷嬷。”
“我有话要和您谈。”
“我也，在我这方面，也有件事想和极崇高的嬷嬷谈谈。”
割风壮着胆子说，内心却先在害怕。
院长睁眼望着他。
“啊！您有事要向我反映。”
“要向您请求。”
“那好，您说吧。”
割风这老头，以前当过公证人，是一个那种坚定有把握的乡下人。某种圆滑而又显得无知的表情是占便宜的，人往往在不提防的情况下已经被俘。割风在那修院里已住了两年多，和大家也相处得很好。他终年过着孤独的生活，除忙于园艺之外几乎没有旁的事可做，于是也滋长了好奇心。他从远处望着那些头上蒙着黑纱的妇女，在他眼前时来时往，起初他见到的几乎只是些幢幢黑影，久之，由于不时注意和深入观察，后来他也渐渐能恢复那些鬼影的肉身，那些死人在他看来也就成为活人了。他仿佛是个视觉日明的哑巴，听觉日聪的瞎子。他细心分辨各种钟声所表示的意义，于是那座葫芦似的不闻人声的修院没有什么事能瞒得过他的了，哑谜神早已把它的全部秘密在他的耳朵里倾吐。割风知道一切，却什么也不说，那是他的乖巧处。全院的人都以为他是个白痴。这在教会里是一大优点。参议嬷嬷们非常器重割风。他是个不可多得的哑人，他获得了大家的信任。此外，他能守规矩。除了果园菜地上有非办不可的事之外他从不出大门。这种谨慎的作风是为人重视的，他却并不因此而不去找人聊天，他常找的两个人，在修院里，是门房，他因而知道会客室里的一些特别情形；在坟场里，是埋葬工人，因而他知道墓地里的一些独特之处，正好象他有两盏灯在替他照着那些修女们，一盏照着生的一面，一盏照着死的一面。但是他一点也不胡来。修院里的人都重视他。年老，腿瘸，眼花，也许耳朵还有点聋，数不尽的长处！谁也替代不了他。
老头子自己也知道已获得人家的重视，因而在那崇高的院长面前，满怀信心，夸夸其谈地说了一通相当乱而又非常深刻的乡下人的话。他大谈特谈自己的年纪、身体上的缺陷、往后年龄对他的威胁会越来越重、工作的要求也不断增加、园地真够大，有时还得在园里过夜，例如昨晚，月亮上来了，就得到瓜田里去铺上草荐，最后他转到这一点上，他有个兄弟（院长动了一下），兄弟的年纪也不怎么轻了（院长又动了一下，但这是表示安心的），假如院长允许，他这兄弟可以来和他住在一起，帮他工作，那是个出色的园艺工人，他会替修院作出良好的贡献，比他本人所作的还会更好些；要是，假如修院不允许他兄弟来，那么，他，做大哥的，觉得身体已经垮了，完成不了任务，就只好说句对不起人的话，请求退职了；他兄弟还有个小姑娘，他想把她带来，求天主保佑，让她在修院里成长起来，谁知道，也许她还会有出家修行的一天呢。
他谈完的时候，院长手指中间的念珠也停止转动了，她对他说：
“您能在今晚以前找到一根粗铁杠吗？”
“干什么用？”
“当撬棍用。”
“行，崇高的嬷嬷。”割风回答。
院长没有再说别的话，她起身走到隔壁屋子里去了，隔壁的那间屋子便是会议室，参议嬷嬷们也许正在那里开会。割风独自留下。
Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 3 Mother Innocente
About a quarter of an hour elapsed. The prioress returned and seated herself once more on her chair.
The two interlocutors seemed preoccupied. We will present a stenographic report of the dialogue which then ensued, to the best of our ability.
"Father Fauvent!"
"Reverend Mother!"
"Do you know the chapel?"
"I have a little cage there, where I hear the mass and the offices."
"And you have been in the choir in pursuance of your duties?"
"Two or three times."
"There is a stone to be raised."
"Heavy?"
"The slab of the pavement which is at the side of the altar."
"The slab which closes the vault?"
"Yes."
"It would be a good thing to have two men for it."
"Mother Ascension, who is as strong as a man, will help you."
"A woman is never a man."
"We have only a woman here to help you. Each one does what he can. Because Dom Mabillon gives four hundred and seventeen epistles of Saint Bernard, while Merlonus Horstius only gives three hundred and sixty-seven, I do not despise Merlonus Horstius."
"Neither do I."
"Merit consists in working according to one's strength. A cloister is not a dock-yard."
"And a woman is not a man. But my brother is the strong one, though!"
"And can you get a lever?"
"That is the only sort of key that fits that sort of door."
"There is a ring in the stone."
"I will put the lever through it."
"And the stone is so arranged that it swings on a pivot."
"That is good, reverend Mother. I will open the vault."
"And the four Mother Precentors will help you."
"And when the vault is open?"
"It must be closed again."
"Will that be all?"
"No."
"Give me your orders, very reverend Mother."
"Fauvent, we have confidence in you."
"I am here to do anything you wish."
"And to hold your peace about everything!"
"Yes, reverend Mother."
"When the vault is open--"
"I will close it again."
"But before that--"
"What, reverend Mother?"
"Something must be lowered into it."
A silence ensued. The prioress, after a pout of the under lip which resembled hesitation, broke it.
"Father Fauvent!"
"Reverend Mother!"
"You know that a mother died this morning?"
"No."
"Did you not hear the bell?"
"Nothing can be heard at the bottom of the garden."
"Really?"
"I can hardly distinguish my own signal."
"She died at daybreak."
"And then, the wind is not blowing in my direction this morning."
"It was Mother Crucifixion. A blessed woman."
The prioress paused, moved her lips, as though in mental prayer, and resumed:--
"Three years ago, Madame de Bethune, a Jansenist, turned orthodox, merely from having seen Mother Crucifixion at prayer."
"Ah! yes, now I hear the knell, reverend Mother."
"The mothers have taken her to the dead-room, which opens on the church."
"I know."
"No other man than you can or must enter that chamber. See to that. A fine sight it would be, to see a man enter the dead-room!"
"More often!"
"Hey?"
"More often!"
"What do you say?"
"I say more often."
"More often than what?"
"Reverend Mother, I did not say more often than what, I said more often."
"I don't understand you. Why do you say more often?"
"In order to speak like you, reverend Mother."
"But I did not say `more often.'"
At that moment, nine o'clock struck.
"At nine o'clock in the morning and at all hours, praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar," said the prioress.
"Amen," said Fauchelevent.
The clock struck opportunely. It cut "more often" short. It is probable, that had it not been for this, the prioress and Fauchelevent would never have unravelled that skein.
Fauchelevent mopped his forehead.
The prioress indulged in another little inward murmur, probably sacred, then raised her voice:--
"In her lifetime, Mother Crucifixion made converts; after her death, she will perform miracles."
"She will!" replied Father Fauchelevent, falling into step, and striving not to flinch again.
"Father Fauvent, the community has been blessed in Mother Crucifixion. No doubt, it is not granted to every one to die, like Cardinal de Berulle, while saying the holy mass, and to breathe forth their souls to God, while pronouncing these words: Hanc igitur oblationem. But without attaining to such happiness, Mother Crucifixion's death was very precious. She retained her consciousness to the very last moment. She spoke to us, then she spoke to the angels. She gave us her last commands. If you had a little more faith, and if you could have been in her cell, she would have cured your leg merely by touching it. She smiled. We felt that she was regaining her life in God. There was something of paradise in that death."
Fauchelevent thought that it was an orison which she was finishing.
"Amen," said he.
"Father Fauvent, what the dead wish must be done."
The prioress took off several beads of her chaplet. Fauchelevent held his peace.
She went on:--
"I have consulted upon this point many ecclesiastics laboring in Our Lord, who occupy themselves in the exercises of the clerical life, and who bear wonderful fruit."
"Reverend Mother, you can hear the knell much better here than in the garden."
"Besides, she is more than a dead woman, she is a saint."
"Like yourself, reverend Mother."
"She slept in her coffin for twenty years, by express permission of our Holy Father, Pius VII.--"
"The one who crowned the Emp--Buonaparte."
For a clever man like Fauchelevent, this allusion was an awkward one. Fortunately, the prioress, completely absorbed in her own thoughts, did not hear it. She continued:--
"Father Fauvent?"
"Reverend Mother?"
"Saint Didorus, Archbishop of Cappadocia, desired that this single word might be inscribed on his tomb: Acarus, which signifies, a worm of the earth; this was done. Is this true?"
"Yes, reverend Mother."
"The blessed Mezzocane, Abbot of Aquila, wished to be buried beneath the gallows; this was done."
"That is true."
"Saint Terentius, Bishop of Port, where the mouth of the Tiber empties into the sea, requested that on his tomb might be engraved the sign which was placed on the graves of parricides, in the hope that passers-by would spit on his tomb. This was done. The dead must be obeyed."
"So be it."
"The body of Bernard Guidonis, born in France near Roche-Abeille, was, as he had ordered, and in spite of the king of Castile, borne to the church of the Dominicans in Limoges, although Bernard Guidonis was Bishop of Tuy under of the Saintete Claustrale, he was the Basil of the West. His order has produced forty popes, two hundred cardinals, fifty patriarchs, sixteen hundred archbishops, four thousand six hundred bishops, four emperors, twelve empresses, forty-six kings, forty-one queens, three thousand six hundred canonized saints, and has been in existence for fourteen hundred years. On one side Saint Bernard, on the other the agent of the sanitary department! On one side Saint Benoit, on the other the inspector of public ways! The state, the road commissioners, the public undertaker, regulations, the administration, what do we know of all that? There is not a chance passer-by who would not be indignant to see how we are treated. We have not even the right to give our dust to Jesus Christ! Your sanitary department is a revolutionary invention. God subordinated to the commissary of police; such is the age. Silence, Fauvent!"
<s??
"Where?"
"Into the vault."
"What vault?"
"Under the altar."
Fauchelevent started.
"The vault under the altar?"
"Under the altar."
"But--"
"You will have an iron bar."
"Yes, but--"
"You will raise the stone with the bar by means of the ring."
"But--"
"The dead must be obeyed. To be buried in the vault under the altar of the chapel, not to go to profane earth; to remain there in death where she prayed while living; such was the last wish of Mother Crucifixion. She asked it of us; that is to say, commanded us."
"But it is forbidden."
"Forbidden by men, enjoined by God."
"What if it became known?"
"We have confidence in you."
"Oh! I am a stone in your walls."
"The chapter assembled. The vocal mothers, whom I have just consulted again, and who are now deliberating, have decided that Mother Crucifixion shall be buried, according to her wish, in her own coffin, under our altar. Think, Father Fauvent, if she were to work miracles here! What a glory of God for the community! And miracles issue from tombs."
"But, reverend Mother, if the agent of the sanitary commission--"
"Saint Benoit II., in the matter of sepulture, resisted Constantine Pogonatus."
"But the commissary of police--"
"Chonodemaire, one of the seven German kings who entered among the Gauls under the Empire of Constantius, expressly recognized the right of nuns to be buried in religion, that is to say, beneath the altar."
"But the inspector from the Prefecture--"
"The world is nothing in the presence of the cross. Martin, the eleventh general of the Carthusians, gave to his order this device: Stat crux dum volvitur orbis."
"Amen," said Fauchelevent, who imperturbably extricated himself in this manner from the dilemma, whenever he heard Latin.
Any audience suffices for a person who has held his peace too long. On the day when the rhetorician Gymnastoras left his prison, bearing in his body many dilemmas and numerous syllogisms which had struck in, he halted in front of the first tree which he came to, harangued it and made very great efforts to convince it. The prioress, who was usually subjected to the barrier of silence, and whose reservoir was overfull, rose and exclaimed with the loquacity of a dam which has broken away:--
"I have on my right Benoit and on my left Bernard. Who was Bernard? The first abbot of Clairvaux. Fontaines in Burgundy is a country that is blest because it gave him birth. His father was named Tecelin, and his mother Alethe. He began at Citeaux, to end in Clairvaux; he was ordained abbot by the bishop of Chalon-sur-Saone, Guillaume de Champeaux; he had seven hundred novices, and founded a hundred and sixty monasteries; he overthrew Abeilard at the council of Sens in 1140, and Pierre de Bruys and Henry his disciple, and another sort of erring spirits who were called the Apostolics; he confounded Arnauld de Brescia, darted lightning at the monk Raoul, the murderer of the Jews, dominated the council of Reims in 1148, caused the condemnation of Gilbert de Porea, Bishop of Poitiers, caused the condemnation of Eon de l'Etoile, arranged the disputes of princes, enlightened King Louis the Young, advised Pope Eugene III., regulated the Temple, preached the crusade, performed two hundred and fifty miracles during his lifetime, and as many as thirty-nine in one day. Who was Benoit? He was the patriarch of Mont-Cassin; he was the second founder of the Saintete Claustrale, he was the Basil of the West. His order has produced forty popes, two hundred cardinals, fifty patriarchs, sixteen hundred archbishops, four thousand six hundred bishops, four emperors, twelve empresses, forty-six kings, forty-one queens, three thousand six hundred canonized saints, and has been in existence for fourteen hundred years. On one side Saint Bernard, on the other the agent of the sanitary department! On one side Saint Benoit, on the other the inspector of public ways! The state, the road commissioners, the public undertaker, regulations, the administration, what do we know of all that? There is not a chance passer-by who would not be indignant to see how we are treated. We have not even the right to give our dust to Jesus Christ! Your sanitary department is a revolutionary invention. God subordinated to the commissary of police; such is the age. Silence, Fauvent!"
Fauchelevent was but ill at ease under this shower bath. The prioress continued:--
"No one doubts the right of the monastery to sepulture. Only fanatics and those in error deny it. We live in times of terrible confusion. We do not know that which it is necessary to know, and we know that which we should ignore. We are ignorant and impious. In this age there exist people who do not distinguish between the very great Saint Bernard and the Saint Bernard denominated of the poor Catholics, a certain good ecclesiastic who lived in the thirteenth century. Others are so blasphemous as to compare the scaffold of Louis XVI. to the cross of Jesus Christ. Louis XVI. was merely a king. Let us beware of God! There is no longer just nor unjust. The name of Voltaire is known, but not the name of Cesar de Bus. Nevertheless, Cesar de Bus is a man of blessed memory, and Voltaire one of unblessed memory. The last arch-bishop, the Cardinal de Perigord, did not even know that Charles de Gondren succeeded to Berulle, and Francois Bourgoin to Gondren, and Jean-Francois Senault to Bourgoin, and Father Sainte-Marthe to Jean-Francois Senault. The name of Father Coton is known, not because he was one of the three who urged the foundation of the Oratorie, but because he furnished Henri IV., the Huguenot king, with the material for an oath. That which pleases people of the world in Saint Francois de Sales, is that he cheated at play. And then, religion is attacked. Why? Because there have been bad priests, because Sagittaire, Bishop of Gap, was the brother of Salone, Bishop of Embrun, and because both of them followed Mommol. What has that to do with the question? Does that prevent Martin de Tours from being a saint, and giving half of his cloak to a beggar? They persecute the saints. They shut their eyes to the truth. Darkness is the rule. The most ferocious beasts are beasts which are blind. No one thinks of hell as a reality. Oh! how wicked people are! By order of the king signifies to-day, by order of the revolution. One no longer knows what is due to the living or to the dead. A holy death is prohibited. Burial is a civil matter. This is horrible. Saint Leo II. wrote two special letters, one to Pierre Notaire, the other to the king of the Visigoths, for the purpose of combating and rejecting, in questions touching the dead, the authority of the exarch and the supremacy of the Emperor. Gauthier, Bishop of Chalons, held his own in this matter against Otho, Duke of Burgundy. The ancient magistracy agreed with him. In former times we had voices in the chapter, even on matters of the day. The Abbot of Citeaux, the general of the order, was councillor by right of birth to the parliament of Burgundy. We do what we please with our dead. Is not the body of Saint Benoit himself in France, in the abbey of Fleury, called Saint Benoit-sur-Loire, although he died in Italy at Mont-Cassin, on Saturday, the 21st of the month of March, of the year 543? All this is incontestable. I abhor psalm-singers, I hate priors, I execrate heretics, but I should detest yet more any one who should maintain the contrary. One has only to read Arnoul Wion, Gabriel Bucelin, Trithemus, Maurolics, and Dom Luc d'Achery."
The prioress took breath, then turned to Fauchelevent.
"Is it settled, Father Fauvent?"
"It is settled, reverend Mother."
"We may depend on you?"
"I will obey."
"That is well."
"I am entirely devoted to the convent."
"That is understood. You will close the coffin. The sisters will carry it to the chapel. The office for the dead will then be said. Then we shall return to the cloister. Between eleven o'clock and midnight, you will come with your iron bar. All will be done in the most profound secrecy. There will be in the chapel only the four Mother Precentors, Mother Ascension and yourself."
"And the sister at the post?"
"She will not turn round."
"But she will hear."
"She will not listen. Besides, what the cloister knows the world learns not."
A pause ensued. The prioress went on:--
"You will remove your bell. It is not necessary that the sister at the post should perceive your presence."
"Reverend Mother?"
"What, Father Fauvent?"
"Has the doctor for the dead paid his visit?"
"He will pay it at four o'clock to-day. The peal which orders the doctor for the dead to be summoned has already been rung. But you do not understand any of the peals?"
"I pay no attention to any but my own."
"That is well, Father Fauvent."
"Reverend Mother, a lever at least six feet long will be required."
"Where will you obtain it?"
"Where gratings are not lacking, iron bars are not lacking. I have my heap of old iron at the bottom of the garden."
"About three-quarters of an hour before midnight; do not forget."
"Reverend Mother?"
"What?"
"If you were ever to have any other jobs of this sort, my brother is the strong man for you. A perfect Turk!"
"You will do it as speedily as possible."
"I cannot work very fast. I am infirm; that is why I require an assistant. I limp."
"To limp is no sin, and perhaps it is a blessing. The Emperor Henry II., who combated Antipope Gregory and re-established Benoit VIII., has two surnames, the Saint and the Lame."
"Two surtouts are a good thing," murmured Fauchelevent, who really was a little hard of hearing.
"Now that I think of it, Father Fauvent, let us give a whole hour to it. That is not too much. Be near the principal altar, with your iron bar, at eleven o'clock. The office begins at midnight. Everything must have been completed a good quarter of an hour before that."
"I will do anything to prove my zeal towards the community. These are my orders. I am to nail up the coffin. At eleven o'clock exactly, I am to be in the chapel. The Mother Precentors will be there. Mother Ascension will be there. Two men would be better. However, never mind! I shall have my lever. We will open the vault, we will lower the coffin, and we will close the vault again. After which, there will be no trace of anything. The government will have no suspicion. Thus all has been arranged, reverend Mother?"
"No!"
"What else remains?"
"The empty coffin remains."
This produced a pause. Fauchelevent meditated. The prioress meditated.
"What is to be done with that coffin, Father Fauvent?"
"It will be given to the earth."
"Empty?"
Another silence. Fauchelevent made, with his left hand, that sort of a gesture which dismisses a troublesome subject.
"Reverend Mother, I am the one who is to nail up the coffin in the basement of the church, and no one can enter there but myself, and I will cover the coffin with the pall."
"Yes, but the bearers, when they place it in the hearse and lower it into the grave, will be sure to feel that there is nothing in it."
"Ah! the de--!" exclaimed Fauchelevent.
The prioress began to make the sign of the cross, and looked fixedly at the gardener. The vil stuck fast in his throat.
He made haste to improvise an expedient to make her forget the oath.
"I will put earth in the coffin, reverend Mother. That will produce the effect of a corpse."
"You are right. Earth, that is the same thing as man. So you will manage the empty coffin?"
"I will make that my special business."
The prioress's face, up to that moment troubled and clouded, grew serene once more. She made the sign of a superior dismissing an inferior to him. Fauchelevent went towards the door. As he was on the point of passing out, the prioress raised her voice gently:--
"I am pleased with you, Father Fauvent; bring your brother to me to-morrow, after the burial, and tell him to fetch his daughter."
大致过了一刻钟。院长走回来，去坐在椅子上。
那两个对话的人仿佛各有所思。我们把他们的谈话尽量逐字逐句地记录下来。
“割爷？”
“崇高的嬷嬷？”
“您见过圣坛吧？”
“做弥撒和日课时我在那里有间小隔扇。”
“您到唱诗台里去工作过吧？”
“去过两三次。”
“现在我们要起一块石头。”
“重吗？”
“祭台旁边那块铺地的石板。”
“盖地窖的那块石板吗？”
“对。”
“在这种情况下，最好是有两个男人。”
“登天嬷嬷会来帮助您，她和男人一样结实。”
“一个女人从来也顶不了一个男人。”
“我们只有一个女人来帮您忙。各尽所能。马比容神甫根据圣伯尔纳的遗教写了四百十七篇论文，梅尔洛纽斯·奥尔斯修斯只写了三百六十七篇，我绝不至于因此就轻视梅尔洛纽斯·奥尔斯修斯。”
“我也不至于。”
“可贵的是各尽自己的力量来工作。一座修院并不是一个工场。”
“一个女人也并不是一个男人。我那兄弟的气力才大呢！”
“您还得准备好一根撬棍。”
“象那样的门也只能用那样的钥匙。”
“石板上有个铁环。”
“我把撬棍套进去。”
“而且那石板是会转动的。”
“那就好了，崇高的嬷嬷。我一定能开那地窖。”
“还会有四个唱诗嬷嬷来参加你们的工作。”
“地窖开了以后呢？”
“再盖上。”
“就这样吗？”
“不。”
贪撬起来。
“祭台下面的地窖！”
“祭台下面的地窖。”
“可是……”
“您带一根铁杠来。”
“行，可是……”
“您用铁杠套在那铁环里，把石板旋开来。”
“可是……”
“必须服从死者的意旨。葬在圣坛祭台下的地窖里，不沾俗人的泥土，死了还留在她生前祈祷的地方，这便是受难嬷嬷临终时的宏愿。她对我们提出了那??=嗬戳恕Ｔ撼ず孟笤诔斐?痪觯??斐鱿麓剑?倭艘幌伦熘?缶痛蚱屏顺聊?? 
Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 4 In which Jean Valjean has quite the Air of having read Austin Castillejo
The strides of a lame man are like the ogling glances of a one-eyed man; they do not reach their goal very promptly. Moreover, Fauchelevent was in a dilemma. He took nearly a quarter of an hour to return to his cottage in the garden. Cosette had waked up. Jean Valjean had placed her near the fire. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, Jean Valjean was pointing out to her the vintner's basket on the wall, and saying to her, "Listen attentively to me, my little Cosette. We must go away from this house, but we shall return to it, and we shall be very happy here. The good man who lives here is going to carry you off on his back in that. You will wait for me at a lady's house. I shall come to fetch you. Obey, and say nothing, above all things, unless you want Madame Thenardier to get you again!"
Cosette nodded gravely.
Jean Valjean turned round at the noise made by Fauchelevent opening the door.
"Well?"
"Everything is arranged, and nothing is," said Fauchelevent. "I have permission to bring you in; but before bringing you in you must be got out. That's where the difficulty lies. It is easy enough with the child."
"You will carry her out?"
"And she will hold her tongue?"
"I answer for that."
"But you, Father Madeleine?"
And, after a silence, fraught with anxiety, Fauchelevent exclaimed:--
"Why, get out as you came in!"
Jean Valjean, as in the first instance, contented himself with saying, "Impossible."
Fauchelevent grumbled, more to himself than to Jean Valjean:--
"There is another thing which bothers me. I have said that I would put earth in it. When I come to think it over, the earth instead of the corpse will not seem like the real thing, it won't do, it will get displaced, it will move about. The men will bear it. You understand, Father Madeleine, the government will notice it."
Jean Valjean stared him straight in the eye and thought that he was raving.
Fauchelevent went on:--
"How the de--uce are you going to get out? It must all be done by to-morrow morning. It is to-morrow that I am to bring you in. The prioress expects you."
Then he explained to Jean Valjean that this was his recompense for a service which he, Fauchelevent, was to render to the community. That it fell among his duties to take part in their burials, that he nailed up the coffins and helped the grave-digger at the cemetery. That the nun who had died that morning had requested to be buried in the coffin which had served her for a bed, and interred in the vault under the altar of the chapel. That the police regulations forbade this, but that she was one of those dead to whom nothing is refused. That the prioress and the vocal mothers intended to fulfil the wish of the deceased. That it was so much the worse for the government. That he, Fauchelevent, was to nail up the coffin in the cell, raise the stone in the chapel, and lower the corpse into the vault. And that, by way of thanks, the prioress was to admit his brother to the house as a gardener, and his niece as a pupil. That his brother was M. Madeleine, and that his niece was Cosette. That the prioress had told him to bring his brother on the following evening, after the counterfeit interment in the cemetery. But that he could not bring M. Madeleine in from the outside if M. Madeleine was not outside. That that was the first problem. And then, that there was another: the empty coffin."
"What is that empty coffin?" asked Jean Valjean.
Fauchelevent replied:--
"The coffin of the administration."
"What coffin? What administration?"
"A nun dies. The municipal doctor comes and says, `A nun has died.' The government sends a coffin. The next day it sends a hearse and undertaker's men to get the coffin and carry it to the cemetery. The undertaker's men will come and lift the coffin; there will be nothing in it."
"Put something in it."
"A corpse? I have none."
"No."
"What then?"
"A living person."
"What person?"
"Me!" said Jean Valjean.
Fauchelevent, who was seated, sprang up as though a bomb had burst under his chair.
"You!"
"Why not?"
Jean Valjean gave way to one of those rare smiles which lighted up his face like a flash from heaven in the winter.
"You know, Fauchelevent, what you have said: `Mother Crucifixion is dead.' and I add: `and Father Madeleine is buried.'
"Ah! good, you can laugh, you are not speaking seriously."
"Very seriously, I must get out of this place."
"Certainly."
"l have told you to find a basket, and a cover for me also,"
"Well?"
"The basket will be of pine, and the cover a black cloth."
"In the first place, it will be a white cloth. Nuns are buried in white."
"Let it be a white cloth, then."
"You are not like other men, Father Madeleine."
To behold such devices, which are nothing else than the savage and daring inventions of the galleys, spring forth from the peaceable things which surrounded him, and mingle with what he called the "petty course of life in the convent," caused Fauchelevent as much amazement as a gull fishing in the gutter of the Rue Saint-Denis would inspire in a passer-by.
Jean Valjean went on:--
"The problem is to get out of here without being seen. This offers the means. But give me some information, in the first place. How is it managed? Where is this coffin?"
"The empty one?"
"Yes."
"Down stairs, in what is called the dead-room. It stands on two trestles, under the pall."
"How long is the coffin?"
"Six feet."
"What is this dead-room?"
"It is a chamber on the ground floor which has a grated window opening on the garden, which is closed on the outside by a shutter, and two doors; one leads into the convent, the other into the church."
"What church?"
"The church in the street, the church which any one can enter."
"Have you the keys to those two doors?"
"No; I have the key to the door which communicates with the convent; the porter has the key to the door which communicates with the church."
"When does the porter open that door?"
"Only to allow the undertaker's men to enter, when they come to get the coffin. When the coffin has been taken out, the door is closed again."
"Who nails up the coffin?"
"I do."
"Who spreads the pall over it?"
"I do."
"Are you alone?"
"Not another man, except the police doctor, can enter the dead-room. That is even written on the wall."
"Could you hide me in that room to-night when every one is asleep?"
"No. But I could hide you in a small, dark nook which opens on the dead-room, where I keep my tools to use for burials, and of which I have the key."
"At what time will the hearse come for the coffin to-morrow?"
"About three o'clock in the afternoon. The burial will take place at the Vaugirard cemetery a little before nightfall. It is not very near."
"I will remain concealed in your tool-closet all night and all the morning. And how about fohought Fauchelevent. "In that case, it would be terrible."
contents  previous chapter  next chapter  
 
缅?find air where there is none, to economize his breath for hours, to know how to stifle without dying-- this was one of Jean Valjean's gloomy talents.
Moreover, a coffin containing a living being,--that convict's expedient,-- is also an imperial expedient. If we are to credit the monk Austin Castillejo, this was the means employed by Charles the Fifth, desirous of seeing the Plombes for the last time after his abdication.
He had her brought into and carried out of the monastery of Saint-Yuste in this manner.
Fauchelevent, who had recovered himself a little, exclaimed:--
"But how will you manage to breathe?"
"I will breathe."
"In that box! The mere thought of it suffocates me."
"You surely must have a gimlet, you will make a few holes here and there, around my mouth, and you will nail the top plank on loosely."
"Good! And what if you should happen to cough or to sneeze?"
"A man who is making his escape does not cough or sneeze."
And Jean Valjean added:--
"Father Fauchelevent, we must come to a decision: I must either be caught here, or accept this escape through the hearse."
Every one has noticed the taste which cats have for pausing and lounging between the two leaves of a half-shut door. Who is there who has not said to a cat, "Do come in!" There are men who, when an incident stands half-open before them, have the same tendency to halt in indecision between two resolutions, at the risk of getting crushed through the abrupt closing of the adventure by fate. The over-prudent, cats as they are, and because they are cats, sometimes incur more danger than the audacious. Fauchelevent was of this hesitating nature. But Jean Valjean's coolness prevailed over him in spite of himself. He grumbled:--
"Well, since there is no other means."
Jean Valjean resumed:--
"The only thing which troubles me is what will take place at the cemetery."
"That is the very point that is not troublesome," exclaimed Fauchelevent. "If you are sure of coming out of the coffin all right, I am sure of getting you out of the grave. The grave-digger is a drunkard, and a friend of mine. He is Father Mestienne. An old fellow of the old school. The grave-digger puts the corpses in the grave, and I put the grave-digger in my pocket. I will tell you what will take place. They will arrive a little before dusk, three-quarters of an hour before the gates of the cemetery are closed. The hearse will drive directly up to the grave. I shall follow; that is my business. I shall have a hammer, a chisel, and some pincers in my pocket. The hearse halts, the undertaker's men knot a rope around your coffin and lower you down. The priest says the prayers, makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles the holy water, and takes his departure. I am left alone with Father Mestienne. He is my friend, I tell you. One of two things will happen, he will either be sober, or he will not be sober. If he is not drunk, I shall say to him: `Come and drink a bout while the Bon Coing [the Good Quince] is open.' I carry him off, I get him drunk,-- it does not take long to make Father Mestienne drunk, he always has the beginning of it about him,--I lay him under the table, I take his card, so that I can get into the cemetery again, and I return without him. Then you have no longer any one but me to deal with. If he is drunk, I shall say to him: `Be off; I will do your work for you.' Off he goes, and I drag you out of the hole."
Jean Valjean held out his hand, and Fauchelevent precipitated himself upon it with the touching effusion of a peasant.
"That is settled, Father Fauchelevent. All will go well."
"Provided nothing goes wrong," thought Fauchelevent. "In that case, it would be terrible."
加斯迪莱约的作品
瘸子走路，就象独眼人送秋波，都不能直截了当地达到目的地。况且割风又正在心情烦乱的时候。他几乎花了一刻钟才回到园里的破屋里。珂赛特已经醒了。冉阿让让她坐在火旁。割风进屋子时，冉阿让正把那园丁挂在墙上的背箩指给她看并且说：
“好好听我说，我的小珂赛特。我们必须离开这个地方，但是我们要回来的，这样我们就能很好地住在这里了。这里的那位老大爷会让你待在那东西里，把你带走。你到一位太太家里去等我。我会去找你的。最要紧的是，要是你不想让德纳第大娘又把你抓回去，你就得乖乖地听我的话，什么也不能说啊！”
珂赛特郑重地点了点头。
冉阿让听到割风推门的声音，回转头去。
“怎样了？”
“一切都安排好了，一点也没有安排好，”割风说，“我得到允许，让您进来，但是在带您进来以前，得先带您出去。伤脑筋的就是这一点。至于这小姑娘，倒好办。”
“您答应背她出去吗？”
“她答应不出声吗？”
“我担保。”
“可是您呢，马德兰爷爷？”
经过一阵焦急的沉寂以后，割风喊道：
“从您进来的那条路出去，不就完了！”
冉阿让，和先头一样，只回答了一声：“不可能。”
割风嘴里叽里咕噜，却并非在和冉阿让谈话，而是在和他自己谈话：
“还有一件事，使我心里老嘀咕。我说过，放些泥土在里面。可是我想，那里装上泥，不会象是装个人，那样不成，那玩意儿会跑，会动。别人会看出毛病来的。您懂吗，马德兰爷爷，政府会察觉出来的。”
冉阿让直着双眼，老望他，以为他在说胡话。
割风接着又说：
“难道您就出不了这……鬼门关？问题是：一切都得在明天办妥！我得在明天领您进来。院长等着您。”
这时，他向冉阿让一一说明，这是由于他，割风，要替修院办件事而得来的报酬；办理丧事也是他应干的活，他得把棺材钉好，还得到公墓去帮那埋葬工人。早晨死去的那个修女曾要求把她装殓在她平日拿来当床用的棺材里，并且要把她埋在圣坛祭台下的地窖里，这种做法是警务条例所不许可的，而死者却又是那样一个不容违拗的修女。院长和参议嬷嬷们都决定要了死者的愿，政府不政府，不管它了；他，割风，要到那矮屋子里去钉上棺材，到圣坛里去旋开石板，还得把那死人送到地窖下面去。为了酬谢他，院长同意让他的兄弟到修院里来当园丁，也让他的侄女来寄读，他的兄弟便是马德兰先生，侄女便是珂赛特。院长说过，要他在明天傍晚时，等到公墓里的假掩埋办妥后，把他的兄弟带来。可是他不能把马德兰先生从外面带进来，要是马德兰先生不先在外面的话。这是首先遇到的困难，还有一层困难，便是那口空棺材。
“什么空棺材？”冉阿让问。
割风回答说：
“管理机关的棺材。”
“什么棺材？什么管理机关。”
“死了一个修女。市政府的医生来了并且说：‘有个修女死了。’政府便送来一口棺材。第二天，再派一辆丧车和几个殡仪执事来把那棺材抬到公墓去。殡仪执事们来了，抬起那棺材，里面却没有东西。”
“放点东西在里面。”
“放个死人？我找不出。”
“不是。”
“那么，什么呢？”
“放个活人。”
“什么活人？”
“我。”冉阿让说。
割风，原是坐着的，他猛地站起，好象椅子下面响了一个爆竹。
“您！”
“为什么不呢？”
冉阿让露出一种少见的笑容，正如冬季里天空中的那种微光。
“您知道，割风，您先头说过：受难嬷嬷死了，我补上了一句说，马德兰先生埋了。事情就是这样。”
“啊，好，您是在开玩笑。您不是在说正经话。”
“绝对正经。我不是得先从这里出去吗？”
“当然。”
“我早和您说过，要您替我找一个背箩和一块油布。”
“那又怎样呢？”
“来个杉木背箩和一块黑布就可以了。”
“首先，只有白布。葬修女，全用白的。”
“白布也成。”
“您这个人，不和旁人一样，马德兰爷爷。”
这种幻想也只不过是苦役牢里的一种横蛮大胆的发明，割风是一向被圈在平静的事物中的，他平日见到的，按照他的说法，“只是修院里的一些磨磨蹭蹭的事儿”，现在忽然有这种奇想出现在他那宁静的环境里，而且要和修院牵涉在一起，他当时的惊骇竟可和一个看见一只海鸥在圣德尼街边溪流里捕鱼的行人的神情相比。
冉阿让接着说：
“问题是要从这里偷跑出去。现在这就是个办法。但是您得先把一切情形告诉我。事情怎样进行？棺材在哪里？”
“空的那口吗？”
“对。”
“在下面，所谓的太平间里。放在两个木架上，上面盖了一块盖棺布。”
“那棺材有多长？”
“六尺。”
“太平间是怎样的？”
“那是底层的一间屋子，有一扇窗对着园子，窗口有铁条，窗板从外面开关，还有两扇门：一扇通修院，一扇通礼拜堂。”
“什么礼拜堂？”
“街上的礼拜堂，大众的礼拜堂。”
“您有那两扇门的钥匙吗？”
“没有。我只有通修院那扇门的钥匙，通礼拜堂那扇门的钥匙在门房手里。”
“什么时候门房才开那扇门呢？”
“只是在殡仪执事要进去抬棺材的时候，他才开那扇门。
棺材出去了，门又得关上。”
“谁钉棺材？”
“我钉。”
“谁盖那块布？”
“我盖。”
“就您一个人吗？”
“除了警署的医生以外，任何男人都不许进太平间。那是写好在墙上的。”
“今天晚上，等到修院里大家全睡了，您能不能把我蒙在那屋子里？”
“不成。但是我可以把您藏在一间通太平间的小黑屋子里，那是我放埋葬工具的地方，归我管，钥匙也在我这里。”
“灵车在明天几点钟来取棺材？”
“下午三点左右。在伏吉拉尔公墓下葬，在天快黑的时候，那地方不很近。”
“我就在您放工具的小屋子里躲一整夜和整个半天。可是吃的东西呢？我会饿的。”
“吃的，我送来给您。”
“到两点钟时，您来把我钉在棺材里。”
割风朝后退了一步，把两只手上的骨节捏得嘎嘎响。
“这，我做不到。”
“这算得了什么！拿一个铁锈，把几个钉子钉到木板里面去！”
在割风看来好象是荒唐的事，我们再说一遍，在冉阿让的眼里，却是平凡的。冉阿让已走过比这更险的险路。凡是当过囚犯的人都有一套艺术，知道怎样按照逃生的路的口径来缩小自己的身体。囚犯要逃命，正如病人去求医，是生是死，在所不顾。逃命也就是医病。为了医好病，有什么不能接受的呢？让别人把自己钉在一个匣子里，当作一个包裹运出去，在盒子里慢慢地争取生命，在没有空气的地方找空气，在连续几个钟头里节约自己的呼吸，知道闭气而不死，这是冉阿让多种惨痛的才能之一。
其实，棺材里藏活人，苦役犯所采用的这种救急办法，也是帝王所采用的。假使奥斯丹·加斯迪莱约的记载可靠的话，查理五世①在逊位以后，想和卜隆白作最后一次会晤时，便用这种方法把她抬进圣茹斯特修院，继又把她抬出去的。 
①查理五世是十六世纪德意志皇帝，逊位后出家修道。
割风，稍稍镇静以后，大声问道：
“可是您怎么能呼吸呢？”
“我会呼吸的。”
“在那盒子里！我，只要想想，已经吐不出气来了。”
“您一定有一个螺丝锥，您在靠近嘴的地方，随便锥几个小孔，上面的木板，也不要钉得太紧。”
“好！万一您要咳嗽或打喷嚏呢？”
“逃命的人从来不咳嗽，也不打喷嚏。”
冉阿让又加了一句：
“割风爷，得拿定主意了：或是在这里等人家来捉，或是接受由灵车带出去的办法。”
大家都见过，猫儿有一种癖性，它爱在半掩着的门边徘徊不前。谁也对猫儿说：“进来！”有些人在半开着的机会面前也一样会有停滞在两种决策中左思右想的表现，冒着让自己被压在陡然截断生路的命运下面。那些过于谨慎的人，浑身是猫性，并且正因为他们是猫，他们遇到的危险有时反而比大胆的人更多更大。割风正是那种具有顾前思后性格的人。可是冉阿让的冷静态度，使他不由自主地被争取过来了。他嘟嘟囔囔地说：
“总之，除此以外，没有旁的办法。”
冉阿让接着说：
“唯一使我担心的事，便是不知道到了公墓怎么办。”
“这倒正是我放心的地方，”割风大声说，“要是您有把握，让自己能出棺材，那我也有把握让您能出坟坑。那个埋葬工人是个酒鬼，是我的朋友。梅斯千爷爷。一个爱喝酒的老头儿。埋葬工人把死人放在坟坑里，而我，我可以把埋葬工人放在我的口袋里。到了公墓怎么办，让我先来告诉您。我们到了那里，天还没有黑，离坟场关铁栅栏的时候还有三刻钟。灵车要一直滚到坟坑边。我在后面跟着，那是我的任务。我衣袋里带着一个铁锤、一把凿子、一个取钉钳。灵车停下来，殡仪执事们兜着您的棺材结上一根绳子，把您吊下去。神甫走来念些经，画一个十字，洒上圣水，溜了。我一个人和梅斯千爷爷留下来。那是我的朋友，我告诉您。总是两件事，要不是他喝醉了，要不是他没有喝醉。要是他没有喝醉，我就对他说：‘我们来喝一盅，趁这时好木瓜酒馆还开着。’我带他去，我把他灌醉，梅斯千爷爷用不着几下子便会醉倒，他是老带着几分醉意的，我为你让他直躺在桌子下面，拿了他那张进公墓的工作证，把他甩下，我自个儿回来。您就只有我一个人要对付了。要是他已经醉了，我就对他说：‘去你的，让我来干你的活。’他走了，我把您从洞里拖上来。”
冉阿让向他伸出一只手，割风跳上前，一把握住，乡下人的那股热情的确很动人。
“我同意，割风爷。一切顺利。”
“只要不发生意外，”割风心里想，“这是多么大的一场风险！”
Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 5 It is not Necessary to be Drunk in order to be Immortal
On the following day, as the sun was declining, the very rare passers-by on the Boulevard du Maine pulled off their hats to an old-fashioned hearse, ornamented with skulls, cross-bones, and tears. This hearse contained a coffin covered with a white cloth over which spread a large black cross, like a huge corpse with drooping arms. A mourning-coach, in which could be seen a priest in his surplice, and a choir boy in his red cap, followed. Two undertaker's men in gray uniforms trimmed with black walked on the right and the left of the hearse. Behind it came an old man in the garments of a laborer, who limped along. The procession was going in the direction of the Vaugirard cemetery.
The handle of a hammer, the blade of a cold chisel, and the antennae of a pair of pincers were visible, protruding from the man's pocket.
The Vaugirard cemetery formed an exception among the cemeteries of Paris. It had its peculiar usages, just as it had its carriage entrance and its house door, which old people in the quarter, who clung tenaciously to ancient words, still called the porte cavaliere and the porte pietonne.[16] The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Rue Petit-Picpus had obtained permission, as we have already stated, to be buried there in a corner apart, and at night, the plot of land having formerly belonged to their community. The grave-diggers being thus bound to service in the evening in summer and at night in winter, in this cemetery, they were subjected to a special discipline. The gates of the Paris cemeteries closed, at that epoch, at sundown, and this being a municipal regulation, the Vaugirard cemetery was bound by it like the rest. The carriage gate and the house door were two contiguous grated gates, adjoining a pavilion built by the architect Perronet, and inhabited by the door-keeper of the cemetery. These gates, therefore, swung inexorably on their hinges at the instant when the sun disappeared behind the dome of the Invalides. If any grave-digger were delayed after that moment in the cemetery, there was but one way for him to get out-- his grave-digger's card furnished by the department of public funerals. A sort of letter-box was constructed in the porter's window. The grave-digger dropped his card into this box, the porter heard it fall, pulled the rope, and the small door opened. If the man had not his card, he mentioned his name, the porter, who was sometimes in bed and asleep, rose, came out and identified the man, and opened the gate with his key; the grave-digger stepped out, but had to pay a fine of fifteen francs.
[16] Instead of porte cochere and porte batarde.
This cemetery, with its peculiarities outside the regulations, embarrassed the symmetry of the administration. It was suppressed a little later than 1830. The cemetery of Mont-Parnasse, called the Eastern cemetery, succeeded to it, and inherited that famous dram-shop next to the Vaugirard cemetery, which was surmounted by a quince painted on a board, and which formed an angle, one side on the drinkers' tables, and the other on the tombs, with this sign: Au Bon Coing.
The Vaugirard cemetery was what may be called a faded cemetery. It was falling into disuse. Dampness was invading it, the flowers were deserting it. The bourgeois did not care much about being buried in the Vaugirard; it hinted at poverty. Pere-Lachaise if you please! to be buried in Pere-Lachaise is equivalent to having furniture of mahogany. It is recognized as elegant. The Vaugirard cemetery was a venerable enclosure, planted like an old-fashioned French garden. Straight alleys, box, thuya-trees, holly, ancient tombs beneath aged cypress-trees, and very tall grass. In the evening it was tragic there. There were very lugubrious lines about it.
The sun had not yet set when the hearse with the white pall and the black cross entered the avenue of the Vaugirard cemetery. The lame man who followed it was no other than Fauchelevent.
The interment of Mother Crucifixion in the vault under the altar, the exit of Cosette, the introduction of Jean Valjean to the dead-room,-- all had been executed without difficulty, and there had been no hitch.
Let us remark in passing, that the burial of Mother Crucifixion under the altar of the convent is a perfectly venial offence in our sight. It is one of the faults which resemble a duty. The nuns had committed it, not only without difficulty, but even with the applause of their own consciences. In the cloister, what is called the "government" is only an intermeddling with authority, an interference which is always questionable. In the first place, the rule; as for the code, we shall see. Make as many laws as you please, men; but keep them for yourselves. The tribute to Caesar is never anything but the remnants of the tribute to God. A prince is nothing in the presence of a principle.
Fauchelevent limped along behind the hearse in a very contented frame of mind. His twin plots, the one with the nuns, the one for the convent, the other against it, the other with M. Madeleine, had succeeded, to all appearance. Jean Valjean's composure was one of those powerful tranquillities which are contagious. Fauchelevent no longer felt doubtful as to his success.
What remained to be done was a mere nothing. Within the last two years, he had made good Father Mestienne, a chubby-cheeked person, drunk at least ten times. He played with Father Mestienne. He did what he liked with him. He made him dance according to his whim. Mestienne's head adjusted itself to the cap of Fauchelevent's will. Fauchelevent's confidence was perfect.
At the moment when the convoy entered the avenue leading to the cemetery, Fauchelevent glanced cheerfully at the hearse, and said half aloud, as he rubbed his big hands:--
"Here's a fine farce!"
All at once the hearse halted; it had reached the gate. The permission for interment must be exhibited. The undertaker's man addressed himself to the porter of the cemetery. During this colloquy, which always is productive of a delay of from one to two minutes, some one, a stranger, came and placed himself behind the hearse, beside Fauchelevent. He was a sort of laboring man, who wore a waistcoat with large pockets and carried a mattock under his arm.
Fauchelevent surveyed this stranger.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"The man replied:--
"The grave-digger."
If a man could survive the blow of a cannon-ball full in the breast, he would make the same face that Fauchelevent made.
"The grave-digger?"
"Yes."
"You?"
"I."
"Father Mestienne is the grave-digger."
"He was."
"What! He was?"
"He is dead."
Fauchelevent had expected anything but this, that a grave-digger could die. It is true, nevertheless, that grave-diggers do die themselves. By dint of excavating graves for other people, one hollows out one's own.
Fauchelevent stood there with his mouth wide open. He had hardly the strength to stammer:--
"But it is not possible!"
"It is so."
"But," he persisted feebly, "Father Mestienne is the grave-digger."
"After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier. Peasant, my name is Gribier."
Fauchelevent, who was deadly pale, stared at this Gribier.
He was a tall, thin, livid, utterly funereal man. He had the air of an unsuccessful doctor who had turned grave-digger.
Fauchelevent burst out laughing.
"Ah!" said he, "what queer things do happen! Father Mestienne is dead, but long live little Father Lenoir! Do you know who little Father Lenoir is? He is a jug of red wine. It is a jug of St drops of perspiration trickled down from his brow.
"But," continued the grave-digger, "a man cannot serve two mistresses. I must choose between the pen and the mattock. The mattock is ruining my hand."
The hearse halted.
The choir boy alighted from the mourning-coach, then the priest.
One of the small front wheels of the hearse had run up a little on a pile of earth, beyond which an open grave was visible.
"What a farce this is!" repeated Fauchelevent in consternation.
第二天，太阳偏西时，梅恩大路上的寥寥几个来往行人对一辆过路的灵车脱帽①，那灵车是老式的，上面画了骷髅、大腿骨和眼泪。灵车里有一口棺材，棺材上遮着一块白布，布上摊着一个极大的十字架，好象一个高大的死人，向两边垂着两条胳膊，仰卧在那上面。后面跟着一辆有布帷的四轮轿车，行人可以望见那轿车里坐着一个穿白袈裟的神甫和一个戴红瓜皮帽的唱诗童子。两个灰色制服上有黑丝带盘花装饰的殡仪执事走在灵车的左右两旁。后面还有一个穿着工人服的瘸腿老人。送葬行列正向伏吉拉尔公墓走去。 
①欧俗，看见灵车走过的人都肃然脱帽。
从那老人的衣袋里，露出一段铁锈的柄、一把钝口凿和一把取钉钳的两个把手。
伏吉拉尔公墓，在巴黎的几个公墓中是独特的。它有它的特殊习惯，正如它的大车门和侧门在附近一带那些死记着古老字眼的老人们的嘴里还叫做骑士门和行人门一样上的毛病，多半是由于他心里焦急。
埋葬工人走在他前头。
割风对那个突如其来的格利比埃，又仔细打量了一番。
那是一个那种年轻而显得年老、干瘪而又非常壮实的人。
“伙计！”割风减道。
那人回转头来。
“我是修院里的埋葬工人。”
“老前辈。”那个人说。
割风虽然是个老粗，却也精细，他懂得他遇到了一个不好对付的家伙，一个能言善道的人物。
他嘟囔着：
“想不到，梅斯千爷爷死了。”
那人回答说：
“整个完了。慈悲的天主翻了他的生死簿。梅斯千爷爷的期限到了。梅斯千爷爷便死了。”
割风机械地重复说：
“慈悲的天主……”
“慈悲的天主，”那人严肃地说，“按照哲学家的称呼，是永恒之父，按照雅各派修士①的称呼，是上帝。” 
①雅各派修士属天主教多明我会体系。
“难道我们不打算彼此介绍一下吗？”割风吞吞吐吐地问。
“已经介绍过了。您是乡下佬，我是巴黎人。”
“不喝不成知己，干杯就是倾心。您得和我去霎囙公墓，由于它那些不合常规的规定，影响了行政上的管理。它在一八三○年过后不久便被取消了。巴纳斯山公墓，也叫东坟场，接替了它，并且接管了伏吉拉尔公墓那家官商合营的著名饮料店，那饮料店的房顶顶着一个画在木板上的木瓜，店面在转角处，一面对着客座，一面对着坟墓，招牌上写着：“好木瓜”。
伏吉拉尔公墓可以说是一个枯萎了的公墓。它没落下来了，它被苔藓侵袭又被花卉遗弃。大户人家都不大乐意葬在伏吉拉尔，免得寒酸相。拉雪兹神甫公墓①，恭喜恭喜！葬在拉雪兹神甫公墓就象有了红木家具一样。那地方给人一种华贵的印象。伏吉拉尔公墓是个古色古香的园子，树木是按照法国古老园林格局栽植的。一条条笔直的小路，两旁有冬青、侧柏、枸骨叶冬青、古老的坟冢在古老的水松下面，草很高。入夜一片悲凉气象。有些景色极其阴森。 
①拉雪兹神甫（PèreALachaise），法王路易十四的忏悔神甫，他在巴黎东郊有块地，一八○四年改为公墓，并以他的名字命名。
那辆盖了一块白布和一个黑十字架的灵车走进伏吉拉尔公墓大路时，太阳还没有下去。走在车子后面的那个瘸腿老人便是割风。
受难嬷嬷被安葬在祭台下面的地窖里，珂赛特被送出大门，冉阿让溜进太平间，这一切都进行得很顺利，没有发生任何阻碍。
我们附带说一句，把受难嬷嬷埋葬在修院祭台下这件事，在我们看来完全是无足轻重的。那种错误似乎也无悖于为人之道。修女们办妥这件事，她们不但没有感到慌乱，反而觉得心安理得。在修院里，一般所说的“政府”，只意味着当局的干预，这种干预总是成问题的。首要的是教规，至于法律，慢慢再看。人呀，你们高兴订多少法律，尽量去订你们的，但是请你们都留给自己使用吧。对人主的贡献从来就只能是对天主的贡献的剩余。王子在理性面前也一文不值。
割风得意洋洋地跟着那灵车一步一拐。他那双重秘密，他那对孪生的诡计，一个是和修女们串通的，另一个是和马德兰先生串通的，一个是向着修院的，另一个是背着修院的，都一齐如了愿。冉阿让的镇静是种具有强大感染力的镇静。割风不再怀疑是否成功这件事了。剩下来要做的事都算不了什么。两年以来，他把那埋葬工人，忠厚老实的梅斯千爷爷，一个脸胖胖的老好人，灌醉过十次。对梅斯千爷爷，他一向把他当作掌中物，随意摆布。他常把自己的意志和奇想当作帽子似的强加在他的头上。梅斯千的脑袋总迁就割风的帽子。割风自信有绝对的把握。
当行列转入那条通向公墓的大路时，割风，心里痒痒的，望着那灵车，搓着一双大手，细声说：
“这玩笑开得可不小！”
忽然，那灵车停住了，大家已经走到铁栏门。得交验掩埋许可证。殡仪馆的一个人和那公墓的门房会了面。交涉总得使大家等上两三分钟，正在交涉的时候，有个人，谁也不认识的，走来站在灵车后面割风的旁边。这是一个工人模样的人，穿一件有大口袋的罩衣，胳肢窝里夹着一把十字镐。
割风望着那个阳生人。
“您是谁？”他问。
那个人回答：
“埋葬工人。”
假如有个人当胸受了一颗炮弹而不死，他的面孔一定会和割风当时的面孔一个样。
“埋葬工人？”
“对。”
“您？”
“我。”
“埋葬工人是梅斯千爷爷。”
“从前是的。”
“怎么！从前是的？”
“他死了。”
割风什么都料到了，却没有料到这一着，没有料到埋葬工人也能死。那却是事实，埋葬工人一样会死。人在不断替别人挖掘坟坑时，也逐渐掘开了自己的坟坑。
割风张着嘴，呆住了。他费了大劲，才结结巴巴说了一句：
“这，这是不会有的事。”
“现在就有了。”
“可是，”他又上气不接下气地接着说，“埋葬工人，是梅斯千爷爷嘛。”
“拿破仑以后，路易十八。梅斯千以后，格利比埃。乡下佬，我叫格利比埃。”
割风面无人色，打量着格利比埃。
那是个瘦长、脸青、冷酷到极点的汉子。他那神气就象一个行医不得志改业做埋葬工人的医生。
割风放声大笑。
“哈！真是怪事！梅斯千爷爷死了。梅斯千小爷爷死了，但是勒诺瓦小爷爷万岁！您知道勒诺瓦小爷爷是什么吗？那是柜台上六法郎一瓶的红酒。那是叙雷讷的出品，真捧！巴黎地道的叙雷讷！哈！他死了，梅斯千这老头儿！我心里多么不好受，那是个快活人。其实您也是个快活人。对不对，伙计？等一会儿，我们去干一杯。”
那人回答说：“我念过书。我念完了第四班①。我从来不喝酒。” 
①法国中小学十年一贯制，第四班即六年级。
灵车又走动了，在公墓的大路上前进。
割风放慢了脚步，这不完全是由于他腿上的毛病，多半是由于他心里焦急。
埋葬工人走在他前头。
割风对那个突如其来的格利比埃，又仔细打量了一番。
那是一个那种年轻而显得年老、干瘪而又非常壮实的人。
“伙计！”割风减道。
那人回转头来。
“我是修院里的埋葬工人。”
“老前辈。”那个人说。
割风虽然是个老粗，却也精细，他懂得他遇到了一个不好对付的家伙，一个能言善道的人物。
他嘟囔着：
“想不到，梅斯千爷爷死了。”
那人回答说：
“整个完了。慈悲的天主翻了他的生死簿。梅斯千爷爷的期限到了。梅斯千爷爷便死了。”
割风机械地重复说：
“慈悲的天主……”
“慈悲的天主，”那人严肃地说，“按照哲学家的称呼，是永恒之父，按照雅各派修士①的称呼，是上帝。” 
①雅各派修士属天主教多明我会体系。
“难道我们不打算彼此介绍一下吗？”割风吞吞吐吐地问。
“已经介绍过了。您是乡下佬，我是巴黎人。”
“不喝不成知己，干杯就是倾心。您得和我去喝一盅。这不该推辞。”
“工作第一。”
割风心里想道：“我完了。”
车轮只消再转几圈，便到修女们那个角落的小路上了。
埋葬工人接着说：
“我有七个小把戏得养活。他们要吃饭，我也只好不喝酒。”
象个咬文嚼字的呆子似的，他还带着自负的神气补上一句：
“他们的饿是我的渴的敌人。”
灵车绕着一棵参天古柏，离开了大路，转进了小路，走上了泥地，进入丛莽。这说明立刻就要到达那坟地边上了。割风可以放慢自己的脚步，却不能拖住那灵车。幸而土是松的，被冬季的雨水浸湿了，阻滞着车轮，降低了进度。
他靠近那埋葬工人。
“有一种极好的阿尔让特伊小酒。”割风低声慢气地说。
“村老倌，”那人接着说，“我来当埋葬工人，那原是不该有的事。我父亲是会堂的传达。他原希望我搞文学。但是他碰到了倒霉的事。他在交易所里亏了本。我就只好放弃当作家的希望，不过我还是个摆摊子的写字先生。”
“那么您不是埋葬工人了？”割风紧接着说，赶忙抓住这一线希望，虽然很微渺。
“干这一行还是可以干那一行，我身兼二职。”
割风不懂后面那句话。
“来喝一杯。”他说。
有一点得注意一下，割风带着万分焦急的心情请人喝酒，却没有表示谁付账？从前，经常是割风请人喝酒，梅斯千爷爷付账。这次请人喝酒，起因当然是那个新埋葬工人所造成的新局面，并且是应当请的，可是那老园丁并不是没有打算，把人平日常说的“拉伯雷的那一刻钟”①始终按下不提。割风尽管着了慌，却丝毫没有付钱的打算。 
①“拉伯雷的那一刻钟”，通常是指没钱付账的窘困时刻。拉伯雷要去巴黎，走到里昂，没有钱付旅费。他包了三个小包，上面分别注明：“给国王吃的毒药”、“给王后吃的毒药”、“给太子吃的毒药”，并把这三个包放在他住房的附近。侦缉队发现后，逮捕了拉伯雷，押送到巴黎，报告国王，国王弗朗索瓦一世大笑，立即释放了他。
那个埋葬工人，带着高傲的笑容，接着说：
“吃饭要紧。我继承了梅斯千爷爷的职业。一个人在几乎完成学业时，他就有一个哲学头脑。在手的工作以外，我又加上胳膊的工作。我在塞夫勒街市场上有个写字棚。您知道吗？在雨伞市场。红十字会所有的厨娘都来找我。我得替她们凑合一些表达情意的话，写给那些淘气鬼。我早上写情书，晚上挖坟坑。土包子，这就是生活。”
灵车直往前走。割风，慌乱到了无以复加，只朝四面乱望。
大颗大颗的汗水从他的额头上淌下来。
“可是，”那埋葬工人继续说，“一个人不能伺候两个婆婆。
我得选择一样，是笔还是镐。镐会弄坏我的手。”
灵车停住了。
唱诗童子从那装了布帷的车子里走出来。接着是那神甫。
灵车前面的一个小轮子已经滚上了土堆边，再过去，便是那敞着的坟坑了。
“这玩笑开得可不小！”割风无限沮丧，又说了这么一句。
Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 6 Between Four Planks
Who was in the coffin? The reader knows. Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean had arranged things so that he could exist there, and he could almost breathe.
It is a strange thing to what a degree security of conscience confers security of the rest. Every combination thought out by Jean Valjean had been progressing, and progressing favorably, since the preceding day. He, like Fauchelevent, counted on Father Mestienne. He had no doubt as to the end. Never was there a more critical situation, never more complete composure.
The four planks of the coffin breathe out a kind of terrible peace. It seemed as though something of the repose of the dead entered into Jean Valjean's tranquillity.
From the depths of that coffin he had been able to follow, and he had followed, all the phases of the terrible drama which he was playing with death.
Shortly after Fauchelevent had finished nailing on the upper plank, Jean Valjean had felt himself carried out, then driven off. He knew, from the diminution in the jolting, when they left the pavements and reached the earth road. He had divined, from a dull noise, that they were crossing the bridge of Austerlitz. At the first halt, he had understood that they were entering the cemetery; at the second halt, he said to himself:--
"Here is the grave."
Suddenly, he felt hands seize the coffin, then a harsh grating against the planks; he explained it to himself as the rope which was being fastened round the casket in order to lower it into the cavity.
Then he experienced a giddiness.
The undertaker's man and the grave-digger had probably allowed the coffin to lose its balance, and had lowered the head before the foot. He recovered himself fully when he felt himself horizontal and motionless. He had just touched the bottom.
He had a certain sensation of cold.
A voice rose above him, glacial and solemn. He heard Latin words, which he did not understand, pass over him, so slowly that he was able to catch them one by one:--
"Qui dormiunt in terrae pulvere, evigilabunt; alii in vitam aeternam, et alii in approbrium, ut videant semper."
A child's voice said:--
"De profundis."
The grave voice began again:--
"Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine."
The child's voice responded:--
"Et lux perpetua luceat ei."
He heard something like the gentle patter of several drops of rain on the plank which covered him. It was probably the holy water.
He thought: "This will be over soon now. Patience for a little while longer. The priest will take his departure. Fauchelevent will take Mestienne off to drink. I shall be left. Then Fauchelevent will return alone, and I shall get out. That will be the work of a good hour."
The grave voice resumed
"Requiescat in pace."
And the child's voice said:--
"Amen."
Jean Valjean strained his ears, and heard something like retreating footsteps.
"There, they are going now," thought he. "I am alone."
All at once, he heard over his head a sound which seemed to him to be a clap of thunder.
It was a shovelful of earth falling on the coffin.
A second shovelful fell.
One of the holes through which he breathed had just been stopped up.
A third shovelful of earth fell.
Then a fourth.
There are things which are too strong for the strongest man. Jean Valjean lost consciousness.
是谁在那棺材里？大家都知道。冉阿让。
冉阿让想出了办法，在那里面能活着，他勉强可以呼吸。
确是奇怪，心境的安宁可以保证其他一切的安宁。冉阿让在事先推测的一整套全合了拍，并且从前一晚起，一切都进行得顺利。他和割风一样，把希望寄托在梅斯千爷爷身上。他对最后的结局毫不怀疑。从来没有比这更紧张的情势，也从来没有比这更彻底的安定。
那四块棺材板形成一种骇人的宁静。在冉阿让的镇定里，仿佛真有从此长眠的意味。
他从棺材底里，能够感受也确实是在感受他这次和死亡作游戏的戏剧场面是怎样一幕一幕进展的。
割风钉完上面那块盖板以后不久，冉阿让便觉得自己是在空间移动，继又随着车子向前进。由于震动的减轻，他感到他已从石块路面到了碎石路面，那就是说，他已离开街道到了大路上。在一阵空廓的声音里，他猜想那是在过奥斯特里茨桥。在第一次停下来时，他懂得他就要进公墓了，在第二次停下来时，他对自己说：“到了坟坑边了。”
他忽然觉得有许多手把住了棺材，接着在四面的木板上，起了一阵粗糙的摩擦声音，他明白，那是在棺材上绕绳子，准备结好了吊到洞里去。
随后他感到一阵头晕。
很可能是因为那些殡仪执事和埋葬工人让那棺材晃了几下并且是头先脚后吊下去的。他立即又完全恢复原状，感到自己平平稳稳地躺着。他刚碰到了底。
他微微地感到一股冷气。
从他上面传来一阵凄厉而严肃的嗓音。他听到一个个的拉丁字在慢慢地播送，他每个字都能抓住，但是全不懂：
“Quidormiuntinterraepulvere，evigilabunt；aliiinviA
tamaeternam，etaliiinopprobrium，utvideantsemper．”①
一个孩子的声音说：
“Deprofundis．”②
那低沉的声音又开始了：
“Requiem　eternam　dona　ei，domine．”③
孩子的声音回答着：
“Et　iux　perpetua　luceat　ei．”④
他听到在遮着他的那块板上有几滴雨点轻轻敲打的声音，那也许是洒圣水。
他心里想：“快结束了。再忍耐一下。神甫快走了。割风带着梅斯千去喝酒。大家把我留下。随后割风独自一人回来，我就出来了。这买卖总还得足足的个把钟头。”
那低沉的声音又说：
“Repuiescat　in　pace．”⑤
孩子的声音说：
“阿们。” 
①“睡在尘土中的人们，醒来，让在永生中的人们和在屈辱中的人们永远看得见。”
②“从深渊的底里。”（是一首安魂诗起头的两个字）
③“主啊，请给他永久的安息。”
④“永恒的光照着他。”
⑤“愿他平安。”　
冉阿让，张着耳朵，听到一阵仿佛是许多脚步往远处走的声音。
“他们走了，”他心里想道，“就剩下我一个人了。”
突然一下，他听见他头上仿佛是遭到了雷打的声音。
那是落在棺材上的一锹土。
第二锹土又落下了。
他用来呼吸的孔已有一个被堵住了。
第三锹土又落下了。
接着又是第四锹。
有些事是最坚强的人也受不了的。冉阿让失去了知觉。
Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 8 A Successful Interrogatory
An hour later, in the darkness of night, two men and a child presented themselves at No. 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. The elder of the men lifted the knocker and rapped.
They were Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, and Cosette.
The two old men had gone to fetch Cosette from the fruiterer's in the Rue du Chemin-Vert, where Fauchelevent had deposited her on the preceding day. Cosette had passed these twenty-four hours trembling silently and understanding nothing. She trembled to such a degree that she wept. She had neither eaten nor slept. The worthy fruit-seller had plied her with a hundred questions, without obtaining any other reply than a melancholy and unvarying gaze. Cosette had betrayed nothing of what she had seen and heard during the last two days. She divined that they were passing through a crisis. She was deeply conscious that it was necessary to "be good." Who has not experienced the sovereign power of those two words, pronounced with a certain accent in the ear of a terrified little being: Say nothing! Fear is mute. Moreover, no one guards a secret like a child.
But when, at the expiration of these lugubrious twenty-four hours, she beheld Jean Valjean again, she gave vent to such a cry of joy, that any thoughtful person who had chanced to hear that cry, would have guessed that it issued from an abyss.
Fauchelevent belonged to the convent and knew the pass-words. All the doors opened.
Thus was solved the double and alarming problem of how to get out and how to get in.
The porter, who had received his instructions, opened the little servant's door which connected the courtyard with the garden, and which could still be seen from the street twenty years ago, in the wall at the bottom of the court, which faced the carriage entrance.
The porter admitted all three of them through this door, and from that point they reached the inner, reserved parlor where Fauchelevent, on the preceding day, had received his orders from the prioress.
The prioress, rosary in hand, was waiting for them. A vocal mother, with her veil lowered, stood beside her.
A discreet candle lighted, one might almost say, made a show of lighting the parlor.
The prioress passed Jean Valjean in review. There is nothing which examines like a downcast eye.
Then she questioned him:--
"You are the brother?"
"Yes, reverend Mother," replied Fauchelevent.
"What is your name?"
Fauchelevent replied:--
"Ultime Fauchelevent."
He really had had a brother named Ultime, who was dead.
"Where do you come from?"
Fauchelevent replied:--
"From Picquigny, near Amiens."
"What is your age?"
Fauchelevent replied:--
"Fifty."
"What is your profession?"
Fauchelevent replied:--
"Gardener."
"Are you a good Christian?"
Fauchelevent replied:--
"Every one is in the family."
"Is this your little girl?"
Fauchelevent replied:--
"Yes, reverend Mother."
"You are her father?"
Fauchelevent replied:--
"Her grandfather."
The vocal mother said to the prioress in a low voice
"He answers well."
Jean Valjean had not uttered a single word.
The prioress looked attentively at Cosette, and said half aloud to the vocal mother:--
"She will grow up ugly."
The two mothers consulted for a few moments in very low tones in the corner of the parlor, then the prioress turned round and said:--
"Father Fauvent, you will get another knee-cap with a bell. Two will be required now."
On the following day, therefore, two bells were audible in the garden, and the nuns could not resist the temptation to raise the corner of their veils. At the extreme end of the garden, under the trees, two men, Fauvent and another man, were visible as they dug side by side. An enormous event. Their silence was broken to the extent of saying to each other: "He is an assistant gardener."
The vocal mothers added: "He is a brother of Father Fauvent."
Jean Valjean was, in fact, regularly installed; he had his belled knee-cap; henceforth he was official. His name was Ultime Fauchelevent.
The most powerful determining cause of his admission had been the prioress's observation upon Cosette: "She will grow up ugly."
The prioress, that pronounced prognosticator, immediately took a fancy to Cosette and gave her a place in the school as a charity pupil.
There is nothing that is not strictly logical about this.
It is in vain that mirrors are banished from the convent, women are conscious of their faces; now, girls who are conscious of their beauty do not easily become nuns; the vocation being voluntary in inverse proportion to their good looks, more is to be hoped from the ugly than from the pretty. Hence a lively taste for plain girls.
The whole of this adventure increased the importance of good, old Fauchelevent; he won a triple success; in the eyes of Jean Valjean, whom he had saved and sheltered; in those of grave-digger Gribier, who said to himself: "He spared me that fine"; with the convent, which, being enabled, thanks to him, to retain the coffin of Mother Crucifixion under the altar, eluded Caesar and satisfied God. There was a coffin containing a body in the Petit-Picpus, and a coffin without a body in the Vaugirard cemetery, public order had no doubt been deeply disturbed thereby, but no one was aware of it.
As for the convent, its gratitude to Fauchelevent was very great. Fauchelevent became the best of servitors and the most precious of gardeners. Upon the occasion of the archbishop's next visit, the prioress recounted the affair to his Grace, making something of a confession at the same time, and yet boasting of her deed. On leaving the convent, the archbishop mentioned it with approval, and in a whisper to M. de Latil, Monsieur's confessor, afterwards Archbishop of Reims and Cardinal. This admiration for Fauchelevent became widespread, for it made its way to Rome. We have seen a note addressed by the then reigning Pope, Leo XII., to one of his relatives, a Monsignor in the Nuncio's establishment in Paris, and bearing, like himself, the name of Della Genga; it contained these lines: "It appears that there is in a convent in Paris an excellent gardener, who is also a holy man, named Fauvent." Nothing of this triumph reached Fauchelevent in his hut; he went on grafting, weeding, and covering up his melon beds, without in the least suspecting his excellences and his sanctity. Neither did he suspect his glory, any more than a Durham or Surrey bull whose portrait is published in the London Illustrated News, with this inscription: "Bull which carried off the prize at the Cattle Show."
一个钟头过后，在黑夜里，有两个男人和一个孩子走到比克布斯小街六十二号的大门口。年纪较老的那个男人提起门锤来敲了几下。
那就是割风，冉阿让和珂赛特。
两个老人已去过绿径街，到了昨天割风托付珂赛特的那个水果店老板娘家里，把她领来了。珂赛特度过了那二十四个小时，什么也没有懂，只是一声不响地发着抖。她抖到连哭也没有哭一下。她没有吃东西，也没有睡。那位老板娘真是名不虚传，问了她百十来个问题，所得的回答只是一双毫无神采的眼睛，始终是那个样子。珂赛特对两天以来的所见所闻全没有丝毫泄露。她领会到他们正在过一个难关。她深深感到她“应当听话”。谁没有感受过人对着一个饱受惊吓的幼童的耳朵，用某种声调说出“什么都不能讲啊！”这样一句话时的无比威力，恐怖是个哑子。况且，任何人也不能象孩子那样能保守秘密。
不过，当她经历了那悲惨的二十四个小时又会见冉阿让时，所发出的那样一种欢乐的呼声，善于思考的人听了，会深深感到那种呼声所表达的对脱离苦境的惊喜。
割风原是修院里的人，他知道那里的各种口语暗号。所有的门全开了。
于是那个令人心悸的双重困难问题：出去和进来的问题，得到了解决。
门房，早已有了指示，他开了那道由院子通往园里去的便门，那道门是开在院子底里的墙上的，正对着大车门，二十年前，人们还可以从街上望见。门房领着他们三人一同由那道门进去，从那里，他们便到了院内那间特备接待室，也就是割风在前一天接受院长命令的那间屋子。
院长，手里拿着念珠，正在等候他们。一个参议嬷嬷，放下了面罩，立在她的旁边。一支惨淡的细白烛照着，几乎可以说，仿佛照的是那接待室。
院长审视了冉阿让。再没有什么比低垂着的眼睛更看得清楚的了。
接着她问道：
“您就是那兄弟吗？”
“是的，崇高的嬷嬷。”割风回答。
“您叫什么名字？”
割风回答说：
“于尔迪姆·割风。”
他确有一个死了的兄弟叫于尔迪姆。
“您是什么地方人？”
割风回答说：
“原籍比奇尼，靠近亚眠。”
“多大年纪了？”
割风回答说：
“五十岁。”
“您是哪个行业的？”
割风回答说：
“园艺工人。”
“您是好基督徒吗？”
割风回答说：
“一家全是。”
“这小姑娘是您的吗？”
割风回答说：
“是的，崇高的嬷嬷。”
“您是她的父亲吗？”
割风回答说：
“是她的祖父。”
那参议嬷嬷对院长低声说：
“他回答倒不坏。”
冉阿让根本没有说一个字。
院长仔细望了望珂赛特，又低声对那参议嬷嬷说：
“她会长得丑。”
那两个嬷嬷在接待室的角落里极轻声地商量了几分钟，接着院长又走回来，说：
“割爷，您再准备一副有铃铛的膝带。现在需要两副了。”
第二天，的确，大家都听到园里有两个铃铛的声音，修女们按捺不住，都要掀起一角面罩来看看。她们看见在园子底里的树下，有两个男人在一起翻地，割风和另外一个。那是一件大事。从来不开口的人也不免要互相告诉：“那是一个助理园丁。”
参议嬷嬷们补充说：“那是割爷的兄弟。”
冉阿让算是安插妥当了，他有了那副结在膝上的革带和一个铃铛，他从此是有正式职务的人了。他叫于尔迪姆·割风。
让他们入院的最大决定因素，还是院长对珂赛特所作的那句评语：“她会长得丑。”
院长作了那样的预测以后，立即对珂赛特起了好感，让她在寄读学校里占了一个免费生名额。
这样做，一点也没有不合逻辑的地方。修院里不许用镜子，那完全是枉费心机，女人对自己的容貌都有自知之明，因此，知道自己生得漂亮的姑娘都不轻易让人说服发愿出家；宏愿和美貌既然经常处在互相消长的地位，人们的希望便多半寄托在丑妇的一面，而不是在美人的一面。这就产生了对丑孩子的强烈兴趣。
这次意外事件大大提高了割风那好老头的身分，他得到三方面的胜利，在冉阿让方面，他救了他并且保卫了他；在埋葬工人格利比埃方面，他得到他的感激，认为割风帮他免去罚金；在修院方面，由于他肯卖力，把受难嬷嬷的灵柩留在祭台下面，修院才能瞒过凯撒，满足天主。在小比克布斯有个有尸的棺材，在伏吉拉尔坟场有个无尸的棺材，社会秩序固然受到了深重的搅乱，却并没有觉察到。至于修院对割风的感激确实很大。割风成了最出色的用人和最宝贵的园丁。不久以后，大主教来修院视察时，院长把这一经过告诉了他，一面为她自己忏悔了一下，同时也为把自己夸耀一番。大主教，在走出修院时，又带着夸奖的语气偷偷把这经过告诉了德·拉迪先生，御弟的忏悔神甫，也就是未来的兰斯大主教和红衣主教。对割风的好评确是传得相当远，因为它传到了罗马。在我们的手边有封由莱翁七世写给他的族人的信，莱翁七世是当时在位的教皇，他的那位族人便是教廷驻巴黎使馆的大臣，和他一样，也叫做德拉·让加，信里有这样几行字：“据说在巴黎的一个修院里有个非常出色的园丁，是个圣人，姓弗旺①。”这种光荣一点也没有传到割风的破房里去，他继续接枝，薅草，盖瓜田，完全不知道他自己有什么出色和超凡入圣的地方。《伦敦新闻画报》刊载了达勒姆种牛和萨里种牛的照片，并且标明了“获得有角动物展览会奖状的牛”，可是牛并不知它获得的光荣，割风对自己的光荣的认识，也不见得会比那些牛多些。 
①教皇误把“割风”写成“弗旺”，所以割风本人不知道有这一光荣。
Part 2 Book 8 Chapter 9 Cloistered
Cosette continued to hold her tongue in the convent.
It was quite natural that Cosette should think herself Jean Valjean's daughter. Moreover, as she knew nothing, she could say nothing, and then, she would not have said anything in any case. As we have just observed, nothing trains children to silence like unhappiness. Cosette had suffered so much, that she feared everything, even to speak or to breathe. A single word had so often brought down an avalanche upon her. She had hardly begun to regain her confidence since she had been with Jean Valjean. She speedily became accustomed to the convent. Only she regretted Catherine, but she dared not say so. Once, however, she did say to Jean Valjean: "Father, if I had known, I would have brought her away with me."
Cosette had been obliged, on becoming a scholar in the convent, to don the garb of the pupils of the house. Jean Valjean succeeded in getting them to restore to him the garments which she laid aside. This was the same mourning suit which he had made her put on when shehad quitted the Thenardiers' inn. It was not very threadbare even now. Jean Valjean locked up these garments, plus the stockings and the shoes, with a quantity of camphor and all the aromatics in which convents abound, in a little valise which he found means of procuring. He set this valise on a chair near his bed, and he always carried the key about his person. "Father," Cosette asked him one day,"what is there in that box which smells so good?"
Father Fauchelevent received other recompense for his good action, in addition to the glory which we just mentioned, and of which he knew nothing; in the first place it made him happy; next, he had much less work, since it was shared. Lastly, as he was very fond of snuff, he found the presence of M. Madeleine an advantage, in that he used three times as much as he had done previously, and that in an infinitely more luxurious manner, seeing that M. Madeleine paid for it.
The nuns did not adopt the name of Ultime; they called Jean Valjean the other Fauvent.
If these holy women had possessed anything of Javert's glance, they would eventually have noticed that when there was any errand to be done outside in the behalf of the garden, it was always the elder Fauchelevent, the old, the infirm, the lame man, who went, and never the other; but whether it is that eyes constantly fixed on God know not how to spy, or whether they were, by preference, occupied in keeping watch on each other, they paid no heed to this.
Moreover, it was well for Jean Valjean that he kept close and did not stir out. Javert watched the quarter for more than a month.
This convent was for Jean Valjean like an island surrounded by gulfs. Henceforth, those four walls constituted his world. He saw enough of the sky there to enable him to preserve his serenity, and Cosette enough to remain happy.
A very sweet life began for him.
He inhabited the old hut at the end of the garden, in company with Fauchelevent. This hovel, built of old rubbish, which was still in existence in 1845, was composed, as the reader already knows, of three chambers, all of which were utterly bare and had nothing beyond the walls. The principal one had been given up, by force, for Jean Valjean had opposed it in vain, to M. Madeleine, by Father Fauchelevent. The walls of this chamber had for ornament, in addition to the two nails whereon to hang the knee-cap and the basket, a Royalist bank-note of '93, applied to the wall over the chimney-piece, and of which the following is an exact facsimile:--
{GRAPHIC HERE}
This specimen of Vendean paper money had been nailed to the wall by the preceding gardener, an old Chouan, who had died in the convent, and whose place Fauchelevent had taken.
Jean Valjean worked in the garden every day and made himself very useful. He had formerly been a pruner of trees, and he gladly found himself a gardener once more. It will be remembered that he knew all sorts of secrets and receipts for agriculture. He turned these to advantage. Almost all the trees in the orchard were ungrafted, and wild. He budded them and made them produce excellent fruit.
Cosette had permission to pass an hour with him every day. As the sisters were melancholy and he was kind, the child made comparisons and adored him. At the appointed hour she flew to the hut. When she entered the lowly cabin, she filled it with paradise. Jean Valjean blossomed out and felt his happiness increase with the happiness which he afforded Cosette. The joy which we inspire has this charming property, that, far from growing meagre, like all reflections, it returns to us more radiant than ever. At recreation hours, Jean Valjean watched her running and playing in the distance, and he distinguished her laugh from that of the rest.
For Cosette laughed now.
Cosette's face had even undergone a change, to a certain extent. The gloom had disappeared from it. A smile is the same as sunshine; it banishes winter from the human countenance.
Recreation over, when Cosette went into the house again, Jean Valjean gazed at the windows of her class-room, and at night he rose to look at the windows of her dormitory.
God has his own ways, moreover; the convent contributed, like Cosette, to uphold and complete the Bishop's work in Jean Valjean. It is certain that virtue adjoins pride on one side. A bridge built by the devil exists there. Jean Valjean had been, unconsciously, perhaps, tolerably near that side and that bridge, when Providence cast his lot in the convent of the Petit-Picpus; so long as he had compared himself only to the Bishop, he had regarded himself as unworthy and had remained humble; but for some time past he had been comparing himself to men in general, and pride was beginning to spring up. Who knows? He might have ended by returning very gradually to hatred.
The convent stopped him on that downward path.
This was the second place of captivity which he had seen. In his youth, in what had been for him the beginning of his life, and later on, quite recently again, he had beheld another,-- a frightful place, a terrible place, whose severities had always appeared to him the iniquity of justice, and the crime of the law. Now, after the galleys, he saw the cloister; and when he meditated how he had formed a part of the galleys, and that he now, so to speak, was a spectator of the cloister, he confronted the two in his own mind with anxiety.
Sometimes he crossed his arms and leaned on his hoe, and slowly descended the endless spirals of revery.
He recalled his former companions: how wretched they were; they rose at dawn, and toiled until night; hardly were they permitted to sleep; they lay on camp beds, where nothing was tolerated but mattresses two inches thick, in rooms which were heated only in the very harshest months of the year; they were clothed in frightful red blouses; they were allowed, as a great favor, linen trousers in the hottest weather, and a woollen carter's blouse on their backs when it was very cold; they drank no wine, and ate no meat, except when they went on "fatigue duty." They lived nameless, designated only by numbers, and converted, after a manner, into ciphers themselves, with downcast eyes, with lowered voices, with shorn heads, beneath the cudgel and in disgrace.
Then his mind reverted to the beings whom he had under his eyes.
These beings also lived with shorn heads, with downcast eyes, with lowered voices, not in disgrace, but amid the scoffs of the world, not with their backs bruised with the cudgel, but with their shoulders lacerated with their discipline. Their names, also, had vanished from among men; they no longer existed except under austere appellations. They never ate meat and they never drank wine; they often remained until evening wit and difficult ascent, all those efforts even, which he had made to escape from that other place of expiation, he had made in order to gain entrance into this one. Was this a symbol of his destiny? This house was a prison likewise and bore a melancholy resemblance to that other one whence he had fled, and yet he had never conceived an idea of anything similar.
Again he beheld gratings, bolts, iron bars--to guard whom? Angels.
These lofty walls which he had seen around tigers, he now beheld once more around lambs.
This was a place of expiation, and not of punishment; and yet, it was still more austere, more gloomy, and more pitiless than the other.
These virgins were even more heavily burdened than the convicts. A cold, harsh wind, that wind which had chilled his youth, traversed the barred and padlocked grating of the vultures; a still harsher and more biting breeze blew in the cage of t?磃鄁or twelve successive hours in a kneeling posture, or prostrate, with face upon the pavement, and arms outstretched in the form of a cross.
The others were men; these were women.
What had those men done? They had stolen, violated, pillaged, murdered, assassinated. They were bandits, counterfeiters, poisoners, incendiaries, murderers, parricides. What had these women done? They had done nothing whatever.
On the one hand, highway robbery, fraud, deceit, violence, sensuality, homicide, all sorts of sacrilege, every variety of crime; on the other, one thing only, innocence.
Perfect innocence, almost caught up into heaven in a mysterious assumption, attached to the earth by virtue, already possessing something of heaven through holiness.
On the one hand, confidences over crimes, which are exchanged in whispers; on the other, the confession of faults made aloud. And what crimes! And what faults!
On the one hand, miasms; on the other, an ineffable perfume. On the one hand, a moral pest, guarded from sight, penned up under the range of cannon, and literally devouring its plague-stricken victims; on the other, the chaste flame of all souls on the same hearth. There, darkness; here, the shadow; but a shadow filled with gleams of light, and of gleams full of radiance.
Two strongholds of slavery; but in the first, deliverance possible, a legal limit always in sight, and then, escape. In the second, perpetuity; the sole hope, at the distant extremity of the future, that faint light of liberty which men call death.
In the first, men are bound only with chains; in the other, chained by faith.
What flowed from the first? An immense curse, the gnashing of teeth, hatred, desperate viciousness, a cry of rage against human society, a sarcasm against heaven.
What results flowed from the second? Blessings and love.
And in these two places, so similar yet so unlike, these two species of beings who were so very unlike, were undergoing the same work, expiation.
Jean Valjean understood thoroughly the expiation of the former; that personal expiation, the expiation for one's self. But he did not understand that of these last, that of creatures without reproach and without stain, and he trembled as he asked himself: The expiation of what? What expiation?
A voice within his conscience replied: "The most divine of human generosities, the expiation for others."
Here all personal theory is withheld; we are only the narrator; we place ourselves at Jean Valjean's point of view, and we translate his impressions.
Before his eyes he had the sublime summit of abnegation, the highest possible pitch of virtue; the innocence which pardons men their faults, and which expiates in their stead; servitude submitted to, torture accepted, punishment claimed by souls which have not sinned, for the sake o$ 
sparing it to souls which have `allen; the love of humanity swallowed up in the love of God, but even there preserving its distinct and mediatorial character; sweet and feeble beings possessing the misery of those who are punished and the smile of those wHo are recompensed. 
And he remembered that he had dared to murmur!
Often, in the middle of the night, he rose to listen to the grateful song of those innocent creatures weighed down with severities, and the blood ran cold in his veins at the thought that those who were justly chastised raised their voices heavenward only in blasphemy, and that he, wretch that he was, had shaken his fist at God.
There was one striking thing which caused him to meditate deeply, like a warning whisper from Providence itself: the scaling of that wall, the passing of those barriers, the adventure accepted even at the risk of death, the painful and difficult ascent, all those efforts even, which he had made to escape from that other place of expiation, he had made in order to gain entrance into this one. Was this a symbol of his destiny? This house was a prison likewise and bore a melancholy resemblance to that other one whence he had fled, and yet he had never conceived an idea of anything similar.
Again he beheld gratings, bolts, iron bars--to guard whom? Angels.
These lofty walls which he had seen around tigers, he now beheld once more around lambs.
This was a place of expiation, and not of punishment; and yet, it was still more austere, more gloomy, and more pitiless than the other.
These virgins were even more heavily burdened than the convicts. A cold, harsh wind, that wind which had chilled his youth, traversed the barred and padlocked grating of the vultures; a still harsher and more biting breeze blew in the cage of these doves.
Why?
When he thought on these things, all that was within him was lost in amazement before this mystery of sublimity.
In these meditations, his pride vanished. He scrutinized his own heart in all manner of ways; he felt his pettiness, and many a time he wept. All that had entered into his life for the last six months had led him back towards the Bishop's holy injunctions; Cosette through love, the convent through humility.
Sometimes at eventide, in the twilight, at an hour when the garden was deserted, he could be seen on his knees in the middle of the walk which skirted the chapel, in front of the window through which he had gazed on the night of his arrival, and turned towards the spot where, as he knew, the sister was making reparation, prostrated in prayer. Thus he prayed as he knelt before the sister.
It seemed as though he dared not kneel directly before God.
Everything that surrounded him, that peaceful garden, those fragrant flowers, those children who uttered joyous cries, those grave and simple women, that silent cloister, slowly permeated him, and little by little, his soul became compounded of silence like the cloister, of perfume like the flowers, of simplicity like the women, of joy like the children. And then he reflected that these had been two houses of God which had received him in succession at two critical moments in his life: the first, when all doors were closed and when human society rejected him; the second, at a moment when human society had again set out in pursuit of him, and when the galleys were again yawning; and that, had it not been for the first, he should have relapsed into crime, and had it not been for the second, into torment.
His whole heart melted in gratitude, and he loved more and more.
Many years passed in this manner; Cosette was growing up.
珂赛特到了修院以后话仍不多。
珂赛特极其自然地认为自己是冉阿让的女儿。加以她什么也不知道，也就说不出什么来，并且在任何情况下，她也不肯说。我们刚才也指出了，没有任何其他力量比苦难更能使孩子们养成缄口慎言的习惯。珂赛特受过种种痛苦，致使她对任何事，连说话，连呼吸，也都存有戒心。她时常会为一句话而受到一顿毒打！自从她跟了冉阿让以后，心才开始宽了些。她对修院里的生活很快就习惯了。不过她时常想念卡特琳，却又不敢说。但有一次她对冉阿让说：“爹，要是我早知道，我就把她带来了。”
珂赛特做了修院里的寄读生，换上了院里规定的学生制服。冉阿让得到许可，把她换下的衣服收回来。那还是在她离开德纳第客店时他替她穿上的那身丧服。还不怎么破烂。冉阿让把这些旧衣，连同毛线袜和鞋，都收在他设法弄来的一只小提箱里，箱子里放了许多樟脑和各种各样的香料，这些都是修院大量使用的东西。他把提箱放在自己床边的一张椅子上，钥匙老揣在身上。珂赛特有一天问他说：“爹，这是个什么箱子，会这样香？”
割风爷，除了我们刚才叙述过而他自己却没有意识到的那种荣誉以外，也还从他的好行为里得到了好报，首先，他为自己所作的事感到快乐；其次，他的工作有人分担去了，这样便减轻了他自己的负担；最后，他非常爱吸烟，和马德兰先生住在一起，吸起来格外方便，和过去相比，他消耗的烟叶多了三倍，兴趣的浓厚和从前也不能比，因为烟叶是由马德兰先生供给的。
修女们毫不理睬于尔迪姆这名字，她们称冉阿让为“割二”。
要是修女有沙威那样的眼力，她们也许会发现，当园里的园艺需要人到外面去跑腿时，每次总是割风大爷，老、病、瘸腿的那个去外面跑，从来不会是另一个，而她们完全没有注意到这一点，那也许是因为随时望着上帝的眼睛不善于侦察，也许是因为她们更喜欢把精力用在彼此互相窥探方面。
冉阿让幸亏是安安静静待着没有动。沙威注视着那地区足足有一个多月。
那修院对冉阿让来说，好象是个四面全是悬崖绝壁的孤岛。那四道围墙从今以后便是他的活动范围了。他在那里望得见天，这已够使他感到舒适，看得见珂赛特，已够使他感到快乐了。
对他来说，一种非常恬静的生活又开始了。
他和老割风一同住在园底的破房子里。那所破屋是用残砖剩瓦搭起来的，一八四五年还在，我们知道，一共是三间，光秃秃的，除墙外一无所有。那间正房，在冉阿让力辞不允的情况下，已由割风硬让给马德兰先生了。那正房的墙上，除了挂膝带和背箩的两个钉子外，只在壁炉上钉了一张保王党在九三年发行的纸币，下面就是它的正确摹本：
那张旺代①军用券是由以前的那个园丁钉在墙上的，他是一个老朱安②党徒，死在这修院里，死后由割风接替了他。 
①旺代（Vendèe），法国西部滨海地区，十八世纪资产阶级大革命初期，贵族和僧侣曾在此发动叛乱。
②朱安（Chouan），在法国西北几省发动反革命叛乱的首领让·科特罗的外号，通称让·朱安（Jean　Chouan）。
冉阿让整天在园里工作，很得用。他从前当过修树枝工人，当个园丁正符合他的愿望。我们记得，在培养植物方面，他有许多方法和窍门。他现在可以加以利用了。那些果树几乎全是野生的，他用接枝法使它们结出了鲜美的果实。
珂赛特得到许可，每天可以到他那里去玩一个钟头。由于修女们全是愁眉苦脸而他又慈祥，那孩子加以比较，便更加热爱他了。每天在一定时刻，她跑到那破屋里来。她一进来，那穷酸的屋子立即成了天堂。冉阿让喜笑颜开，想到自己能使珂赛特幸福，自己的幸福也赖以增加了。我们给人的欢乐有那样一种动人的地方，它不象一般的反光那样总是较光源弱，它返到我们身上的时候，反而会更加灿烂辉煌。在课间休息时，冉阿让从远处望着珂赛特嬉戏追奔，他能从许多人的笑声中辨别出她的笑声来。
因为现在珂赛特会笑了。
甚至珂赛特的面貌，在某种程度上也有了改变。那种抑郁的神情已经消逝了。笑，就是阳光，它能消除人们脸上的冬色。
珂赛特一直不漂亮，却变得更惹人爱了。她用她那种娇柔的孩子声音说着许许多多入情入理的琐碎小事。
休息时间过了，珂赛特回到班上去时，冉阿让便望着她课室的窗子，半夜里，他也起来，望着她寝室的窗子。
这中间也还有上帝的旨意，修院，和珂赛特一样，也在冉阿让的心中支持并且完成那位主教的功业。好的品德常会引人走向骄傲自满的一面，那是不假的。这中间有道魔鬼建造的桥梁。当天意把冉阿让扔在小比克布斯修院时，他也许早已不自觉地接近了那一方和那道桥梁了。只要他拿自己来和那位主教相比，他总还能认识到自己不成器，也就能低下头来；可是最近一个时期以来他已开始和人比起来了，因而产生了自满情绪。谁知道？他也许会渐渐地回到恨的道路上去呢。
修院在那斜坡上把他制住了。
修院是他眼见的第二处囚禁人的地方。在他的青年时期，也就是在他的人生开始的时期，甚至在那以后，直到最近，他见过另外一种囚禁人的地方，一种穷凶极恶的地方，他总觉得那里的种种严刑峻法是法律的罪恶和处罚的不公。现在，在苦役牢之后，他看见了修院，他心想，他从前是苦役牢里的一分子，现在可以说是这修院的一个旁观者，于是他怀着惶惑的心情把那两处在心上加以比较。
有时，他双手倚在锄柄上，随着思想的无底的回旋，往深处慢慢寻思。
他回忆起旧时的那些伙伴，他们的生活多么悲惨，他们在天刚亮时就得起来，一直劳苦到深夜，他们几乎没有睡眠的时间，他们睡在行军床上，只许用两寸厚的褥子，在那些睡觉的大屋子里，一年到头，只是在最难挨的几个月里才有火；他们穿着奇丑的红囚衣，幸蒙恩赐，可以在大热天穿一条粗布长裤，大冷天穿一件粗羊毛衫；他们只是在“干重活”时才有酒肉吃。他们已没有姓名，都按号码来分别，仿佛人格只是几个数目字；他们低着眼睛，低声说话，剃发，生活在棍棒下和屈辱中。
随后，他的思想又转回来落在他眼前的这些人身上。这些人，同样落发，低眼，低声，虽然不是生活在屈辱中，但却受着世人的嘲笑，背上虽然不受捶楚，两个肩头却都被清规戒律折磨到血肉模糊了。他们的姓名在众人中也一样消失了，他们只是在一些尊严的名称下面生存。他们从来不吃肉，也从来不喝酒，他们还常常从早到晚不进食，他们虽不穿红衣，却得穿黑色毛料的裹尸布，使他们在夏季感到过重，冬季感到过轻，既不能减，又不能加，甚至想随着季节换上件布衣或毛料外衣也办不到；一年当中，他们得穿上六个月的哔叽衬衫，以致时常得热病。他们住的，不是那种只在严寒时节升火的大屋子，而是从来就没有火的静室；他们睡的不是两寸厚的褥子，而是麦秸。结果，他们连睡眠的机会也没有了，在一整天的辛劳以后，每天晚上，正当休息开始、困倦逼人、沉沉入睡时，或是刚刚睡到身上有点暖意时，他们又得醒来，起来，走到冰冷阴暗的圣坛里，双膝跪在石头上，做祈祷。
在某些日子里，他们每个人还得轮流跪在石板上，或是头面着地、两臂张开、象一个十字架似的伏在地上，连续十二个钟头。
那些是男人，这些是女子。
那些男人干过什么呢？他们偷过，强奸过，抢过，杀过，暗杀过。那是些匪徒、骗子、下毒犯、纵火犯、杀人犯、弑亲犯。这些女人又干过什么呢？她们什么也没有干。
一方面是抢劫、偷盗、欺诈、强暴、奸淫、杀害，形形色色的邪恶，各种各样的罪行，在另一方面，却只有一件：天真。
极善尽美的天真，几乎可以上齐圣母的懿德，在尘世还和贤淑近似，在天上却已接近圣域了。
一方面是有关罪恶的低声自陈，另一方面是关于过失的高声忏悔。并且是种什么样的罪恶！又算得了什么的过失！
一方面是恶臭，另一方面是一种淡远的芬芳。一方面是精神上的疠疫，在枪口的监视下，慢慢吞噬患者的疠疫；另一方面却是一炉冶炼灵魂的明净的火焰。那边是黑暗，这边是阴暗，然而是一种充满了光明的阴暗和芒熛四射的光明。
两处都是奴役人的地方，不过在第一个地方，还有得救的可能，总还有一个法定的限期在望，再说，可以潜逃。在第二个地方，永无尽期，唯一的希望，就是悬在悠悠岁月的尽头的一点微光，解脱的微光，也就是人们所说的死亡。
在第一个地方，人们只受链条的束缚；在另外一个地方，人们却受着自己信仰的束缚。
从第一个地方产生出来的是什么？是对人群的广泛的咒骂，咬牙切齿的仇恨，不问成败的凶横，愤怒的咆哮和对上苍的嘲笑。
从第二个地方产生出什么呢？恩宠和爱慕。
在这两个非常相似而又截然不同的地方，两种绝不相同的人却在完成同一事业：补偿罪孽。
冉阿让很懂得第一种人的补偿，个人的补偿，对自己的补偿。可是他不理解另外那些人的补偿，那些毫无罪愆、毫无污点的人的补偿，他怀着战栗惶恐的心情问道：“补偿什么？怎样补偿？”
有种声音在他心里回答说：“是人类最卓越的慈爱，是为了别人的补偿。”
在这里，我们自己的一套理论是被保留了的，我们只是转述者，我们是站在冉阿让的角度来表达他的印象。
他看见了克己忘我行为的顶峰，绝无仅有的美德的最高点，恕人之过并代人受过的天真品德，承担着的奴役，甘愿接受的折磨，清白无辜的心灵为救援那些堕落的心灵而求来的苦刑，融会上帝的爱而又不与之混同。一心哀恳祈求的人类的爱，一些愁惨得象受了罪责而又微笑、象受了嘉奖而又和蔼柔弱的人们。
同时他回忆起从前他竟敢心怀怨愤！
时常，在夜半，他起来听那些在清规戒律下受煎熬的天真修女的感恩谢主的歌声时，在想到那些受适当惩罚的人在仰望苍天时总是一味亵渎神明，他自己，蠢物一个，也曾对上帝举起过拳头，他感到血管里的血也冷了。
有一件最使他惊心动魄深思默想的事，仿佛是上苍在他耳边轻声提出的一种告诫：他从前翻墙越狱，不顾生死，誓图一逞，继又经过了种种艰难困苦，才得上进，所有这一切为脱离那一个补偿罪孽的地方而作的努力，全是为了进入这一个而作的。难道这就是他的命运的特征吗？
这修院也是一种囚牢，并且和他已经逃脱的地方有极其阴惨的相似之处，而他从前竟从来没有这样想到过。他又见到了铁栏门、铁门闩、铁窗栏，为了防范谁呢？为了防范一些天使。
他从前见过的那种圈猛虎的高墙，现在却圈着羔羊。
这是一种补偿的地方，不是惩罚的地方，可是和另外一个地方相比，它更加严峻，更加凄惨，更加冷酷无情。这些贞女们比那些苦役犯更是被狠狠地压得伸不起腰来。从前有过一种凛冽刚劲的风，把他的青春时期冻僵了的那种风，吹过那种拘锁鸱枭的铁牢；现在是另一种更加冷峭、更加刺骨的寒流在侵袭着白鸽的樊笼。
为什么？
当他想到这一切时，他的心情和这种妙契道境完全溶合起来了。
在这些沉思遐想中他的骄傲情绪消失了。他多次反问自己，他感到自己多么渺小孱弱，而且还痛哭过无数次。他在六个月以来所遭遇到的一切已把他引回到那位主教的德化中了，珂赛特动以赤子之心，修院则感以悯人之德。
有时，在傍晚，当园里已没有人来往了，你会望见他双膝跪在圣坛墙边的那条小路中间，他初到那晚偷看过的那扇窗子前，他知道那里有个修女正伏在地上，在为世人赎罪祈祷，他的脸便向着那里。他就那样跪在那修女跟前祈祷。
他仿佛觉得他不敢直接跪在上帝跟前。
他四周的一切，那幽静的园子，那些香花，那些嬉笑欢呼的孩子，那些端严质朴的妇女，那肃寂的修院，都慢慢渗进他的心里，而且他的心也渐渐变得和那修院一样肃寂，和那些花一样芬芳，和那园子一样平静，和那些妇女一样质朴和那些孩子一样欢乐了。他还想到那是他生命中连续两次在危急关头时为上帝收容的圣地，第一次是他遭到人类社会摈弃、所有的大门都不容他进去的那一次，第二次是人类社会又在追捕他、要把他送进苦役牢里去的那一次，如果没有第一处圣地，他会再次掉进犯罪的火坑，如果没有第二处圣地，他也会再次陷入刑狱的痛苦中去。
他的心完全溶化在感恩戴德的情感中了。
这样又过了好几年，珂赛特成长起来了。
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 1 Parvulus
Paris has a child, and the forest has a bird; the bird is called the sparrow; the child is called the gamin.
Couple these two ideas which contain, the one all the furnace, the other all the dawn; strike these two sparks together, Paris, childhood; there leaps out from them a little being. Homuncio, Plautus would say.
This little being is joyous. He has not food every day, and he goes to the play every evening, if he sees good. He has no shirt on his body, no shoes on his feet, no roof over his head; he is like the flies of heaven, who have none of these things. He is from seven to thirteen years of age, he lives in bands, roams the streets, lodges in the open air, wears an old pair of trousers of his father's, which descend below his heels, an old hat of some other father, which descends below his ears, a single suspender of yellow listing; he runs, lies in wait, rummages about, wastes time, blackens pipes, swears like a convict, haunts the wine-shop, knows thieves, calls gay women thou, talks slang, sings obscene songs, and has no evil in his heart. This is because he has in his heart a pearl, innocence; and pearls are not to be dissolved in mud. So long as man is in his childhood, God wills that he shall be innocent.
If one were to ask that enormous city: "What is this?" she would reply: "It is my little one."
巴黎有个小孩，森林有只小雀；这小雀叫麻雀，小孩叫野孩。
你把这两个概念棗一个隐含整个洪炉，一个隐含全部晨曦的概念棗结合起来，你让巴黎和儿童这两粒火星相互接触，便会迸射出一个小人儿。这小人儿，普劳图斯①也许会称他小哥。 
①普劳图斯（Plaute，约前254?84），古罗马诗人，喜剧作家。
这小人儿是欢乐的。他不一定每天都有东西吃，可是，只要他高兴，他可以每天都去娱乐场所。他身上没有衬衣，脚上没有鞋，头上没有屋顶；他好象是空中的一只飞虫，那一切东西，他全没有。他的年龄在七至十三岁之间，过着群居生活，在街上游荡，在野外露宿，穿着自己父亲的一条破裤，拖着鞋后跟，顶着另一父辈的一顶破帽，压过耳朵，挎着半副黄边背带，东奔西跑，左张右望，寻寻觅觅，悠悠荡荡，把烟斗抽到发黑，满嘴粗话，坐酒铺，交小偷，逗窑姐，说黑话，唱淫歌，心里却没有一点坏念头。那是因为在他的灵魂里有颗明珠棗天真，明珠不会溶化在污泥里。人在童年，上帝总是要他天真的。假使有人问那大都市说：“那是什么？”它会回答：“那是我的孩子。”
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 2 Some of his Particular Characteristics
The gamin--the street Arab--of Paris is the dwarf of the giant.
Let us not exaggerate, this cherub of the gutter sometimes has a shirt, but, in that case, he owns but one; he sometimes has shoes, but then they have no soles; he sometimes has a lodging, and he loves it, for he finds his mother there; but he prefers the street, because there he finds liberty. He has his own games, his own bits of mischief, whose foundation consists of hatred for the bourgeois; his peculiar metaphors: to be dead is to eat dandelions by the root; his own occupations, calling hackney-coaches, letting down carriage-steps, establishing means of transit between the two sides of a street in heavy rains, which he calls making the bridge of arts, crying discourses pronounced by the authorities in favor of the French people, cleaning out the cracks in the pavement; he has his own coinage, which is composed of all the little morsels of worked copper which are found on the public streets. This curious money, which receives the name of loques--rags--has an invariable and well-regulated currency in this little Bohemia of children.
Lastly, he has his own fauna, which he observes attentively in the corners; the lady-bird, the death's-head plant-louse, the daddy-long-legs, "the devil," a black insect, which menaces by twisting about its tail armed with two horns. He has his fabulous monster, which has scales under its belly, but is not a lizard, which has pustules on its back, but is not a toad, which inhabits the nooks of old lime-kilns and wells that have run dry, which is black, hairy, sticky, which crawls sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly, which has no cry, but which has a look, and is so terrible that no one has ever beheld it; he calls this monster "the deaf thing." The search for these "deaf things" among the stones is a joy of formidable nature. Another pleasure consists in suddenly prying up a paving-stone, and taking a look at the wood-lice. Each region of Paris is celebrated for the interesting treasures which are to be found there. There are ear-wigs in the timber-yards of the Ursulines, there are millepeds in the Pantheon, there are tadpoles in the ditches of the Champs-de-Mars.
As far as sayings are concerned, this child has as many of them as Talleyrand. He is no less cynical, but he is more honest. He is endowed with a certain indescribable, unexpected joviality; he upsets the composure of the shopkeeper with his wild laughter. He ranges boldly from high comedy to farce.
A funeral passes by. Among those who accompany the dead there is a doctor. "Hey there!" shouts some street Arab, "how long has it been customary for doctors to carry home their own work?"
Another is in a crowd. A grave man, adorned with spectacles and trinkets, turns round indignantly: "You good-for-nothing, you have seized my wife's waist!"--"I, sir? Search me!"
巴黎的野孩，是丈六妇人的小崽子。
不应当过分夸大，清溪旁边的那个小天使有时也有一件衬衫，不过，即使有，也只有一件；他有时也有一双鞋，却又没有鞋底；他有时也有一个住处，并且爱那地方，因为他可以在那里找到他的母亲；但是他更爱待在街上，因为在街上他可以找到自由。他有他自己的一套玩法，有他自己的一套顽皮作风，那套顽皮作风是以对资产阶级的仇恨为出发点的；也有他自己的一套隐语，人死了，叫“吃蒲公英的根”；有他自己的一套行业，替人找马车，放下车门口的踏板，在下大雨时收过街费，他管这叫“跑艺术桥”，帮法国的人民群众对官员们的讲话喝倒采，剔铺路石的缝；他有他自己的货币，那是从街上抬来的各色各样加过工的小铜片。那种怪钱叫做“破布筋”，有它的固定的兑换率，在那些小淘气中是有相当完善的制度的。
他还有自己的动物学，是他在各个地区细心研究的：好天主虫、骷髅头蚜虫、长腿蜘蛛、“妖精”棗扭动着双叉尾巴来吓唬人的黑壳虫。他有他的一种传说中的怪物，肚子下面有鳞，却又不是蜥蜴，背上有疣，却又不是蟾蜍，它住在旧石灰窑或干了的污水坑里，黑魆魆，毛茸茸，粘糊糊的，爬着走，有时慢，有时快，不叫，但会瞪眼，模样儿非常可怕，以致从来没有人见过它，他管那怪物叫“聋子”。到石头缝里去找聋子，那里种提心呆胆的开心事。另外一种开心事是突然掀起一块石头，看那下面的一些土鳖。巴黎的每个地区都各有一些出名的有趣的玩意儿可以发掘。在于尔絮勒修会的那些场地里有蠼螋，先贤祠有百脚，马尔斯广场有蝌蚪。
至于词令，那孩子所知道的并不亚于塔列朗。他同样刻薄，却比较诚实。他生来就有那么一种无法形容无从预料的风趣，他的一阵狂笑能使一个商店老板发愣。他开的玩笑具有高级喜剧和闹剧之间的各种不同风格。
街上有人出殡。在那送葬行列中有个医生。“哟，”一个野孩喊着说，“医生是从什么时候起开始汇报工作的？”
另一个混在人群里。有个戴眼镜、面孔死板、表链上挂着杂佩的男人气冲冲地转过身来说：“流氓，你抱了我女人的腰。”
“我，先生！请搜我身上。”
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 3 He is Agreeable
In the evening, thanks to a few sous, which he always finds means to procure, the homuncio enters a theatre. On crossing that magic threshold, he becomes transfigured; he was the street Arab, he becomes the titi.[18] Theatres are a sort of ship turned upside down with the keel in the air. It is in that keel that the titi huddle together. The titi is to the gamin what the moth is to the larva; the same being endowed with wings and soaring. It suffices for him to be there, with his radiance of happiness, with his power of enthusiasm and joy, with his hand-clapping, which resembles a clapping of wings, to confer on that narrow, dark, fetid, sordid, unhealthy, hideous, abominable keel, the name of Paradise.
[18] Chicken: slang allusion to the noise made in calling poultry.
Bestow on an individual the useless and deprive him of the necessary, and you have the gamin.
The gamin is not devoid of literary intuition. His tendency, and we say it with the proper amount of regret, would not constitute classic taste. He is not very academic by nature. Thus, to give an example, the popularity of Mademoiselle Mars among that little audience of stormy children was seasoned with a touch of irony. The gamin called her Mademoiselle Muche--"hide yourself."
This being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and fights, has rags like a baby and tatters like a philosopher, fishes in the sewer, hunts in the cesspool, extracts mirth from foulness, whips up the squares with his wit, grins and bites, whistles and sings, shouts, and shrieks, tempers Alleluia with Matantur-lurette, chants every rhythm from the De Profundis to the Jack-pudding, finds without seeking, knows what he is ignorant of, is a Spartan to the point of thieving, is mad to wisdom, is lyrical to filth, would crouch down on Olympus, wallows in the dunghill and emerges from it covered with stars. The gamin of Paris is Rabelais in this youth.
He is not content with his trousers unless they have a watch-pocket.
He is not easily astonished, he is still less easily terrified, he makes songs on superstitions, he takes the wind out of exaggerations, he twits mysteries, he thrusts out his tongue at ghosts, he takes the poetry out of stilted things, he introduces caricature into epic extravaganzas. It is not that he is prosaic; far from that; but he replaces the solemn vision by the farcical phantasmagoria. If Adamastor were to appear to him, the street Arab would say: "Hi there! The bugaboo!"
那“小子”总有办法弄到几个苏，到了夜里，他便拿去看戏。一进那道具有魔力的大门，他的模样便完全变了，他先头还是个野孩，现在成了个titi①了。戏院是一种底舱在上、翻了身的船。titi便挤在那底舱里。titi对野孩来说，正如花蝴蝶之与幼虫，同是飞翔的生物。只要有他在，有他那种兴高采烈的喜色，热情欢乐的活力，拍翅膀似的掌声，那狭窄、恶臭、昏暗、污秽、腌臜、丑陋、令人作呕的底舱便够得上被称作天堂了。 
①titi，巴黎街头的顽童。　
你把一些无用的东西送给一个人，又从他身上把必需的东西剥夺掉，你便有了一个野孩。
对文学野孩并非没有直觉。他的爱好，我们不无歉意地说，也许一点也不倾向于古典方面。他生来就不怎么有学院派的气息。因此，举个例子，马尔斯小姐的声望在那一小群翻江倒海的孩子们中是带点讽刺味的。野孩称她为“妙小姐”。这孩子叫、笑、闹、斗，衣服褛裂如缨络，形容寒伧如学究，在溷水沟里捕鱼，在污泥地里行猎，从垃圾堆里逗乐，在十字街头冷嘲热讽、讥诮、挖苦、吹口哨、唱歌、喝彩、唾骂，用烂污小调来调剂颂主诗歌，能唱各种歌曲，从“从深渊的底里”①直到“狗上床”，能得到他没找到的东西，能了解他所不知道的事物，顽强到不择手段，狂妄到心安理得，多情到逐臭纳污，能蹲在神山上面，滚进粪土堆中，出来却沾满一身星斗。巴黎的野孩，就是具体而微的拉伯雷。 
①安葬时教士所唱的祈祷经。
他不欣赏自己的裤子，除非它有一个表袋。
他不轻易感到惊奇，更不容易恐惧，他用歌谣讥刺迷信，他戳穿谰言妄语，嘲讪神异，对着鬼怪伸舌头，拆垮虚张声势的空架子，丑化歌功颂德的谀词。那并不是因为他平庸，远不是那样，而是因为他以离奇怪诞的幻影代替了那庄严妙相。假使风暴神出现在那野孩的眼前，他也许会说：“哟！马虎子。”
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 4 He may be of Use
Paris begins with the lounger and ends with the street Arab, two beings of which no other city is capable; the passive acceptance, which contents itself with gazing, and the inexhaustible initiative; Prudhomme and Fouillou. Paris alone has this in its natural history. The whole of the monarchy is contained in the lounger; the whole of anarchy in the gamin.
This pale child of the Parisian faubourgs lives and develops, makes connections, "grows supple" in suffering, in the presence of social realities and of human things, a thoughtful witness. He thinks himself heedless; and he is not. He looks and is on the verge of laughter; he is on the verge of something else also. Whoever you may be, if your name is Prejudice, Abuse, Ignorance, Oppression, Iniquity, Despotism, Injustice, Fanaticism, Tyranny, beware of the gaping gamin.
The little fellow will grow up.
Of what clay is he made? Of the first mud that comes to hand. A handful of dirt, a breath, and behold Adam. It suffices for a God to pass by. A God has always passed over the street Arab. Fortune labors at this tiny being. By the word "fortune" we mean chance, to some extent. That pigmy kneaded out of common earth, ignorant, unlettered, giddy, vulgar, low. Will that become an Ionian or a Boeotian? Wait, currit rota, the Spirit of Paris, that demon which creates the children of chance and the men of destiny, reversing the process of the Latin potter, makes of a jug an amphora.
巴黎以闲人开始，以野孩殿后，这两种人是任何其他城市有不起的；一个是满足于东张西望的盲目接受，一个是无穷无尽的主动出击；这是呆老汉和淘哥儿，只在巴黎的自然史中才会有。闲人是整个君主制度的形象，野孩是整个无政府主义的形象。
巴黎近郊的这个脸色灰白的孩子，面对着令人深省的社会现实和人间事物，活着，成长着，在苦难中沉下去，浮上来。他自以为是不用心思的，其实不然。他望着，老想笑，也老想着要干其他的事。不问你是什么，成见也好，贪渎行为也好，卑劣作风、压迫、不义、专制、不公、热狂、暴政也好，你都得留心注意那个张着嘴发愣的野孩。
那小不点儿会成长起来的。
他是什么材料做成的？任何一种污泥。一撮土，一口气，你就有了亚当。只要有神经过就够了。而在那野孩的头上总是有神经过的。幸运照顾着野孩。我们在这里所说的幸运，颇有点冒险犯难的意味。用凡尘俗土抟捏出来的这小子，无知、不文、鲁莽、粗野、平凡，他将成为奋发有为的人还是碌碌无闻的人呢？等着瞧吧，“周回陶钧”，巴黎的精神，这是个凭机会创造孩童、凭造化陶铸成人的巨灵，它不同于拉丁的陶工，它能化瓦釜为黄钟。
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 5 His Frontiers
The gamin loves the city, he also loves solitude, since he has something of the sage in him. Urbis amator, like Fuscus; ruris amator, like Flaccus.
To roam thoughtfully about, that is to say, to lounge, is a fine employment of time in the eyes of the philosopher; particularly in that rather illegitimate species of campaign, which is tolerably ugly but odd and composed of two natures, which surrounds certain great cities, notably Paris. To study the suburbs is to study the amphibious animal. End of the trees, beginning of the roofs; end of the grass, beginning of the pavements; end of the furrows, beginning of the shops, end of the wheel-ruts, beginning of the passions; end of the divine murmur, beginning of the human uproar; hence an extraordinary interest.
Hence, in these not very attractive places, indelibly stamped by the passing stroller with the epithet: melancholy, the apparently objectless promenades of the dreamer.
He who writes these lines has long been a prowler about the barriers of Paris, and it is for him a source of profound souvenirs. That close-shaven turf, those pebbly paths, that chalk, those pools, those harsh monotonies of waste and fallow lands, the plants of early market-garden suddenly springing into sight in a bottom, that mixture of the savage and the citizen, those vast desert nooks where the garrison drums practise noisily, and produce a sort of lisping of battle, those hermits by day and cut-throats by night, that clumsy mill which turns in the wind, the hoisting-wheels of the quarries, the tea-gardens at the corners of the cemeteries; the mysterious charm of great, sombre walls squarely intersecting immense, vague stretches of land inundated with sunshine and full of butterflies,--all this attracted him.
There is hardly any one on earth who is not acquainted with those singular spots, the Glaciere, the Cunette, the hideous wall of Grenelle all speckled with balls, Mont-Parnasse, the Fosse-aux-Loups, Aubiers on the bank of the Marne, Mont-Souris, the Tombe-Issoire, the Pierre-Plate de Chatillon, where there is an old, exhausted quarry which no longer serves any purpose except to raise mushrooms, and which is closed, on a level with the ground, by a trap-door of rotten planks. The campagna of Rome is one idea, the banlieue of Paris is another; to behold nothing but fields, houses, or trees in what a stretch of country offers us, is to remain on the surface; all aspects of things are thoughts of God. The spot where a plain effects its junction with a city is always stamped with a certain piercing melancholy. Nature and humanity both appeal to you at the same time there. Local originalities there make their appearance.
Any one who, like ourselves, has wandered about in these solitudes contiguous to our faubourgs, which may be designated as the limbos of Paris, has seen here and there, in the most desert spot, at the most unexpected moment, behind a meagre hedge, or in the corner of a lugubrious wall, children grouped tumultuously, fetid, muddy, dusty, ragged, dishevelled, playing hide-and-seek, and crowned with corn-flowers. All of them are little ones who have made their escape from poor families. The outer boulevard is their breathing space; the suburbs belong to them. There they are eternally playing truant. There they innocently sing their repertory of dirty songs. There they are, or rather, there they exist, far from every eye, in the sweet light of May or June, kneeling round a hole in the ground, snapping marbles with their thumbs, quarrelling over half-farthings, irresponsible, volatile, free and happy; and, no sooner do they catch sight of you than they recollect that they have an industry, and that they must earn their living, and they offer to sell you an old woollen stocking filled with cockchafers, or a bunch of lilacs. These encounters with strange children are one of the charming and at the same time poignant graces of the environs of Paris.
Sometimes there are little girls among the throng of boys,-- are they their sisters?--who are almost young maidens, thin, feverish, with sunburnt hands, covered with freckles, crowned with poppies and ears of rye, gay, haggard, barefooted. They can be seen devouring cherries among the wheat. In the evening they can be heard laughing. These groups, warmly illuminated by the full glow of midday, or indistinctly seen in the twilight, occupy the thoughtful man for a very long time, and these visions mingle with his dreams.
Paris, centre, banlieue, circumference; this constitutes all the earth to those children. They never venture beyond this. They can no more escape from the Parisian atmosphere than fish can escape from the water. For them, nothing exists two leagues beyond the barriers: Ivry, Gentilly, Arcueil, Belleville, Aubervilliers, Menilmontant, Choisy-le-Roi, Billancourt, Mendon, Issy, Vanvre, Sevres, Puteaux, Neuilly, Gennevilliers, Colombes, Romainville, Chatou, Asnieres, Bougival, Nanterre, Enghien, Noisy-le-Sec, Nogent, Gournay, Drancy, Gonesse; the universe ends there.
野孩爱城市，也爱幽静，他多少有些逸兴闲情。眷恋都邑如弗斯克斯①，眷恋山林如弗拉克斯②。 
①弗斯克斯（Fuscus），贺拉斯作品中之人物。
②弗拉克斯（Fuscus），一世纪拉丁诗人。　
边走边想，就是说，信步游荡，那是哲人消遣时光的好办法，尤其在环绕某些大城市棗特别是巴黎棗的那种相当丑陋怪诞、并由这两种景物合成的乡村里更是如此。观赏城郊，有如观赏两栖动物。树木的尽头，屋顶的开始，野草的尽头，石块路面的开始，犁迹的尽头，店铺的开始，车辙的尽头，欲望的开始，天籁的尽头，人声的开始，因此特别能令人兴趣盎然。
因此，富于冥想的人爱在那些缺少诱惑力、从来就被过路行人视作“凄凉”的地方，带着漫无目的的神情徘徊观望。
写这几行字的人从前就常在巴黎四郊盘桓，今天对他来说，那也还是深切回忆的源泉。那些浅草，多石的小路，白垩，粘土，石灰渣，索然寡味的荒地和休耕地，在洼地上突然出现的由菜农培植的尝鲜蔬菜，这一自然界和资产阶级的结合现象，荒凉寥廓的林野，在那里军营里的鼓手们，仿佛以训练为儿戏，把战鼓敲得一片乱响，白天的旷野，黑夜的凶地，临风摇摆的风车，工地上的辘轳，坟场角上的酒店，被深色高墙纵横截划为若干方块的大片荒地上的奇情异景，阳光明媚，蝴蝶万千，凡此种种都吸引着他。
世上几乎没有人不认识下面这些奇怪的地方：冰窖、古内特、格勒内尔那道弹痕累累怪难看的墙、巴纳斯山、豺狼坑、马恩河畔的奥比埃镇、蒙苏里、伊索瓦尔坟，还有石料采尽后用来养菌、地上还有一道朽了的活板门的沙迪翁磐石。罗马附近的乡村是一种概念，巴黎附近的郊区又是另一种概念，我们对视野中的景物，如果只看见田野、房屋或树木，那就是停留在表面现象上，所有一切形形色色的事物都代表着上帝的意旨。原野和城市交接的地方总带着一种说不出的惆怅意味，沁人心脾。在那里，自然界和人类同时在你面前活动。地方的特色也在那些地方呈现出来了。
我们四郊附近的那些荒野，可以称为巴黎的晕珥，凡是和我们一样曾在那里游荡过的人，都瞥见过这儿那儿，在最偏僻的处所，最料想不到的时刻，或在一个阴惨的墙角里，一些吵吵闹闹、三五成群、面黄肌瘦、满身尘土、衣服破烂、蓬头散发的孩子，他们戴着矢车菊的花圈在作掷钱游戏①。那些全是从贫苦人家溜出来的小孩。城外的林荫路是他们呼吸的地方，郊野是他们的天地。他们永远在那些地方虚度光阴。他们天真烂漫地唱着成套的下流歌曲。他们待在那些地方，应当说，他们在那些地方生存，不被大家注意，在五月或六月的和煦阳光下，大家在地上一个小洞周围跪着，弯着大拇指打弹子，争夺一两文钱的胜负，没有什么责任感，遥遥自在，没人管束，心情欢快；他们一见到你，忽又想起他们是有正当职业的，并且得解决生活，于是跑来找你买一只爬满金龟子的旧毛袜或是一束丁香。碰到那种怪孩子也是巴黎郊外一种饶有情趣的乐事，同时也使人感到心寒。
①一种游戏。在地上画圈，把钱币放在里面，用另一枚钱币把它打出圈外。
有时，在那一堆堆男孩中也有一些女孩棗是他们的姐妹吗？棗她们已几乎是大姑娘了，瘦，浮躁，两手焦黑，脸上有雀斑，头上插着黑麦穗子和虞美人，快乐，粗野，赤脚。有些待在麦田里吃樱桃。人们在夜间听到她们的笑声。这一群群被中午的骄阳晒到火热、或又依稀隐显在暮色中的孩子，常使富于遐想的人黯然神伤，久久不能忘怀，梦中也还受到那些幻象的萦扰。
巴黎，中心，郊区，圆周，那便是那些孩子的整个世界。他们从来不越过那个范围。他们不能超出巴黎的大气层，正如游鱼不能离开水面。对他们来说，远离城门两法里以外，什么都没有。伊夫里、让第以、阿格伊、贝尔维尔、欧贝维利埃、梅尼孟丹、舒瓦齐勒罗瓦、比扬古、默东、伊西、凡沃尔、塞夫勒、普托、讷伊、让纳维利埃、科隆布、罗曼维尔、沙图、阿涅尔、布吉瓦尔、楠泰尔、安吉、努瓦西勒塞克、诺让、古尔内、德朗西、哥乃斯，①那便是宇宙的尽头了。 
①这些都是巴黎近郊的地名。 
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 6 A Bit of History
At the epoch, nearly contemporary by the way, when the action of this book takes place, there was not, as there is to-day, a policeman at the corner of every street (a benefit which there is no time to discuss here); stray children abounded in Paris. The statistics give an average of two hundred and sixty homeless children picked up annually at that period, by the police patrols, in unenclosed lands, in houses in process of construction, and under the arches of the bridges. One of these nests, which has become famous, produced "the swallows of the bridge of Arcola." This is, moreover, the most disastrous of social symptoms. All crimes of the man begin in the vagabondage of the child.
Let us make an exception in favor of Paris, nevertheless. In a relative measure, and in spite of the souvenir which we have just recalled, the exception is just. While in any other great city the vagabond child is a lost man, while nearly everywhere the child left to itself is, in some sort, sacrificed and abandoned to a kind of fatal immersion in the public vices which devour in him honesty and conscience, the street boy of Paris, we insist on this point, however defaced and injured on the surface, is almost intact on the interior. It is a magnificent thing to put on record, and one which shines forth in the splendid probity of our popular revolutions, that a certain incorruptibility results from the idea which exists in the air of Paris, as salt exists in the water of the ocean. To breathe Paris preserves the soul.
What we have just said takes away nothing of the anguish of heart which one experiences every time that one meets one of these children around whom one fancies that he beholds floating the threads of a broken family. In the civilization of the present day, incomplete as it still is, it is not a very abnormal thing to behold these fractured families pouring themselves out into the darkness, not knowing clearly what has become of their children, and allowing their own entrails to fall on the public highway. Hence these obscure destinies. This is called, for this sad thing has given rise to an expression, "to be cast on the pavements of Paris."
Let it be said by the way, that this abandonment of children was not discouraged by the ancient monarchy. A little of Egypt and Bohemia in the lower regions suited the upper spheres, and compassed the aims of the powerful. The hatred of instruction for the children of the people was a dogma. What is the use of "half-lights"? Such was the countersign. Now, the erring child is the corollary of the ignorant child.
Besides this, the monarchy sometimes was in need of children, and in that case it skimmed the streets.
Under Louis XIV., not to go any further back, the king rightly desired to create a fleet. The idea was a good one. But let us consider the means. There can be no fleet, if, beside the sailing ship, that plaything of the winds, and for the purpose of towing it, in case of necessity, there is not the vessel which goes where it pleases, either by means of oars or of steam; the galleys were then to the marine what steamers are to-day. Therefore, galleys were necessary; but the galley is moved only by the galley-slave; hence, galley-slaves were required. Colbert had the commissioners of provinces and the parliaments make as many convicts as possible. The magistracy showed a great deal of complaisance in the matter. A man kept his hat on in the presence of a procession--it was a Huguenot attitude; he was sent to the galleys. A child was encountered in the streets; provided that he was fifteen years of age and did not know where he was to sleep, he was sent to the galleys. Grand reign; grand century.
Under Louis XV. children disappeared in Paris; the police carried them off, for what mysterious purpose no one knew. People whispered with terror monstrous conjectures as to the king's baths of purple. Barbier speaks ingenuously of these things. It sometimes happened that the exempts of the guard, when they ran short of children, took those who had fathers. The fathers, in despair, attacked the exempts. In that case, the parliament intervened and had some one hung. Who? The exempts? No, the fathers.
在本书所叙故事向前进展的那个时代----其实几乎是当代----和今天是不一样的，当时并不是在巴黎的每个街角上都有一个警察（这是一种善政，现在却不是讨论的时候），在当时，到处都是流浪儿。根据统计，警察巡逻队平均每年要从没有围墙的空地上、正在建造的房屋里和桥拱下收容二百六十个孩子。在那些孩子窠里，有一处是一向著名的，有“阿尔科拉桥下燕子们”之称。那确是最糟糕的社会病态。人类的一切罪恶都是从儿童的流浪生活开始的。
巴黎却当别论。我们刚才虽然提到了一件往事，在一定的程度上，把巴黎除外却是正确的。在任何一个其他的大城市里，一个流浪的孩子，也就是一个没有指望的成人，几乎在任何地方，没人照顾的孩子都会染上种种恶习，自甘沉沦，丧尽天良和诚信，以致陷入无可挽救的境地；巴黎的野孩子却不是这样，我们要着重指出，表面上看起来他虽然貌不惊人，伤痕遍体，而他的内心却几乎是完好无损的。那是一种值得重视的奇光异彩，并且在我们历次人民革命辉煌灿烂的正大作风中显得鲜明夺目，在巴黎的空气中存在着一种信念，正如在海洋的浪潮中存在着盐，也正象盐能防腐一样，在从巴黎空气中得来的那种信念里产生了某种不可腐蚀的性格。呼吸巴黎的空气，便是保持灵魂的健康。
上面我们所说的那些话，使我们在遇见那样一个孩子时绝不会无动于衷，我们总感到那些孩子从他们离散的家庭里带来的游丝还在飘荡。现代的文明还远没有达到完善的地步，那些破裂了的家庭把子女抛向黑暗，把自己的骨肉扔在公众的道路上，从此便不大知道他们变成了什么。这叫做……因为那种使人发愁的事已有了一句成语：“被摔在巴黎的石块路上”。
附带说一句，那种遗弃儿女的事，在古代君主制度下是丝毫不受歧视的。下层社会略带一点埃及和波希米亚的作风，那是上层社会所欢迎的，那样可以替当权的人解决一些问题。仇视平民儿童的教养，原是一种信念。那些“浑大鲁儿”有什么用？那是当日的口头话。因此愚昧儿童的结局必然是当流浪儿童。
况且君主制在某些时候需要儿童，而当时儿童充斥街头。
不用追溯得太远，我们只谈谈路易十四，当时国王需要建立舰队。动机是好的。但是让我们看看方法。帆船是风的玩具，必要时还得加以拖曳，如果没有凭借桡橹或蒸汽来供人指使的船舶，便谈不上舰队，当年海军的大桡船正如今天的汽船。因此必须有大桡船，大桡船又非有桡手不能移动，因而必须有桡手。柯尔培尔①授意各省都督和法院，要他们尽量制造苦役犯。当时的官府在这方面是奉命唯谨的。一个人在教会行列走过时头上还戴着帽子，这是新教徒的态度，该送去当桡手。在街上遇见一个孩子，只要他有了十五岁而没有住处，就送去当桡手。伟大的朝代，伟大的世纪。 
①柯尔培尔（Colbert，1619-1683），路易十四的大臣。
在路易十五的统治下，巴黎的孩子绝了迹，警察时常掳走孩子，不知作什么神秘的用途。人们怀着万分恐怖的心情低声谈着有关国王洗红水澡的一些骇人听闻的推测。巴尔比埃①率直地谈着那些事。有时，孩子供不应求，警吏们便抓那些有父亲的孩子。父亲悲痛万状，跑去质问警吏。在那种情况下，法院便出面干涉，判处绞刑，绞谁？绞那些警吏吗？不是。绞那些父亲。 
①巴尔比埃（Barbier，1822-1901），法国剧作家。 
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 7 The Gamin should have his Place in the Classifications of India
The body of street Arabs in Paris almost constitutes a caste. One might almost say: Not every one who wishes to belong to it can do so.
This word gamin was printed for the first time, and reached popular speech through the literary tongue, in 1834. It is in a little work entitled Claude Gueux that this word made its appearance. The horror was lively. The word passed into circulation.
The elements which constitute the consideration of the gamins for each other are very various. We have known and associated with one who was greatly respected and vastly admired because he had seen a man fall from the top of the tower of Notre-Dame; another, because he had succeeded in making his way into the rear courtyard where the statues of the dome of the Invalides had been temporarily deposited, and had "prigged" some lead from them; a third, because he had seen a diligence tip over; still another, because he "knew" a soldier who came near putting out the eye of a citizen.
This explains that famous exclamation of a Parisian gamin, a profound epiphonema, which the vulgar herd laughs at without comprehending,--Dieu de Dieu! What ill-luck I do have! to think that I have never yet seen anybody tumble from a fifth-story window! (I have pronounced I'ave and fifth pronounced fift'.)
Surely, this saying of a peasant is a fine one: "Father So-and-So, your wife has died of her malady; why did you not send for the doctor?" "What would you have, sir, we poor folks die of ourselves." But if the peasant's whole passivity lies in this saying, the whole of the free-thinking anarchy of the brat of the faubourgs is, assuredly, contained in this other saying. A man condemned to death is listening to his confessor in the tumbrel. The child of Paris exclaims: "He is talking to his black cap! Oh, the sneak!"
A certain audacity on matters of religion sets off the gamin. To be strong-minded is an important item.
To be present at executions constitutes a duty. He shows himself at the guillotine, and he laughs. He calls it by all sorts of pet names: The End of the Soup, The Growler, The Mother in the Blue (the sky), The Last Mouthful, etc., etc. In order not to lose anything of the affair, he scales the walls, he hoists himself to balconies, he ascends trees, he suspends himself to gratings, he clings fast to chimneys. The gamin is born a tiler as he is born a mariner. A roof inspires him with no more fear than a mast. There is no festival which comes up to an execution on the Place de Greve. Samson and the Abbe Montes are the truly popular names. They hoot at the victim in order to encourage him. They sometimes admire him. Lacenaire, when a gamin, on seeing the hideous Dautin die bravely, uttered these words which contain a future: "I was jealous of him." In the brotherhood of gamins Voltaire is not known, but Papavoine is. "Politicians" are confused with assassins in the same legend. They have a tradition as to everybody's last garment. It is known that Tolleron had a fireman's cap, Avril an otter cap, Losvel a round hat, that old Delaporte was bald and bare-headed, that Castaing was all ruddy and very handsome, that Bories had a romantic small beard, that Jean Martin kept on his suspenders, that Lecouffe and his mother quarrelled. "Don't reproach each other for your basket," shouted a gamin to them. Another, in order to get a look at Debacker as he passed, and being too small in the crowd, caught sight of the lantern on the quay and climbed it. A gendarme stationed opposite frowned. "Let me climb up, m'sieu le gendarme," said the gamin. And, to soften the heart of the authorities he added: "I will not fall." "I don't care if you do," retorted the gendarme.
In the brotherhood of gamins, a memorable accident counts for a great deal. One reaches the height of consideration if one chances to cut one's self very deeply, "to the very bone."
The fist is no mediocre element of respect. One of the things that the gamin is fondest of saying is: "I am fine and strong, come now!" To be left-handed renders you very enviable. A squint is highly esteemed.
巴黎的野孩群几乎是一个阶层。我们可以说，谁也不要他们。
“野孩”（gamin）这个词，到一八三四年才初次印成文字，由人民的语言进入文学词汇。它是在一本题名为《克洛德·格》的小书里初次出现的。当时曾使舆论哗然，这个词却被接受了。
使那些野孩相互间得到敬重的因素是多种多样的。我们认识一个野孩，并且和他有点交往，他因见到过一个人从圣母院的塔顶上摔下来而受到高度敬重和钦佩；另外一个，是因为他曾千方百计钻进一个后院，并且从暂时寄放在那里的几个从残废军人院圆屋顶上取下的塑像身上“摸”了一些铅块；第三个，因为见过公共马车翻身；还有一个，因为他“认识”一个几乎打瞎了一个老财的眼睛的士兵。
这才让我们理解到为什么一个巴黎的野孩会嚷出这样的话：“天主的天主！我有没有倒霉事儿！只需说我还一直没见过一个人从五层楼上摔下来呢！”Ai－je（我有没有）说成j’ai－ty，cinquième（第五）说成cintième。那种含义深远的警句是俗物听不懂的，只能一笑了之。
下面这是个乡下人说的话，那当然是一种妙语：“我说伯伯，您的老婆害病死了，您为什么没有找医生？”
“那有什么办法，先生，我们这些穷人，我们自己死自己的就是了。”假如那样的谈话能代表乡下人的那种辛辣的被动性格，下面的这句就必然能代表郊区小孩那种无政府主义的自由思想。一个被判处死刑的人在囚车里听着他的忏悔神甫说教。巴黎的孩子嚷了起来：“他和吃教门饭的讲话。哈！这孱头！”
在具有宗教意味的事物前表示一定程度的勇敢，可以抬高野孩的声望。意志坚强是重要的。
赶法场，成了一种义务。大家指着断头台笑。他们替那东西取了各色各样的小名：面包汤的末日、嘟囔鬼、升天娘娘、最后一口，等等。为了要看个清楚，便爬墙，登阳台，上树，攀铁栅栏，跨烟囱。野孩生来就是盖瓦工人，正如他生来就是水手一样。在他看来，房顶并不比桅杆更可怕。没有比格雷沃更热闹的场合了。桑松①和孟台斯神甫②真是两个无人不知谁人不晓的名字。为了鼓励那受刑的人，大家围着他喝彩。有时也对他表示羡慕。拉色内尔③在当野孩时，望着那可怕的多坦从容就刑时说过这样一句谶语：“我真动了醋劲儿。”在那野孩群里，没有人知道伏尔泰，却有人知道巴巴弗因。他们把“政治家”和凶杀犯混为一谈。他们把每个人最后一刻的模样都口口相传保存下来。他们知道多勒隆戴一顶司机帽，阿弗利戴一顶獭皮便帽，卢韦尔戴一顶圆顶宽边帽，老德拉波尔特是个秃子，光着头，加斯旦肤色红嫩、非常漂亮，波利斯留着浪漫派的短胡子，让·马尔丹还背着他的吊裤带，勒古费和他的母亲吵架。“别为你的筐子④罗嗦了。”有个野孩冲着他们喊。另一个，为了要看德巴凯走过，由于挤在人堆里太矮了，在看到河沿上的路灯杆时便爬了上去。一个在那里站岗的警察皱起眉头。 
①桑松（Samson），当时执行死刑的刽子手。
②孟台斯（Monfès），当时陪死刑犯至刑台就刑之神甫。
③拉色内尔（Lacenaire），一个在一八三六年被处死刑的杀人犯。
④筐子指无法挽救的事，出自成语“再见，筐子，葡萄已经收过了。”
“请让我上去，警察先生。”那野孩说。为了软化那官长，他又补上一句：“我不会摔交的。”“我才不管你摔不摔交呢。”那警察答道。
在野孩群里，凡是难忘的意外都是极受重视的。孩子会获得最大的敬意，要是他偶然很重地割了自己一刀“直到骨头”。
拳头不是一种微不足道的使人尊敬的因素。野孩最爱说的是“放心，我浑身是劲！”左撇子相当受人羡慕，斗鸡眼也为人珍惜。
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 8 In which the Reader will find a Charming Saying of the Last King
In summer, he metamorphoses himself into a frog; and in the evening, when night is falling, in front of the bridges of Austerlitz and Jena, from the tops of coal wagons, and the washerwomen's boats, he hurls himself headlong into the Seine, and into all possible infractions of the laws of modesty and of the police. Nevertheless the police keep an eye on him, and the result is a highly dramatic situation which once gave rise to a fraternal and memorable cry; that cry which was celebrated about 1830, is a strategic warning from gamin to gamin; it scans like a verse from Homer, with a notation as inexpressible as the eleusiac chant of the Panathenaea, and in it one encounters again the ancient Evohe. Here it is: "Ohe, Titi, oheee! Here comes the bobby, here comes the p'lice, pick up your duds and be off, through the sewer with you!"
Sometimes this gnat--that is what he calls himself--knows how to read; sometimes he knows how to write; he always knows how to daub. He does not hesitate to acquire, by no one knows what mysterious mutual instruction, all the talents which can be of use to the public; from 1815 to 1830, he imitated the cry of the turkey; from 1830 to 1848, he scrawled pears on the walls. One summer evening, when Louis Philippe was returning home on foot, he saw a little fellow, no higher than his knee, perspiring and climbing up to draw a gigantic pear in charcoal on one of the pillars of the gate of Neuilly; the King, with that good-nature which came to him from Henry IV., helped the gamin, finished the pear, and gave the child a louis, saying: "The pear is on that also."[19] The gamin loves uproar. A certain state of violence pleases him. He execrates "the cures." One day, in the Rue de l'Universite, one of these scamps was putting his thumb to his nose at the carriage gate of No. 69. "Why are you doing that at the gate?" a passer-by asked. The boy replied: "There is a cure there." It was there, in fact, that the Papal Nuncio lived.
[19] Louis XVIII. is represented in comic pictures of that day as having a pear-shaped head.
Nevertheless, whatever may be the Voltairianism of the small gamin, if the occasion to become a chorister presents itself, it is quite possible that he will accept, and in that case he serves the mass civilly. There are two things to which he plays Tantalus, and which he always desires without ever attaining them: to overthrow the government, and to get his trousers sewed up again.
The gamin in his perfect state possesses all the policemen of Paris, and can always put the name to the face of any one which he chances to meet. He can tell them off on the tips of his fingers. He studies their habits, and he has special notes on each one of them. He reads the souls of the police like an open book. He will tell you fluently and without flinching: "Such an one is a traitor; such another is very malicious; such another is great; such another is ridiculous." (All these words: traitor, malicious, great, ridiculous, have a particular meaning in his mouth.) That one imagines that he owns the Pont-Neuf, and he prevents people from walking on the cornice outside the parapet; that other has a mania for pulling person's ears; etc., etc.
到了夏季，他转化为青蛙，当夕阳西沉黑夜将临时，在奥斯特里茨桥和耶拿桥前，他从成队的煤炭船顶上和洗衣女工的船头上，低着脑袋跳到塞纳河里，所有礼貌和警章全违犯了。不过警察是在注视着的，从而出现了一种具有高度戏剧性的情况，有一次还引起了一种兄弟般的和难忘的呼声，那种呼声在一八三○年前夕是出了名的，那是野孩和野孩间的一种战略性的警告，它的韵律象荷马的诗句，带着一种音调，几乎和巴纳德内节①的埃莱夫西斯②的朗诵调一样无法形容，并且使人想见远古的“哎弗哎”③。野孩的呼声是这样的：“哦哎，Titi，哦哎哎！瘟神来了，对头来了，小心呵，快走开，钻到阴沟里去！” 
①巴纳德内节（Panathénées），古代希腊祭雅典娜神的节日。
②埃莱夫西斯（Eleusis），雅典西北一镇。
③“哎弗哎”（Evohé），古代祭祀时女祭司对酒神的欢呼。　
有时这蠓虫棗这是他替自己取的名称棗能识字，有时能写字，随时都能乱画一气。不知通过怎样一种神秘的互教互学，他毫不犹豫地获得一切对待公共事物的才能：从一八一五到一八三○，他学火鸡叫；从一八三○到一八四八，他在墙上画梨儿④。在一个夏季的傍晚，路易－菲力浦步行回家，看见一个极小的野孩，才这么高，淌着汗，踮着脚，在讷伊铁栏门的柱子上正画着一个极大的梨。国王，带着那种来自亨利四世②的老好人神气，帮着那野孩画完了那个梨，还给了那孩子一枚路易，并且说：“梨儿也在这上面了。”③野孩爱吵闹。某些粗暴的作风合他口味。他痛恨“神甫”。一天，在大学街上，有一个那种小淘气对着六十九号大车门做鼻子脚④。“你为什么要对那扇门这样做？”一个过路人问他。那孩子回答说：“里面有个神甫。”那确是教廷使臣的住处。可是，不管野孩的伏尔泰主义是怎么回事，如果他有机会当唱诗童子，他也可能同意，在那种情况下，他也会斯斯文文地望弥撒。有两件事是他经常想到却又始终没有做到的：推翻政府和缝补自己的裤子。 
①火鸡和梨都代表愚蠢的人。一八一五到一八三○是波旁王朝复辟时期，一八三○到一八四八是路易－菲力浦的七月王朝时期。
②亨利四世是波旁王室的第一代国王。路易－菲力浦是他的后裔。
③双关语，一方面是画梨的代价，另一方面梨儿也指金币上国王的像。
④做鼻子脚是把大拇指抵着自己的鼻尖并摆动其他四个手指，是对人表示鄙视的手势。　
一个地道的野孩知道巴黎所有的警察，他遇见一个警察，总能对着他的脸叫出他的名字。他能掐着手指把他们一个个数过来。他研究他们的性格，并对他们中每一个都有专门的评语。他能象看一本摊开的书那样了解警察的内心活动。他会流利地熟练地告诉你：“某个是奸贼，某个非常凶，某个伟大，某个可耻。”（所有奸贼、凶、伟大、可耻这些字眼在他嘴里都有一种特殊的意义。）“这家伙以为新桥是他的，不许‘人家’在桥栏杆外面的墩子上玩，那家伙老喜欢扯‘人家’的耳朵”等等。
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 9 The Old Soul of Gaul
There was something of that boy in Poquelin, the son of the fish-market; Beaumarchais had something of it. Gaminerie is a shade of the Gallic spirit. Mingled with good sense, it sometimes adds force to the latter, as alcohol does to wine. Sometimes it is a defect. Homer repeats himself eternally, granted; one may say that Voltaire plays the gamin. Camille Desmoulins was a native of the faubourgs. Championnet, who treated miracles brutally, rose from the pavements of Paris; he had, when a small lad, inundated the porticos of Saint-Jean de Beauvais, and of Saint-Etienne du Mont; he had addressed the shrine of Sainte-Genevieve familiarly to give orders to the phial of Saint Januarius.
The gamin of Paris is respectful, ironical, and insolent. He has villainous teeth, because he is badly fed and his stomach suffers, and handsome eyes because he has wit. If Jehovah himself were present, he would go hopping up the steps of paradise on one foot. He is strong on boxing. All beliefs are possible to him. He plays in the gutter, and straightens himself up with a revolt; his effrontery persists even in the presence of grape-shot; he was a scapegrace, he is a hero; like the little Theban, he shakes the skin from the lion; Barra the drummer-boy was a gamin of Paris; he Shouts: "Forward!" as the horse of Scripture says "Vah!" and in a moment he has passed from the small brat to the giant.
This child of the puddle is also the child of the ideal. Measure that spread of wings which reaches from Moliere to Barra.
To sum up the whole, and in one word, the gamin is a being who amuses himself, because he is unhappy.
在菜市场的儿子波克兰①的作品中有这孩子，在博马舍的作品中也有这孩子。野孩的作风是高卢精神的余韵。那种作风渗进了良知，正如醇精入酒，能增加它的力量。有时那种作风是缺点。好吧，荷马是颠三倒四的，伏尔泰，我们可以说他野。卡米尔·德穆兰②是郊区居民。以粗暴态度对待奇迹的尚皮奥内③出生于巴黎街头，很小时便“淹”过圣让·德·博韦和圣艾蒂安·德·蒙的回廊，他常对着圣热纳维埃夫④的遗骸盒开玩笑，向圣詹纳罗的小瓶子⑤发命令。 
①波克兰（Poquelin），莫里哀的姓。
②卡米尔·德穆兰（Camille　Desmoulins，1760-1794），法国政论家，十八世纪末资产阶级革命活功家，右翼雅各宾党人。
③尚皮奥内（Championnet，1762-1800），革命时期的将军。
④圣热纳维埃夫是巴黎的保护神，她的遗骸盒很受人尊敬。
⑤圣詹纳罗是那不勒斯的保护神，他殉教时留下的一瓶血一直被视为圣物。
巴黎的野孩是恭谨、辛辣、横蛮的。他的牙齿怪难看，因为他的饮食差，他的眼睛美，因为他有智慧。他会当着耶和华的面用一只脚跳完天堂的台阶。他踢腿的本领强。任何发展，对他来说都是可能的。他在水沟里游戏，也能为暴动而挺起胸膛，他在开花弹前也仍是嬉皮笑脸的。那是一个顽皮小鬼，也是一个英雄，和底比斯的孩子一样，他掀住狮子的皮乱摇。鼓手巴拉①便是个巴黎野孩，他高呼“前进！”正如圣书中马的嘶鸣“哗！”一眨眼，他由小猴变成了巨人。 
①巴拉（Bara，1779-1793），共和军的少年军人，被俘后敌人强迫他喊“国王万岁”，他的回答是“共和万岁！”接着就在敌人的排枪下牺牲，时年十四。巴黎先贤祠有他的塑像。
这污泥中的孩子也是理想中的孩子。你衡量从莫里哀到巴拉的智力的广度便知道了。
总而言之，简括起来说，野孩是个贪玩的孩子，因为他苦恼。
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 10 Ecce Paris, ecce Homo
To sum it all up once more, the Paris gamin of to-day, like the graeculus of Rome in days gone by, is the infant populace with the wrinkle of the old world on his brow.
The gamin is a grace to the nation, and at the same time a disease; a disease which must be cured, how? By light.
Light renders healthy.
Light kindles.
All generous social irradiations spring from science, letters, arts, education. Make men, make men. Give them light that they may warm you. Sooner or later the splendid question of universal education will present itself with the irresistible authority of the absolute truth; and then, those who govern under the superintendence of the French idea will have to make this choice; the children of France or the gamins of Paris; flames in the light or will-o'-the-wisps in the gloom.
The gamin expresses Paris, and Paris expresses the world.
For Paris is a total. Paris is the ceiling of the human race. The whole of this prodigious city is a foreshortening of dead manners and living manners. He who sees Paris thinks he sees the bottom of all history with heaven and constellations in the intervals. Paris has a capital, the Town-Hall, a Parthenon, Notre-Dame, a Mount Aventine, the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, an Asinarium, the Sorbonne, a Pantheon, the Pantheon, a Via Sacra, the Boulevard des Italiens, a temple of the winds, opinion; and it replaces the Gemoniae by ridicule. Its majo is called "faraud," its Transteverin is the man of the faubourgs, its hammal is the market-porter, its lazzarone is the pegre, its cockney is the native of Ghent. Everything that exists elsewhere exists at Paris. The fishwoman of Dumarsais can retort on the herb-seller of Euripides, the discobols Vejanus lives again in the Forioso, the tight-rope dancer. Therapontigonus Miles could walk arm in arm with Vadeboncoeur the grenadier, Damasippus the second-hand dealer would be happy among bric-a-brac merchants, Vincennes could grasp Socrates in its fist as just as Agora could imprison Diderot, Grimod de la Reyniere discovered larded roast beef, as Curtillus invented roast hedgehog, we see the trapeze which figures in Plautus reappear under the vault of the Arc of l'Etoile, the sword-eater of Poecilus encountered by Apuleius is a sword-swallower on the PontNeuf, the nephew of Rameau and Curculio the parasite make a pair, Ergasilus could get himself presented to Cambaceres by d'Aigrefeuille; the four dandies of Rome: Alcesimarchus, Phoedromus, Diabolus, and Argyrippus, descend from Courtille in Labatut's posting-chaise; Aulus Gellius would halt no longer in front of Congrio than would Charles Nodier in front of Punchinello; Marto is not a tigress, but Pardalisca was not a dragon; Pantolabus the wag jeers in the Cafe Anglais at Nomentanus the fast liver, Hermogenus is a tenor in the Champs-Elysees, and round him, Thracius the beggar, clad like Bobeche, takes up a collection; the bore who stops you by the button of your coat in the Tuileries makes you repeat after a lapse of two thousand years Thesprion's apostrophe: Quis properantem me prehendit pallio? The wine on Surene is a parody of the wine of Alba, the red border of Desaugiers forms a balance to the great cutting of Balatro, Pere Lachaise exhales beneath nocturnal rains same gleams as the Esquiliae, and the grave of the poor bought for five years, is certainly the equivalent of the slave's hived coffin.
Seek something that Paris has not. The vat of Trophonius contains nothing that is not in Mesmer's tub; Ergaphilas lives again in Cagliostro; the Brahmin Vasaphanta become incarnate in the Comte de Saint-Germain; the cemetery of Saint-Medard works quite as good miracles as the Mosque of Oumoumie at Damascus.
Paris has an AEsop-Mayeux, and a Canidia, Mademoiselle Lenormand. It is terrified, like Delphos at the fulgurating realities of the vision; it makes tables turn as Dodona did tripods. It places the grisette on the throne, as Rome placed the courtesan there; and, taking it altogether, if Louis XV. is worse than Claudian, Madame Dubarry is better than Messalina. Paris combines in an unprecedented type, which has existed and which we have elbowed, Grecian nudity, the Hebraic ulcer, and the Gascon pun. It mingles Diogenes, Job, and Jack-pudding, dresses up a spectre in old numbers of the Constitutional, and makes Chodruc Duclos.
Although Plutarch says: the tyrant never grows old, Rome, under Sylla as under Domitian, resigned itself and willingly put water in its wine. The Tiber was a Lethe, if the rather doctrinary eulogium made of it by Varus Vibiscus is to be credited: Contra Gracchos Tiberim habemus, Bibere Tiberim, id est seditionem oblivisci. Paris drinks a million litres of water a day, but that does not prevent it from occasionally beating the general alarm and ringing the tocsin.
With that exception, Paris is amiable. It accepts everything royally; it is not too particular about its Venus; its Callipyge is Hottentot; provided that it is made to laugh, it condones; ugliness cheers it, deformity provokes it to laughter, vice diverts it; be eccentric and you may be an eccentric; even hypocrisy, that supreme cynicism, does not disgust it; it is so literary that it does not hold its nose before Basile, and is no more scandalized by the prayer of Tartuffe than Horace was repelled by the "hiccup" of Priapus. No trait of the universal face is lacking in the profile of Paris. The bal Mabile is not the polymnia dance of the Janiculum, but the dealer in ladies' wearing apparel there devours the lorette with her eyes, exactly as the procuress Staphyla lay in wait for the virgin Planesium. The Barriere du Combat is not the Coliseum, but people are as ferocious there as though Caesar were looking on. The Syrian hostess has more grace than Mother Saguet, but, if Virgil haunted the Roman wine-shop, David d'Angers, Balzac and Charlet have sat at the tables of Parisian taverns. Paris reigns. Geniuses flash forth there, the red tails prosper there. Adonai passes on his chariot with its twelve wheels of thunder and lightning; Silenus makes his entry there on his ass. For Silenus read Ramponneau.
Paris is the synonym of Cosmos, Paris is Athens, Sybaris, Jerusalem, Pantin. All civilizations are there in an abridged form, all barbarisms also. Paris would greatly regret it if it had not a guillotine.
A little of the Place de Greve is a good thing. What would all that eternal festival be without this seasoning? Our laws are wisely provided, and thanks to them, this blade drips on this Shrove Tuesday.
再简括起来谈谈，今日巴黎的野孩，正如当年罗马的剽民，他是那种额上有古国皱纹的人民孩子①。 
①在手稿上雨果对“人民孩子”是这样解释的：“人民孩子两词并立，两词表达一个意思：孩子。”
野孩是祖国的荣光，同时也是祖国的病害，一种必须医治的病害。怎样医治？利用光明。
光明荡涤污垢。
光明廓清黑暗。
社会上一切乐善好施的光辉全出自科学、文学、艺术、教育。培养人，培养人。你给他光，他会给你热。辉煌的全民教育问题迟早会以绝对真理的无可抗拒的威力被提出来，到那时，在法兰西思想的指导下，治理国家的人必将有所抉择：是要法兰西的儿女还是要巴黎的野孩，是要光明中的烈焰还是要黑暗中的鬼火。
野孩说明巴黎，巴黎说明世界。
因为巴黎是总和。巴黎是人类的天幕。这整座奇妙的城市是各种死去的习俗和现有的习俗的缩影。凡是见过巴黎的人都以为见到了历史的全部内幕以及幕上偶现的天色和星光。巴黎有一座卡匹托尔①，就是市政厅，一座巴台农②，就是圣母院，一座阿梵丹山③，就是圣安东尼郊区，一座阿西纳利乌姆④，就是索邦⑤，一座潘提翁⑥，就是先贤祠，一条神圣大路⑦，就是意大利大路，一座风塔⑧，就是舆论，它并用丑化的办法代替喏木尼⑨。它的马若⑩叫做绔袴子弟，它的对河区⑾人民叫做郊区人民，它的哈马尔⑿叫做市场的大汉，它的拉扎洛内⒀叫做黑帮，它的柯克内⒁叫做花花公子。别处所有的一切巴黎全找得到。 
①卡匹托尔（Capitole），建筑在罗马的卡匹托林山岗上的要塞。
②巴台农（Parthénon），雅典的古庙。
③阿梵丹山（Mont－Aventin），罗马的七个山岗之一，罗马立国初期，平民曾全体由城里迁到阿梵丹山，迫使贵族们作政治上的让步。
④阿西纳利乌姆（Asinarium），公元前一世纪在雅典建立的建筑物。
⑤索邦（Sorbonne），巴黎大学前身。
⑥潘提翁（Panthéon），古罗马的万神庙。
⑦神圣大路，古罗马的一条大路，是军队凯旋必经之路。
⑧雅典的八角形风塔，建于公元前一世纪。
⑨喏木尼，罗马卡匹托林山岗西北坡上曝尸的台阶。
⑩马若，西班牙安达路西亚地方爱装扮的男子。
⑾对河区，指隔着台伯河与罗马相望的地区。
⑿哈马尔，阿拉伯国家的搬运工人。
⒀拉扎洛内，那不勒斯的贫民。
⒁柯克内，伦敦市中心的时髦少年。　　
杜马尔赛的卖鱼妇和欧里庇得斯的卖草妇针锋相对，踩绳人福利奥佐是掷铁饼人弗让纽斯的再世，德拉朋第乌纽斯。米勒会挽着侍卫华德朋克尔的胳膊，达马西普会在旧货店里流连忘返，万森刺杀苏格拉底正如阿戈拉囚禁狄德罗，格利木·德·拉雷尼埃尔会做油脂牛排正如古尔第吕斯发明烤刺猬。我们见到普劳图斯著作中的高架秋千重现在明星门的气球下面，阿普列乌斯在普西勒遇见的吞剑人便是新桥上的吞刀人，拉穆的侄儿和寄生虫古尔古里翁是一对，埃尔加齐尔请爱格尔弗依把他介绍给康巴色勒斯，罗马的四个纨袴子弟阿尔色西马尔古斯、费德洛木斯、狄阿波吕斯和阿尔吉里帕乘着拉巴突的邮车从拉古尔第①出发，奥吕·热尔在孔格利奥面前没有比查理·诺缔埃在波里希内儿面前待得更长久，马尔东不是母老虎，但是巴尔达里斯卡也绝不是一条龙，滑稽人潘多拉布斯在英格兰咖啡馆里嘲弄享乐人诺曼达纽斯，埃尔摩仁是爱丽舍广场的男高音，并且在他周围有无赖特拉西乌斯扮成波白什②向人募捐，在杜伊勒里广场上掐住你的衣扣、不让你走的那个讨厌人让你在两千年以后还重复着忒斯卜利翁的那句话：“在我有急事时谁突然抓住了我的衣襟？”叙雷讷酒冒充阿尔巴酒，德佐吉埃的红滚边配得上巴拉特龙的大摆，拉雪兹神甫公墓在夜雨中和埃斯吉里一样发出磷光，为期五年的穷人冢比得上奴隶的租用棺材。 
①拉古尔第（La　Courtille），巴黎一个旧区的名称，其地酒店特多，每年狂欢节，更是热闹的中心，是假面具游车的出发站。
②波白什（Bobèche），十九世纪初出现在巴黎街头的著名小丑，成了市集中的小丑典型。
请你找找有什么东西是巴黎没有的。凡是特洛风尼乌斯桶里的东西，没有一件不在麦斯麦的木盆里，埃尔加非拉斯借着加略斯特罗还了魂，婆罗门僧人梵沙方陀转世为圣日耳曼伯爵，圣美达公墓显示奇迹完全和大马士革的乌姆密埃清真寺一样高明。
巴黎有一个伊索，就是马叶，也有一个加尼娣，就是勒诺尔曼姑娘①。和德尔法一样，它在错觉的耀眼的真实性前惊慌，它使桌子旋转，如同多多纳②的三脚凳，它让俏女人坐上宝座，如同罗马让娼妇坐上宝座那样。总而言之，假如路易十五比克洛狄乌斯更坏，那杜巴丽夫人比梅沙琳又好些。巴黎把希腊的裸体、希伯来的脓疮和加斯科涅③的笑话合成了一个空前未有的人物，那是确实存在过的，也是我们接触过的。它把第欧根尼④、约伯⑤和巴亚斯⑥糅在一起，用几张旧《立宪主义者报》替一个僵尸做身衣服穿上，便有了肖德鲁克·杜克洛⑦。 
①勒诺尔曼姑娘（Mlle　Lenormand，1772?843），以用抽绳子的方法预言吉凶著名。
②多多纳（Dodone），希腊古城，有座朱庇特庙，是著名的神谶所。女巫求神谶时坐三脚凳。
③加斯科涅（Gasgogne），法国西南部旧省名。
④第欧根尼（Diogène，约前404?23），古希腊哲学家，昔尼克学派创始人之一，该学派反映了人民中贫困阶层对有产者统治的消极抗议。
⑤约伯（Job），乌斯人，极富有，并具有忍耐的精神。一般借指极能忍耐的人。
⑥巴亚斯（Paillasse），小丑，也指投机政客。
⑦肖德鲁克·杜克洛（Chodruc　Duclos，1780?842），曾为波旁王朝效忠，参加过旺代叛乱。后感到复辟王朝不会为此给他酬报，他就留了极长的胡子和头发，每天到王宫前去出洋相，以示抗议。
尽管普卢塔克①说过：“暴君不会到老”，可是罗马在西拉的统治下正如在多米齐安②的统治下一样，能耐苦安贫，甘愿在酒里掺水。台伯河是条迷魂河，假如我们必须相信瓦吕斯·维比斯古斯所说的那句有点食古不化的赞词：“在格拉可斯的对面，我们有台伯河。喝了台伯河的水，便会忘了造反。”巴黎每天要唱一百万公升的水，但是这并不妨碍它在适当的时候打鼓吹号敲钟，进入警备状态。 
①普卢塔克（Plutaroue，约46?25），古希腊唯心主义哲学家，古希腊罗马杰出活动家传记的作者。
②多米齐安（Domitian，51?6），罗马皇帝（81?6）。　
除此之外，巴黎是个好孩子。它豁达大度地接受一切，在美女面前它是不难说话的，它的美女是霍屯督①，只要它笑，凡事都好商量，丑态使它欢跃，畸形使它喜悦，恶德使它忘忧，只要与众不同，便可博得众人欢心，伪善即使是绝顶无耻的行为，也不会使它暴跳。它是那样爱好文学，以致在巴西尔②的跟前也不会捂着鼻子，它对达尔杜弗③的祈祷所起的反感并不比贺拉斯对普里阿普斯打嗝的反感来得更强烈。全世界一切脸上的线条在巴黎的侧影上没有不具备的。玛碧舞场④不是让尼古勒⑤的波吕许尼亚⑥舞，但是倒手转卖脂粉的妇人在那里用贼眼偷觑娇娘子的神情却正象窥伺处女普拉纳西的媒婆斯达斐拉。战斗便门不是竞技场，但是在那里人人斗狠逞强，好象有恺撒在看着他们一样。叙利亚老板娘比沙格大娘来得风骚些，但是，如果说维吉尔不时光临罗马的酒店，那大卫·德·昂热、巴尔扎克和沙尔莱也都坐在巴黎小酒铺的桌子旁边。巴黎君临一切。在那里天才炳蔚，红尾⑦云集。阿特乃⑧常乘着十二个雷电轮子的车走过那里；西勒诺所⑨骑着母驴进城。西勒诺斯，就是朗蓬诺⑩。 
①霍屯督（Hottentot），非洲西南部的民族，巴黎植物园陈列馆曾有陈列。
②巴西尔，博马舍所作剧本《塞维勒的理发师》里的伪善人物。
③达尔杜弗，莫里哀所作剧本《伪君子》中的主角。
④玛碧，巴黎一舞场名。
⑤让尼古勒（Janicule），罗马七个山岗之一。
⑥波吕许尼亚　九个文艺女神之一。
⑦红尾，用红绸结在辫子上的小丑。
⑧阿特乃，希伯来人称上帝为“阿特乃”，意为“吾主”，犹太教用此名代替禁呼的“耶和华”。
⑨西勒诺斯（Silène），酒神的义父。
⑩朗蓬诺（R．moonneau），巴黎著名的酒店老板。　
巴黎是宇宙的同义词。巴黎就是雅典、罗马、西巴利斯①、耶路撒冷、庞坦。所有的文化在那里都有缩影，所有的野蛮风气也一样。巴黎会感到美中不足，要是它没有一座断头台的话。 
①西巴利斯（Sybaris），意大利南部古城。　
来一点格雷沃广场是好的。如果没有这种调味品，那永远不散的筵席又怎么办呢？我们的法律在这方面高明地作了准备，有了那种法律，那把板斧便可在狂欢的节日里滴血了。
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 11 To Scoff, to Reign
There is no limit to Paris. No city has had that domination which sometimes derides those whom it subjugates. To please you, O Athenians! exclaimed Alexander. Paris makes more than the law, it makes the fashion; Paris sets more than the fashion, it sets the routine. Paris may be stupid, if it sees fit; it sometimes allows itself this luxury; then the universe is stupid in company with it; then Paris awakes, rubs its eyes, says: "How stupid I am!" and bursts out laughing in the face of the human race. What a marvel is such a city! it is a strange thing that this grandioseness and this burlesque should be amicable neighbors, that all this majesty should not be thrown into disorder by all this parody, and that the same mouth can to-day blow into the trump of the Judgment Day, and to-morrow into the reed-flute! Paris has a sovereign joviality. Its gayety is of the thunder and its farce holds a sceptre.
Its tempest sometimes proceeds from a grimace. Its explosions, its days, its masterpieces, its prodigies, its epics, go forth to the bounds of the universe, and so also do its cock-and-bull stories. Its laugh is the mouth of a volcano which spatters the whole earth. Its jests are sparks. It imposes its caricatures as well as its ideal on people; the highest monuments of human civilization accept its ironies and lend their eternity to its mischievous pranks. It is superb; it has a prodigious 14th of July, which delivers the globe; it forces all nations to take the oath of tennis; its night of the 4th of August dissolves in three hours a thousand years of feudalism; it makes of its logic the muscle of unanimous will; it multiplies itself under all sorts of forms of the sublime; it fills with its light Washington, Kosciusko, Bolivar, Bozzaris, Riego, Bem, Manin, Lopez, John Brown, Garibaldi; it is everywhere where the future is being lighted up, at Boston in 1779, at the Isle de Leon in 1820, at Pesth in 1848, at Palermo in 1860, it whispers the mighty countersign: Liberty, in the ear of the American abolitionists grouped about the boat at Harper's Ferry, and in the ear of the patriots of Ancona assembled in the shadow, to the Archi before the Gozzi inn on the seashore; it creates Canaris; it creates Quiroga; it creates Pisacane; it irradiates the great on earth; it was while proceeding whither its breath urge them, that Byron perished at Missolonghi, and that Mazet died at Barcelona; it is the tribune under the feet of Mirabeau, and a crater under the feet of Robespierre; its books, its theatre, its art, its science, its literature, its philosophy, are the manuals of the human race; it has Pascal, Regnier, Corneille, Descartes, Jean-Jacques: Voltaire for all moments, Moliere for all centuries; it makes its language to be talked by the universal mouth, and that language becomes the word; it constructs in all minds the idea of progress, the liberating dogmas which it forges are for the generations trusty friends, and it is with the soul of its thinkers and its poets that all heroes of all nations have been made since 1789; this does not prevent vagabondism, and that enormous genius which is called Paris, while transfiguring the world by its light, sketches in charcoal Bouginier's nose on the wall of the temple of Theseus and writes Credeville the thief on the Pyramids.
Paris is always showing its teeth; when it is not scolding it is laughing.
Such is Paris. The smoke of its roofs forms the ideas of the universe. A heap of mud and stone, if you will, but, above all, a moral being. It is more than great, it is immense. Why? Because it is daring.
To dare; that is the price of progress.
All sublime conquests are, more or less, the prizes of daring. In order that the Revolution should take place, it does not suffice that Montesquieu should foresee it, that Diderot should preach it, that Beaumarchais should announce it, that Condorcet should calculate it, that Arouet should prepare it, that Rousseau should premeditate it; it is necessary that Danton should dare it.
The cry: Audacity! is a Fiat lux. It is necessary, for the sake of the forward march of the human race, that there should be proud lessons of courage permanently on the heights. Daring deeds dazzle history and are one of man's great sources of light. The dawn dares when it rises. To attempt, to brave, to persist, to persevere, to be faithful to one's self, to grasp fate bodily, to astound catastrophe by the small amount of fear that it occasions us, now to affront unjust power, again to insult drunken victory, to hold one's position, to stand one's ground; that is the example which nations need, that is the light which electrifies them. The same formidable lightning proceeds from the torch of Prometheus to Cambronne's short pipe.
巴黎的边界，决不会存在。任何其他城市都不象它那样冠冕堂皇地嘲弄它所控制的人们。亚历山大曾说过：“要获得你们的欢心，哦，雅典的人们！”巴黎不仅制造法律，它还制造风尚，巴黎不仅制造风尚，它还制造规范。巴黎可以变傻①，当它高兴那样做的时候，它有时允许自己享那种清福，于是整个世界也跟着它傻了，接着，巴黎醒过来了②，它擦着自己的眼睛说：“我多么蠢！”并且还对着人类的脸放声狂笑。一座这样的城市是多么奇妙！事情确也奇怪，宏伟和狂放能相互调和，威仪能不为丑化所扰，同一张嘴，今天能吹末日审判的号角，明天却又能吹葱管！巴黎有着一种庄严的嬉笑，它的笑声是劈雷，它的戏谑有威严，它有时能在一挤眉一弄眼之间引起风暴。它的盛怒、它的纪念日、它的杰作、它的伟绩、它的丰功震撼着整个大地③，它的胡言乱语也是这样。它的笑是火山口，溅及全球。它的讥诮是火花，它把它的漫画和理想影响着其他民族。 
①指法国人民自一八三○年七月革命后至一八四八年，一直处在以国王路易－菲力浦为代表的银行家统治下一无作为。
②指一八四八年二月革命，法兰西第二共和国宣布成立。
③指法国二月革命带动了德意志、奥地利、匈牙利、意大利等国人民的革命运动。　
人类文化中最崇高的华表也接受它的玩弄，并把自己的永久地位让给它的笑谑。它是杰出的，它有一个拯救世人的如孤峰突起的七月十四日，它促使其他各国人民也发表网球厅誓言①，它的八月四日夜间会议②以三个小时摧毁了一千年的封建制度，它用它的逻辑创造了人们一致向往的肌肉，它的精神表现在各色各样的卓绝的形象中，它的光充满了华盛顿、考斯丘什科③、玻利瓦尔、波查里斯④、里埃哥⑤、贝姆⑥、马宁⑦、洛佩斯⑧、约翰·布朗⑨、加里波的的心。 
①一七八九年六月二十日，第三等级的代表在巴黎网球厅宣誓，不制定法国宪法决不解散。
②制宪议会在同年八月四日举行一次有名的夜间会议，宣布封建制度的永远废除和教会私有土地的收归国有。
③考斯丘什科（Kosciuszko，1746-1817），杰出的十八世纪九十年代波兰民族解放运动活动家，一七九四年波兰起义的领导人。
④波查里斯（Botzaris，1788-1823），希腊独立战争中的英雄。
⑤里埃哥（Riégo，1785-1823），西班牙将军和立宪派，一八二○年领导反国王起义。
⑥贝姆（Rem，1795-1850），波兰将军，民族解放运动活动家，一八四八年参加维也纳解放斗争，是匈牙利革命的领导人之一。
⑦马宁（Manin，1804-1857），反抗奥地利统治的意大利民主党人，一八四八年威尼斯共和国总统。
⑧洛佩斯（Lopez，1827-1870），巴拉圭总统，曾和阿根廷和巴西作坚决斗争。
⑨约翰·布朗（John　Brown，1800-1859），美国农民起义领袖，曾号召奴隶们拿起武器来解放自己。　
在未来火炬燃烧之处它无所不在，一七七九年在波士顿，一八二○年在莱翁岛，一八四八年在佩斯，一八六○年在巴勒莫，它对着聚集在哈珀渡口渡船上的美国废除黑奴运动者的耳朵，也对着群集在海边戈齐客店前阿尔基黑影中的安科纳①爱国主义者的耳朵，低声传播那强有力的口号“自由”。它创造了卡纳里斯②，它创造了基罗加③，它创造了比萨康纳④。它把雄伟的气概辐射到全世界，正是由于随着它的风向前进，拜伦才死在梅索朗吉昂⑤，马则也才死在巴塞罗那⑥。它是米拉波⑦脚下的讲台，它是罗伯斯庇尔脚下的火山口，它的书刊、它的戏剧、它的艺术、它的科学、它的文学、它的哲学是人类的手册，它有帕斯卡尔、雷尼埃、高乃依、笛卡儿、卢梭、伏尔泰，这些全是每一分钟也不能少的人物。莫里哀是每一世纪都不能少的人物，它使全世界人的嘴都说它的语言，这语言并还成了救世箴言。它在每个人的精神上建立起进步的思想，它所铸造的解放信条是后代的枕边剑。一七八九年以来各国人民的每个英雄人物也都是由它的思想家和它的诗人的灵魂陶冶出来的，那并不妨碍它的野孩作风。人们称为巴黎的这个大天才，在用它的光辉改变世界面貌的同时，涂黑了忒修斯神庙墙上布什尼埃的鼻子，并在各金字塔上写了“克莱德维尔匪徒”。 
①巴勒莫（Palerme）、安科纳（AncoFne）均为意大利城市。
②卡纳里斯（Canaris，1790-1877），希腊人民反抗土耳其统治的民族英雄。
③基罗加（Quiroga，1784-1841），西班牙军官，自由主义者，曾参加独立战争（1808-1814）和一八二○年的资产阶级革命。
④比萨康纳（Pisacane，1818-1857），意大利革命者。
⑤英国诗人拜伦参加希腊人民反抗土耳其统治的民族解放斗争，一八二四年死于希腊的梅索朗吉昂。
⑥法国医生马则（Mazet）一八二一年赴西班牙巴塞罗那帮助补灭鼠疫，自己染病去世。
⑦米拉波（Mirabeau，1749-1791），十八世纪末法国资产阶级革命的著名活动家，大资产阶级和资产阶级化贵族利益的代表者。
巴黎随时都露着牙，它不咬牙切齿的时候便张着嘴笑。
巴黎就是那样的。它瓦顶上的烟是世界的思想。一堆堆的烂泥和乱石，如果人们要那样说也未尝不可，然而最主要的是它有思想。它不仅只是伟大，它并且还是无边无际的。为什么？因为它敢。
敢，这是为求进步所必须付出的代价。
任何卓越的胜利多少总是大胆的成果。为了革命，单凭孟德斯鸠预感，狄德罗宣传，博马舍表达，孔多塞①推演，阿鲁埃②准备，卢梭策划，那是不够的，还必须有丹东的敢。
“拿出胆量来！”③那一声吼是一切成功之母。为了使人类前进，就必须从高峰上不断地发出鼓舞人们勇气、使人意志高昂的教导。大无畏精神照耀着史册，并且是人类的奇光异彩之一。旭日在东升时是敢于冲破黑暗的。试探，挺进，忍耐，坚持，忠贞不渝，与命运搏斗，以泰然自若的神态使苦难惊奇，时而冒犯不义的暴力，时而唾骂疯狂的胜利，站稳脚，昂着头，这就是人民所需要的典范，也是感召他们的光辉。那种触目惊心的闪电已从普罗米修斯的火炬移到康布罗纳的烟斗上④。 
①孔多塞（Condorcet，1743-1794），法国资产阶级社会学家，启蒙运动者，倾向吉伦特派，第一个制定了人的理性的不断完善是历史进步这种唯心主义理论。
②阿鲁埃（Arouet），伏尔泰的原名。
③丹东在一七九二年号召法国人民消灭国内外敌人时说：“拿出胆量来，继续拿出胆量来，不断拿出胆量来。”
④指康布罗纳在滑铁卢战场上临死时对英国军队的辱骂（见本书第2部第1卷）。 
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 12 The Future Latent in the People
As for the Parisian populace, even when a man grown, it is always the street Arab; to paint the child is to paint the city; and it is for that reason that we have studied this eagle in this arrant sparrow. It is in the faubourgs, above all, we maintain, that the Parisian race appears; there is the pure blood; there is the true physiognomy; there this people toils and suffers, and suffering and toil are the two faces of man. There exist there immense numbers of unknown beings, among whom swarm types of the strangest, from the porter of la Rapee to the knacker of Montfaucon. Fex urbis, exclaims Cicero; mob, adds Burke, indignantly; rabble, multitude, populace. These are words and quickly uttered. But so be it. What does it matter? What is it to me if they do go barefoot! They do not know how to read; so much the worse. Would you abandon them for that? Would you turn their distress into a malediction? Cannot the light penetrate these masses? Let us return to that cry: Light! and let us obstinately persist therein! Light! Light! Who knows whether these opacities will not become transparent? Are not revolutions transfigurations? Come, philosophers, teach, enlighten, light up, think aloud, speak aloud, hasten joyously to the great sun, fraternize with the public place, announce the good news, spend your alphabets lavishly, proclaim rights, sing the Marseillaises, sow enthusiasms, tear green boughs from the oaks. Make a whirlwind of the idea. This crowd may be rendered sublime. Let us learn how to make use of that vast conflagration of principles and virtues, which sparkles, bursts forth and quivers at certain hours. These bare feet, these bare arms, these rags, these ignorances, these abjectnesses, these darknesses, may be employed in the conquest of the ideal. Gaze past the people, and you will perceive truth. Let that vile sand which you trample under foot be cast into the furnace, let it melt and seethe there, it will become a splendid crystal, and it is thanks to it that Galileo and Newton will discover stars.
至于巴黎的人民，即使是成人，也还是野孩；刻画这孩子，便是刻画这城市，正因为这个缘故我们才借了这天真的麻雀来研究这雄鹰。
正是在各个郊区才能出现巴黎种，这一点是应当着重指出的。在那些地方的才是纯种，在那些地方的才是真面目，人民在那些地方劳动吃苦，而吃苦和劳动是人生的两个方面。在那些地方的芸芸众生多到不可胜数，也不为人们所知，在他们中各种形象的人在躜动着，从拉白河沿的装卸工人直到隼山的屠宰工人，无奇不有。“都市的渣滓”，西塞罗①喊着说；“乱党”，声色俱厉的伯克②加以补充；贱民，下民，小民，这些字眼说来全不费事，不妨听其自然。那有什么关系？他们光着脚板走路关我什么事？他们不识字，活该。你为了这点就要放弃他们吗？你要借他们的苦难来咒骂他们吗？难道光不能照透人群吗？让我们再次呼吁：“光！我们坚持要有光！光！光！”谁知道有朝一日黑暗不会通明透亮呢？革命不就是改变面貌的行动吗？努力吧，哲学家们，要教导，要发射光，要燃烧，要想得远，要说得响，要欢欣鼓舞地奔向伟大的太阳，到群众中去交结兄弟，传播好消息，不惜唇焦舌敝，宣布人权，唱《马赛曲》，散布热情，采摘古柏的青枝条。想想那扶摇直上的旋风。群众会飞扬振奋的。我们应当善于运用在某些时刻劈啪爆裂抖颤的主义和美德的熊熊烈火。那些赤着的脚、光着的胳臂、破烂的衣服以及蒙昧、卑劣、黑暗的状态是可以用来达到理想的。你深入细察人民，就能发现真理。砂砾任人践踏，没有多大价值，你如把它放在炉里，让它熔化，让它沸腾，它便会变成灿烂夺目的水晶，并且正是靠着它，伽利略和牛顿才能发现行星。 
①西塞罗（Cicéron），公元前一世纪的罗马执政官。
②伯克（Burke，1729-1797），以诋毁法国革命闻名的英国演说家。
Part 3 Book 1 Chapter 13 Little Gavroche
Eight or nine years after the events narrated in the second part of this story, people noticed on the Boulevard du Temple, and in the regions of the Chateau-d'Eau, a little boy eleven or twelve years of age, who would have realized with tolerable accuracy that ideal of the gamin sketched out above, if, with the laugh of his age on his lips, he had not had a heart absolutely sombre and empty. This child was well muffled up in a pair of man's trousers, but he did not get them from his father, and a woman's chemise, but he did not get it from his mother. Some people or other had clothed him in rags out of charity. Still, he had a father and a mother. But his father did not think of him, and his mother did not love him.
He was one of those children most deserving of pity, among all, one of those who have father and mother, and who are orphans nevertheless.
This child never felt so well as when he was in the street. The pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart.
His parents had despatched him into life with a kick.
He simply took flight.
He was a boisterous, pallid, nimble, wide-awake, jeering, lad, with a vivacious but sickly air. He went and came, sang, played at hopscotch, scraped the gutters, stole a little, but, like cats and sparrows, gayly laughed when he was called a rogue, and got angry when called a thief. He had no shelter, no bread, no fire, no love; but he was merry because he was free.
When these poor creatures grow to be men, the millstones of the social order meet them and crush them, but so long as they are children, they escape because of their smallness. The tiniest hole saves them.
Nevertheless, abandoned as this child was, it sometimes happened, every two or three months, that he said, "Come, I'll go and see mamma!" Then he quitted the boulevard, the Cirque, the Porte Saint-Martin, descended to the quays, crossed the bridges, reached the suburbs, arrived at the Salpetriere, and came to a halt, where? Precisely at that double number 50-52 with which the reader is acquainted-- at the Gorbeau hovel.
At that epoch, the hovel 50-52 generally deserted and eternally decorated with the placard: "Chambers to let," chanced to be, a rare thing, inhabited by numerous individuals who, however, as is always the case in Paris, had no connection with each other. All belonged to that indigent class which begins to separate from the lowest of petty bourgeoisie in straitened circumstances, and which extends from misery to misery into the lowest depths of society down to those two beings in whom all the material things of civilization end, the sewer-man who sweeps up the mud, and the ragpicker who collects scraps.
The "principal lodger" of Jean Valjean's day was dead and had been replaced by another exactly like her. I know not what philosopher has said: "Old women are never lacking."
This new old woman was named Madame Bourgon, and had nothing remarkable about her life except a dynasty of three paroquets, who had reigned in succession over her soul.
The most miserable of those who inhabited the hovel were a family of four persons, consisting of father, mother, and two daughters, already well grown, all four of whom were lodged in the same attic, one of the cells which we have already mentioned.
At first sight, this family presented no very special feature except its extreme destitution; the father, when he hired the chamber, had stated that his name was Jondrette. Some time after his moving in, which had borne a singular resemblance to the entrance of nothing at all, to borrow the memorable expression of the principal tenant, this Jondrette had said to the woman, who, like her predecessor, was at the same time portress and stair-sweeper: "Mother So-and-So, if any one should chance to come and inquire for a Pole or an Italian, or even a Spaniard, perchance, it is I."
This family was that of the merry barefoot boy. He arrived there and found distress, and, what is still sadder, no smile; a cold hearth and cold hearts. When he entered, he was asked: "Whence come you?" He replied: "From the street." When he went away, they asked him: "Whither are you going?" He replied: "Into the streets." His mother said to him: "What did you come here for?"
This child lived, in this absence of affection, like the pale plants which spring up in cellars. It did not cause him suffering, and he blamed no one. He did not know exactly how a father and mother should be.
Nevertheless, his mother loved his sisters.
We have forgotten to mention, that on the Boulevard du Temple this child was called Little Gavroche. Why was he called Little Gavroche?
Probably because his father's name was Jondrette.
It seems to be the instinct of certain wretched families to break the thread.
The chamber which the Jondrettes inhabited in the Gorbeau hovel was the last at the end of the corridor. The cell next to it was occupied by a very poor young man who was called M. Marius.
Let us explain who this M. Marius was.
在本故事第二部分谈到的那些事发生后的八年或九年左右，人们在大庙路和水塔一带，时常看见一个十一二岁的男孩，嘴边带着他那样年纪所常有的笑容，心里却是绝对的苦闷和空虚，如果不是那样，他便相当正确地体现了我们在前面勾画过的那种野孩的形象了。那孩子确也穿着一条大人的长裤，但不是他父亲的，也披着一件妇女的褂子，但不是他母亲的。一些不相干的人由于行善让他穿上那样的破衣烂衫。他并不是没有父母。不过他的父亲不关心他，他的母亲也毫不爱他。
这是一个值得怜悯的那种有父有母、却又是孤儿的孩子。
这孩子从来就只觉得街上才是他安身的地方。铺路的石块也不及他母亲的心肠硬。
他的父母早已一脚把他踢进了人生。
他也毫不在乎地飞走了。
那是一个爱吵闹、脸色发青、轻捷、机警、贫嘴、神气灵活而又有病态的孩子。他去去，来来，唱唱，作掷钱游戏，掏水沟，偶尔偷点小东西，不过只是和小猫小雀那样，偷着玩儿，人家叫他小淘气，他便笑，叫他流氓，便生气。他没有住处，没有面包，没有火，没有温暖，但是他快乐，因为他自由。
这种可怜的小把戏，一旦成了人，几乎总要遭受社会秩序这个磨盘的碾压，但是，只要他们还是孩子，个儿小，就可以逃过。任何一点小小的空隙便救了他们。
不过，那孩子尽管无依无靠，每隔两三个月，却也偶尔会说：“哎，我要去看看妈妈！”于是他离开了大路、马戏场、圣马尔丹门，走下河沿，过了桥，进了郊区，走过妇女救济院，到了什么地方呢？恰恰是读者所熟悉的那道双号门，五○一五二号，戈尔博老屋。
五○一五二号那所破屋经常是空着的，并且永远挂着一块牌子，上面写着“房间出租”。这时，说也奇怪，却有几个人住在那里，那几个人，彼此并且毫无来往，毫无关系，那也是巴黎常有的事。他们全属于那种赤贫阶级，以原就极为潦倒、继又逐步从苦难陷入苦难、一直陷到社会底层的小市民开始，并以清除污泥的阴沟工人和收集旧衣烂衫的破布贩子这两种得不到文明好处的职业告终。
冉阿让时期的那个“二房东”已经死了，接替她的是个同一类型的家伙。我不知道哪个哲学家说过：“老太婆是从来不缺的。”
这个新来的老妇人叫毕尔贡妈妈，她一生中有过三只鹦鹉，先后统治着她的灵魂，除此之外，再没有其他值得一提的事。
在那破房子的住户中，最穷苦的是户四口之家，父亲、母亲和两个已经相当大的女儿，四个人同住在一间破屋里，一间我们已经谈到过的破屋子。
这人家，乍一看。除了那种一贫如洗的窘相外，似乎也没有什么很特殊的地方，那个家长，在开始租用那间屋子时，自称姓容德雷特。他搬家的情形和那二房东所说的一句耐人咀嚼的话象得出奇，是“啥也没有搬进来”，我们在此把那句话借用一下。定居后不久，这容德雷特曾向那看门、扫楼梯、同时又是住户中资格最老的妇人说：“我说妈妈，万一有什么人来找一个波兰人或意大利人或西班牙人，那就是我啊。”
这一家便是那快乐的赤脚小孩的家。他到了那里，看见的只是穷相、苦相，更难受的是见不着一点笑容，他感到的只是炉膛里的冷气和亲人心里的冷气。他走进去时别人问他：“你从哪里来？”他回答说：“从街上来。”他离开时别人问他：“你到哪里去？”他回答说：“到街上去。”他母亲还对他说：“你来这儿干什么？”
那孩子就这样生活在缺乏爱的状态中，有如地窖中萎黄的草。他并不因此感到伤心，也不埋怨任何人。他根本不知道父母究竟应当是怎样的。
尽管如此，他母亲是爱他的两个姐姐的。
我们忘了交代，在大庙路上，人们管那孩子叫小伽弗洛什。他为什么叫伽弗洛什呢？很可能是因为他父亲叫容德雷特。
断绝骨肉关系好象是某些穷苦人家的本能。
容德雷特在那所破屋里住的房间是过道底里最后的那间。在它隔壁的那间小房里住着一个极穷的青年男子，叫马吕斯先生。
我们来谈谈这马吕斯先生是什么人。
Part 3 Book 2 Chapter 1 Ninety Years and Thirty-two Teeth
In the Rue Boucherat, Rue de Normandie and the Rue de Saintonge there still exist a few ancient inhabitants who have preserved the memory of a worthy man named M. Gillenormand, and who mention him with complaisance. This good man was old when they were young. This silhouette has not yet entirely disappeared--for those who regard with melancholy that vague swarm of shadows which is called the past-- from the labyrinth of streets in the vicinity of the Temple to which, under Louis XIV., the names of all the provinces of France were appended exactly as in our day, the streets of the new Tivoli quarter have received the names of all the capitals of Europe; a progression, by the way, in which progress is visible.
M.Gillenormand, who was as much alive as possible in 1831, was one of those men who had become curiosities to be viewed, simply because they have lived a long time, and who are strange because they formerly resembled everybody, and now resemble nobody. He was a peculiar old man, and in very truth, a man of another age, the real, complete and rather haughty bourgeois of the eighteenth century, who wore his good, old bourgeoisie with the air with which marquises wear their marquisates. He was over ninety years of age, his walk was erect, he talked loudly, saw clearly, drank neat, ate, slept, and snored. He had all thirty-two of his teeth. He only wore spectacles when he read. He was of an amorous disposition, but declared that, for the last ten years, he had wholly and decidedly renounced women. He could no longer please, he said; he did not add: "I am too old," but: "I am too poor." He said: "If I were not ruined--Heee!" All he had left, in fact, was an income of about fifteen thousand francs. His dream was to come into an inheritance and to have a hundred thousand livres income for mistresses. He did not belong, as the reader will perceive, to that puny variety of octogenaries who, like M. de Voltaire, have been dying all their life; his was no longevity of a cracked pot; this jovial old man had always had good health. He was superficial, rapid, easily angered. He flew into a passion at everything, generally quite contrary to all reason. When contradicted, he raised his cane; he beat people as he had done in the great century. He had a daughter over fifty years of age, and unmarried, whom he chastised severely with his tongue, when in a rage, and whom he would have liked to whip. She seemed to him to be eight years old. He boxed his servants' ears soundly, and said: "Ah! carogne!" One of his oaths was: "By the pantoufloche of the pantouflochade!" He had singular freaks of tranquillity; he had himself shaved every day by a barber who had been mad and who detested him, being jealous of M. Gillenormand on account of his wife, a pretty and coquettish barberess. M. Gillenormand admired his own discernment in all things, and declared that he was extremely sagacious; here is one of his sayings: "I have, in truth, some penetration; I am able to say when a flea bites me, from what woman it came."
The words which he uttered the most frequently were: the sensible man, and nature. He did not give to this last word the grand acceptation which our epoch has accorded to it, but he made it enter, after his own fashion, into his little chimney-corner satires: "Nature," he said, "in order that civilization may have a little of everything, gives it even specimens of its amusing barbarism. Europe possesses specimens of Asia and Africa on a small scale. The cat is a drawing-room tiger, the lizard is a pocket crocodile. The dancers at the opera are pink female savages. They do not eat men, they crunch them; or, magicians that they are, they transform them into oysters and swallow them. The Caribbeans leave only the bones, they leave only the shell. Such are our morals. We do not devour, we gnaw; we do not exterminate, we claw."
在布什拉街、诺曼底街和圣东日街现在还有几个老居民，都还记得一个叫做吉诺曼先生的老人，并且在谈到他时总免不了有些向往的心情。那老人在他们还年轻时便已上了年纪。他的形象，对那些怀着惆怅心情回顾那一片若有似无的幢幢黑影----所谓过去----的人来说，还没有在大庙附近那些迷宫似的街道里完全消失。在那些地方，在路易十四时代，人们用法国全部行省的名称来命名街道，和我们今天的蒂沃利新区用欧洲所有首都的名称来命名街道一样，是绝对相似的。附带说一句，这是前进，其中进步意义是明显的。
那位在一八三一年还健到不能再健的吉诺曼先生是那样一个仅仅由于寿长而值得一看的奇人，也是那样一个在从前和所有人全一样而现在和任何人全不一样的怪人。那是一个独特的老人，千真万确是另一个时代的人，是一个真正原封不动、略带傲味的那种十八世纪的绅士，死抱着他那腐朽发臭的缙绅派头，正如侯爷珍惜他的侯爷爵位一样。他已过了九十高龄，步伐稳健，声音洪亮，目光炯炯，喝酒不搀水，能吃，能睡，能打鼾。他有三十二颗牙。除了阅读，他不戴眼镜。他还有兴致自诩多情，但他又常说，十年以来，已干脆彻底放弃女人了。他说他已不能讨人家的喜欢。此外，他不说“我太老了”，而是说“我太穷了”。他常说：“要是我的家产没有败的话……嘿嘿！”的确，他只剩下一万五千利弗左右的年息了。他的美梦是希望能继承一笔遗产，能有十万法郎的年金，好找小娘儿们。我们可以看出，他和伏尔泰先生绝不相同，他绝不是那种一辈子都是半死不活、与鬼为邻的八十岁老翁，这不是一位风中残烛似的寿星，这位雄心犹存的老者一向非常健康。他是浅薄、急躁、容易动火的。他动辄大发雷霆，经常违悖情理。如果有人不肯迎合他的旨意，他便举起手杖，常常打人，好象他还生活在大世纪①似的。他有一个女儿，五十出头了，没有结婚，他发脾气时便痛打那个女儿，恨不得用鞭子抽。在他看来，她好象只有八岁。他经常狠狠地恶骂用人，常说：“哈！坏女人！”他骂人的话中有句是“破鞋堆里的破鞋”！有时，他又镇静到出奇。他每天要一个得过疯病的理发师来替他刮胡子，那理发师可是讨厌他，为的是他那女人，一个漂亮风骚的理发店老板娘，因而对吉诺曼先生有点犯酸。吉诺曼先生非常欣赏自己对一切事物的分析能力，自命聪敏过人。他说过这样的话：“老实说，我颇有辨别力，跳蚤叮我时，我有把握说出那跳蚤是从哪个女人身上跳到我身上来的。”他最常用的一些字眼是“多感的人”和“造化”。他对“造化”的解释和我们这时代对这词的理解不同。他坐在火炉边，按照自己的意思，把它编在自己的俏皮话里。“造化，”他说，“为了使文化能什么都有一点，就连有趣的野蛮状态的标本也都给了它一些。欧洲有着亚洲和非洲的一些样品，只是尺寸比较小些。猫儿是客厅里的老虎，壁虎是袖珍鳄鱼。歌剧院里的舞女是玫瑰色的蛮婆。她们不吃人，但会把人咬碎。也可以这样说：‘一群女妖精！’她们把人变成牡蛎②，再把他们吞下去。加勒比人③只剩下骨头不吃，而她们也只剩下贝壳不吃。这便是我们的风尚。我们不吃人，但会咬人，不杀人，但会掐人。” 
①路易十四当国时期（1661-1715）称大世纪。
②牡蛎是傻瓜的意思。
③加勒比人，安的列斯群岛的一个民族。 
Part 3 Book 2 Chapter 2 Like Master, Like House
He lived in the Marais, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6. He owned the house. This house has since been demolished and rebuilt, and the number has probably been changed in those revolutions of numeration which the streets of Paris undergo. He occupied an ancient and vast apartment on the first floor, between street and gardens, furnished to the very ceilings with great Gobelins and Beauvais tapestries representing pastoral scenes; the subjects of the ceilings and the panels were repeated in miniature on the arm-chairs. He enveloped his bed in a vast, nine-leaved screen of Coromandel lacquer. Long, full curtains hung from the windows, and formed great, broken folds that were very magnificent. The garden situated immediately under his windows was attached to that one of them which formed the angle, by means of a staircase twelve or fifteen steps long, which the old gentleman ascended and descended with great agility. In addition to a library adjoining his 

hamber, he had a boudoir of which he thought a great deal, a gallant and elegant retreat, with magnificent hangings of straw, with a pattern of flowers and fleurs-de-lys made on the galleys of Louis XIV. and ordered of his convicts by M. de Vivonne for hic mistress. M. Gillenormand ha` inherited it from a grim maternal great-aunt, who had died a centenarian. He had had two wives. His manners were something between those of the courtier, which he had never been, and the lawyer, which he might have been. He was gay, and caressing when he had a mind. In his youth he had been one of those men who are always deceived by their wives and never by their mistresses, because they are, at the same time, the most sullen of husbands and the most charming of lovers in existence. He was a connoisseur of painting. He had in his chamber a marvellous portrait of no one knows whom, painted by Jordaens, executed with great dashes of the brush, with millions of details, in a confused and hap-hazard manner. M. Gillenormand's attire was not the habit of Louis XIV. nor yet that of Louis XVI.; it was that of the Incroyables of the Directory. He had thought himself young up to that period and had followed the fashions. His coat was of light-weight cloth with voluminous revers, a long swallow-tail and large steel buttons. With this he wore knee-breeches and buckle shoes. He always thrust his hands into his fobs. He said authoritatively: "The French Revolution is a heap of blackguards." 
他住在沼泽区受难修女街六号。房子是他自己的。那房子后来经过拆毁重建，门牌也许在巴黎街道大改号数时换过了。他在二楼占用一套宽大的老式房间，一面临街，一面对着花园，大幅大幅的哥白兰①绒毯和博韦②绒毯挂齐天花板，毯子上织的是牧羊图，天花板上和壁框里的画缩成小幅，又出现在每张围椅上。床前摆了一座九摺长屏风，上的是科罗曼德尔③漆。一幅辐长窗帘，襞褶舒徐，在窗口掩映，非常美观。紧靠在窗子下面的是花园，在两排窗子的转角处有窗门，开出去，便是一道台阶，大致有十二到十五级，是那健步如飞的老人经常上下的地方。在他的卧室隔壁，书房以外，还有一间最为他重视的起坐间，那是间款待女友的密室，墙上挂着一幅麦黄色的壁衣，上面有百合花和其他花朵，是路易十四时期大桡船上的产品，是德·维沃纳先生特为他的情妇向苦役犯定的货，也是吉诺曼先生从一个脾气古怪在一百岁上死去的姨祖母的遗产中继承来的。他结过两次婚。他从来没有当过朝臣，却几乎做了法官，他的神气介于朝臣和法官之间。他爱谈笑，他愿意的话，也能显得亲密温柔。他在少壮时是那样一个经常受到妻子的欺瞒而从来不受情妇欺瞒的人，因为这种人全是些最难相处的丈夫，同时又是些极为可爱的情夫。他是油画鉴赏家。在他的卧室里有一幅约尔丹斯④画的不知道是谁的绝妙肖像，笔触遒劲，却又有万千精微独到之处，下笔交错纷杂，仿佛是信手涂抹而得的。吉诺曼先生的衣着不是路易十五时期的，甚至也不是路易十六时期的，而是督政府时期⑤的那种“荒唐少年”⑥的款式。直至那时，他还自以为很年轻，仍在学时髦。他的上衣是薄呢的，大而阔的翻领，长燕尾，大钢钮。此外，短裤，带扣的浅帮鞋。两只手一贯插在坎肩的小口袋里。他经常横眉怒目地说：“法兰西革命是一堆土匪。” 
①哥白兰，巴黎的一家绒毯工厂。
②博韦，城名，在巴黎以北。
③科罗曼德尔（Coromandel），印度东北滨海地带。
④约尔丹斯（Jordaens，1593-1678），佛兰德著名画家。
⑤督政府，一七九五年至一七九九年法国的资产阶级政府。如果吉诺曼先生在一八三一年有九十岁，他在督政府时期已是近六十岁的人了。
⑥“荒唐少年”（les　incroyables），当时和革命力量对抗的富家子弟，他们故意穿奇装异服招摇过市，说话走路装腔作势，以此来表示自己不同于人民大众。他们爱说“这真荒唐”，从而获得“荒唐少年”这一称号。 
Part 3 Book 2 Chapter 3 Luc-Esprit
At the age of sixteen, one evening at the opera, he had had the honor to be stared at through opera-glasses by two beauties at the same time--ripe and celebrated beauties then, and sung by Voltaire, the Camargo and the Salle. Caught between two fires, he had beaten a heroic retreat towards a little dancer, a young girl named Nahenry, who was sixteen like himself, obscure as a cat, and with whom he was in love. He abounded in memories. He was accustomed to exclaim: "How pretty she was--that Guimard-Guimardini-Guimardinette, the last time I saw her at Longchamps, her hair curled in sustained sentiments, with her come-and-see of turquoises, her gown of the color of persons newly arrived, and her little agitation muff!" He had worn in his young manhood a waistcoat of Nain-Londrin, which he was fond of talking about effusively. "I was dressed like a Turk of the Levant Levantin," said he. Madame de Boufflers, having seen him by chance when he was twenty, had described him as "a charming fool." He was horrified by all the names which he saw in politics and in power, regarding them as vulgar and bourgeois. He read the journals, the newspapers, the gazettes as he said, stifling outbursts of laughter the while. "Oh!" he said, "what people these are! Corbiere! Humann! Casimir Perier! There's a minister for you! I can imagine this in a journal: `M. Gillenorman, minister!' that would be a farce. Well! They are so stupid that it would pass"; he merrily called everything by its name, whether decent or indecent, and did not restrain himself in the least before ladies. He uttered coarse speeches, obscenities, and filth with a certain tranquillity and lack of astonishment which was elegant. It was in keeping with the unceremoniousness of his century. It is to be noted that the age of periphrase in verse was the age of crudities in prose. His god-father had predicted that he would turn out a man of genius, and had bestowed on him these two significant names: Luc-Esprit.
十六岁上，一天夜里，在歌剧院，他曾有过荣幸同时受到两个名噪一时成为伏尔泰吟咏对象的半老徐娘棗卡玛尔戈①和莎莱棗的望远镜的注视。处在双方火力的夹攻之下，他英勇地退下阵来，投向一个二八年华和他一样的象猫儿一样不为人重视、但早已使他思惹情牵、名叫娜安丽的跳舞小姑娘那里去了。他有回忆不尽的往事。他常兴奋地说：“她多漂亮呵，那吉玛尔②－吉玛尔蒂尼－吉玛尔蒂乃特，上一回我在隆桑看见她，一往情深式的鬈发，蓝宝石的“快来瞧”③，新官人色的裙袍，情急了式的皮手笼！”他在年轻时穿过一件伦敦矮子呢④褂子，他每一想起就津津乐道。“那时候，我打扮得象个东方日出处的土耳其人。”他常那样说。在他二十岁时，蒲弗莱夫人偶然遇见了他，称他为“疯美郎”。他见了那些从事政治活动和当权的人的名字，都一律加以丑化，觉得那些人出身微贱，是资产阶级。他每次读报纸（按照他的说法是读新闻纸，读小册子⑤），总忍不住要放声狂笑。“哈！”他常说，“这些人算什么！柯尔比埃尔！于芒！卡西米·贝利埃！这些东西，你也称他们为部长。我心里想，要是报纸上印着‘吉诺曼先生，部长！’那岂不是开玩笑？可是！人们太蠢了，他们也会觉得那也行！”任何东西的名称，不问中听不中听，他都漫不经心地叫出来，当着妇女的面也毫无顾忌。他谈着各种粗鄙、猥亵、淫秽的事物，态度却莫名其妙地镇静文雅，毫不感到别扭。这是他那个世纪的狂态。值得注意的是，韵文晦涩的时代也就是散文粗劣的时代。他的教父预言过，说他将成为一个才华横溢的人，并且替他取了这样一个有意义的名字：明慧。 
①卡玛尔戈（Camargo，1710-1770），巴黎歌剧院有名的芭蕾舞演员，比利时人。
②吉玛尔（Guimard，1743-1816），有名的芭蕾舞女演员。
③“快来瞧”，新奇的首饰或其他东西的统称。
④一种薄呢，法国南部对伦敦呢的仿制品，销往东方各国。
⑤读小册子的另一意义是干望着别人吃东西，自己没有份。
Part 3 Book 2 Chapter 4 A Centenarian Aspirant
He had taken prizes in his boyhood at the College of Moulins, where he was born, and he had been crowned by the hand of the Duc de Nivernais, whom he called the Duc de Nevers. Neither the Convention, nor the death of Louis XVI., nor the Napoleon, nor the return of the Bourbons, nor anything else had been able to efface the memory of this crowning. The Duc de Nevers was, in his eyes, the great figure of the century. "What a charming grand seigneur," he said, "and what a fine air he had with his blue ribbon!"
In the eyes of M. Gillenormand, Catherine the Second had made reparation for the crime of the partition of Poland by purchasing, for three thousand roubles, the secret of the elixir of gold, from Bestucheff. He grew animated on this subject: "The elixir of gold," he exclaimed, "the yellow dye of Bestucheff, General Lamotte's drops, in the eighteenth century,--this was the great remedy for the catastrophes of love, the panacea against Venus, at one louis the half-ounce phial. Louis XV. sent two hundred phials of it to the Pope." He would have been greatly irritated and thrown off his balance, had any one told him that the elixir of gold is nothing but the perchloride of iron. M. Gillenormand adored the Bourbons, and had a horror of 1789; he was forever narrating in what manner he had saved himself during the Terror, and how he had been obliged to display a vast deal of gayety and cleverness in order to escape having his head cut off. If any young man ventured to pronounce an eulogium on the Republic in his presence, he turned purple and grew so angry that he was on the point of swooning. He sometimes alluded to his ninety years, and said, "I hope that I shall not see ninety-three twice." On these occasions, he hinted to people that he meant to live to be a hundred.
他出生在穆兰①，童年时代在穆兰中学得过几次奖状，并且由尼维尔内公爵亲手授予的，他称尼维尔内公爵为讷韦尔②公爵。无论国民公会、路易十六的死、拿破仑、波旁王室复辟都没能冲淡他对那次授奖大典的回忆。在他看来，“讷韦尔公爵”才是那个世纪的伟人。“多么可爱的大贵人，”他常说，“挎着他那条蓝佩带，好不神气！”在吉诺曼先生的眼中，叶卡特林娜二世③花三千卢布向贝斯多舍夫买金酒的秘方，就已经抵赎瓜分波兰的罪恶。在这问题上，他表现得非常兴奋。 
①穆兰（Moulins），法国中部阿利埃省的省会。
②尼维尔内（Nivernais），法国旧省名，今涅夫勒省（Nièvre），省会讷韦尔（Nevers）。
③叶卡特林娜二世（CatherineⅡ，1729-1796），俄国女皇。　
“金酒，”他喊道，“贝斯多舍夫的黄酊，拉莫特将军的杯中物，在十八世纪，半两装的每瓶值一个路易，是情场失意人的妙药，是降伏爱神的仙露。路易十五就曾送过二百瓶给教皇。”假如有人告诉他说金酒只不过是氯化高铁，他一定会暴跳如雷怒不可遏。吉诺曼先生崇拜波旁王室中人，并把一七八九年视为洪水猛兽，他不断谈到他怎样才在恐怖时期保全了性命，怎样寻欢作乐，怎样卖弄聪明，才没被砍掉脑袋。假如有个年轻人敢在他面前称赞共和制度，他会气到脸色发青，晕倒在地。有时，在谈到自己九十高龄时，他闪烁其词地说：“我很希望不会两次见到九十三。”①有时，他却又向人透露他想活到一百岁。 
①两次九十三指革命进入高潮的一七九三年和他自己的九十三岁。 
Part 3 Book 2 Chapter 5 Basque and Nicolette
He had theories. Here is one of them: "When a man is passionately fond of women, and when he has himself a wife for whom he cares bud little, who is homely, cross, d gitimate, with plenty of rights, perched on the code, and jealous at need, there is but one way of extricating himself from the quandry and of procuring peace, and that is to let his wife control the purse-strings. This abdication sets him free. Then his wife busies herself, grows passionately fond of handling coin, gets her fingers covered with verdigris in the process, undertakes the education of half-share tenants and the training of farmers, convokes lawyers, presides over notaries, harangues scriveners, visits limbs of the law, follows lawsuits, draws up leases, dictates contracts, feels herself the sovereign, sells, buys, regulates, promises and compromises, binds fast and annuls, yields, concedes and retrocedes, arran`Ds, disarranges, hoards, lavishaa; she commits follies, a supreme and personal delight, and that consoles her. While her husband disdains her, she has the satisfaction of ruining her husband." This theory M. Gillenormand had himself applied, and it had become his history. His wife--the second one--had administered his fortune in such a manner that, one fine day, when M. Gillenormand found himself a widower, there remained to him just sufficient to live on, by sinking nearly the whole of it in an annuity of fifteen thousand francs, three-quarters of which would expire with him. He had not hesitated on this point, not being anxious to leave a property behind him. Besides, he had noticed that patrimonies are subject to adventures, and, for instance, become national property; he had been present at the avatars of consolidated three per cents, and he had no great faith in the Great Book of the Public Debt. "All that's the Rue Quincampois!" he said. His house in the Rue Filles-du-Clavaire belonged to him, as we have already stated. He had two servants, "a male and a female." When a servant entered his establishment, M. Gillenormand re-baptized him. He bestowed on the men the name of their province: Nimois, Comtois, Poitevin, Picard. His last valet was a big, foundered, short-winded fellow of fifty-five, who was incapable of running twenty paces; but, as he had been born at Bayonne, M. Gillenormand called him Basque. All the female servants in his house were called Nicolette (even the Magnon, of whom we shall hear more farther on). One day, a haughty cook, a cordon bleu, of the lofty race of porters, presented herself. "How much wages do you want a month?" asked M. Gillenormand. "Thirty francs." "What is your name?" "Olympie." "You shall have fifty francs, and you shall be called Nicolette."
他有一些理论。下面便是一种：“当一个男人热爱一些女人而他自己又有妻室，他不大关心她，而她呢，模样儿丑，脾气坏，有合法地位，具备各种权利，稳坐在法律上，必要时还拈酸吃醋，那他只有一个办法来脱离烦恼，获得和平，那就是把家产交给妻子管理。宣告逊位，换取自由。那么一来，太太便有事可做了，如醉如痴地管理现钱，直到满手铜绿。指挥佃户，培养长工，召集法律顾问，主持公证人会议，说服讼棍，访问刑名师爷，出席法庭，草拟契约，口授合同，自以为当了家又作了主，卖出，买进，处理问题，发号施令，担保又受牵累，订约又解约，出让，租让，转让，布置，移置，攒聚，浪费。她作些傻事，幸福无边，自鸣得意，她有了安慰。当她丈夫轻视她时，她却在替丈夫倾家荡产方面得到了满足。”这一理论是吉诺曼先生躬行实践了的，并且成了他的历史。他的女人，后娶的那个，替他经管家产，结果是到他当鳏夫的那天，剩下的产业刚够他过活，他几乎把所有的东西都抵押出去，才得一万五千法郎左右的年息，其中的四分之三还得随他本人化为乌有。他没有迟疑，因为他用不着怎么考虑留遗产的问题。况且他见过，遗产是会遭到风险的，例如转变为“公有财产”；他还亲身遭受国营投资事业之害，他对国营事业的总帐册没有多大信心。“全是坎康波瓦街①的那套把戏！”他常那样说。他在受难修女街的那所房子，我们说过，是他自己的。他经常用两个用人，“一雄一雌”。用人进门时吉诺曼先生便要替他改名字。对于男用人，他按他们的省籍喊：尼姆佬，弗朗什－孔泰佬，普瓦图佬，庇卡底佬。他最后的男用人是一个五十五岁、肠肥气喘、跑不了二十步的大块头，但是，因为他生在巴荣纳，吉诺曼先生便叫他做巴斯克②佬。至于他家里的女用人，一概叫妮珂莱特（即使是我们在后面要谈到的马依妈妈也一样）。一天，来了一个厨娘，一位名厨，身材高大，属于看门妇人的那种魁伟类型。“您希望每月赚多少工资？”“三十法郎。”“您叫什么名字？”“奥林匹。”“你的工资，我给五十法郎，你的名字却得叫妮珂莱特。” 
①摄政时期（1715-1723），法国王朝聘用苏格兰人劳氏（Law）管理财政，劳氏在法国建立银行网，使许多人破产。劳氏银行设在巴黎坎康波瓦街。
②巴斯克（Basque），法国西南与西班牙交界一带的名称，巴荣纳（Bayonne）是该地一城市。
Part 3 Book 2 Chapter 6 In which Magnon and her Two Children are seen
With M. Gillenormand, sorrow was converted into wrath; he was furious at being in despair. He had all sorts of prejudices and took all sorts of liberties. One of the facts of which his exterior relief and his internal satisfaction was composed, was, as we have just hinted, that he had remained a brisk spark, and that he passed energetically for such. This he called having "royal renown." This royal renown sometimes drew down upon him singular windfalls. One day, there was brought to him in a baske|d as though it ad been a basket of oysters, a stout, newly born boy, who was yelling like the deuce, and duly wrapped in swaddling-clothes, which a servant-maid, dismissed six months previously, attributed to him. M. Gillenormand had, at that time, fully completed his eighty-fourth year. Indignation and uproar in the establishment. And whom did that bold hussy think she could persuade to believe that? What audacity! What an abominable calumny! M. Gillenormand himself was not at all enraged. He gazed at the brat with the amiable smile of a good man who is flattered by the calumny, and said in an aside: "Well, what now? What's the matter? You are finely taken aback, and really, you are excessively ignorant. M. le Duc d'Angouleme, the bastard of his Majesty Charles IX., married a silly jade of fifteen when he was eighty-five; M. Virginal, Marquis d'Alluye, brother to the Cardinal de Sourdis, Archbishop of Bordeaux, had, at the age of eighty-three, by the maid of Madame la Presidente Jacquin, a son, a real child of love, who became a Chevalier of Malta and a counsellor of state; one of the great men of this century, the Abbe Tabaraud, is the son of a man of eighty-seven. There is nothing out of the ordinary in these things. And then, the Bible! Uthat I declare that this little gentleman is none of mine. Let him be taken care of. It is not his fault." This manner of procedure was good-tempered. The woman, whose name was Magnon, sent him another parcel in the following year. It was a boy again. Thereupon, M. Gillenormand capitulated. He sent the two brats back to their mother, promising to pay eighty francs a month for their maintenance, on the condition that the said mother would not do so any more. He added: "I insist upon it that the mother shall treat them well. I shall go to see them from time to time." And this he did. He had had a brother who was a priest, and who had been rector of the Academy of Poitiers for three and thirty years, and had died at seventy-nine. "I lost him young," said he. This brother, of whom but little memory remains, was a peaceable miser, who, being a priest, thought himself bound to bestow alms on the poor whom he met, but he never gave them anything except bad or demonetized sous, thereby discovering a means of going to hell by way of paradise. As for M. Gillenormand the elder, he never haggled over his alms-giving, but gave gladly and nobly. He was kindly, abrupt, charitable, and if he had been rich, his turn of mind would have been magnificent. He desired that all which concerned him should be done in a grand manner, even his rogueries. One day, having been cheated by a business man in a matter of inheritance, in a gross and apparent manner, he uttered this solemn exclamation: "That was indecently done! I am really ashamed of this pilfering. Everything has degenerated in this century, even the rascals. Morbleu! this is not the way to rob a man of my standing. I am robbed as though in a forest, but badly robbed. Silva, sint consule dignae!" He had had two wives, as we have already mentioned; by the first he had had a daughter, who had remained unmarried, and by the second another daughter, who had died at about the age of thirty, who had wedded, through love, or chance, or otherwise, a sler of fortune who had served in the armies of the Republic and of the Empire, who had won the cross at Austerlitz and had been made colonel at Waterloo. "He is the disgrace of my family," said the old bourgeois. He took an immense amount of snuff, and had a particularly graceful manner of plucking at his lace ruffle with the back of one hand. He believed very little in God.
吉诺曼先生的苦痛经常表现为愠怒，他在失望时老爱上火。他有各色各样的偏见，却又完全放诞妄为。他用来完成自己外表方面的特色和内心的满足的一种表现，便是一贯老风流。并且要装模作样把自己装成确是那样的神气。他管那样叫做有“大家风范”。那种大家风范有时会替他带来意外的奇福。一天，有人把一只筐子，盛牡蛎的那种筐子，送到他家里，筐里装着一个初生的壮男孩，大哭大叫，身上裹着温暖的衣被，那婴孩是一个在六个月前从他家里被撵走的女工托人送来归他的。当时吉诺曼先生已是不折不扣八十四岁的人了。左右邻居都异口同声表示愤慨。那种无耻的贱女人，她要谁来信她的鬼话？好大的胆！好卑鄙的诬蔑！而他，吉诺曼先生，却一点不生气。他和颜悦色，望着那婴孩对着旁边说：“怎么？干吗要这样？有什么事？有什么大不了的？你们竟那样大惊小怪，老实说，太无知了。昂古莱姆公爵先生，查理九世陛下的私生子，到八十五岁还和一个十五岁的娇娇结了婚；维吉纳尔先生，阿吕伊的侯爷，苏尔迪红衣主教的兄弟，波尔多的大主教，到八十三岁还和雅甘院长夫人的侍女生了一个儿子，一个真正的爱情的结晶，也就是日后的马耳他骑士和御前军事参赞；本世纪的伟人之一，达巴罗神甫，也是一个八十七岁的人的儿子。这些都是最平常的事。还有《圣经》里的呢！说了这些，我宣布这小爷不是我的。我们大家来照顾他吧。这不是他的过错。”这是烂好人的作法。那家伙，叫马依的，一年过后，又送了他一份礼。仍是一个男孩。这一下，吉诺曼先生要讲条件了。他把那两个孩儿交还给他们的母亲，答应每月给八十法郎作为他们的抚养费，但做娘的方面再也不许来这一手了。他还说：“我责成那做娘的必须好好照顾他们。我要随时去看他们的。”他也确实去探望过。他有一个当神甫的兄弟，在普瓦蒂埃学院当了三十三年的院长，活到七十九岁。“他那么年轻就丢下我走了。”他常那么说。那兄弟的生平事迹不多，为人恬静而吝啬，他认为自己既然当了神甫，就必须对遇到的穷人有所布施，可是他给的只是几个小钱，或是几个贬了值的苏，那是他发现的一条通过天堂去地狱的途径。至于吉诺曼大先生，他在布施方面毫不计较，给起钱来痛快慷慨。他的性格是恳切、直率、仁慈的，假使他有钱，也许会来得更大方些。他希望凡是和他有关的事都能做得冠冕堂皇，即使是偷盗欺诈方面的事。一天，在一次分配遗产的场合里，他被一个买卖人用明显的粗暴手法敲诈了一下，他喷出了这样一段愤慨而庄严的话：“啐！这做得太不高明！这种鸡鸣狗盗的把戏实在使我感到丢人。现在这时代，一切全退化了，连坏种也退化了。他妈的！竟会那样抢我这样一个人，太不象话。我好象是在树林里被人抢了，抢得我不痛不痒。有眼不识泰山！”我们说过，他结过两次婚。他的第一个妻子生了一个女儿，没有出嫁；第二个妻子也生了一个女儿，三十岁上就死了，她由于爱情、偶然或其他原因，和一个走运的军人结了婚，那军人在共和时期和帝国时期的军队里都服务过，得过奥斯特里茨勋章，并在滑铁卢被授予上校衔。“这是我的家丑。”那老绅士常说。他闻鼻烟闻得相当多，他用手背掸起他胸前的花边来有种独特的风度。他不怎么信上帝。
Part 3 Book 2 Chapter 7 Rule: Receive No One except in the Evening
Such was M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormand, who had not lost his hair,-- which was gray rather than white,--and which was always dressed in "dog's ears." To sum up, he was venerable in spite of all this.
He had something of the eighteenth century about him; frivolous and great.
In 1814 and during the early years of the Restoration, M. Gillenormand, who was still young,--he was only seventy-four,--lived in the Faubourg Saint Germain, Rue Servandoni, near Saint-Sulpice. He had only retired to the Marais when he quitted society, long after attaining the age of eighty.
And, on abandoning society, he had immured himself in his habits. The principal one, and that which was invariable, was to keep his door absolutely closed during the day, and never to receive any one whatever except in the evening. He dined at five o'clock, and after that his door was open. That had been the fashion of his century, and he would not swerve from it. "The day is vulgar," said he, "and deserves only a closed shutter. Fashionable people only light up their minds when the zenith lights up its stars." And he barricaded himself against every one, even had it been the king himself. This was the antiquated elegance of his day.
明慧·吉诺曼先生便是那样一个人，他的头发一根也不掉，也没有全白，只是花白，并且一贯梳成狗耳朵式。总之，尽管那样，仍俨然可尊。
他是从十八世纪来的：轻浮而自大。
在王朝复辟时期的最初几年中，吉诺曼先生棗当时他还年轻，他在一八一四年①还只有七十四岁棗住在圣日耳曼郊区，圣稣尔比斯教堂附近的塞尔凡多尼街。他只在满了八十岁后又过了些日子，这才脱离社交隐退到沼泽区去。
脱离社交以后，他仍紧守着原来的习惯，主要是白天绝对关上大门，不到天黑，不问有什么事，决不接待任何人。这一习惯是他坚决不改的。他五点钟吃晚饭，接着，大门就开了。这是他那个世纪的风气，他一点也不越规。“阳光是贼，”他说，“它只配望望关上的门窗。规规矩矩的人要到穹苍放射星光时才放射他的智慧。”他待在他的堡垒里，不接待任何人，即使国王来了也一样。这是他那时代古老的高贵气派。 
①一八一四年是拿破仑帝国末年和王朝复辟初年。 
Part 3 Book 2 Chapter 8 Two do not make a Pair
We have just spoken of M. Gillenormand's two daughters. They had come into the world ten years apart. In their youth they had borne very little resemblance to each other, either in character or countenance, and had also been as little like sisters to each other as possible. The youngest had a charming soul, which turned towards all that belongs to the light, was occupied with flowers, with verses, with music, which fluttered away into glorious space, enthusiastic, ethereal, and was wedded from her very youth, in ideal, to a vague and heroic figure. The elder had also her chimera; she espied in the azure some very wealthy purveyor, a contractor, a splendidly stupid husband, a million made man, or even a prefect; the receptions of the Prefecture, an usher in the antechamber with a chain on his neck, official balls, the harangues of the town-hall, to be "Madame la Prefete,"--all this had created a whirlwind in her imagination. Thus the two sisters strayed, each in her own dream, at the epoch when they were young girls. Both had wings, the one like an angel, the other like a goose.
No ambition is ever fully realized, here below at least. No paradise becomes terrestrial in our day. The younger wedded the man of her dreams, but she died. The elder did not marry at all.
At the moment when she makes her entrance into this history which we are relating, she was an antique virtue, an incombustible prude, with one of the sharpest noses, and one of the most obtuse minds that it is possible to see. A characteristic detail; outside of her immediate family, no one had ever known her first name. She was called Mademoiselle Gillenormand, the elder.
In the matter of cant, Mademoiselle Gillenormand could have given points to a miss. Her modesty was carried to the other extreme of blackness. She cherished a frightful memory of her life; one day, a man had beheld her garter.
Age had only served to accentuate this pitiless modesty. Her guimpe was never sufficiently opaque, and never ascended sufficiently high. She multiplied clasps and pins where no one would have dreamed of looking. The peculiarity of prudery is to place all the more sentinels in proportion as the fortress is the less menaced.
Nevertheless, let him who can explain these antique mysteries of innocence, she allowed an officer of the Lancers, her grand nephew, named Theodule, to embrace her without displeasure.
In spite of this favored Lancer, the label: Prude, under which we have classed her, suited her to absolute perfection. Mademoiselle Gillenormand was a sort of twilight soul. Prudery is a demi-virtue and a demi-vice.
To prudery she added bigotry, a well-assorted lining. She belonged to the society of the Virgin, wore a white veil on certain festivals, mumbled special orisons, revered "the holy blood," venerated "the sacred heart," remained for hours in contemplation before a rococo-jesuit altar in a chapel which was inaccessible to the rank and file of the faithful, and there allowed her soul to soar among little clouds of marble, and through great rays of gilded wood.
She had a chapel friend, an ancient virgin like herself, named Mademoiselle Vaubois, who was a positive blockhead, and beside whom Mademoiselle Gillenormand had the pleasure of being an eagle. Beyond the Agnus Dei and Ave Maria, Mademoiselle Vaubois had no knowledge of anything except of the different ways of making preserves. Mademoiselle Vaubois, perfect in her style, was the ermine of stupidity without a single spot of intelligence.
Let us say it plainly, Mademoiselle Gillenormand had gained rather than lost as she grew older. This is the case with passive natures. She had never been malicious, which is relative kindness; and then, years wear away the angles, and the softening which comes with time had come to her. She was melancholy with an obscure sadness of which she did not herself know the secret. There breathed from her whole person the stupor of a life that was finished, and which had never had a beginning.
She kept house for her father. M. Gillenormand had his daughter near him, as we have seen that Monseigneur Bienvenu had his sister with him. These households comprised of an old man and an old spinster are not rare, and always have the touching aspect of two weaknesses leaning on each other for support.
There was also in this house, between this elderly spinster and this old man, a child, a little boy, who was always trembling and mute in the presence of M. Gillenormand. M. Gillenormand never addressed this child except in a severe voice, and sometimes, with uplifted cane: "Here, sir! rascal, scoundrel, come here!-- Answer me, you scamp! Just let me see you, you good-for-nothing!" etc., etc. He idolized him.
This was his grandson. We shall meet with this child again later on.
关于吉诺曼先生的两个女儿，我们刚才已经提了一下，她俩出生的年代前后相距十年。她们在年轻时彼此就很不相象，无论在性情或面貌方面，都很难看出她们是姊妹俩。小的那个是个可爱的人儿，凡是属于光明的事物都能吸引她，她爱花木、诗歌和音乐，仰慕灿烂寥廓的天空，热情，爽朗，还是孩子时，她的理想就是把自己许给一个隐隐约约的英雄人物。大的那个也有她的幻想：她见到空中有个买卖人，一个又好又胖又极阔气的军火商，一个非常出色的蠢丈夫，一个金光四射的男子，或是，一个省长；省政府里的宴会，颈子上挂根链条、立在前厅里伺候的传达吏，公家举办的舞会，市政府的讲演，做省长夫人。这一切，就是萦绕在她想象中的东西。这两姊妹，在当姑娘的岁月里便那样各自做着各人的梦，各走各的路。她们俩都有翅膀，一个象天使，一个象鹅。
任何想象都是不能完全实现的，至少在这世界上是这样。在我们这时代，没有一个天堂是实际的。那妹子已嫁给了意中人，但是她死了。姐姐却没有结过婚。
那姐姐从我们现在谈着的这故事里出现时，已是一块纯洁的古白玉、一根烧不着的老木头，她有着人从没见到过的尖鼻子和一个从没见到过的迟钝的脑袋。一件突出的小事是，除了她家里极少的几个人外，谁也不知道她的小名，大家都称她为吉诺曼大姑娘。
说到为人谨饬方面，吉诺曼大姑娘尽可赛过密斯①。那已发展到一种难以忍受的拘谨。在一生中她有件想到就害怕的往事，一天，有个男人看见了她的吊袜带。 
①英国姑娘以拘谨见称。
岁月只增强了这种无情的腼腆。她总嫌她的围巾不够厚，也老怕它围得不够高。她在那些谁也不会想到要去看一下的地方添上无数的钩扣和别针。束身自爱的本义就是：堡垒未受威胁而偏要步步设防。
可是，看看有谁能猜透老妇人这种天真的心事，她常让一个长矛骑兵军官，一个名叫忒阿杜勒的侄孙去吻她，并且不无快感。
尽管她有这样一个心爱的长矛兵，我们仍称她为腼腆拘谨的老妇人还是绝对恰当的。吉诺曼姑娘原有一种半明不暗的灵魂。腼腆拘谨也正是一种善恶参半的性格。
她除了腼腆拘谨以外还笃信上帝，表里相得益彰。她是童贞圣母善堂的信女，在某些节日她戴上白面罩，哼哼唧唧念着一些特殊的经文，拜“圣血”，敬“圣心”，跟着许多忠实的信徒一同关在一间小礼拜堂里，待在一座耶稣会式样的古老祭台前凝视几个钟头，让她的灵魂在几块云烟似的云石中和金漆长木条栅栏内外往复穿越飘游。
她在礼拜堂里交了一个朋友，和她一样是个老处女，名叫弗波瓦姑娘，绝对呆头呆脑，吉诺曼姑娘乐于和她相处，好显出自己是头神鹰。除了念《上帝的羔羊》和《圣母颂》以外，弗波瓦姑娘的本领就只有做各种果酱了。弗波瓦姑娘是她那种人中的典型，是一头冥顽不灵、没有一点聪明的银鼠。
让我们指出，吉诺曼姑娘在进入老年的岁月里，不但毫无所获，反而一年不如一年。那是不自振作的人的必然趋势。她从来不对旁人生恶念，那是一种相当好的品质；后来，岁月磨尽棱角，时间进一步向她下软化功夫。她只是感到忧伤，一种没有来由的忧伤，她自己也不知道原因何在。她感到人生还没有开始便已经要结束了，她的声音笑貌行动，处处显出那么一种恓惶困惑的味儿。
她代她父亲主持家务。吉诺曼先生身边有女儿，正如我们从前见过的那位卞福汝主教身边有妹子。这种由一个老头子和一个老姑娘组成的家庭是一点不稀罕的，那种两老相依为命的情景总会令人怅然神往。
在这家人里，除了那个老姑娘和那老头以外，还有一个小孩，一个在吉诺曼先生面前便会发抖沉默的小男孩。吉诺曼先生和那孩子说话没有一次不是狠巴巴的，有时还举起手杖：“来！先生！坏蛋，淘气鬼，走过来！回答我，奴怪！让我看看你，小流氓！”他说些诸如此类的话，但心里可确是疼他。
那是他的外孙。我们以后还会见到这个孩子。
Part 3 Book 3 Chapter 1 An Ancient Salon
When M. Gillenormand lived in the Rue Servandoni, he had frequented many very good and very aristocratic salons. Although a bourgeois, M. Gillenormand was received in society. As he had a double measure of wit, in the first place, that which was born with him, and secondly, that which was attributed to him, he was even sought out and made much of. He never went anywhere except on condition of being the chief person there. There are people who will have influence at any price, and who will have other people busy themselves over them; when they cannot be oracles, they turn wags. M. Gillenormand was not of this nature; his domination in the Royalist salons which he frequented cost his self-respect nothing. He was an oracle everywhere. It had happened to him to hold his own against M. de Bonald, and even against M. Bengy-Puy-Vallee.
About 1817, he invariably passed two afternoons a week in a house in his own neighborhood, in the Rue Ferou, with Madame la Baronne de T., a worthy and respectable person, whose husband had been Ambassador of France to Berlin under Louis XVI. Baron de T., who, during his lifetime, had gone very passionately into ecstasies and magnetic visions, had died bankrupt, during the emigration, leaving, as his entire fortune, some very curious Memoirs about Mesmer and his tub, in ten manuscript volumes, bound in red morocco and gilded on the edges. Madame de T. had not published the memoirs, out of pride, and maintained herself on a meagre income which had survived no one knew how.
Madame de T. lived far from the Court; "a very mixed society," as she said, in a noble isolation, proud and poor. A few friends assembled twice a week about her widowed hearth, and these constituted a purely Royalist salon. They sipped tea there, and uttered groans or cries of horror at the century, the charter, the Bonapartists, the prostitution of the blue ribbon, or the Jacobinism of Louis XVIII., according as the wind veered towards elegy or dithyrambs; and they spoke in low tones of the hopes which were presented by Monsieur, afterwards Charles X.
The songs of the fishwomen, in which Napoleon was called Nicolas, were received there with transports of joy. Duchesses, the most delicate and charming women in the world, went into ecstasies over couplets like the following, addressed to "the federates":--
Refoncez dans vos culottes[20] Le bout d' chemis' qui vous pend. Qu'on n' dis' pas qu' les patriotes Ont arbore l' drapeau blanc?
[20] Tuck into your trousers the shirt-tail that is hanging out. Let it not be said that patriots have hoisted the white flag.
There they amused themselves with puns which were considered terrible, with innocent plays upon words which they supposed to be venomous, with quatrains, with distiches even; thus, upon the Dessolles ministry, a moderate cabinet, of which MM. Decazes and Deserre were members:--
Pour raffermir le trone ebranle sur sa base,[21] Il faut changer de sol, et de serre et de case.
[21] In order to re-establish the shaken throne firmly on its base, soil (Des solles), greenhouse and house (Decazes) must be changed.
Or they drew up a list of the chamber of peers, "an abominably Jacobin chamber," and from this list they combined alliances of names, in such a manner as to form, for example, phrases like the following: Damas. Sabran. Gouvion-Saint-Cyr.--All this was done merrily. In that society, they parodied the Revolution. They used I know not what desires to give point to the same wrath in inverse sense. They sang their little Ca ira:--
Ah! ca ira ca ira ca ira! Les Bonapartistes a la lanterne!
Songs are like the guillotine; they chop away indifferently, to-day this head, to-morrow that. It is only a variation.
In the Fualdes affair, which belongs to this epoch, 1816, they took part for Bastide and Jausion, because Fualdes was "a Buonapartist." They designated the liberals as friends and brothers; this constituted the most deadly insult.
Like certain church towers, Madame de T.'s salon had two cocks. One of them was M. Gillenormand, the other was Comte de Lamothe-Valois, of whom it was whispered about, with a sort of respect: "Do you know? That is the Lamothe of the affair of the necklace." These singular amnesties do occur in parties.
Let us add the following: in the bourgeoisie, honored situations decay through too easy relations; one must beware whom one admits; in the same way that there is a loss of caloric in the vicinity of those who are cold, there is a diminution of consideration in the approach of despised persons. The ancient society of the upper classes held themselves above this law, as above every other. Marigny, the brother of the Pompadour, had his entry with M. le Prince de Soubise. In spite of? No, because. Du Barry, the god-father of the Vaubernier, was very welcome at the house of M. le Marechal de Richelieu. This society is Olympus. Mercury and the Prince de Guemenee are at home there. A thief is admitted there, provided he be a god.
The Comte de Lamothe, who, in 1815, was an old man seventy-five years of age, had nothing remarkable about him except his silent and sententious air, his cold and angular face, his perfectly polished manners, his coat buttoned up to his cravat, and his long legs always crossed in long, flabby trousers of the hue of burnt sienna. His face was the same color as his trousers.
This M. de Lamothe was "held in consideration" in this salon on account of his "celebrity" and, strange to say, though true, because of his name of Valois.
As for M. Gillenormand, his consideration was of absolutely first-rate quality. He had, in spite of his levity, and without its interfering in any way with his dignity, a certain manner about him which was imposing, dignified, honest, and lofty, in a bourgeois fashion; and his great age added to it. One is not a century with impunity. The years finally produce around a head a venerable dishevelment.
In addition to this, he said things which had the genuine sparkle of the old rock. Thus, when the King of Prussia, after having restored Louis XVIII., came to pay the latter a visit under the name of the Count de Ruppin, he was received by the descendant of Louis XIV. somewhat as though he had been the Marquis de Brandebourg, and with the most delicate impertinence. M. Gillenormand approved: "All kings who are not the King of France," said he, "are provincial kings." One day, the following question was put and the following answer returned in his presence: "To what was the editor of the Courrier Francais condemned?" "To be suspended." "Sus is superfluous," observed M. Gillenormand.[22] Remarks of this nature found a situation.
[22] Suspendu, suspended; pendu, hung.
At the Te Deum on the anniversary of the return of the Bourbons, he said, on seeing M. de Talleyrand pass by: "There goes his Excellency the Evil One."
M. Gillenormand was always accompanied by his daughter, that tall mademoiselle, who was over forty and looked fifty, and by a handsome little boy of seven years, white, rosy, fresh, with happy and trusting eyes, who never appeared in that salon without hearing voices murmur around him: "How handsome he is! What a pity! Poor child!" This child was the one of whom we dropped a word a while ago. He was called "poor child," because he had for a father "a brigand of the Loire."
This brigand of the Loire was M. Gillenormand's son-in-law, who has already been mentioned, and whom M. Gillenormand called "the disgrace of his family."
吉诺曼先生住在塞尔凡多尼街时，他经常在几处极好极高贵的客厅里走动。吉诺曼先生虽然是个资产阶级，但也受到接待。由于他有双重智慧，一是他原有的智慧，二是别人以为他有智慧，甚至大家还邀请他和奉承他。他每到一处就一定要出人头地，否则他宁可不去。有些人总爱千方百计地左右别人，使人家另眼看待他们，如果不能当头领，也一定要当小丑。吉诺曼的性情却不是那样，吉诺曼先生在他平时出入的那些保王派客厅里取得了出人头地的地位，却丝毫没有损及他的自尊心。处处都以他为权威。他居然和德·波纳德先生①，甚至和贝奇－皮伊－瓦莱先生②分庭抗礼。
一八一七年前后，他每星期必定要到附近的弗鲁街上T．男爵夫人家里去消磨两个下午，那是一位值得钦佩和尊敬的妇人，她的丈夫在路易十六时期当过法国驻柏林大使。T．男爵生前酷爱凝视和显圣③，在流亡期间他资财荡尽而死，留下的遗产只是十册红羊皮封面的金边精装手稿，内容是对麦斯麦和他的木盆的一些相当新奇的回忆。T．夫人因门第关系，没有把它发表，只靠一笔不知怎么保留下来的微薄年金过日子。T．夫人不和宫廷接近，她说那是一种“相当杂的地方”，她过的是一种高尚、寂寞、清寒、孤芳自赏的生活。少数几个朋友每星期在她只身独守的炉边聚会两次，于是组成了一种纯粹保王派的客厅。大家在那里喝着茶，随着各人一时的兴致，低沉或兴奋，而对这个世纪、宪章、波拿巴分子、卖蓝佩带给资产阶级的蠹政、路易十八的雅各宾主义等问题发出哀叹或怒吼，并且低声谈着御弟，日后的查理十世给予人们的希望。 
①德·波纳德（Bonald，1754-1840），子爵，法国政治活动家和政论家，保王派，复辟时期的贵族和教权主义反动派的思想家之一。
②贝奇－皮伊－瓦莱（BengyAPuyAVallée，1743-1823），制宪议会右派议员，后逃往国外。复辟时期撰文论述法国社会宗教和政治的关系。
③指巫术中定睛凝视鬼魂重现等手法。
大家在那里把那些称拿破仑为尼古拉的鄙俚歌曲唱得兴高采烈。公爵夫人们，世界上最雅致最可爱的妇女，也在那里欢天喜地地唱着这一类的叠歌，例如下面这段指向盟员①的歌：
把你拖着的衬衫尾巴
塞进裤子里。
免得人家说那些爱国主义者
挂起了白旗②！ 
①盟员，指一八一五年拿破仑从厄尔巴岛回国时号召组织的志愿军。
②白旗是投降的旗帜，也是法国当时王朝的旗帜。
他们唱着自以为能吓坏人的隐语和无伤大雅而他们却认为有毒的文字游戏如四行诗，甚至是对句来消遣，例如德索尔内阁，一个温和派内阁，有德卡兹和德赛尔两个阁员，他们这样唱道：
为了从基础上巩固这动摇了的宝座，
必须换土壤，换暖室，换格子。①
或者他们改编元老院的名单，认为“元老院的雅各宾臭味重得可怕”，他们把那名单上的名字连缀起来，把它们组成一个句子，如Damas，Sabran，Gouvion　Saint－Cyr．于是感到乐不可支。
在那种客厅里大家丑化革命。他们都有那么一股味儿，想把同样的仇恨鼓起来，但是意思相反。他们唱着那可爱的《会好的呵》②：
会好的！会好的！会好的呵！
布宛纳巴分子被挂在街灯柱子上。
歌曲就好象是断头台，它不加区别地今天砍这个人的头，明天又砍那个人的头。那只是一种对象的改变而已。
弗阿尔台斯③案件正是在那时，一八一六年发生的，在这问题上，他们站在巴斯第德和若西翁④方面，因为弗阿尔台斯是一个“布宛纳巴分子”。他们称自由主义者为“弟兄们和朋友们”，那是最刻毒的咒骂了。 
①de sol（土壤）和Dessolles（德索尔）同音，de serre（暖室）和Deserre（德赛尔）同音，de case（格子）和Decazkes（德卡兹）同音。
②《会好的呵》是一七八九革命时期的一首革命歌曲，其中有一句是“贵族挂在街灯柱子上”。这里，“贵族”被窜改为“布宛纳巴分子”。
③弗阿尔台斯（Fualdès）是一个被暗杀的官员。
④巴斯第德（Bastide）和若西翁（Jausion），被认为是暗杀弗阿尔台斯的凶手。
正和某些礼拜堂的钟楼一样，T．男爵夫人的客厅也有两只雄鸡。一只是吉诺曼先生，另一只是拉莫特－瓦罗亚伯爵，他们提到那伯爵，总怀着敬佩的心情凑到人家耳边说：“您知道？这就是项圈事件①里的拉莫特呀！”朋党和朋党之间常有那种奇妙莫测的妥协。
我们补充这一点：在资产阶级里，择交过分随便往往会降低自己的声誉和地位，应当注意交游的对象是什么样的人，正好象和身上穿不暖的人相处会失去自己身上的热一样，接近被轻视的人也能减少别人的敬意。古老的上层社会就是处在这条规律以及其他一切规律之上的。彭帕杜尔夫人②的兄弟马里尼③常去苏比斯亲王④家里。然而……不，因为……弗培尔尼埃夫人的教父杜巴丽⑤是黎塞留⑥大元帅先生家里极受欢迎的客人。那个社会，是奥林匹斯⑦，是墨丘利⑧和盖美内亲王的家园。一个贼也可以受到接待，只要他是神。 
①一七八四年，拉莫特伯爵夫人怂恿一个红衣主教买一串极名贵的金刚钻项圈送给王后，她冒称王后早想得到那项圈。红衣主教为了逢迎王后，向珠宝商赊来交给拉莫特夫人转给王后。拉莫特夫人把那项圈遗失了，王后没收到，红衣主教付不出钱。事情闹开后激起了人民对王室和僧侣的憎恨。拉莫特夫人在广场上受到杖刑和烙印，被关在妇女救济院里，继而越狱逃往英国，在再次被捕时跳楼自杀。
②彭帕杜尔夫人（de　la　Pompadour，1721-1764），路易十五的情妇。
③马里尼（de　Marigny，1721-1781），侯爵，王室房舍总管。
④苏比斯（de　Soubise，1715-1787），元帅，嬖臣，彭帕杜尔夫人的忠实奉承者。
⑤杜巴丽（Du　Barry），伯爵，他的妻是路易十五的情妇。
⑥黎塞留（Richelieu，1696-1788），红衣主教黎塞留的侄孙，路易十四和路易十五的嬖臣，以贪污出名。
⑦奥林匹斯，希腊神话中众神所居之山。
⑧墨丘利（Mercure），希腊神话中商业和盗贼的保护神。　　
拉莫特伯爵，在一八一五年已是个七十五岁的老头，值得重视的只是他那种沉静严肃的神气，处处棱角毕现的冷脸，绝对谦恭的举动，一直扣到领带的上衣，一双老交叉着的长腿，一条红土色的软长裤。他的脸和他的长裤是同一种颜色。这位拉莫特先生在那客厅里是有“地位”的，因为他很“有名”，而且，说来奇怪但却是事实，也因为他姓瓦罗亚①。
至于吉诺曼先生，他是深孚众望的。他是权威。尽管他举止佻挞，言语诙谐，但却有自己的一种风度使人敬服，他以仪表胜人，诚恳并有绅士的傲性，外加他那罕见的高龄。活上一个世纪那确是非同小可。岁月总会在一个人的头上加上一层使人仰慕的清辉。
此外，他的谈吐完全是一种太古岩石的火花。象这个例子，普鲁士王在帮助路易十八回朝后，假称吕邦伯爵来访问他，被路易十四的这位后裔接待得有点象勃兰登堡②侯爷那样，并还带着一种极微妙的傲慢态度。吉诺曼先生表示赞同。
“除了法兰西国王外，”他说，“所有其他的王都只能算是一省之王。”一天，有人在他面前进行这样的回答：“后来是怎样处理《法兰西邮报》的主笔的？”“停刊（suspendu）。”“sus③是多余的。”吉诺曼先生指出说。象这一类的谈话使他获得地位。 
①瓦罗亚（Valois），法国卡佩王室的一支。
②勃兰登堡（Brandebourg），日耳曼帝国选侯之一，普鲁士王国的臣属。
③suspendu（暂时停刊）去掉词头成pendu（处绞刑）。
波旁王室回国周年纪念日举行了一次大弥撒，他望见塔列朗先生走过，说道：“恶大人阁下到了。”
吉诺曼经常由他的女儿陪着同来，当时他的女儿年过四十，倒象一个五十岁的人，陪他同来的还有一个七岁的小男孩，白净，红嫩，生就一双笑眯眯肯和人亲近的眼睛，他一走进客厅，总听见在座的人围着他齐声赞叹：“他多么漂亮！真可惜！可怜的孩子！”这孩子就是我们先头提到过的那个。大家称他为“可怜的孩子”，因为他的父亲是“一个卢瓦尔①的匪徒”。 
①卢瓦尔（Loire），法国中部偏东之省。
这位卢瓦尔的匪徒是吉诺曼先生的女婿，我们在前面也已提到过，也就是吉诺曼先生所谓的“他的家丑”。
Part 3 Book 3 Chapter 2 One of the Red Spectres of that Epoch
Any one who had chanced to pass through the little town of Vernon at this epoch, and who had happened to walk across that fine monumental bridge, which will soon be succeeded, let us hope, by some hideous iron cable bridge, might have observed, had he dropped his eyes over the parapet, a man about fifty years of age wearing a leather cap, and trousers and a waistcoat of coarse gray cloth, to which something yellow which had been a red ribbon, was sewn, shod with wooden sabots, tanned by the sun, his face nearly black and his hair nearly white, a large scar on his forehead which ran down upon his cheek, bowed, bent, prematurely aged, who walked nearly every day, hoe and sickle in hand, in one of those compartments surrounded by walls which abut on the bridge, and border the left bank of the Seine like a chain of terraces, charming enclosures full of flowers of which one could say, were they much larger: "these are gardens," and were they a little smaller: "these are bouquets." All these enclosures abut upon the river at one end, and on a house at the other. The man in the waistcoat and the wooden shoes of whom we have just spoken, inhabited the smallest of these enclosures and the most humble of these houses about 1817. He lived there alone and solitary, silently and poorly, with a woman who was neither young nor old, neither homely nor pretty, neither a peasant nor a bourgeoise, who served him. The plot of earth which he called his garden was celebrated in the town for the beauty of the flowers which he cultivated there. These flowers were his occupation.
By dint of labor, of perseverance, of attention, and of buckets of water, he had succeeded in creating after the Creator, and he had invented certain tulips and certain dahlias which seemed to have been forgotten by nature. He was ingenious; he had forestalled Soulange Bodin in the formation of little clumps of earth of heath mould, for the cultivation of rare and precious shrubs from America and China. He was in his alleys from the break of day, in summer, planting, cutting, hoeing, watering, walking amid his flowers with an air of kindness, sadness, and sweetness, sometimes standing motionless and thoughtful for hours, listening to the song of a bird in the trees, the babble of a child in a house, or with his eyes fixed on a drop of dew at the tip of a spear of grass, of which the sun made a carbuncle. His table was very plain, and he drank more milk than wine. A child could make him give way, and his servant scolded him. He was so timid that be seemed shy, he rarely went out, and he saw no one but the poor people who tapped at his pane and his cure, the Abbe Mabeuf, a good old man. Nevertheless, if the inhabitants of the town, or strangers, or any chance comers, curious to see his tulips, rang at his little cottage, he opened his door with a smile. He was the "brigand of the Loire."
Any one who had, at the same time, read military memoirs, biographies, the Moniteur, and the bulletins of the grand army, would have been struck by a name which occurs there with tolerable frequency, the name of Georges Pontmercy. When very young, this Georges Pontmercy had been a soldier in Saintonge's regiment. The revolution broke out. Saintonge's regiment formed a part of the army of the Rhine; for the old regiments of the monarchy preserved their names of provinces even after the fall of the monarchy, and were only divided into brigades in 1794. Pontmercy fought at Spire, at Worms, at Neustadt, at Turkheim, at Alzey, at Mayence, where he was one of the two hundred who formed Houchard's rearguard. It was the twelfth to hold its ground against the corps of the Prince of Hesse, behind the old rampart of Andernach, and only rejoined the main body of the army when the enemy's cannon had opened a breach from the cord of the parapet to the foot of the glacis. He was under Kleber at Marchiennes and at the battle of Mont-Palissel, where a ball from a biscaien broke his arm. Then he passed to the frontier of Italy, and was one of the thirty grenadiers who defended the Col de Tende with Joubert. Joubert was appointed its adjutant-general, and Pontmercy sub-lieutenant. Pontmercy was by Berthier's side in the midst of the grape-shot of that day at Lodi which caused Bonaparte to say: "Berthier has been cannoneer, cavalier, and grenadier." He beheld his old general, Joubert, fall at Novi, at the moment when, with uplifted sabre, he was shouting: "Forward!" Having been embarked with his company in the exigencies of the campaign, on board a pinnace which was proceeding from Genoa to some obscure port on the coast, he fell into a wasps'-nest of seven or eight English vessels. The Genoese commander wanted to throw his cannon into the sea, to hide the soldiers between decks, and to slip along in the dark as a merchant vessel. Pontmercy had the colors hoisted to the peak, and sailed proudly past under the guns of the British frigates. Twenty leagues further on, his audacity having increased, he attacked with his pinnace, and captured a large English transport which was carrying troops to Sicily, and which was so loaded down with men and horses that the vessel was sunk to the level of the sea. In 1805 he was in that Malher division which took Gunzberg from the Archduke Ferdinand. At Weltingen he received into his arms, beneath a storm of bullets, Colonel Maupetit, mortally wounded at the head of the 9th Dragoons. He distinguished himself at Austerlitz in that admirable march in echelons effected under the enemy's fire. When the cavalry of the Imperial Russian Guard crushed a battalion of the 4th of the line, Pontmercy was one of those who took their revenge and overthrew the Guard. The Emperor gave him the cross. Pontmercy saw Wurmser at Mantua, Melas, and Alexandria, Mack at Ulm, made prisoners in succession. He formed a part of the eighth corps of the grand army which Mortier commanded, and which captured Hamburg. Then he was transferred to the 55th of the line, which was the old regiment of Flanders. At Eylau he was in the cemetery where, for the space of two hours, the heroic Captain Louis Hugo, the uncle of the author of this book, sustained alone with his company of eighty-three men every effort of the hostile army. Pontmercy was one of the three who emerged alive from that cemetery. He was at Friedland. Then he saw Moscow. Then La Beresina, then Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden, Wachau, Leipzig, and the defiles of Gelenhausen; then Montmirail, Chateau-Thierry, Craon, the banks of the Marne, the banks of the Aisne, and the redoubtable position of Laon. At Arnay-Le-Duc, being then a captain, he put ten Cossacks to the sword, and saved, not his general, but his corporal. He was well slashed up on this occasion, and twenty-seven splinters were extracted from his left arm alone. Eight days before the capitulation of Paris he had just exchanged with a comrade and entered the cavalry. He had what was called under the old regime, the double hand, that is to say, an equal aptitude for handling the sabre or the musket as a soldier, or a squadron or a battalion as an officer. It is from this aptitude, perfected by a military education, which certain special branches of the service arise, the dragoons, for example, who are both cavalry-men and infantry at one and the same time. He accompanied Napoleon to the Island of Elba. At Waterloo, he was chief of a squadron of cuirassiers, in Dubois' brigade. It was he who captured the standard of the Lunenburg battalion. He came and cast the flag at the Emperor's feet. He was covered with blood. While tearing down the banner he had received a sword-cut across his face. The Emperor, greatly pleased, shouted to him: "You are a colonel, you are a baron, you are an officer of the Legion of Honor!" Pontmercy replied: "Sire, I thank you for my widow." An hour later, he fell in the ravine of Ohain. Now, who was this Georges Pontmercy? He was this same "brigand of the Loire."
We have already seen something of his history. After Waterloo, Pontmercy, who had been pulled out of the hollow road of Ohain, as it will be remembered, had succeeded in joining the army, and had dragged himself from ambulance to ambulance as far as the cantonments of the Loire.
The Restoration had placed him on half-pay, then had sent him into residence, that is to say, under surveillance, at Vernon. King Louis XVIII., regarding all that which had taken place during the Hundred Days as not having occurred at all, did not recognize his quality as an officer of the Legion of Honor, nor his grade of colonel, nor his title of baron. He, on his side, neglected no occasion of signing himself "Colonel Baron Pontmercy." He had only an old blue coat, and he never went out without fastening to it his rosette as an officer of the Legion of Honor. The Attorney for the Crown had him warned that the authorities would prosecute him for "illegal" wearing of this decoration. When this notice was conveyed to him through an officious intermediary, Pontmercy retorted with a bitter smile: "I do not know whether I no longer understand French, or whether you no longer speak it; but the fact is that I do not understand." Then he went out for eight successive days with his rosette. They dared not interfere with him. Two or three times the Minister of War and the general in command of the department wrote to him with the following address: A Monsieur le Commandant Pontmercy." He sent back the letters with the seals unbroken. At the same moment, Napoleon at Saint Helena was treating in the same fashion the missives of Sir Hudson Lowe addressed to General Bonaparte. Pontmercy had ended, may we be pardoned the expression, by having in his mouth the same saliva as his Emperor.
In the same way, there were at Rome Carthaginian prisoners who refused to salute Flaminius, and who had a little of Hannibal's spirit.
One day he encountered the district-attorney in one of the streets of Vernon, stepped up to him, and said: "Mr. Crown Attorney, am I permitted to wear my scar?"
He had nothing save his meagre half-pay as chief of squadron. He had hired the smallest house which he could find at Vernon. He lived there alone, we have just seen how. Under the Empire, between two wars, he had found time to marry Mademoiselle Gillenormand. The old bourgeois, thoroughly indignant at bottom, had given his consent with a sigh, saying: "The greatest families are forced into it." In 1815, Madame Pontmercy, an admirable woman in every sense, by the way, lofty in sentiment and rare, and worthy of her husband, died, leaving a child. This child had been the colonel's joy in his solitude; but the grandfather had imperatively claimed his grandson, declaring that if the child were not given to him he would disinherit him. The father had yielded in the little one's interest, and had transferred his love to flowers.
Moreover, he had renounced everything, and neither stirred up mischief nor conspired. He shared his thoughts between the innocent things which he was then doing and the great things which he had done. He passed his time in expecting a pink or in recalling Austerlitz.
M. Gillenormand kept up no relations with his son-in-law. The colonel was "a bandit" to him. M. Gillenormand never mentioned the colonel, except when he occasionally made mocking allusions to "his Baronship." It had been expressly agreed that Pontmercy should never attempt to see his son nor to speak to him, under penalty of having the latter handed over to him disowned and disinherited. For the Gillenormands, Pontmercy was a man afflicted with the plague. They intended to bring up the child in their own way. Perhaps the colonel was wrong to accept these conditions, but he submitted to them, thinking that he was doing right and sacrificing no one but himself.
The inheritance of Father Gillenormand did not amount to much; but the inheritance of Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder was considerable. This aunt, who had remained unmarried, was very rich on the maternal side, and her sister's son was her natural heir. The boy, whose name was Marius, knew that he had a father, but nothing more. No one opened his mouth to him about it. Nevertheless, in the society into which his grandfather took him, whispers, innuendoes, and winks, had eventually enlightened the little boy's mind; he had finally understood something of the case, and as he naturally took in the ideas and opinions which were, so to speak, the air he breathed, by a sort of infiltration and slow penetration, he gradually came to think of his father only with shame and with a pain at his heart.
While he was growing up in this fashion, the colonel slipped away every two or three months, came to Paris on the sly, like a criminal breaking his ban, and went and posted himself at Saint-Sulpice, at the hour when Aunt Gillenormand led Marius to the mass. There, trembling lest the aunt should turn round, concealed behind a pillar, motionless, not daring to breathe, he gazed at his child. The scarred veteran was afraid of that old spinster.
From this had arisen his connection with the cure of Vernon, M. l'Abbe Mabeuf.
That worthy priest was the brother of a warden of Saint-Sulpice, who had often observed this man gazing at his child, and the scar on his cheek, and the large tears in his eyes. That man, who had so manly an air, yet who was weeping like a woman, had struck the warden. That face had clung to his mind. One day, having gone to Vernon to see his brother, he had encountered Colonel Pontmercy on the bridge, and had recognized the man of Saint-Sulpice. The warden had mentioned the circumstance to the cure, and both had paid the colonel a visit, on some pretext or other. This visit led to others. The colonel, who had been extremely reserved at first, ended by opening his heart, and the cure and the warden finally came to know the whole history, and how Pontmercy was sacrificing his happiness to his child's future. This caused the cure to regard him with veneration and tenderness, and the colonel, on his side, became fond of the cure. And moreover, when both are sincere and good, no men so penetrate each other, and so amalgamate with each other, as an old priest and an old soldier. At bottom, the man is the same. The one has devoted his life to his country here below, the other to his country on high; that is the only difference.
Twice a year, on the first of January and on St. George's day, Marius wrote duty letters to his father, which were dictated by his aunt, and which one would have pronounced to be copied from some formula; this was all that M. Gillenormand tolerated; and the father answered them with very tender letters which the grandfather thrust into his pocket unread.
当年如果有人经过小城韦尔农，走到那座宏大壮丽的石桥上去游玩（那座桥也许不久将被一道丑恶不堪的铁索桥所替代），立在桥栏边往下望去，便会看到一个五十左右的男子，戴一顶鸭舌帽，穿一身粗呢褂裤，衣衿上缝着一条泛黄的红丝带，脚上穿的是木鞋，他皮肤焦黄，脸黝黑，头发花白，一条又阔又长的刀痕从额头直到脸颊，弯腰，曲背，未老先衰，几乎整天拿着一把平头铲和一把修枝刀在一个小院里踱来踱去。在塞纳河左岸桥头一带，全是那种院子，每一个都有墙隔开，顺着河边排列，象一长条土台，全都种满花木，非常悦目，如果园子再大一点，就可以叫做花园，再小一点，那就是花畦了。那些院落，全是一端临河，一端有所房子的。我们先头说的那个穿短褂和木鞋的人，在一八一七年前后，便住在这些院子中最窄的一个，这些房屋中最简陋的一所里。他独自一人住在那里，孤独沉默，贫苦无依，有一个既不老又不年轻，不美又不丑，既不是农民又不是市民的妇人帮他干活。他称作花园的那一小块地，由于他种的花的艳丽，已在那小城里出了名。种花是他的工作。
由于坚持工作，遇事留意，勤于灌溉，他居然能继造物主之后，培植出几种似乎已被大地遗忘了的郁金香和大丽菊。他能别出心裁，他沤小绿肥来培植一些稀有珍贵的美洲的和中国的灌木，在这方面他超过了苏兰日·波丹。夏季天刚亮，他已到了畦埂上，插着，修着，薅着，浇着，带着慈祥、抑郁、和蔼的神气，在他的那些花中间来往奔忙，有时又停下不动，若有所思地捱上几个钟头，听着树上一只小鸟的歌唱或别人家里一个小孩的咿呀，或呆望着草尖上一滴被日光照得象钻石一样的露珠。他的饮食非常清淡，喝奶的时候多于喝酒。淘气的孩子可以使他听从，他的女仆也常骂他。他简直胆小到好象不敢见人似的，他很少出门，除了那些敲他玻璃窗的穷人和他的神甫之外，谁也不见。他的神甫叫马白夫，一个老好人。可是，如果有些本城或外来的人，无论是谁，想要见识见识他的郁金香和玫瑰，走来拉动他那小屋的门铃时，他就笑盈盈地走去开门。这就是那个卢瓦尔的匪徒了。
假使有人，在那同一时期，读了各种战争回忆录、各种传记、《通报》和大军战报，他就会被一个不时出现的名字所打动，那名字是乔治·彭眉胥。这彭眉胥在很年轻时便已是圣东日联队里的士兵。革命爆发了。圣东日联队编入了莱茵方面军。君主时代的旧联队是以省名为队名的，君主制被废除后依然照旧，到一七九四年才统一编制。彭眉胥在斯比尔、沃尔姆斯、诺伊施塔特、土尔克海姆、阿尔蔡、美因茨等地作过战，在美因茨一役，他是乌沙尔殿后部队二百人中的一个。他和其他十一个人，在安德纳赫的古垒后面阻击了赫斯亲王的全部人马，直到敌人的炮火打出一条从墙垛到斜堤的缺口，大队敌兵压来后他才退却。他在克莱贝尔部下到过马尔什安，并在蒙巴利塞尔一战中被铳子打伤了胳膊。随后，他转到了意大利前线，他是和茹贝尔保卫坦达谷的那三十个卫队之一。由于那次战功，茹贝尔升了准将，彭眉胥升了中尉。在洛迪那天，波拿巴望见贝尔蒂埃在炮火中东奔西突，夸他既是炮兵又是骑兵又是卫队，当时彭眉胥便在贝尔蒂埃的身旁。他在诺维亲眼见到他的老长官茹贝尔将军在举起马刀高呼“前进！”时倒了下去。在那次战役里，由于军事需要，他领着他的步兵连从热那亚乘着一只帆船到不知道哪一个小港口去，中途遇见了七八艘英国帆船。那位热那亚船长打算把炮沉到海里，让士兵们藏在中舱，伪装成商船暗地溜走。彭眉胥却把三色旗系在绳上，升上旗杆，冒着不列颠舰队的炮火扬长而过。驶过二十海里后，他的胆量更大了，他用他的帆船攻打一艘运送部队去西西里的英国大运输舰，并且俘虏了那艘满载人马直至舱口的敌船。一八○五年，他隶属于马莱尔师部，从斐迪南大公手里夺下了贡茨堡。在威廷根，他冒着冰雹般的枪弹双手抱起那位受了致命伤的第九龙骑队队长莫伯蒂上校。他曾在奥斯特里茨参加了那次英勇的冒着敌人炮火前进的梯形队伍。俄皇禁卫军骑兵队践踏第四大队的一营步兵时，彭眉胥也参加了那次反攻，并且击溃了那批禁卫军。皇上给了他十字勋章。彭眉胥，一次又一次，在曼图亚看见维尔姆泽被俘，在亚历山大看见梅拉斯被俘，在乌尔姆看见麦克被俘。他也参加了在莫蒂埃指挥下攻占汉堡的大军第八兵团。随后，他改隶第五十五大队，也就是旧时的佛兰德联队。英勇的队长路易·雨果，本书作者的叔父，在艾劳的一个坟场里，独自领着他连部的八十三个人，面对着敌军的全力猛攻，支持了两个小时，当时彭眉胥也在场。他是活着离开那坟场的三个人中的一个。弗里德兰，他也在。随后，他见过莫斯科，随后，又见过别列津纳，随后，卢岑、包岑、德累斯顿、瓦朔、莱比锡和格兰豪森峡道；随后，蒙米赖、沙多·蒂埃里、克拉昂、马恩河岸、埃纳河岸以及拉昂的惊险局面。在阿尔内勒狄克，他是骑兵队长，他用马刀砍翻了六个哥萨克人，并且救了，不是他的将军，而是他的班长。正是在那一次，他被人砍到血肉模糊，仅仅从他的左臂上，便取出了二十七块碎骨。巴黎投降的前八天，他和一个伙伴对调了职务，参加了骑兵队伍。他有旧时代所说的那种“双面手”，也就是说当兵，他有使刀枪的本领，当官，也一样有指挥步兵营或骑兵队的才干。某些特别兵种，比方说，那种既是骑兵又是步兵的龙骑兵，便是由这种军事教育精心培养出来的。他随着拿破仑到了厄尔巴岛。滑铁卢战争中，他在杜布瓦旅当铁甲骑兵队队长。夺得吕内堡营军旗的便是他。他把那面旗子夺来丢在皇上的跟前。他浑身是血。他在拔旗时，劈面砍来一刀，正砍着他的脸。皇上，心里喜悦，对他喊道：“升你为上校，封你为男爵，奖你第四级荣誉勋章！”彭眉胥回答说：“陛下，我代表我那成为寡妇的妻子感谢您。”一个钟点过后他倒在奥安的山沟里。我们现在要问：这乔治·彭眉胥究竟是什么人？他正是那卢瓦尔的匪徒。
关于他的历史，我们从前已经见了一些。滑铁卢战争过后，彭眉胥，我们记得，被人从奥安的那条凹路里救了出来，他居然回到了部队，从一个战地急救站转到另一个战地急救站，最后到了卢瓦尔营地。
王朝复辟以后，他被编在半薪人员里，继又被送到韦尔农去休养，就是说，去受监视。国王路易十八对百日时期发生的一切都加以否认，因而对他领受第四级荣誉勋章的资格、他的上校衔、他的男爵爵位一概不予承认。在他这面却绝不放弃一次机会去签署“上校男爵彭眉胥”。他只有一套旧的蓝制服，上街时他老佩上那颗代表第四级荣誉勋位的小玫瑰纽。检察官托人去警告他，说法院可能要追究他“擅自佩带荣誉勋章的不法行为”。当这通知由一个非正式的中间人转达给他时，彭眉胥带着苦笑回答：“我一点也不了解究竟是我听不懂法语，还是您不在说法语，事实是我听不懂您的话。”接着，他天天带上那小玫瑰纽上街，一连跑了八天。没有人敢惹他。军政部和省总指挥官写过两三次信给他，信封上写着“彭眉胥队长先生”。他把那些信全都原封不拆退了回去。与此同时，拿破仑在圣赫勒拿岛上也用同样的办法对待那些由贵人赫德森·洛①送给“波拿巴将军”的信件。在彭眉胥的嘴里棗请允许我们这样说棗竟有了和他皇上同样的唾沫。 
①赫德森·洛（HadsonLowe，1769-1844），监视拿破仑的英国总督。
从前在罗马也有过一些被俘虏的迦太基士兵，拒绝向弗拉米尼努斯①致敬，他们多少有点汉尼拔的精神。 
①弗拉米尼努斯（Flaminius，约前228-174），罗马统帅和执政官（前198），在第二次马其顿战争中（前200-197）中为罗马军队指挥官。
一天早晨，他在韦尔农的街上遇见了那个检察官，他走到他面前问他：“检察官先生，我脸上老挂着这条刀伤，这不碍事吧？”
他除了那份极微薄的骑兵队队长的半薪之外，什么都没有。他在韦尔农租下他可能找到的一所最小的房子。独自一人住在那里，他的生活方式是我们先头已经见到过的。在帝国时期，他趁着战争暂息的空儿，和吉诺曼姑娘结了婚。那位老绅士，心里愤恨，却又只好同意，他叹着气说：“最高贵的人家也不得不低下头来。”彭眉胥太太是个有教养、难逢难遇的妇人，配得上她的丈夫，从任何方面说，都是教人敬慕的，可她在一八一五年死了，丢下一个孩子。这孩子是上校在孤寂中的欢乐，但是那个外祖父蛮不讲理地要把他的外孙领去，口口声声说，如果不把那孩子送交给他，他便不让他继承遗产。父亲为了孩子的利益只好让步，爱子被夺以后，他便把心寄托在花木上。
其他的一切，他也都放弃了，既不活动，也无密谋。他把自己的心剖成两半，一半交给地目前所做的这种怡情悦性的营生，一半交给他从前干过的那些轰轰烈烈的事业。他把时间消磨在对一朵石竹的希望或对奥斯特里茨的回忆上。
吉诺曼先生和他的女婿毫无来往。那上校在他的心目中是个“匪徒”，而他在上校的眼里则是个“蠢才”。吉诺曼先生平日谈话从来不提上校，除非要讥诮他的“男爵爵位”才有时影射一两句。他们已经明确约定，彭眉胥永远不得探望他的儿子，否则就要把那孩子撵走，取消他的财产承继权，送还给父亲。对吉诺曼一家人来说，彭眉胥是个得瘟病的人。他们要按照他们的办法来教养那孩子。上校接受那样的条件也许错了，但是他谨守诺言，认为牺牲他个人不算什么，那样做还是对的。吉诺曼本人的财产不多，吉诺曼大姑娘的财产却很可观。那位没有出阁的姑奶奶从她母亲的娘家承继了大宗产业，她妹子的儿子自然是她的继承人了。
这孩子叫马吕斯，他知道自己有个父亲，此外便什么都不知道了。谁也不在他面前多话。可是在他外祖父领着他去的那些地方，低声的交谈，隐晦的词句，眨眼的神气，终于使那孩子心里有所领悟，有所认识，并且，由于一种潜移默化的作用，他也自然而然地把他常见的那种环境里的观点和意见变为自己所固有的了，久而久之，他一想到父亲，便感到羞惭苦闷。
当他在那种环境中渐渐成长时，那位上校，每隔两三个月，总要偷偷地、好象一个擅离指定住处的罪犯似的溜到巴黎来一次，趁着吉诺曼姑奶奶领着马吕斯去望弥撒时，他也溜去待在圣稣尔比斯教堂里。他躲在一根石柱后面，心惊胆战，唯恐那位姑奶奶回转头来，所以不动也不敢呼吸，眼睛盯着那孩子。一个脸上挂着刀痕的铁汉竟能害怕那样一个老姑娘。
正因为那样，他才和韦尔农的本堂神甫，马白夫神甫有了交情。
这位好好神甫是圣稣尔比斯教堂一位理财神甫的兄弟。理财神甫多次瞥见那人老觑着那孩子，脸上一道刀痕，眼里一眶眼泪。看神气，那人象个好男子，哭起来却又象个妇人，理财神甫见了，十分诧异。从此那人的面貌便印在他心里。一天，他到韦尔农去探望他的兄弟，走到桥上，遇见了彭眉胥上校，便认出他正好是圣稣尔比斯的那个人。理财神甫向本堂神甫谈起这件事，并且随便找了一个借口同去访问了上校。这之后就经常往来了。起初上校还不大肯说，后来也就无所不谈了，本堂神甫和理财神甫终于知道了全部事实，看清彭眉胥是怎样为了孩子的前程而牺牲自己的幸福。从此以后，本堂神甫对他特别尊敬，特别友好，上校对本堂神甫也引为知己。一个老神甫和一个老战士，只要彼此都诚恳善良，原是最容易情投意合成为莫逆之交的。他们在骨子里原是一体。一个献身于下方的祖国，一个献身于上界的天堂，其他的不同点就没有了。
马吕斯每年写两封信给他的父亲，元旦和圣乔治节①，那种信也只是为了应应景儿，由他姨母不知从什么尺牍里抄来口授的，这是吉诺曼先生唯一肯通融的地方。他父亲回信，却是满纸慈爱，外祖父收下便往衣袋里一塞，从来不看。 
①圣乔治（Saint　Georges，3-4世纪），相传为古代基督教殉教者，原为军人。彭眉胥是军人，故重视圣乔治节，节日在四月二十三日。 
Part 3 Book 3 Chapter 3 Requiescant
Madame de T.'s salon was all that Marius Pontmercy knew of the world. It was the only opening through which he could get a glimpse of life. This opening was sombre, and more cold than warmth, more night than day, came to him through this skylight. This child, who had been all joy and light on entering this strange world, soon became melancholy, and, what is still more contrary to his age, grave. Surrounded by all those singular and imposing personages, he gazed about him with serious amazement. Everything conspired to increase this astonishment in him. There were in Madame de T.'s salon some very noble ladies named Mathan, Noe, Levis,--which was pronounced Levi,--Cambis, pronounced Cambyse. These antique visages and these Biblical names mingled in the child's mind with the Old Testament which he was learning by heart, and when they were all there, seated in a circle around a dying fire, sparely lighted by a lamp shaded with green, with their severe profiles, their gray or white hair, their long gowns of another age, whose lugubrious colors could not be distinguished, dropping, at rare intervals, words which were both majestic and severe, little Marius stared at them with frightened eyes, in the conviction that he beheld not women, but patriarchs and magi, not real beings, but phantoms.
With these phantoms, priests were sometimes mingled, frequenters of this ancient salon, and some gentlemen; the Marquis de Sass****, private secretary to Madame de Berry, the Vicomte de Val***, who published, under the pseudonyme of Charles-Antoine, monorhymed odes, the Prince de Beauff*******, who, though very young, had a gray head and a pretty and witty wife, whose very low-necked toilettes of scarlet velvet with gold torsades alarmed these shadows, the Marquis de C*****d'E******, the man in all France who best understood "proportioned politeness," the Comte d'Am*****, the kindly man with the amiable chin, and the Chevalier de Port-de-Guy, a pillar of the library of the Louvre, called the King's cabinet, M. de Port-de-Guy, bald, and rather aged than old, was wont to relate that in 1793, at the age of sixteen, he had been put in the galleys as refractory and chained with an octogenarian, the Bishop of Mirepoix, also refractory, but as a priest, while he was so in the capacity of a soldier. This was at Toulon. Their business was to go at night and gather up on the scaffold the heads and bodies of the persons who had been guillotined during the day; they bore away on their backs these dripping corpses, and their red galley-slave blouses had a clot of blood at the back of the neck, which was dry in the morning and wet at night. These tragic tales abounded in Madame de T.'s salon, and by dint of cursing Marat, they applauded Trestaillon. Some deputies of the undiscoverable variety played their whist there; M. Thibord du Chalard, M. Lemarchant de Gomicourt, and the celebrated scoffer of the right, M. Cornet-Dincourt. The bailiff de Ferrette, with his short breeches and his thin legs, sometimes traversed this salon on his way to M. de Talleyrand. He had been M. le Comte d'Artois' companion in pleasures and unlike Aristotle crouching under Campaspe, he had made the Guimard crawl on all fours, and in that way he had exhibited to the ages a philosopher avenged by a bailiff. As for the priests, there was the Abbe Halma, the same to whom M. Larose, his collaborator on la Foudre, said: "Bah! Who is there who is not fifty years old? a few greenhorns perhaps?" The Abbe Letourneur, preacher to the King, the Abbe Frayssinous, who was not, as yet, either count, or bishop, or minister, or peer, and who wore an old cassock whose buttons were missing, and the Abbe Keravenant, Cure of Saint-Germain-des-Pres; also the Pope's Nuncio, then Monsignor Macchi, Archbishop of Nisibi, later on Cardinal, remarkable for his long, pensive nose, and another Monsignor, entitled thus: Abbate Palmieri, domestic prelate, one of the seven participant prothonotaries of the Holy See, Canon of the illustrious Liberian basilica, Advocate of the saints, Postulatore dei Santi, which refers to matters of canonization, and signifies very nearly: Master of Requests of the section of Paradise. Lastly, two cardinals, M. de la Luzerne, and M. de Cl****** T*******. The Cardinal of Luzerne was a writer and was destined to have, a few years later, the honor of signing in the Conservateur articles side by side with Chateaubriand; M. de Cl****** T******* was Archbishop of Toul****, and often made trips to Paris, to his nephew, the Marquis de T*******, who was Minister of Marine and War. The Cardinal of Cl****** T******* was a merry little man, who displayed his red stockings beneath his tucked-up cassock; his specialty was a hatred of the Encyclopaedia, and his desperate play at billiards, and persons who, at that epoch, passed through the Rue M***** on summer evenings, where the hotel de Cl****** T******* then stood, halted to listen to the shock of the balls and the piercing voice of the Cardinal shouting to his conclavist, Monseigneur Cotiret, Bishop in partibus of Caryste: "Mark, Abbe, I make a cannon." The Cardinal de Cl****** T******* had been brought to Madame de T.'s by his most intimate friend, M. de Roquelaure, former Bishop of Senlis, and one of the Forty. M. de Roquelaure was notable for his lofty figure and his assiduity at the Academy; through the glass door of the neighboring hall of the library where the French Academy then held its meetings, the curious could, on every Tuesday, contemplate the Ex-Bishop of Senlis, usually standing erect, freshly powdered, in violet hose, with his back turned to the door, apparently for the purpose of allowing a better view of his little collar. All these ecclesiastics, though for the most part as much courtiers as churchmen, added to the gravity of the T. salon, whose seigniorial aspect was accentuated by five peers of France, the Marquis de Vib****, the Marquis de Tal***, the Marquis de Herb*******, the Vicomte Damb***, and the Duc de Val********. This Duc de Val********, although Prince de Mon***, that is to say a reigning prince abroad, had so high an idea of France and its peerage, that he viewed everything through their medium. It was he who said: "The Cardinals are the peers of France of Rome; the lords are the peers of France of England." Moreover, as it is indispensable that the Revolution should be everywhere in this century, this feudal salon was, as we have said, dominated by a bourgeois. M. Gillenormand reigned there.
There lay the essence and quintessence of the Parisian white society. There reputations, even Royalist reputations, were held in quarantine. There is always a trace of anarchy in renown. Chateaubriand, had he entered there, would have produced the effect of Pere Duchene. Some of the scoffed-at did, nevertheless, penetrate thither on sufferance. Comte Beug*** was received there, subject to correction.
The "noble" salons of the present day no longer resemble those salons. The Faubourg Saint-Germain reeks of the fagot even now. The Royalists of to-day are demagogues, let us record it to their credit.
At Madame de T.'s the society was superior, taste was exquisite and haughty, under the cover of a great show of politeness. Manners there admitted of all sorts of involuntary refinements which were the old regime itself, buried but still alive. Some of these habits, especially in the matter of language, seem eccentric. Persons but superficially acquainted with them would have taken for provincial that which was only antique. A woman was called Madame la Generale. Madame la Colonelle was not entirely disused. The charming Madame de Leon, in memory, no doubt, of the Duchesses de Longueville and de Chevreuse, preferred this appellation to her title of Princesse. The Marquise de Crequy was also called Madame la Colonelle.
It was this little high society which invented at the Tuileries the refinement of speaking to the King in private as the King, in the third person, and never as Your Majesty, the designation of Your Majesty having been "soiled by the usurper."
Men and deeds were brought to judgment there. They jeered at the age, which released them from the necessity of understanding it. They abetted each other in amazement. They communicated to each other that modicum of light which they possessed. Methuselah bestowed information on Epimenides. The deaf man made the blind man acquainted with the course of things. They declared that the time which had elasped since Coblentz had not existed. In the same manner that Louis XVIII. was by the grace of God, in the five and twentieth year of his reign, the emigrants were, by rights, in the five and twentieth year of their adolescence.
All was harmonious; nothing was too much alive; speech hardly amounted to a breath; the newspapers, agreeing with the salons, seemed a papyrus. There were some young people, but they were rather dead. The liveries in the antechamber were antiquated. These utterly obsolete personages were served by domestics of the same stamp.
They all had the air of having lived a long time ago, and of obstinately resisting the sepulchre. Nearly the whole dictionary consisted of Conserver, Conservation, Conservateur; to be in good odor,-- that was the point. There are, in fact, aromatics in the opinions of these venerable groups, and their ideas smelled of it. It was a mummified society. The masters were embalmed, the servants were stuffed with straw.
A worthy old marquise, an emigree and ruined, who had but a solitary maid, continued to say: "My people."
What did they do in Madame de T.'s salon? They were ultra.
To be ultra; this word, although what it represents may not have disappeared, has no longer any meaning at the present day. Let us explain it.
To be ultra is to go beyond. It is to attack the sceptre in the name of the throne, and the mitre in the name of the attar; it is to ill-treat the thing which one is dragging, it is to kick over the traces; it is to cavil at the fagot on the score of the amount of cooking received by heretics; it is to reproach the idol with its small amount of idolatry; it is to insult through excess of respect; it is to discover that the Pope is not sufficiently papish, that the King is not sufficiently royal, and that the night has too much light; it is to be discontented with alabaster, with snow, with the swan and the lily in the name of whiteness; it is to be a partisan of things to the point of becoming their enemy; it is to be so strongly for, as to be against.
The ultra spirit especially characterizes the first phase of the Restoration.
Nothing in history resembles that quarter of an hour which begins in 1814 and terminates about 1820, with the advent of M. de Villele, the practical man of the Right. These six years were an extraordinary moment; at one and the same time brilliant and gloomy, smiling and sombre, illuminated as by the radiance of dawn and entirely covered, at the same time, with the shadows of the great catastrophes which still filled the horizon and were slowly sinking into the past. There existed in that light and that shadow, a complete little new and old world, comic and sad, juvenile and senile, which was rubbing its eyes; nothing resembles an awakening like a return; a group which regarded France with ill-temper, and which France regarded with irony; good old owls of marquises by the streetful, who had returned, and of ghosts, the "former" subjects of amazement at everything, brave and noble gentlemen who smiled at being in France but wept also, delighted to behold their country once more, in despair at not finding their monarchy; the nobility of the Crusades treating the nobility of the Empire, that is to say, the nobility of the sword, with scorn; historic races who had lost the sense of history; the sons of the companions of Charlemagne disdaining the companions of Napoleon. The swords, as we have just remarked, returned the insult; the sword of Fontenoy was laughable and nothing but a scrap of rusty iron; the sword of Marengo was odious and was only a sabre. Former days did not recognize Yesterday. People no longer had the feeling for what was grand. There was some one who called Bonaparte Scapin. This Society no longer exists. Nothing of it, we repeat, exists to-day. When we select from it some one figure at random, and attempt to make it live again in thought, it seems as strange to us as the world before the Deluge. It is because it, too, as a matter of fact, has been engulfed in a deluge. It has disappeared beneath two Revolutions. What billows are ideas! How quickly they cover all that it is their mission to destroy and to bury, and how promptly they create frightful gulfs!
Such was the physiognomy of the salons of those distant and candid times when M. Martainville had more wit than Voltaire.
These salons had a literature and politics of their own. They believed in Fievee. M. Agier laid down the law in them. They commentated M. Colnet, the old bookseller and publicist of the Quay Malaquais. Napoleon was to them thoroughly the Corsican Ogre. Later on the introduction into history of M. le Marquis de Bonaparte, Lieutenant-General of the King's armies, was a concession to the spirit of the age.
These salons did not long preserve their purity. Beginning with 1818, doctrinarians began to spring up in them, a disturbing shade. Their way was to be Royalists and to excuse themselves for being so. Where the ultras were very proud, the doctrinarians were rather ashamed. They had wit; they had silence; their political dogma was suitably impregnated with arrogance; they should have succeeded. They indulged, and usefully too, in excesses in the matter of white neckties and tightly buttoned coats. The mistake or the misfortune of the doctrinarian party was to create aged youth. They assumed the poses of wise men. They dreamed of engrafting a temperate power on the absolute and excessive principle. They opposed, and sometimes with rare intelligence, conservative liberalism to the liberalism which demolishes. They were heard to say: "Thanks for Royalism! It has rendered more than one service. It has brought back tradition, worship, religion, respect. It is faithful, brave, chivalric, loving, devoted. It has mingled, though with regret, the secular grandeurs of the monarchy with the new grandeurs of the nation. Its mistake is not to understand the Revolution, the Empire, glory, liberty, young ideas, young generations, the age. But this mistake which it makes with regard to us,-- have we not sometimes been guilty of it towards them? The Revolution, whose heirs we are, ought to be intelligent on all points. To attack Royalism is a misconstruction of liberalism. What an error! And what blindness! Revolutionary France is wanting in respect towards historic France, that is to say, towards its mother, that is to say, towards itself. After the 5th of September, the nobility of the monarchy is treated as the nobility of the Empire was treated after the 5th of July. They were unjust to the eagle, we are unjust to the fleur-de-lys. It seems that we must always have something to proscribe! Does it serve any purpose to ungild the crown of Louis XIV., to scrape the coat of arms of Henry IV.? We scoff at M. de Vaublanc for erasing the N's from the bridge of Jena! What was it that he did? What are we doing? Bouvines belongs to us as well as Marengo. The fleurs-de-lys are ours as well as the N's. That is our patrimony. To what purpose shall we diminish it? We must not deny our country in the past any more than in the present. Why not accept the whole of history? Why not love the whole of France?
It is thus that doctrinarians criticised and protected Royalism, which was displeased at criticism and furious at protection.
The ultras marked the first epoch of Royalism, congregation characterized the second. Skill follows ardor. Let us confine ourselves here to this sketch.
In the course of this narrative, the author of this book has encountered in his path this curious moment of contemporary history; he has been forced to cast a passing glance upon it, and to trace once more some of the singular features of this society which is unknown to-day. But he does it rapidly and without any bitter or derisive idea. Souvenirs both respectful and affectionate, for they touch his mother, attach him to this past. Moreover, let us remark, this same petty world had a grandeur of its own. One may smile at it, but one can neither despise nor hate it. It was the France of former days.
Marius Pontmercy pursued some studies, as all children do. When he emerged from the hands of Aunt Gillenormand, his grandfather confided him to a worthy professor of the most purely classic innocence. This young soul which was expanding passed from a prude to a vulgar pedant.
Marius went through his years of college, then he entered the law school. He was a Royalist, fanatical and severe. He did not love his grandfather much, as the latter's gayety and cynicism repelled him, and his feelings towards his father were gloomy.
He was, on the whole, a cold and ardent, noble, generous, proud, religious, enthusiastic lad; dignified to harshness, pure to shyness.
T．夫人的客厅是马吕斯对世界的全部认识。那是唯一可以让他窥察人生的洞口。那洞是阴暗的，对他来说，从缝隙里来的寒气多于暖气，暗影多于光明。那孩子，在初进入这怪社会时还是欢乐开朗的，但不久后便郁闷起来了，和他年龄尤其不相称的是阴沉起来了。他被包围在那些威严怪诞的人中，心情严肃而惊讶地望着他的四周，而四周的一切合在一起又增加了他心中的惶惑。在T．夫人的客厅里有些年高德劭的贵妇人，有叫马坦①的，有叫挪亚②的，有叫利未斯而被称为利未③的，也有叫康比而被称为康比兹④的。那些矜庄古老的面孔，出自远代典籍的名字，在那孩子的脑子里和所背诵的《旧约》搅浑了，那些老妇人围绕着一炉即将熄灭的火，团团坐在绿纱罩的灯光下，面目若隐若显，神态冷峻，头发斑白或全白，身上拖着另一个时代的长裙袍，每件颜色都是阴森惨淡的，她们偶然从沉寂中说出一两句既庄严又峻刻的话；那时，小马吕斯惊慌失措瞪着眼望着她们，以为自己看见的不是妇人，而是一些古圣先贤，不是现实的人，而是鬼影。 
①马坦（Mathan），《圣经·列王纪下》十一章中亚他利雅崇信的巴力神之祭司。
②挪亚（Noé），乘方舟避洪水的人类远祖。
③利未（Lévi），以色列人利未族的族长。
④康比兹（Cambyse），公元前六世纪的波斯王。　
在那些鬼影中还有着好几个教士和贵族，也经常出现在那古老的客厅里，一个是沙斯内侯爷，德·贝里夫人①的功德秘书②；一个是以笔名查理－安东尼发表单韵抒情诗的瓦洛利子爵；一个是波弗尔蒙王爷，相当年轻，头发却已花白，带一个漂亮、聪明、袒胸露背、穿一身金丝绦镶边的朱红丝绒袍的女人，这使那堆黑影里的人为之惴惴不安；一个是德·柯利阿利·德斯比努兹侯爷，是法兰西最善于掌握礼节分寸的人；一个是德·阿芒德尔伯爵，一个下巴圆嘟嘟的老好人；还有一个是德·波尔·德·吉骑士，卢浮宫图书馆，即所谓国王阅览室的老主顾。德·波尔·德·吉先生，年纪不大，人却老了，秃顶，他追述在一七九三年十六岁时，被当作顽固分子关在苦役牢里，和一个八十岁的老头米尔波瓦的主教锁在一起，那主教也是个顽固分子，不过主教的罪名是拒绝宣誓③，而他本人的则是逃避兵役。当时是在土伦。他们的任务是夜晚到断头台上去收拾那些在白天处决的尸体和人头。他们把那些血淋淋的尸首驮在背上，他们的红帽子棗苦役犯所戴的红帽子棗后面有块血壳，早上干天黑后又潮了。这一类的悲惨故事在T．夫人的客厅里是层出不穷的，他们并且在不断咒骂马拉以后，更进而鼓掌称颂特雷斯达荣。有几个怪诞不经的议员常在那里打惠斯特④，迪波尔·德·沙拉尔先生，勒马尚·德·戈米古先生，还有个以起哄著名的右派，柯尔内－唐古尔先生。钦命法官德·费雷特穿着一条短裤，露着一双瘦腿，有时在去塔列朗先生家时路过此地，也到那客厅里走走。他是阿图瓦伯爵的冶游之交，他不象亚里斯多德那样对康巴斯白⑤屈膝承欢，而是反过来叫吉玛尔蛇行匍伏，使千秋万代的人都知道有一个钦命法官替千百年前的一个哲人出了口气。 
①德·贝里（de　Berry），公爵夫人，路易十八的侄媳。
②功德秘书，在公爵府里管理救济捐助等事的人。
③当时的革命政府曾勒令教士宣誓遵守宪法。
④惠斯特（whist），一种纸牌游戏。
⑤康巴斯白（Campaspe），亚历山大的宠姬。　
至于教士，一个是哈尔马神甫，和他合编《雷霆》的拉洛兹先生曾对他说过这样的话：“谁没有五十岁？除了那些嘴上没毛的！”一个是勒都尔纳尔神甫，御前宣道士；一个是弗来西努神甫，当时他既不是伯爵，也不是主教，也不是大臣，也不是世卿，他只穿一件旧道袍，并还缺几个纽扣；还有一个是克拉弗南神甫，圣日耳曼·代·勃雷的本堂神甫；另外还有教皇的一个使臣，当时叫做马西主教的那个尼西比大主教，日后才称红衣主教，他以那个多愁的长鼻子著名；另外还有一个主教大人，他的头衔是这样的：巴尔米埃利，内廷紫衣教官，圣廷七机要秘书之一，利比里亚大教堂的议事司铎，圣人的辩护士，这是和谥圣①有关的，几乎就是天堂部门的评审官；最后还有两个红衣主教，德·拉吕泽尔纳先生和德·克雷蒙－东纳先生。德·拉吕泽尔纳红衣主教先生是个作家，几年后曾有和夏多勃里昂同样为《保守》定稿的荣誉；德·克雷蒙－东纳先生是图卢兹的大主教，他常到巴黎他侄儿德·东纳侯爷家里来休假，他那侄儿当过海军及陆军大臣。德·克雷蒙－东纳红衣主教是一个快乐的小老头儿，常把他的道袍下摆掀起扎在腰里，露出下面的红袜子，他的特点是痛恨百科全书和酷爱打弹子。德·克雷蒙－东纳的宅子在夫人街，当年，每当夏季夜晚，打那地方走过的人常会停下来听那些弹子相撞的声音和那红衣主教的说笑声，他对他的同事，教廷枢密员克利斯特的荣誉主教，柯特莱大人喊道：“记分，神甫，我打串子球②。德·克雷蒙－东纳红衣主教是由他一个最亲密的朋友引到T．夫人家里去的，那朋友叫德·罗克洛尔先生，曾当过桑利斯的主教，并且是四十人③之一。德·罗克洛尔先生以身材高大，并以常守在法兰西学院里而著名。图书馆隔壁的那间厅房是当时法兰西学院举行会议的地方，好奇的人每星期四都可从那扇玻璃门见到桑利斯的前任主教，头上新扑了粉，穿着紫袜子，经常站着，背对着门，显然是为了好让人家看见他那条小白领。所有那些教士，虽然大都是宫廷中人兼教会中人，却已加强了T．夫人客厅里的严肃气氛，再加上五个法兰西世卿德·维勃雷侯爷，德·塔拉鲁侯爷，德·艾尔布维尔侯爷，达布雷子爵和瓦朗迪诺亚公爵，那种富贵气象便更突出了。那位瓦朗迪诺亚公爵虽然是摩纳哥亲王，也就是说，虽然是外国的当朝君主，但对法兰西和世卿爵位却异常崇敬，以致他看任何问题都要从这两点考虑。因此他常说：“红衣主教是罗马的法兰西世卿，爵士是英格兰的法兰西世卿。”此外，由于在这一世纪没有一处不受革命的影响，这封建的客厅，正如我们先头说过的，便也受资产阶级的支配。吉诺曼先生坐着头把交椅。 
①教皇在谥某人为圣者之先，应开会审查他的著作和事迹并加以讨论。在讨论中，由两个“律师”，一个叫上帝的律师，一个叫魔鬼的律师，进行争辩。再由教皇决定是否授予圣者称号。
②串子球，弹子戏中以一球连撞其他两球之术语。
③法兰西学院有院士四十人。
那地方是巴黎白色社会的英华荟萃之处。有名的人物，即使是保王派，也会被那些人拒绝。名气总离不了无政府状态。如果夏多勃里昂来到那里，大家也会把他当作杜善伯伯。几个归顺分子①在这正统派的客厅里却被通融，可以进去。伯尼奥②伯爵在那里便是受到礼遇的。
现在的“贵族”客厅已不象当年的那些客厅了。今天的圣日耳曼郊区已有了市井气。所谓保王，说得好听一点，也只能说是侈言保王了。
T．夫人家里的座上客全属于上层社会，他们的嗜好是细腻而高亢，隐在极为有礼的外貌下。他们的习气有着许许多多不自觉的文雅细致，那完全是旧秩序死而复苏的故态。那些习气，尤其是在语言方面，好象显得有些奇特。单看表面现象的人还以为那是外省的俗态，其实只是些朽木败絮。一个妇女可以被称为“将军夫人”。“上校夫人”也不是绝对不用的。那位可爱的德·莱昂夫人，一定是在追念朗格维尔公爵夫人③和谢弗勒兹公爵夫人④，她才肯放弃她的公主头衔，乐意接受这种称呼。德·克来基侯爵夫人也一样，自称“上校夫人”。 
①归顺分子，指原来拥护拿破仑后又归顺路易十八王朝的人。
②伯尼奥（Beugnot．1761-1835），帝国政府的官员，路易十八的大臣。
③朗格维尔（Longueville，1619-1679）公爵夫人，曾从事政治活动并组织文学座谈客厅。
④谢弗勒兹（Chevreuse，1600-1679〕公爵夫人，也以从事政治活动著名。
当时在杜伊勒里宫中，人们和国王闲谈时当面称他为“国王”，把国王两字作为第三人称处理，从来不说“您陛下”，这种过分讲究的语言，便是那个小小的上层社会中人发明的，他们认为“您陛下”这种称呼已被那个“篡位者玷污了”。
他们在那里评论时事，臧否人物。对时代冷嘲热讽，不求甚解。遇事大惊小怪，转相惊扰。各人把自己仅有的一点知识拿来互相夸耀。玛土撒拉①教着厄庇墨尼德②。聋子向瞎子通消息。他们同声否认科布伦茨以后的那段时期。于是路易十八，受天之祜是在他即位的第二十五年③，流亡回国的人也天经地义，正在他们二十五岁的少壮时期。 
①玛土撒拉（Mathusalem），犹太族长，挪亚的祖父，活了九百六十九岁，见《旧约》。意即老寿星。
②厄庇墨尼德（Epiménide），传说中人物，在一个山洞里睡了五十九年，神叫醒了他，要他回雅典去教化人民。他的睡和醒常被用来比喻人在政治生活中的穷通进退。
③法王路易十六在一七九三年被斩决，他的儿子路易十七在一七九五年死在狱中，路易十八在一八一五年拿破仑逊位后回国，其时距路易十七之死已二十年，但路易十八不以一八一五年为他登位的第一年，而看作他登位的第二十年。　
一切都是雍容尔雅的，什么都进行得不过火，谈话的声音好象也只是一阵阵清风，陈列的书报和那客厅正相称，都好象是些贝叶经。他们中也有些青年，不过都是些半死不活的人。在前厅伺候的仆人的服装也是灰溜溜的，主仆宾客全是些过了时的朽人。那一切都具有早已死去却又不甘心走进坟墓的神气。保守，保持，保全，这差不多就是全部词典的内容了，问题却在于气味是否好闻。在那一小撮遗老遗少的意见里，确也有些香料，但是那些见解，总发出防蛀药草的味儿。那是一个僵尸世界。主人是涂了防腐香油的，仆人们是填了草料剥制的。
有个流亡归国、家财败落了的宝贝老侯爵夫人，只有一个女用人了，却还老这么说：“我的侍从们。”
那些人在T．夫人的客厅里干些什么呢？他们做极端派①。 
①极端派是极端保王派的简称。路易十八时期，有部分人企图完全恢复旧秩序，恢复贵族和僧侣在革命前的财产和政治地位。但是路易十八鉴于国内上升的资产阶级力量，不敢操之过激，采取比较温和的政策。极端保王派对此不满，他们在政治斗争中的表现是既保王又反对国王的妥协政策。　
做极端派，这话，虽然它所代表的事物也许还没有消灭，可是它在今天已没有意义了。让我们来解释一下。
走极端，就是走过头。就是假借王位抨击王权，假借祭台抨击教权，就是糟蹋自己所拖带的东西，就是不服驾驭，就是为了烧烤异教徒的火候是否到了家的问题而和砍柴人争吵，就是为了偶像不大受抬举而指责偶像，就是由于过分尊敬而破口谩骂，就是觉得教皇没有足够的教权，国王没有足够的王权，黑夜的光也太强了，就是为了白色对云石、雪花、天鹅和百合不满，就是把自己拥护的对象当作仇敌，就是过分推崇，以致变成反对。
走极端的精神是王朝复辟初期的突出的特征。
从一八一四年到一八二○年左右，在右派能手维莱尔先生上台前这一短短时期，历史上没有什么事物可与之相比。这六年是非常时期，既喧嚣又沉闷，既欢腾又阴郁，好象受到晨曦的照耀，同时却又满天昏黑，密密层层的灾云祸影在天边堆积并慢慢消失在过去里。在那样的光明和那样的黑影里，有那么一小撮人，既新又老，既轻快又忧愁，既少壮又衰颓，他们擦着自己的眼睛，没有什么能比还乡更象梦醒那样，那一小撮人狠巴巴望着法兰西，法兰西也报以冷笑。街上满是些怪好玩的老猫头鹰似的侯爷，还乡的人和还魂的鬼，少见多怪的以前的贵族，老成高贵的世家子为了回到法兰西而嘻笑，也为了回到法兰西而哭泣，笑是笑他们自己能和祖国重相见，哭是哭他们失去了当年的君主制。十字军时代的贵族公开侮辱帝国时代的贵族，也就是说，佩剑的贵族，已经失去历史意义的古老世族，查理大帝的战友的子孙蔑视着拿破仑的战友。剑和剑，正如我们刚才说过的，彼此相互辱骂，丰特努瓦的剑可笑，已只是一块锈铁；马伦哥的剑丑恶，只是一把马刀①而已。昔日否认昨日。人的情感已无所谓伟大，也无所谓可耻了。有一个人曾称波拿巴为司卡班②。那样的社会现在已不存在了。应当着重指出，那样的社会绝没有什么残余留到今天。当我们随意想起某种情景，使它重新出现在我们的想象中时我们会感到奇怪，会感到那好象是洪水以前的社会。确切的是连社会本身它也被洪水淹没了。它已消灭在两次革命中。思想是何等的洪流！它能多么迅速地埋葬它使命中应破坏淹没的一切，它能多么敏捷地扩展了使人惊奇的视野！
这便是那些遥远愚憨时期的客厅的面貌，在那里马尔坦维尔③被认为比伏尔泰更有才华。
那些客厅有它们自己的一套文学和政治。他们推重菲埃魏④。阿吉埃先生为人们所敬仰。他们评论柯尔内先生，马拉盖河沿的书刊评论家。拿破仑在他们的眼里完全是个来自科西嘉岛的吃人魔鬼。日后在历史里写上布宛纳巴侯爵先生，王军少将，那已是对时代精神所作的让步了。 
①剑是贵族用的，马刀是士兵用的。
②司卡班（Scapin），莫里哀所作戏剧《司卡班的诡计》中一个有计谋的仆人。
③马尔坦维尔（Martainville，1776-1830），保王派分子，极右派报纸《白旗报》的创办人。
④菲埃魏（Fiévée，1767-1839），法国反动作家，新闻记者，曾主编《论坛》。　　
那些客厅的清一色的局面并没有维持多久。从一八一八年起，便已有几个空论派①在那些地方露脸。那是一种令人不安的苗头。那些人的态度是自命为保王派，却又以此而内疚。凡是在极端派自鸣得意的地方，空论派都感到有些惭愧。他们有眼光，他们不开口，他们的政治信条具有适当的自负气概，他们自信能够成功。他们特别讲究领带的白洁和衣冠的整饬，这确是大有用处的。空伦派的错误或不幸，在于创造老青年。他们摆学究架子。他们梦想在专制和过激的制度上移植一种温和的政权。他们想用一种顾全大局的自由主义来代替破坏大局的自由主义，并且有时还表现了一种少见的智力。人们常听到他们这样说：“应当原谅保王主义！保王主义干了不少好事。它使传统、文化、宗教、虔敬心得以发展。它是忠实、勇敢、有骑士风度、仁爱和虔诚的。它来把君主国家千百年的伟大混在棗虽然这是很可惜的棗民族的新的伟大里。它的错误是不认识革命、帝国、光荣、自由、年轻的思想、年轻的一代以及新的世纪。但是它对我们所犯的这种错误，我们是不是就没有对它犯过呢？革命应当全面了解，而我们正是革命事业的继承者。攻击保王主义，这是和自由主义背道而驰的。 
①空论派是代表大金融资产阶级利益的，他们既反对封建专制，又害怕人民得势，基佐（Guizot）是他们的主要代表。　
多么大的过错！多少严重的盲目行动！革命的法兰西不尊敬历史的法兰西，那就是说不尊敬自己的母亲，也就是不尊敬它自己。君主制度的贵族在九月五日以后①所受的待遇正和帝国时代的贵族在七月八日后②所受的待遇一样。他们对雄鹰③不公平，而我们对百合花也不公平。人们总爱禁止某种事物。刮掉路易十四王冠上的金，除去亨利四世的盾形朝徽，这种举动究竟有什么用？我们嘲笑德·伏勃朗④先生擦去耶拿桥上的N⑤！他干的是什么事？正是我们自己所干的事。布维纳的胜利属于我们，正如马伦哥的胜利属于我们是一样的。百合花是我们的，N也是我们的。都是我们的民族遗产。为什么要贬低它们的价值呢？我们不应把过去的祖国看得比现在的祖国低。为什么不接受全部历史？为什么不爱整个法兰西？”
空论派便是那样批判和保护保王主义的，保王主义者却因受到批判而不满，却因受到保护而怒气冲天。
极端派标志着保王主义的第一阶段，教团⑥则是第二阶段的特点。强横之后，继以灵活。我们简略的描写到此结束。 
①九月五日指一八一六年九月五日，路易十八解散“无双”议院。第一帝国崩溃，极端保正派实行白色恐怖。一八一五年众议院的选举是在疯狂的白色恐怖下进行的，这一议院被称为“无双”议院，通过了一系列恐怖的法律，大部分被告被处以死刑。这一残酷的迫害就连“神圣同盟”的领导人都认为是不好的统治手段，故路易十八不得不解散这一议院。
②一八一五年七月八日，路易十八在英普联军护送下回到巴黎。
③鹰是拿破仑的徽志，百合花是王室的徽志。
④德·伏勃朗（de　Vaublanc，1756-1845），保王派首脑人物之一。
⑤N是Napoléon（拿破仑）的第一个字母。
⑥圣母教团成立于一八○一年，于复辟期间得到发展，并从事反动的政治活动，一八三○年随着波旁王室的倾覆而瓦解。
本书作者，在这故事的发展中处于现代史中这一奇怪时期，他不能不走进这个已成陈迹的社会，顺便望一眼，把它的特点叙述几笔。不过他叙述得很快，并无挖苦或奚落的意思。那些往事是些令人怀念应当正视的往事，因为它们和他的母亲有关，使他和过去联系在一起。此外应当指出，那个小小的社会自有它的伟大处。我们不妨报以微笑，但是不能蔑视它，也不能仇视它。那是往日的法兰西。
马吕斯·彭眉胥和其他的孩子一样，胡乱读了一些书。他从吉诺曼姑奶奶手中解放出来时，他的外祖父便把他托付给一个名副其实的完全昏庸的老师。这智力初开的少年从一个道婆转到一个腐儒手里。马吕斯读了几年中学，继又进了法学院。他成了保王派，狂热而冷峻。他不大爱他的外祖父，外祖父的那种轻浮狠鄙的作风使他难受，他对父亲冷漠阴沉。
那孩子是内热外冷、高尚、慷慨、自负、虔诚和勇往直前的，他严肃到近于严厉，纯洁到象尚未开化。
Part 3 Book 3 Chapter 4 End of the Brigand
The conclusion of Marius' classical studies coincided with M. Gillenormand's departure from society. The old man bade farewell to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and to Madame de T.'s salon, and established himself in the Mardis, in his house of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. There he had for servants, in addition to the porter, that chambermaid, Nicolette, who had succeeded to Magnon, and that short-breathed and pursy Basque, who have been mentioned above.
In 1827, Marius had just attained his seventeenth year. One evening, on his return home, he saw his grandfather holding a letter in his hand.
"Marius," said M. Gillenormand, "you will set out for Vernon to-morrow."
"Why?" said Marius.
"To see your father."
Marius was seized with a trembling fit. He had thought of everything except this--that he should one day be called upon to see his father. Nothing could be more unexpected, more surprising, and, let us admit it, more disagreeable to him. It was forcing estrangement into reconciliation. It was not an affliction, but it was an unpleasant duty.
Marius, in addition to his motives of political antipathy, was convinced that his father, the slasher, as M. Gillenormand called him on his amiable days, did not love him; this was evident, since he had abandoned him to others. Feeling that he was not beloved, he did not love. "Nothing is more simple," he said to himself.
He was so astounded that he did not question M. Gillenormand. The grandfather resumed:--
"It appears that he is ill. He demands your presence."
And after a pause, he added:--
"Set out to-morrow morning. I think there is a coach which leaves the Cour des Fontaines at six o'clock, and which arrives in the evening. Take it. He says that here is haste."
Then he crushed the letter in his hand and thrust it into his pocket. Marius might have set out that very evening and have been with his father on the following morning. A diligence from the Rue du Bouloi took the trip to Rouen by night at that date, and passed through Vernon. Neither Marius nor M.Gillenormand thought of making inquiries about it.
The next day, at twilight, Marius reached Vernon. People were just beginning to light their candles. He asked the first person whom be met for "M. Pontmercy's house." For in his own mind, he agreed with the Restoration, and like it, did not recognize his father's claim to the title of either colonel or baron.
The house was pointed out to him. He rang; a woman with a little lamp in her hand opened the door.
"M. Pontmercy?" said Marius.
The woman remained motionless.
"Is this his house?" demanded Marius.
The woman nodded affirmatively.
"Can I speak with him?"
The woman shook her head.
"But I am his son!" persisted Marius. "He is expecting me."
"He no longer expects you," said the woman.
Then he perceived that she was weeping.
She pointed to the door of a room on the ground-floor; he entered.
In that room, which was lighted by a tallow candle standing on the chimney-piece, there were three men, one standing erect, another kneeling, and one lying at full length, on the floor in his shirt. The one on the floor was the colonel.
The other two were the doctor, and the priest, who was engaged in prayer.
The colonel had been attacked by brain fever three days previously. As he had a foreboding of evil at the very beginning of his illness, he had written to M. Gillenormand to demand his son. The malady had grown worse. On the very evening of Marius' arrival at Vernon, the colonel had had an attack of delirium; he had risen from his bed, in spite of the servant's efforts to prevent him, crying: "My son is not coming! I shall go to meet him!" Then he ran out of his room and fell prostrate on the floor of the antechamber. He had just expired.
The doctor had been summoned, and the cure. The doctor had arrived too late. The son had also arrived too late.
By the dim light of the candle, a large tear could be distinguished on the pale and prostrate colonel's cheek, where it had trickled from his dead eye. The eye was extinguished, but the tear was not yet dry. That tear was his son's delay.
Marius gazed upon that man whom he beheld for the first time, on that venerable and manly face, on those open eyes which saw not, on those white locks, those robust limbs, on which, here and there, brown lines, marking sword-thrusts, and a sort of red stars, which indicated bullet-holes, were visible. He contemplated that gigantic sear which stamped heroism on that countenance upon which God had imprinted goodness. He reflected that this man was his father, and that this man was dead, and a chill ran over him.
The sorrow which he felt was the sorrow which he would have felt in the presence of any other man whom he had chanced to behold stretched out in death.
Anguish, poignant anguish, was in that chamber. The servant-woman was lamenting in a corner, the cure was praying, and his sobs were audible, the doctor was wiping his eyes; the corpse itself was weeping.
The doctor, the priest, and the woman gazed at Marius in the midst of their affliction without uttering a word; he was the stranger there. Marius, who was far too little affected, felt ashamed and embarrassed at his own attitude; he held his hat in his hand; and he dropped it on the floor, in order to produce the impression that grief had deprived him of the strength to hold it.
At the same time, he experienced remorse, and he despised himself for behaving in this manner. But was it his fault? He did not love his father? Why should he!
The colonel had left nothing. The sale of big furniture barely paid the expenses of his burial.
The servant found a scrap of paper, which she handed to Marius. It contained the following, in the colonel's handwriting:--
"For my son.--The Emperor made me a Baron on the battle-field of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to this title which I purchased with my blood, my son shall take it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a matter of course." Below, the colonel had added: "At that same battle of Waterloo, a sergeant saved my life. The man's name was Thenardier. I think that he has recently been keeping a little inn, in a village in the neighborhood of Paris, at Chelles or Montfermeil. If my son meets him, he will do all the good he can to Thenardier."
Marius took this paper and preserved it, not out of duty to his father, but because of that vague respect for death which is always imperious in the heart of man.
Nothing remained of the colonel. M. Gillenormand had his sword and uniform sold to an old-clothes dealer. The neighbors devastated the garden and pillaged the rare flowers. The other plants turned to nettles and weeds, and died.
Marius remained only forty-eight hours at Vernon. After the interment he returned to Paris, and applied himself again to his law studies, with no more thought of his father than if the latter had never lived. In two days the colonel was buried, and in three forgotten.
Marius wore crape on his hat. That was all.
马吕斯读完他的古典学科恰好是在吉诺曼退出交际社会的时候。老头儿辞别了圣日耳曼郊区和T．夫人的客厅，迁到沼泽区，定居在受难修女街他自己的宅子里。他的用人，除门房以外，还有那个接替马依名叫妮珂莱特的女仆和我们在前面谈到过的那个气促喘急的巴斯克佬。
一八二七年，马吕斯刚满十七岁。一天傍晚，他回到家里，看见外祖父手里捏着一封信。
“马吕斯，”吉诺曼先生说，“你明天得到韦尔农去一趟。”
“去干什么？”马吕斯说。
“去看你父亲。”
马吕斯颤了一下。他什么全想到过，却没有料到他有要去看父亲的一天。任何事都不会那样使他感到突兀奇特，而且，应当指出，那样使他不自在。一向疏远惯了的，现在却突然非去亲近不可。那不是一种苦恼，不是，而是一桩苦差事。
马吕斯除了政治方面的反感以外，也还有其他的动机，他一向确切认为他的父亲，那个刀斧手棗吉诺曼先生在心平气和的日子里是那样称呼他的棗从不爱他，那是明摆着的，否则他不会那样丢了他不管，交给旁人。他既然感到没有人爱他，他对人也就没有爱。再简单没有，他心想。
他当时惊骇到竟想不出什么来问吉诺曼先生。他外祖父接着又说：
“据说他在害病。他要你去看他。”
停了一会，他又说：
“你明天早上走。我记得，喷泉院子好象有辆车，早晨六点开，晚上到。你就乘那辆车好了。他说要去就得赶快。”
接着，他把那封信捏作一团，往衣袋里一塞。马吕斯本可当晚起程，第二天一早到他父亲身旁的。当时布洛亚街有辆夜间出发去鲁昂的公共马车，经过韦尔农。可是吉诺曼先生和马吕斯，谁都没有想到去打听一下。
第二天，夜色苍茫中马吕斯到了韦尔农。各家的烛光正一一燃起。他随便找个过路人问彭眉胥先生的住处。因为在他的思想里他是和王党同一见解的，他也并不承认他父亲是什么男爵或上校。
那人把一所住屋指给他看。他拉动门铃，有个妇人拿着一盏小油灯，走来开了门。
“彭眉胥先生住这儿？”马吕斯说。
那妇人立着不动。
“是这儿吗？”马吕斯问。
那妇人点点头。
“我可以和他谈谈吗？”
那妇人摇摇头。
“我是他的儿子，”马吕斯接着说，“他等着我呢。”
“他不等你了。”那妇人说。
他这才看出她正淌着眼泪。
她伸手指着一扇矮厅的门。他走了进去。
在那厅里的壁炉上燃着一支羊脂烛，照着三个男人，一个立着，一个跪着，一个倒在地上，穿件衬衫，直挺挺躺在方砖地上。躺在地上的那个便是上校。
另外那两个人，一个是医生，一个是神甫，神甫正在祈祷。
上校害了三天的大脑炎。刚得病时，他已感到吉少凶多，便写了封信给吉诺曼先生，去接他的儿子。病一天比一天沉重。马吕斯到达韦尔农的那个傍晚，上校的神志已开始昏迷了，他推开他的女仆，从床上爬起来，大声喊道：“我儿子不来！我要去找他去！”接着他走出自己的卧室，倒在前房的方砖地上。他刚刚才断气。
早有人去找医生和神甫。医生来得太迟了，神甫来得太迟了。他儿子也一样，来得太迟了。
从那朦胧的烛光中，可以看到在躺着不动、颜色惨白的上校的脸上，有一大颗从那死了的眼里流出的泪珠。眼睛已失去神采，泪珠却还没有干。那是哭他儿子迟迟不到的眼泪。
马吕斯望着他生平第一次，也是最末一次会面的那个人，望着那张雄赳赳令人敬慕的脸，那双睁着而不望人的眼睛，那一头白发，强壮的肢体，肢体上满是黝褐色的条痕，那都是些刀伤，满是红色的星星，那都是些弹孔。他望着那道又长又阔的刀痕给那张生来慈祥的脸添上一层英勇的气概。他想到这个人便是他的父亲，而这个人已经死了。他一动不动，漠然立着。
他所感到的凄凉，也只是他在看见任何其他一个死人躺在他面前时所能感到的那种凄凉。
屋子里的人个个在悲伤，悲伤到不能自已。用人在屋角里痛哭，神甫在抽抽噎噎地念着祈祷，医生在揩着眼泪，死者也在掉泪。
医生、神甫和那妇人从悲痛中望着马吕斯，谁都不说一句话，惟有他，才是外人。马吕斯，无动于衷，只感到自己的样子有些尴尬，不知道如何是好，他的帽子原是捏在手里的，他让它掉到地上，借以表明自己已哀痛到没有力气拿住帽子了。
同时他又感到有些后悔，觉得自己那种行为可耻。不过，这能说是他的过错吗？他不爱他的父亲，还有什么可说的！
上校什么也没有留下来。变卖家具的钱几乎不够付丧葬费。那用人找到一张破纸，交了给马吕斯。那上面有上校亲笔写的这样几句话：
吾儿览：皇上在滑铁卢战场上曾封我为男爵。王朝复辟，否认我这用鲜血换来的勋位，吾儿应仍承袭享受这勋位。不用说，他是当之无愧的。
在那后面，上校还加了这样几句话：
就在那次滑铁卢战役中，有个中士救了我的命。那人叫德纳第。多年以来，我仿佛记得他是在巴黎附近的一个村子里，谢尔或是孟费郿，开着一家小客店。吾儿如有机会遇着德纳第，望尽力报答他。
马吕斯拿了那张纸，紧紧捏在手里，那并不是出自他对父亲的孝心，而是出自对一般死者的那种泛泛的敬意，那种敬意在大家的心里总是那么有威力。
上校身后毫无遗物。吉诺曼先生派人把他的一把剑和一身军服卖给了旧货贩子。左右邻居窃取了花园，劫掠了那些稀有的花木。其他的植物都变成了荆棘丛莽，或者枯死了。
马吕斯在韦尔农只停留了四十八小时。安葬以后，他便回到巴黎，继续学他的法律，从不追念他的父亲，仿佛世上从不曾有过那样一个人似的。上校在两天以内入了土，三天以内便被遗忘了。
马吕斯在帽子上缠了一条黑纱，仅如此而已。
Part 3 Book 3 Chapter 5 The Utility of going to Mass, in order to become a Revolutionist
Marius had preserved the religious habits of his childhood. One Sunday, when he went to hear mass at Saint-Sulpice, at that same chapel of the Virgin whither his aunt had led him when a small lad, he placed himself behind a pillar, being more absent-minded and thoughtful than usual on that occasion, and knelt down, without paying any special heed, upon a chair of Utrecht velvet, on the back of which was inscribed this name: Monsieur Mabeuf, warden. Mass had hardly begun when an old man presented himself and said to Marius:--
"This is my place, sir."
Marius stepped aside promptly, and the old man took possession of his chair.
The mass concluded, Marius still stood thoughtfully a few paces distant; the old man approached him again and said:--
"I beg your pardon, sir, for having disturbed you a while ago, and for again disturbing you at this moment; you must have thought me intrusive, and I will explain myself."
"There is no need of that, Sir," said Marius.
"Yes!" went on the old man, "I do not wish you to have a bad opinion of me. You see, I am attached to this place. It seems to me that the mass is better from here. Why? I will tell you. It is from this place, that I have watched a poor, brave father come regularly, every two or three months, for the last ten years, since he had no other opportunity and no other way of seeing his child, because he was prevented by family arrangements. He came at the hour when he knew that his son would be brought to mass. The little one never suspected that his father was there. Perhaps he did not even know that he had a father, poor innocent! The father kept behind a pillar, so that he might not be seen. He gazed at his child and he wept. He adored that little fellow, poor man! I could see that. This spot has become sanctified in my sight, and I have contracted a habit of coming hither to listen to the mass. I prefer it to the stall to which I have a right, in my capacity of warden. I knew that unhappy gentleman a little, too. He had a father-in-law, a wealthy aunt, relatives, I don't know exactly what all, who threatened to disinherit the child if he, the father, saw him. He sacrificed himself in order that his son might be rich and happy some day. He was separated from him because of political opinions. Certainly, I approve of political opinions, but there are people who do not know where to stop. Mon Dieu! a man is not a monster because he was at Waterloo; a father is not separated from his child for such a reason as that. He was one of Bonaparte's colonels. He is dead, I believe. He lived at Vernon, where I have a brother who is a cure, and his name was something like Pontmarie or Montpercy. He had a fine sword-cut, on my honor."
"Pontmercy," suggested Marius, turning pale.
"Precisely, Pontmercy. Did you know him?"
"Sir," said Marius, "he was my father."
The old warden clasped his hands and exclaimed:--
"Ah! you are the child! Yes, that's true, he must be a man by this time. Well! poor child, you may say that you had a father who loved you dearly!"
Marius offered his arm to the old man and conducted him to his lodgings.
On the following day, he said to M. Gillenormand:--
"I have arranged a hunting-party with some friends. Will you permit me to be absent for three days?"
"Four!" replied his grandfather. "Go and amuse yourself."
And he said to his daughter in a low tone, and with a wink, "Some love affair!"
马吕斯一直保持着幼年时养成的那些宗教习气。在一个星期日，他到圣稣尔比斯去望弥撒，那是一座圣母堂，是他从小由他姨母带去做礼拜的地方。那天，他的心情比平时来得散乱沉重些，无意中走去跪在一根石柱后面的一张乌德勒支①丝绒椅上，在那椅背上有这样几个字：“本堂理财神甫马白夫先生。”弥撒刚开始，便有一个老人过来对马吕斯说： 
①乌德勒支（Utrecht），荷兰城市，以纺织品著名于世。
“先生，这是我的位子。”
马吕斯连忙闪开，让老人就座。
弥撒结束后，马吕斯站在相隔几步的地方，若有所思，那老人又走过来对他说：
“我来向您道歉，先生，我刚才打搅了您，现在又来打搅您，您一定觉得我这人有些不近人情吧，我得向您解释一下。”
“先生，”马吕斯说，“不用了。”
“一定得解释一下，”老人接着说，“我不愿在您心里留下一个不好的印象。您看得出，我很重视这个位子。我觉得在这位子上望弥撒来得好些。为什么？让我向您说清楚。就是在这位子上，一连好多年间，每隔两三个月，我总看见一个可怜的好父亲走来望他的孩子，这是他唯一可以看见他孩子的机会和办法，因为，由于家庭达成的协议，不许他接近他的孩子。他知道人家在什么时候把他那孩子带来望弥撒，他便趁那时赶来。那小的并不知道他父亲在这里。他也许还不知道他有一个父亲呢，那天真的娃儿！他父亲，惟恐人家看见他，便待在这柱子后面。他望着他的孩子，只淌眼泪。他心疼着他的孩子呢，可怜的汉子！我见了那种情形，这里便成了我心上的圣地，我来望弥撒总爱待在这地方，这已成了习惯了。我是本堂的理财神甫，我原有我的功德板凳可以坐，但是我就爱待在这地方。那位先生的不幸我也多少知道一些。他有一个岳丈，一个有钱的大姨子，还有一些亲戚，我就不太知道了。那一伙子都威吓他，不许他这做父亲的来看他孩子，否则，便不让他的孩子继承遗产。他为了儿子将来有一天能有钱，幸福，只好牺牲他自己。人家要拆散他们父子是为了政治上的见解不同。政治上的见解我当然全都赞同，但有些人确也太没止境了。我的天主！一个人决不会因为到过滑铁卢便成了魔鬼。我们总不该为这一点事便硬把父亲撇开，不让他碰他的孩子。那人是波拿巴的一个上校。他已经去世了，我想是的。他当年住在韦尔农，我的兄弟便在那城里当神甫，他好象是叫朋玛丽或是孟培西什么的。我的天，他脸上有一道好大的刀伤。”
“彭眉胥吧？”马吕斯面无人色，问了一声。
“一点不错。正是彭眉胥。您认识他吗？”
“先生，”马吕斯说，“那是我的父亲。”
那年老的理财神甫两手相握，大声说道：
“啊！您就是那孩子！对，没错，到现在那应当是个大人了。好！可怜的孩子，真可以说您有过一位着实爱您的父亲！”
马吕斯伸出手臂搀着那老人，送他回家。第二天，他对吉诺曼先生说：
“我和几个朋友约好要去打一次猎。您肯让我去玩一趟，三天不回家吗？”
“四天也成！”他外公回答说，“去吧，去开开心。”
同时，他挤眉弄眼，对他的女儿低声说：
“找到小娘们了！”
Part 3 Book 3 Chapter 6 The Consequences of having met a Warden
Where it was that Marius went will be disclosed a little further on.
Marius was absent for three days, then he returned to Paris, went straight to the library of the law-school and asked for the files of the Moniteur.
He read the Moniteur, he read all the histories of the Republic and the Empire, the Memorial de Sainte-Helene, all the memoirs, all the newspapers, the bulletins, the proclamations; he devoured everything. The first time that he came across his father's name in the bulletins of the grand army, he had a fever for a week. He went to see the generals under whom Georges Pontmercy had served, among others, Comte H. Church-warden Mabeuf, whom he went to see again, told him about the life at Vernon, the colonel's retreat, his flowers, his solitude. Marius came to a full knowledge of that rare infancy, he had been imbued with the judgments of the party of 1814, on Bonaparte. Now, all the prejudices of the Restoration, all its interests, all its instincts tended to disfigure Napoleon. It execrated him even more than it did Robespierre. It had very cleverly turned to sufficiently good account the fatigue of the nation, and the hatred of mothers. Bonaparte had become an almost fabulous monster, and in order to paint him to the imagination of the people, which, as we lately pointed out, resembles the imagination of children, the party of 1814 made him appear under all sorts of terrifying masks in succession, from that which is terrible though it remains grandiose to that which is terrible and becomes grotesque, from Tiberius to the bugaboo. Thus, in speaking of Bonaparte, one was free to sob or to puff up with laughter, provided that hatred lay at the bottom. Marius had never entertained-- about that man, as he was?煵*鄀 had just cast his eyes appalled him.
The first effect was to dazzle him.
Up to that time, the Republic, the Empire, had been to him only monstrous words. The Republic, a guillotine in the twilight; the Empire, a sword in the night. He had just taken a look at it, and where he had expected to find only a chaos of shadows, he had beheld, with a sort of unprecedented surprise, mingled with fear and joy, stars sparkling, Mirabeau, Vergniaud, Saint-Just, Robespierre, Camille, Desmoulins, Danton, and a sun arise, Napoleon. He did not know where he stood. He recoiled, blinded by the brilliant lights. Little by little, when his astonishment had passed off, he grew accustomed to this radiance, he contemplated these deeds without dizziness, he examined these personages without terror; the Revolution and the Empire presented themselves luminously, in perspective, before his mind's eye; he beheld each of these groups of events and of men summed up in two tremendous facts: the Republic in the sovereignty of civil right restored to the masses, the Empire in the sovereignty of the French idea imposed on Europe; he beheld the grand figure of the people emerge from the Revolution, and the grand figure of France spring forth from the Empire. He asserted in his conscience, that all this had been good. What his dazzled state neglected in this, his first far too synthetic estimation, we do not think it necessary to point out here. It is the state of a mind on the march that we are recording. Progress is not accomplished in one stage. That stated, once for all, in connection with what precedes as well as with what is to follow, we continue.
He then perceived that, up to that moment, he had comprehended his country no more than he had comprehended his father. He had not known either the one or the other, and a sort of voluntary night had obscured his eyes. Now he saw, and on the one hand he admired, while on the other he adored.
He was filled with regret and remorse, and he reflected in despair that all he had in his soul could now be said only to the tomb. Oh! if his father had still been in existence, if he had still had him, if God, in his compassion and his goodness, had permitted his father to be still among the living, how he would have run, how he would have precipitated himself, how he would have cried to his father: "Father! Here I am! It is I! I have the same heart as thou! I am thy son!" How he would have embraced that white head, bathed his hair in tears, gazed upon his scar, pressed his hands, adored his garment, kissed his feet! Oh! Why had his father died so early, before his time, before the justice, the love of his son had come to him? Marius had a continual sob in his heart, which said to him every moment: "Alas!" At the same time, he became more truly serious, more truly grave, more sure of his thought and his faith. At each instant, gleams of the true came to complete his reason. An inward growth seemed to be in progress within him. He was conscious of a sort of natural enlargement, which gave him two things that were new to him--his father and his country.
As everything opens when one has a key, so he explained to himself that which he had hated, he penetrated that which he had abhorred; henceforth he plainly perceived the providential, divine and human sense of the great things which he had been taught to detest, and of the great men whom he had been instructed to curse. When he reflected on his former opinions, which were but those of yesterday, and which, nevertheless, seemed to him already so very ancient, he grew indignant, yet he smiled.
From the rehabilitation of his father, he naturally passed to the rehabilitation of Napoleon.
But the latter, we will confess, was not effected without labor.
From his infancy, he had been imbued with the judgments of the party of 1814, on Bonaparte. Now, all the prejudices of the Restoration, all its interests, all its instincts tended to disfigure Napoleon. It execrated him even more than it did Robespierre. It had very cleverly turned to sufficiently good account the fatigue of the nation, and the hatred of mothers. Bonaparte had become an almost fabulous monster, and in order to paint him to the imagination of the people, which, as we lately pointed out, resembles the imagination of children, the party of 1814 made him appear under all sorts of terrifying masks in succession, from that which is terrible though it remains grandiose to that which is terrible and becomes grotesque, from Tiberius to the bugaboo. Thus, in speaking of Bonaparte, one was free to sob or to puff up with laughter, provided that hatred lay at the bottom. Marius had never entertained-- about that man, as he was called--any other ideas in his mind. They had combined with the tenacity which existed in his nature. There was in him a headstrong little man who hated Napoleon.
On reading history, on studying him, especially in the documents and materials for history, the veil which concealed Napoleon from the eyes of Marius was gradually rent. He caught a glimpse of something immense, and he suspected that he had been deceived up to that moment, on the score of Bonaparte as about all the rest; each day he saw more distinctly; and he set about mounting, slowly, step by step, almost regretfully in the beginning, then with intoxication and as though attracted by an irresistible fascination, first the sombre steps, then the vaguely illuminated steps, at last the luminous and splendid steps of enthusiasm.
One night, he was alone in his little chamber near the roof. His candle was burning; he was reading, with his elbows resting on his table close to the open window. All sorts of reveries reached him from space, and mingled with his thoughts. What a spectacle is the night! One hears dull sounds, without knowing whence they proceed; one beholds Jupiter, which is twelve hundred times larger than the earth, glowing like a firebrand, the azure is black, the stars shine; it is formidable.
He was perusing the bulletins of the grand army, those heroic strophes penned on the field of battle; there, at intervals, he beheld his father's name, always the name of the Emperor; the whole of that great Empire presented itself to him; he felt a flood swelling and rising within him; it seemed to him at moments that his father passed close to him like a breath, and whispered in his ear; he gradually got into a singular state; he thought that he heard drums, cannon, trumpets, the measured tread of battalions, the dull and distant gallop of the cavalry; from time to time, his eyes were raised heavenward, and gazed upon the colossal constellations as they gleamed in the measureless depths of space, then they fell upon his book once more, and there they beheld other colossal things moving confusedly. His heart contracted within him. He was in a transport, trembling, panting. All at once, without himself knowing what was in him, and what impulse he was obeying, he sprang to his feet, stretched both arms out of the window, gazed intently into the gloom, the silence, the infinite darkness, the eternal immensity, and exclaimed: "Long live the Emperor!"
From that moment forth, all was over; the Ogre of Corsica,-- the usurper,--the tyrant,--the monster who was the lover of his own sisters,--the actor who took lessons of Talma,--the poisoner of Jaffa,--the tiger,--Buonaparte,--all this vanished, and gave place in his mind to a vague and brilliant radiance in which shone, at an inaccessible height, the pale marble phantom of Caesar. The Emperor had been for his father only the well-beloved captain whom one admires, for whom one sacrifices one's self; he was something more to Marius. He was the predestined constructor of the French group, succeeding the Roman group in the domination of the universe. He was a prodigious architect, of a destruction, the continuer of Charlemagne, of Louis XI., of Henry IV., of Richelieu, of Louis XIV., and of the Committee of Public Safety, having his spots, no doubt, his faults, his crimes even, being a man, that is to say; but august in his faults, brilliant in his spots, powerful in his crime.
He was the predestined man, who had forced all nations to say: "The great nation!" He was better than that, he was the very incarnation of France, conquering Europe by the sword which he grasped, and the world by the light which he shed. Marius saw in Bonaparte the dazzling spectre which will always rise upon the frontier, and which will guard the future. Despot but dictator; a despot resulting from a republic and summing up a revolution. Napoleon became for him the man-people as Jesus Christ is the man-God.
It will be perceived, that like all new converts to a religion, his conversion intoxicated him, he hurled himself headlong into adhesion and he went too far. His nature was so constructed; once on the downward slope, it was almost impossible for him to put on the drag. Fanaticism for the sword took possession of him, and complicated in his mind his enthusiasm for the idea. He did not perceive that, along with genius, and pell-mell, he was admitting force, that is to say, that he was installing in two compartments of his idolatry, on the one hand that which is divine, on the other that which is brutal. In many respects, he had set about deceiving himself otherwise. He admitted everything. There is a way of encountering error while on one's way to the truth. He had a violent sort of good faith which took everything in the lump. In the new path which he had entered on, in judging the mistakes of the old regime, as in measuring the glory of Napoleon, he neglected the attenuating circumstances.
At all events, a tremendous step had been taken. Where he had formerly beheld the fall of the monarchy, he now saw the advent of France. His orientation had changed. What had been his East became the West. He had turned squarely round.
All these revolutions were accomplished within him, without his family obtaining an inkling of the case.
When, during this mysterious labor, he had entirely shed his old Bourbon and ultra skin, when he had cast off the aristocrat, the Jacobite and the Royalist, when he had become thoroughly a revolutionist, profoundly democratic and republican, he went to an engraver on the Quai des Orfevres and ordered a hundred cards bearing this name: Le Baron Marius Pontmercy.
This was only the strictly logical consequence of the change which had taken place in him, a change in which everything gravitated round his father.
Only, as he did not know any one and could not sow his cards with any porter, he put them in his pocket.
By another natural consequence, in proportion as he drew nearer to his father, to the latter's memory, and to the things for which the colonel had fought five and twenty years before, he receded from his grandfather. We have long ago said, that M. Gillenormand's temper did not please him. There already existed between them all the dissonances of the grave young man and the frivolous old man. The gayety of Geronte shocks and exasperates the melancholy of Werther. So long as the same political opinions and the same ideas had been common to them both, Marius had met M. Gillenormand there as on a bridge. When the bridge fell, an abyss was formed. And then, over and above all, Marius experienced unutterable impulses to revolt, when he reflected that it was M. Gillenormand who had, from stupid motives, torn him ruthlessly from the colonel, thus depriving the father of the child, and the child of the father.
By dint of pity for his father, Marius had nearly arrived at aversion for his grandfather.
Nothing of this sort, however, was betrayed on the exterior, as we have already said. Only he grew colder and colder; laconic at meals, and rare in the house. When his aunt scolded him for it, he was very gentle and alleged his studies, his lectures, the examinations, etc., as a pretext. His grandfather never departed from his infallible diagnosis: "In love! I know all about it."
From time to time Marius absented himself.
"Where is it that he goes off like this?" said his aunt.
On one of these trips, which were always very brief, he went to Montfermeil, in order to obey the injunction which his father had left him, and he sought the old sergeant to Waterloo, the inn-keeper Thenardier. Thenardier had failed, the inn was closed, and no one knew what had become of him. Marius was away from the house for four days on this quest.
"He is getting decidedly wild," said his grandfather.
They thought they had noticed that he wore something on his breast, under his shirt, which was attached to his neck by a black ribbon.
马吕斯去了什么地方，我们稍后就会知道。
马吕斯三天没有回家，接着他又到了巴黎，一径跑到法学院的图书馆里，要了一套《通报》。
他读了《通报》，他读了共和时期和帝国时期的全部历史，《圣赫勒拿岛回忆录》和所有其他各种回忆录、报纸、战报、宣言，他饱啖一切。他第一次在大军战报里见到他父亲的名字后，整整发了一星期的高烧。他访问了从前当过乔治·彭眉胥上级的一些将军们，其中之一是H．伯爵。他也看过教区理财神甫马白夫，马白夫把韦尔农的生活、上校的退休、他的花木、他的孤寂全给他谈了。马吕斯这才全面认识了那位稀有、卓越、仁厚、猛如狮子而又驯如羔羊的人，也就是他的父亲。
在他以全部时间和全部精力阅读文献的那一段时间里，他几乎没有和吉诺曼一家人见过面。到了吃饭时他才露一下面，接着，别人去找他，他又不在了。姑奶奶嘟囔不休。老吉诺曼却笑着说：“有什么关系！有什么关系！是找小娘们的时候了！”老头儿有时还补上一句：“见鬼！我还以为只是逢场作戏呢，看样子，竟是一场火热的爱了。”
这确是一场火热的爱。
马吕斯正狂热地爱着他的父亲。
同时他思想里也正起着一种非常的变化。那种变化是经多次发展逐步形成的。我们认为按阶段一步步把它全部叙述出来是有好处的，因为这正是我们那时代许多人的思想转变过程。
那段历史，他刚读到时就使他感到震惊。
最初的效果是眼花缭乱。
直到那时，共和国、帝国，在他心里还只是些牛鬼蛇神似的字眼。共和，只是暮色中的一架断头台，帝国，只是黑夜里的一把大刀。他现在仔细观看，满以为见到的只不过是一大堆凌乱杂沓的黑影，可是在那些地方使他无比惊讶又怕又乐的，却是些耀眼的星斗，米拉波、维尼奥①、圣鞠斯特、罗伯斯庇尔、卡米尔·德穆兰、丹东和一个冉冉上升的太阳：拿破仑。他不知道是怎么回事。他被阳光照得两眼昏眩，向后退却。渐渐地，惊恐的心情过去了，他已习惯于光辉的照耀，他已能注视那些动态而不感到晕眩，能细察那些人物也不觉得恐惧了，革命和帝国都在他的犀利目光前面辉煌灿烂地罗列着，他看出那两个阶段中每件大事和每个人都可概括为两种无比伟大的行动，共和国的伟大在于使交还给民众的民权获得最高的地位，帝国的伟大在于使强加给欧洲的法兰西思想获得最高的地位，他看见从革命中出现了人民的伟大面貌，从帝国中出现了法兰西的伟大面貌。他从心坎里承认那一切都是好的。 
①维尼奥（Vergniaud，1753-1793），国民公会吉伦特党代表，一七九三年六月二日被捕，上断头台。
他的这种初步估计确是太过于笼统了，他一时在眩惑中忽视了的事物，我们认为没有必要在此地一一指出。我们要叙述的是个人思想的发展情况。进步是不会一蹴而就的。无论是对以前或以后的问题，我们都只能这样去看，把这话一次交代清楚后我们再往下说。
他当时发现在这以前，他既不了解自己的祖国，也不了解自己的父亲。无论祖国或父亲，他都没有认识，他真好象是甘愿让云雾遮住自己的眼睛。现在他看得清楚了，一方面，他敬佩，另一方面，他崇拜。
他胸中充满了懊丧和悔恨，他悲痛欲绝地想到他心中所有的一切现在只能对一冢孤坟去倾诉了。唉！假使他父亲还活着，假使他还能见着他父亲，假使上帝动了慈悲怜悯的心让这位父亲留在人间，他不知会怎样跑去，扑上去，对他父亲喊道：“父亲！我来了！是我！我的心和你的心完全一样！我是你的儿子！”他不知会怎样抱住他的白头，要淌多少眼泪在他的头发里，要怎样瞻仰他的刀伤，紧握着他的手，爱慕他的衣服，吻他的脚！唉！这父亲，为什么会死得那么早，为什么还没有上年纪，还没有享受公平的待遇，还没有得到他儿子一天的孝养，便死去了呢！马吕斯心中无时不在痛泣，无时不在悲叹。同时他真的变得更加严肃了，真的更加深沉了，对自己的信念和思想也更加有把握了。真理的光随时都在充实他的智慧。他的内心好象正在成长。他感到自己自然而然地壮大起来了，那是他前所未有的两种新因素棗他的父亲和祖国促成的。
正好象人有了钥匙便可以随处开门一样，他从头分析起他以前所仇视的，深入研究他以前所鄙弃的，从此以后他能看清当初别人教他侮蔑咒骂的那些事和人中间的天意、神意和人意了。他以往的那些见解都还只是昨天的事，可是在他看来，仿佛已过去很久了，当他想起时，他便感到愤慨，并且会哑然失笑。
自从他改变了对父亲的看法，他对拿破仑的看法也自然改变了。
可是这方面的转变，我们得指出，不是没有艰苦过程的。
别人在他做孩子时，便已把一八一四年的党人①对波拿巴所作的定论灌输给他了。复辟王朝的所有偏见、利益、本性，都使人歪曲拿破仑的形象。王朝痛恨拿破仑更甚于罗伯斯庇尔。它相当巧妙地把国力的疲惫和母亲们的怨愤拿来作为口实。于是波拿巴几乎成了一种传说中的怪物，而且，一八一四年的党人，为了要把它描绘在人民的幻想中棗我们前面说过，人民的幻想是和孩子的幻想相似的棗便给他捏了一连串形形色色的骗人的脸谱，从凶恶而不失威严直到凶恶得令人发笑，从提比利乌斯到马虎子，样样齐全。因此，人们在谈到波拿巴时，只要以愤恨为基础也可以痛泣也可以狂笑。在马吕斯的思想里，对“那个人”棗当时人们是这样称呼他的棗从来就不曾有过其他的看法。那些看法又和他坚强的性格结合在一起。在他心里早就有个憎恨拿破仑的顽固小人儿了。 
①一八一四年欧洲联军攻入巴黎，拿破仑逊位，王朝复辟。这里所说党人，指保王党人。　
在读历史时，尤其是在从文件和原始资料中研究历史时，那妨碍马吕斯看清拿破仑的障眼法逐渐破了。他隐隐约约看到一个广大无比的形象，于是开始怀疑自己以前对拿破仑及其他一切是错了，他的眼睛一天天明亮起来，他一步步慢慢地往上攀登，起初还几乎是不乐意的，到后来便心旷神怡，好象有一种无可抗拒的诱惑力在推引着他似的，首先登上的是昏暗的台阶，接着又登上半明半暗的梯级，最后来到光明灿烂令人振奋的梯级了。
有天晚上，他独自待在屋顶下的那间卧室里。他燃起了烛，推开了窗，两肘倚在窗前的桌子上，从事阅读。种种幻象从天空飞来，和他的思想交织在一起。夜是多么奇异的景象！人们听到无数微渺的声音而不知来自何处，人们看见比地球大一千二百倍的木星象一块炽炭似的发着光，天空是黑暗的，群星闪烁，令人惊悸。
他读着大军的战报，那是些在战场上写就具有荷马风格的诗篇。在那里，他偶尔见到他父亲的名字，也处处见到皇帝的名字，伟大帝国的全貌出现在他的眼前，他感到好象有一阵阵浪潮在他胸中澎湃，直往上涌，他有时仿佛感到他父亲象阵微风从他身边拂过，并且还在他耳边和他说话。他的感受越来越奇特了，他仿佛听到鼓声、炮声、军号声和队伍行进的整齐步伐，骑兵在远处奔驰的马蹄声也隐约可辨，他不时抬起眼睛仰望天空，望着那些巨大的星群在无边无际的穹苍中发光，他又低下头来看他的书，在书中他又看到另一些巨大的形象在杂乱地移转。他感到胸中郁结。他已经无法自持了，他心惊胆战，呼吸急促，突然他并不知道自己在想什么，也不知道自己受着什么力量的驱使，他立了起来，把两只手臂伸向窗外，睁眼望着那幽暝寥寂、永无极限、永无尽期的邈邈太空大吼了一声：“皇帝万岁！”
从那时起，他已胸有成竹了。科西嘉的吃人魔鬼、僭主、暴君、奸淫胞妹的禽兽、跟塔尔马学习的票友、在雅法下毒的凶犯、老虎、布宛纳巴，那一切全破灭了，在他心里都让位于茫茫一片明亮的光，在光中高不可及处竖着一座云石的恺撒像，容光惨淡，类似幽灵。对马吕斯的父亲来说，皇上还只是个人们所爱戴并愿为之效死的将领，而在马吕斯心目中却不单是那样。他是命中注定来为继罗马人而起的法兰西人在统御宇宙的事业中充当工程师的。他是重建废墟的宗师巨匠，是查理大帝、路易十一、亨利四世、黎塞留、路易十四、公安委员会的继承者，他当然有污点，有疏失，甚至有罪恶，就是说，他是一个人；但他在疏失中仍是庄严的，在污点中仍是卓越的，在罪恶中也还是有雄才大略的。他是承天之命来迫使其他国家臣服大国的。他还不只是那样，他是法兰西的化身，他以手中的剑征服欧洲，以他所放射的光征服世界。马吕斯觉得波拿巴是个光芒四射的鬼物，他将永远立在国境线上保卫将来。他是暴君，但又是独裁者，是从一个共和国里诞生出来并总结一次革命的暴君。拿破仑在他的心中竟成了民意的体现者，正如耶稣是神意的体现者一样。
我们可以看出，正和所有新皈依宗教的人一样，他思想的转变使他自己陶醉了，他急急归向，并且走得太远了。他的性格原是那样的，一旦上了下行的斜坡，便几乎无法煞脚。崇拜武力的狂热冲击了他，并且打乱了他求知的热情。他一点没有察觉他在崇敬天才的同时也在胡乱地崇敬武力，就是说，他把他所崇拜的两个对象，神力和暴力，同时并列在他的崇敬心左右两旁的两个格子里了。他在旁的许多问题上也多次发生过错误。他什么都接受。在追求真理的道路上出错的机会原是常有的。他有一种大口吞下一切的鲁莽自信的劲儿。他在新走上的那条道路上审判旧秩序时，也正和他衡量拿破仑的光荣一样，忽略了减尊因素。
总之，他向前迈进了极大的一步。在他从前看见君权倾覆的地方，他现在看见了法兰西的崛起。他的方向变了。当日望残阳，而今见旭日。他转了个向。
种种转变在他心中已一一完成，但他家里人却一点也没有察觉。
通过这次隐秘的攻读，他完全蜕去了旧有的那身波旁王党和极端派的皮，也摆脱了贵族、詹姆士派①、保王派的见解，成了完全革命的，彻底民主的，并且几乎是拥护共和的。就在这时，他到金匠河沿的一家刻字铺里，订了一百张名片，上面印着：“男爵马吕斯·彭眉胥”。 
①詹姆士派（Jacobites，“詹姆士”之拉丁文为Jacobus），指一六八八年被资产阶级引用外力赶下王位的英王詹姆士二世的党徒，此处泛指一般保王党人。　
这只是他父亲在他心中引起的那次转变的一种非常自然的反应。不过，他谁也不认识，不能随意到人家门房里去散发那些名片，只好揣在自己的衣袋里。
由于另一种自然反应，他越接近他的父亲、他父亲的形象，越接近上校为之奋斗了二十五年的那些事物，他便越和他的外祖父疏远了。我们已提到过，长期以来，他早已感到吉诺曼先生的性格和他一点也合不来。他俩之间早已存在着一个严肃的青年人和一个轻浮的老年人之间的各种不和协。惹隆德①的嬉皮笑脸冒犯着刺激着维特的沉郁心情。在马吕斯和吉诺曼之间，当他们还有共同的政治见解和共同意识时，彼此似乎还可以在一座桥梁上开诚相见。一旦桥梁崩塌，鸿沟便出现了。尤其当马吕斯想到，为了一些荒谬绝顶的动机把他从上校的怀里夺过来、使父亲失去了孩子、孩子也失去了父亲的，正是这吉诺曼先生，他胸中就感到一种说不出的愤懑心情。 
①惹隆德（Géronte），法国戏剧中一种顽固可笑、以老前辈自居的人物形象。　　
由于对他父亲的爱，马吕斯心中几乎有了对外祖父的厌恶。
我们已经谈到，这一切却丝毫没有流露出来。不过，他变得越来越冷淡了，在餐桌上不大开口，也很少待在家里。姨母为了这些责备他，他表现得非常温顺，总推说是由于学习、功课、考试、讲座，等等。那位外祖父却总离不了他那万无一失的诊断：“发情了！准错不了。”
马吕斯不时要出门走动走动。
“他究竟是去些什么地方？”那位姑奶奶常这样问。
他旅行的时间总是很短的，一次，他去了孟费郿，那是为了遵从他父亲的遗言，去寻找滑铁卢的那个退役中士，客店老板德纳第。德纳第亏了本，客店也关了门，没人知道他的下落。
为了这次寻访，马吕斯四天没回家。
“老实说，”那位外祖父说，“他真舍得干。”
有人好象觉察到，他脖子上有条黑带挂着个什么，直到胸前，在他的衬衫里面。
Part 3 Book 3 Chapter 7 Some Petticoat
We have mentioned a lancer.
He was a great-grand-nephew of M. Gillenormand, on the paternal side, who led a garrison life, outside the family and far from the domestic hearth. Lieutenant Theodule Gillenormand fulfilled all the conditions required to make what is called a fine officer. He had "a lady's waist," a victorious manner of trailing his sword and of twirling his mustache in a hook. He visited Paris very rarely, and so rarely that Marius had never seen him. The cousins knew each other only by name. We think we have said that Theodule was the favorite of Aunt Gillenormand, who preferred him because she did not see him. Not seeing people permits one to attribute to them all possible perfections.
One morning, Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder returned to her apartment as much disturbed as her placidity was capable of allowing. Marius had just asked his grandfather's permission to take a little trip, adding that he meant to set out that very evening. "Go!" had been his grandfather's reply, and M. Gillenormand had added in an aside, as he raised his eyebrows to the top of his forehead: "Here he is passing the night out again." Mademoiselle Gillenormand had ascended to her chamber greatly puzzled, and on the staircase had dropped this exclamation: "This is too much!"--and this interrogation: "But where is it that he goes?" She espied some adventure of the heart, more or less illicit, a woman in the shadow, a rendezvous, a mystery, and she would not have been sorry to thrust her spectacles into the affair. Tasting a mystery resembles getting the first flavor of a scandal; sainted souls do not detest this. There is some curiosity about scandal in the secret compartments of bigotry.
So she was the prey of a vague appetite for learning a history.
In order to get rid of this curiosity which agitated her a little beyond her wont, she took refuge in her talents, and set about scalloping, with one layer of cotton after another, one of those embroideries of the Empire and the Restoration, in which there are numerous cart-wheels. The work was clumsy, the worker cross. She had been seated at this for several hours when the door opened. Mademoiselle Gillenormand raised her nose. Lieutenant Theodule stood before her, making the regulation salute. She uttered a cry of delight. One may be old, one may be a prude, one may be pious, one may be an aunt, but it is always agreeable to see a lancer enter one's chamber.
"You here, Theodule!" she exclaimed.
"On my way through town, aunt."
"Embrace me."
"Here goes!" said Theodule.
And he kissed her. Aunt Gillenormand went to her writing-desk and opened it.
"You will remain with us a week at least?"
"I leave this very evening, aunt."
"It is not possible!"
"Mathematically!"
"Remain, my little Theodule, I beseech you."
"My heart says `yes,' but my orders say `no.' The matter is simple. They are changing our garrison; we have been at Melun, we are being transferred to Gaillon. It is necessary to pass through Paris in order to get from the old post to the new one. I said: `I am going to see my aunt.'"
"Here is something for your trouble."
And she put ten louis into his hand.
"For my pleasure, you mean to say, my dear aunt."
Theodule kissed her again, and she experienced the joy of having some of the skin scratched from her neck by the braidings on his uniform.
"Are you making the journey on horseback, with your regiment?" she asked him.
"No, aunt. I wanted to see you. I have special permission. My servant is taking my horse; I am travelling by diligence. And, by the way, I want to ask you something."
"What is it?"
"Is my cousin Marius Pontmercy travelling so, too?"
"How do you know that?" said his aunt, suddenly pricked to the quick with a lively curiosity.
"On my arrival, I went to the diligence to engage my seat in the coupe."
"Well?"
"A traveller had already come to engage a seat in the imperial. I saw his name on the card."
"What name?"
"Marius Pontmercy."
"The wicked fellow!" exclaimed his aunt. "Ah! your cousin is not a steady lad like yourself. To think that he is to pass the night in a diligence!"
"Just as I am going to do."
"But you--it is your duty; in his case, it is wildness."
"Bosh!" said Theodule.
Here an event occurred to Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder,-- an idea struck her. If she had been a man, she would have slapped her brow. She apostrophized Theodule:--
"Are you aware whether your cousin knows you?"
"No. I have seen him; but he has never deigned to notice me."
"So you are going to travel together?"
"He in the imperial, I in the coupe."
"Where does this diligence run?"
"To Andelys."
"Then that is where Marius is going?"
"Unless, like myself, he should stop on the way. I get down at Vernon, in order to take the branch coach for Gaillon. I know nothing of Marius' plan of travel."
"Marius! what an ugly name! what possessed them to name him Marius? While you, at least, are called Theodule."
"I would rather be called Alfred," said the officer.
"Listen, Theodule."
"I am listening, aunt."
"Pay attention."
"I am paying attention."
"You understand?"
"Yes."
"Well, Marius absents himself!"
"Eh! eh!"
"He travels."
"Ah! ah!"
"He spends the night out."
"Oh! oh!"
"We should like to know what there is behind all this."
Theodule replied with the composure of a man of bronze:--
"Some petticoat or other."
And with that inward laugh which denotes certainty, he added:--
"A lass."
"That is evident," exclaimed his aunt, who thought she heard M. Gillenormand speaking, and who felt her conviction become irresistible at that word fillette, accentuated in almost the very same fashion by the granduncle and the grandnephew. She resumed:--
"Do us a favor. Follow Marius a little. He does not know you, it will be easy. Since a lass there is, try to get a sight of her. You must write us the tale. It will amuse his grandfather."
Theodule had no excessive taste for this sort of spying; but he was much touched by the ten louis, and he thought he saw a chance for a possible sequel. He accepted the commission and said: "As you please, aunt."
And he added in an aside, to himself: "Here I am a duenna."
Mademoiselle Gillenormand embraced him.
"You are not the man to play such pranks, Theodule. You obey discipline, you are the slave of orders, you are a man of scruples and duty, and you would not quit your family to go and see a creature."
The lancer made the pleased grimace of Cartouche when praised for his probity.
Marius, on the evening following this dialogue, mounted the diligence without suspecting that he was watched. As for the watcher, the first thing he did was to fall asleep. His slumber was complete and conscientious. Argus snored all night long.
At daybreak, the conductor of the diligence shouted: "Vernon! Relay of Vernon! Travellers for Vernon!" And Lieutenant Theodule woke.
"Good," he growled, still half asleep, "this is where I get out."
Then, as his memory cleared by degrees, the effect of waking, he recalled his aunt, the ten louis, and the account which he had undertaken to render of the deeds and proceedings of Marius. This set him to laughing.
"Perhaps he is no longer in the coach," he thought, as he rebuttoned the waistcoat of his undress uniform. "He may have stopped at Poissy; he may have stopped at Triel; if he did not get out at Meulan, he may have got out at Mantes, unless he got out at Rolleboise, or if he did not go on as far as Pacy, with the choice of turning to the left at Evreus, or to the right at Laroche-Guyon. Run after him, aunty. What the devil am I to write to that good old soul?"
At that moment a pair of black trousers descending from the imperial, made its appearance at the window of the coupe.
"Can that be Marius?" said the lieutenant.
It was Marius.
A little peasant girl, all entangled with the horses and the postilions at the end of the vehicle, was offering flowers to the travellers. "Give your ladies flowers!" she cried.
Marius approached her and purchased the finest flowers in her flat basket.
"Come now," said Theodule, leaping down from the coupe, "this piques my curiosity. Who the deuce is he going to carry those flowers to? She must be a splendidly handsome woman for so fine a bouquet. I want to see her."
And no longer in pursuance of orders, but from personal curiosity, like dogs who hunt on their own account, he set out to follow Marius. Marius paid no attention to Theodule. Elegant women descended from the diligence; he did not glance at them. He seemed to see nothing around him.
"He is pretty deeply in love!" thought Theodule.
Marius directed his steps towards the church.
"Capital," said Theodule to himself. "Rendezvous seasoned with a bit of mass are the best sort. Nothing is so exquisite as an ogle which passes over the good God's head."
On arriving at the church, Marius did not enter it, but skirted the apse. He disappeared behind one of the angles of the apse.
"The rendezvous is appointed outside," said Theodule. "Let's have a look at the lass."
And he advanced on the tips of his boots towards the corner which Marius had turned.
On arriving there, he halted in amazement.
Marius, with his forehead clasped in his hands, was kneeling upon the grass on a grave. He had strewn his bouquet there. At the extremity of the grave, on a little swelling which marked the head, there stood a cross of black wood with this name in white letters: COLONEL BARON PONTMERCY. Marius' sobs were audible.
The "lass" was a grave.
①短布裙，指贫寒人家的年轻姑娘。
我们曾提到过一个长矛兵。
那是吉诺曼先生的一个侄孙，他一向远离家庭，在外地过着军营生活。这位忒阿杜勒·吉诺曼中尉具有人们所谓漂亮军官的全部条件。他有“闺秀的腰身”，一种拖曳指挥刀的潇洒风度，两头翘的胡子。他很少来巴黎，马吕斯从来不曾会过他。这两个表兄弟只是彼此知道名字而已。我们好象曾提起过，忒阿杜勒是吉诺曼姑奶奶心疼的人，她疼他，是因为她瞧不见他。眼睛瞧不见，心里便会对那人想象出无数的优点。
一天早晨，吉诺曼姑奶奶力持镇静才捺住了心头的激动，回到自己屋里。马吕斯刚才又要求他外祖父让他去作一次短期旅行，并说当天傍晚便打算动身。外祖父回答说：“去吧！”随后，吉诺曼先生转过背，把两条眉毛在额头上耸得高高的，接着说：“他外宿，屡犯不改。”吉诺曼姑娘回到自己的屋里，着实安不下心来，又走到楼梯上，她狠狠地说了这么一句：“未免太过火了。”继又问这么一句：“究竟他要去什么地方呢？”她仿佛窥到了他心中某种不大说得出口的隐秘活动，一个若隐若现的妇女，一次幽会，一种密约，如果能拿着眼镜凑近去看个清楚，那倒也不坏。刺探隐情，有如初尝异味。圣洁的灵魂是绝不厌恶这种滋味的。在虔诚笃敬的心曲深处也常有窥人隐私的好奇心。
因此她被一种要摸清底细的轻微饥渴所俘虏了。
这种好奇心所引起的激动有点超出她的惯例。为了使自己得到消遣，她便专心于自己的手艺，她开始剪裁层层棉布，拼绣那种在帝国时期和王朝复辟时期盛行的许多车轮形的饰物。工作烦闷，工作者烦躁。她在她的椅子上一直坐了好几个钟头，房门忽然开了。吉诺曼姑娘抬起她的鼻子，那位忒阿杜勒中尉立在她面前，正向她行军礼。她发出一声幸福的叫喊。人老了，又素来腼腆虔诚，并且又是姑妈，见到一个龙骑兵走进她的绣房，那总是乐意的。
“你在这里！”她喊着说。
“我路过这儿，我的姑姑。”
“快拥抱我吧。”
“遵命！”忒阿杜勒说。
他上前拥抱了她。吉诺曼姑奶奶走到她的书桌边，开了抽屉。
“你至少得在我们这儿待上整整一星期吧？”
“姑姑，我今晚就得走。”
“瞎说！”
“一点也没说错。”
“留下来，我的小忒阿杜勒，我求你。”
“我的心想留下，但是命令不许可。事情很简单，我们换防，我们原来驻扎在默伦，现在调到加容，从老防地到新防地，我们得经过巴黎。我说了，我要去看看我的姑姑。”
“这一小点是补偿你的损失的。”
她放了十个路易在他手心里。
“您的意思是说这是为了使我高兴吧，亲爱的姑姑。”
忒阿杜勒再次拥抱她，她因为自己的脖子被他军服上的金线边微微刮痛了一点而起了一阵快感。
“你是不是骑着马带着队伍出发呢？”她问他。
“不，我的姑姑，我打定主意要来看看您。我得到了特殊照顾。我的勤务兵带着我的马走了，我乘公共马车去。说到这儿，我想起要问您一桩事。”
“什么事？”
“我那表弟马吕斯·彭眉胥，他也要去旅行吗？”
“你怎么知道的？”他姑姑说，这时她那好奇心陡然被搔着最痒处了。
“来这儿时，我到公共马车站去订了一个前厢座位。”
“后来呢？”
‘有个旅客已在车顶上订了个座位。我在旅客单上见到了他的名字。”
“什么名字？”
“马吕斯·彭眉胥。”
“那坏蛋！”姑姑喊着说。“哈！你那表弟可不象你这样是个有条理的孩子。到公共马车里去过夜，这成什么话！”
“跟我一样。”
“你，那是为了任务，而他呢，只是为了胡闹。”
“没有想到！”忒阿杜勒说。
到此，吉诺曼大姑娘感到有事可做了，她有了个想法。假如她是个男子，她一定会猛拍一下自己的额头。她急忙问忒阿杜勒：
“你知道你表弟不认识你吗？”
“不知道，我见过他，我，但是他从来不曾注意过我。”
“你们不是要同车赶路吗？”
“他坐在车顶上，我坐在前厢里。”
“这公共马车去什么地方？”
“去莱桑德利。”
“马吕斯是去那地方吗？”
“除非他和我一样半路下车。我要在韦尔农转车去加容。
马吕斯的路线，我可一点也不知道。”
“马吕斯！这名字多难听！怎么会有人想到要叫他马吕斯！
而你，至少，你叫忒阿杜勒！”
“我觉得还不如阿尔弗雷德好听。”那位军官说。
“听我说，忒阿杜勒。”
“我在听，我的姑姑。”
“注意了。”
“我注意了。”
“准备好了？”
“准备好了。”
“好吧，马吕斯时常不回家。”
“嗨嗨！”
“他时常旅行。”
“啊啊！”
“他时常在外面过夜。”
“呵呵！”
“我们很想知道这里面是些啥玩意儿。”
忒阿杜勒带着一个富有阅历的人的那种镇静态度回答说：
“无非是一两条短布裙吧。”
随即又带着那种表示自信的含蓄的笑声说道：
“个把小姑娘罢了。”
“显然是这样。”姑奶奶兴奋地说，她以为听到了吉诺曼先生在谈话，无论是那叔祖或侄孙在谈到小姑娘这几个字时，那语调几乎是一模一样的，于是她的看法也就不容抗拒地就此形成了。她接着又说：
“你得替我们做件开心事儿。你跟着马吕斯。他不认识你，你不会有什么困难。既然这里有个小姑娘，你想方设法去看看她，回头写封信把这小小故事告诉我们，让他外公开开心。”
忒阿杜勒对这种性质的侦察工作并没有太大的兴趣，但是那十个路易却使他很感动，而且觉得这种好处今后还可能会有。他便接受了任务，说道：“您喜欢怎样就怎样吧，我的姑姑。”跟着，他又对自己说：“这下我变成老保姆了。”
吉诺曼姑娘吻了他一下，说道：
“忒阿杜勒，你是决不会搞这些的，你是遵守纪律的，你是门禁制度的奴隶，你是一个安分尽职的人，你决不会离开你的家去找那样一个货色的。”
那龙骑兵做了个得意的丑脸，正如卡图什听到别人称赞他克己守法。
在这次对话的当天晚上，马吕斯坐上公共马车，绝没有想到有人监视他。至于那位监视者，他所做的第一桩事便是睡大觉。这是场地地道道的酣睡。阿耳戈斯①打了一整夜的鼾。天刚蒙蒙亮时，公共马车上的管理人喊道：“韦尔农！韦尔农车站到了！到韦尔农的旅客们下车了！”忒阿杜勒中尉这才醒过来。 
①阿耳戈斯（Argus），希腊神话中之百眼神，他无论昼夜总有五十只眼睛不闭。
“好，”他喃喃地说，人还在半睡状态，“我得在此地下车。”
随后，他的记忆力一步一步地清楚起来了，这是醒来的效果，他想到了他的姑姑，还有那十个路易，以及要就马吕斯的所作所为作出报告的诺言。这都使他感到可笑。
“他也许早已不在这车上了，”他一面想，一面扣上他那身小军服上的纽扣。“他可能留在普瓦西了，也可能留在特利埃尔，他如果没有在默朗下车，也可能在芒特下车，除非他已在罗尔波阿斯下车，或是一直到帕西，从那儿向左可以去到埃夫勒，向右可以去拉罗什－盖荣。你去追吧，我的姑姑。我得对她写些什么鬼话呢，对那个好老太婆？”
正在这时，一条黑裤子从车顶上下来，出现在前车厢的玻璃窗上。
“这也许是马吕斯吧？”中尉说。
那正是马吕斯。
一个乡村小姑娘，站在车子下面，混在一群马和马夫当中对着旅客叫卖鲜花：“带点鲜花送给太太小姐们吧。”
马吕斯走到她跟前，买了她托盘中最美丽的一束鲜花。
“这下子，”忒阿杜勒一面跳下前车厢，一面说，“我可来劲了。这些花，他要拿去送给什么鬼女人呢？除非是个顶顶漂亮的女人才配得上一簇这么出色的花。我一定要去看她一眼。”
现在已不是受人之托，而是出自本人的好奇心，正如那些为自身利益追踪的狗一样，他开始跟在马吕斯后面。
马吕斯一点没有注意到忒阿杜勒。一些衣饰华丽的妇女从公共马车上走下来，他一眼也不望，仿佛周围的任何东西全不在他眼里。
“他真够钟情的了！”忒阿杜勒想。
马吕斯朝着礼拜堂走去。
“妙极，”忒阿杜勒对自己说。“礼拜堂！对呀。情人的约会，配上点宗教色彩，那真够味儿。通过慈悲天主来送秋波，没有比这更美妙的了。”
马吕斯到了礼拜堂前不往里走，却朝后堂绕了过去，绕到堂后墙垛的角上不见了。
“约会地点在外边，”忒阿杜勒说，“可以看到那小姑娘了。”
他踮起长统靴的脚尖朝着马吕斯拐弯的那个墙角走去。
到了那里，他大吃一惊，停着不动了。
马吕斯，两手捂着额头，跪在一个坟前的草丛里。他已把那簇鲜花的花瓣撒在坟前。在那坟隆起的一端，也就是死者头部所在处，有个木十字架，上面写着一行白字：“上校男爵彭眉胥”。马吕斯正在失声痛哭。
那“小姑娘”只是一座坟。
Part 3 Book 3 Chapter 8 Marble against Granite
It was hither that Marius had come on the first occasion of his absenting himself from Paris. It was hither that he had come every time that M. Gillenormand had said: "He is sleeping out."
Lieutenant Theodule was absolutely put out of countenance by this unexpected encounter with a sepulchre; he experienced a singular and disagreeable sensation which he was incapable of analyzing, and which was composed of respect for the tomb, mingled with respect for the colonel. He retreated, leaving Marius alone in the cemetery, and there was discipline in this retreat. Death appeared to him with large epaulets, and he almost made the military salute to him. Not knowing what to write to his aunt, he decided not to write at all; and it is probable that nothing would have resulted from the discovery made by Theodule as to the love affairs of Marius, if, by one of those mysterious arrangements which are so frequent in chance, the scene at Vernon had not had an almost immediate counter-shock at Paris.
Marius returned from Vernon on the third day, in the middle of the morning, descended at his grandfather's door, and, wearied by the two nights spent in the diligence, and feeling the need of repairing his loss of sleep by an hour at the swimming-school, he mounted rapidly to his chamber, took merely time enough to throw off his travelling-coat, and the black ribbon which he wore round his neck, and went off to the bath.
M.Gillenormand, who had risen betimes like all old men in good health, had heard his entrance, and had made haste to climb, as quickly as his old legs permitted, the stairs to the upper story where Marius lived, in order to embrace him, and to question him while so doing, and to find out where he had been.
But the youth had taken less time to descend than the old man had to ascend, and when Father Gillenormand entered the attic, Marius was no longer there.
The bed had not been disturbed, and on the bed lay, outspread, but not defiantly the great-coat and the black ribbon.
"I like this better," said M. Gillenormand.
And a moment later, he made his entrance into the salon, where Mademoiselle Gillenormand was already seated, busily embroidering her cart-wheels.
The entrance was a triumphant one.
M. Gillenormand held in one hand the great-coat, and in the other the neck-ribbon, and exclaimed:--
"Victory! We are about to penetrate the mystery! We are going to learn the most minute details; we are going to lay our finger on the debaucheries of our sly friend! Here we have the romance itself. I have the portrait!"
In fact, a case of black shagreen, resembling a medallion portrait, was suspended from the ribbon.
The old man took this case and gazed at it for some time without opening it, with that air of enjoyment, rapture, and wrath, with which a poor hungry fellow beholds an admirable dinner which is not for him, pass under his very nose.
"For this evidently is a portrait. I know all about such things. That is worn tenderly on the heart. How stupid they are! Some abominable fright that will make us shudder, probably! Young men have such bad taste nowadays!"
"Let us see, father," said the old spinster.
The case opened by the pressure of a spring. They found in it nothing but a carefully folded paper.
"From the same to the same," said M. Gillenormand, bursting with laughter. "I know what it is. A billet-doux."
"Ah! let us read it!" said the aunt.
And she put on her spectacles. They unfolded the paper and read as follows:--
"For my son.--The Emperor made me a Baron on the battlefield of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to this title which I purchased with my blood, my son shall take it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a matter of course."
The feelings of father and daughter cannot be described. They felt chilled as by the breath of a death's-head. They did not exchange a word.
Only, M. Gillenormand said in a low voice and as though speaking to himself:--
"It is the slasher's handwriting."
The aunt examined the paper, turned it about in all directions, then put it back in its case.
At the same moment a little oblong packet, enveloped in blue paper, fell from one of the pockets of the great-coat. Mademoiselle Gillenormand picked it up and unfolded the blue paper.
It contained Marius' hundred cards. She handed one of them to M. Gillenormand, who read: Le Baron Marius Plbtmercy.
The old man rang the bell. Nicolette came. M. Gillenormand took the ribbon, the case, and the coat, flung them all on the floor in the middle of the room, and said:--
"Carry those duds away."
A full hour passed in the most profound silence. The old man and the old spinster had seated themselves with their backs to each other, and were thinking, each on his own account, the same things, in all probability.
At the expiration of this hour, Aunt Gillenormand said:--"A pretty state of things!"
A few moments later, Marius made his appearance. He entered. Even before he had crossed the threshold, he saw his grandfather holding one of his own cards in his hand, and on catching sight of him, the latter exclaimed with his air of bourgeois and grinning superiority which was something crushing:--
"Well! well! well! well! well! so you are a baron now. I present you my compliments. What is the meaning of this?"
Marius reddened slightly and replied:--
"It means that I am the son of my father."
M. Gillenormand ceased to laugh, and said harshly:--
"I am your father."
"My father," retorted Marius, with downcast eyes and a severe air, "was a humble and heroic man, who served the Republic and France gloriously, who was great in the greatest history that men have ever made, who lived in the bivouac for a quarter of a century, beneath grape-shot and bullets, in snow and mud by day, beneath rain at night, who captured two flags, who received twenty wounds, who died forgotten and abandoned, and who never committed but one mistake, which was to love too fondly two ingrates, his country and myself."
This was more than M. Gillenormand could bear to hear. At the word republic, he rose, or, to speak more correctly, he$bprang to his feet. Every word t`at Marius had just uttered produced on the visage of the old Royalist the effect of the puffs of air from a forge upon a blazing brand. From a dull hue he had turned red, from red, purple, and from purple, flame-colored.
"Marius!" he cried. "Abominable child! I do not know what your father was! I do not wish to know! I know nothing about that, and I do not know him! But what I do know is, that there never was anything but scoundrels among those men! They were all rascals, assassins, red-caps, thieves! I say all! I say all! I know not one! I say all! Do you hear me, Marius! See here, you are no more a baron than my slipper is! They were all bandits in the service of Robespierre! All who served B-u-o-naparte were brigands! They wera all traitors who betrayed, betrayed, betrayed their legitimate king! All cowards who fled before the Prussians and the English at Waterloo! That is what I do know! Whether Monsieur your father comes in that category, I do not know! I am sorry for it, so much the worse, your humble servant!"
In his turn, it was Marius who was the firebrand and M. Gillenormand who was the bellows. Marius quivered in every limb, he did not know what would happen next, his brain was on fire. He was the priest who beholds all his sacred wafers cast to the winds, the fakir who beholds a passer-by spit upon his idol. It could not be that such things had been uttered in his presence. What was he to do? His father had just been trampled under foot and stamped upon in his presence, but by whom? By his grandfather. How was he to avenge the one without outraging the other? It was impossible for him to insult his grandfather and it was equally impossible for him to leave his fathep unavenged. On the one hand was 
 sacred grave, on the other hoary locks.
He stood there for several moments, staggering as though intoxicated, with all this whirlwind dashing through his head; then he raised his eyes, gazed fixedli at his grandfather, and cried h a voice of thunder:--
"Down with the Bourbons, and that great hog of a Louis XVIII.!"
Louis XVIII. had been dead for four years; but it was all the same to him.
The old man, who had been crimson, turned whiter than his hair. He wheeled round towards a bust of M. le Duc de Berry, which stood on the chimney-piece, and made a profound bow, with a sort of peculiar majesty. Then he paced twice, slowly and in silence, from the fireplace to the window and from the window to the fireplace, traversing the whole length of the room, and making the polished floor creak as though he had been a stone statue walking.
On his second turn, he bent over his daughter, who was watching this encounter with the stupefied air of an antiquated lamb, and said to her with a smile that was almost calm: "A baron like this gentleman, and a bourgeois like myself cannot remain under the same roof."
And drawing himself up, all at once, pallid, trembling, terrible, with his brow rendered more lofty by the terrible radiance of wrath, he extended his arm towards Marius and shouted to him:--
"Be off!"
Marius left the house.
On the following day, M. Gillenormand said to his daughter:
"You will send sixty pistoles every six months to that blood-drinker, and you will never mention his name to me."
Having an immense reserve fund of wrath to get rid of, and not knowing what to do with it, he continued to address his daughter as you instead of thou for the next three months.
Marius, on his side, had gone forth in indignation. There was one circumstance which, it must be admitted, aggravated his exasperation. There are always petty fatalities of the sort which complicate domestic dramas. They augment the grievances in such cases, although, in reality, the wrongs are not increased by them. While carrying Marius' "duds" precipitately to his chamber, at his grandfather's command, Nicolette had, inadvertently, let fall, probably, on the attic staircase, which was dark, that medallion of black shagreen which contained the paper penned by the colonel. Neither paper nor case could afterwards be found. Marius was convinced that "Monsieur Gillenormand"--from that day forth he never alluded to him otherwise--had flung "his father's testament" in the fire. He knew by heart the few lines which the colonel had written, and, consequently, nothing was lost. But the paper, the writing, that sacred relic,--all that was his very heart. What had been done with it?
Marius had taken his departure without saying whither he was going, and without knowing where, with thirty francs, his watch, and a few clothes in a hand-bag. He had entered a hackney-coach, had engaged it by the hour, and had directed his course at hap-hazard towards the Latin quarter.
What was to become of Marius?
这便是马吕斯第一次离开巴黎时来到的地方。这便是他在吉诺曼先生每次说他“外宿”的时候来到的地方。
忒阿杜勒无意中突然和一座坟相对，完全失去了主意，他心中有一种尴尬奇特的感受，这种感受是他不能分析的，在对孤冢的敬意中搀杂着对一个上校的敬意。他连忙往后退，把马吕斯独自一个丢在那公墓里，他在后退时是有纪律的。好象死者带着宽大的肩章出现在他眼前，逼得他几乎对他行了个军礼。他不知该对他姑母写些什么，便索性什么也不写。忒阿杜勒在马吕斯爱情问题上的发现也许不会引起任何后果，如果韦尔农方面的这一经过不曾因那种常见而出之偶然的神秘安排而在巴黎立即掀起另一波折的话。
马吕斯在第三天清早回到他外祖父家里。经过两夜的旅途劳顿，他感到需要去作一小时的游泳才能补偿他的失眠，他赶紧上楼钻进自己的屋子，急急忙忙脱去身上的旅行服和脖子上那条黑带子，到浴池里去了。
吉诺曼先生和所有健康的老人一样，一早便起了床，听到他回来，便用他那双老腿的最高速度连忙跨上楼梯，到马吕斯所住的顶楼上去，想拥抱他，并在拥抱中摸摸他的底，稍稍知道一点他是从什么地方回来的。
但是那青年人下楼比八旬老人上楼来得更快些，当吉诺曼公公走进那顶楼时，马吕斯已经不在里面了。
床上的被枕没有动过，那身旅行服和那条黑带子却毫无戒备地摊在床上。
“这样更好。”吉诺曼先生说。
过了一会儿，他来到客厅，吉诺曼大姑娘正坐在那里绣她的那些车轮形花饰。
吉诺曼先生得意洋洋地走了进来。
他一手提着那身旅行服，一手提着那条挂在颈上的带子，嘴里喊道：
“胜利！我们就要揭开秘密了！我门马上就可以一清二楚、水落石出了！我们摸到这位不动声色的风流少年的底儿了！他的恋爱故事已在这里了！我有了她的相片！”
的确，那条带子上悬着一个黑轧花皮的圆匣子，很象个相片匣。
那老头儿捏着那匣子，细看了很久，却不忙着把它打开，他神情如醉如痴，心里又乐又恼，正如一个饿极了的穷鬼望着一盘香喷喷的好菜打他鼻子下面递过，却又不归他享受一样。
“这显然是张相片。准没错。这玩意儿，素来是甜甜蜜蜜挂在心坎上的。这些人多么傻！也许只是个见了叫人寒毛直竖丑极了的骚货呢！今天这些青年的口味确实不高！”
“先看看再说吧，爸。”那老姑娘说。
把那弹簧一按，匣子便开了。那里，除了一张折叠得整整齐齐的纸以外，没有旁的东西。
“老是那一套，”吉诺曼先生放声大笑，“我知道这是什么。
一张定情书！”
“啊！快念念看！”姑奶奶说。
她连忙戴上眼镜，打开那张纸念道：
吾儿览：皇上在滑铁卢战场上曾封我为男爵。王朝复辟，否认我这用鲜血换来的勋位，吾儿应仍承袭享受这勋位。不用说，他是当之无愧的。
那父女俩的感受是无可形容的。他们仿佛觉得自己被一道从骷髅头里吹出的冷气冻僵了。他们一句话也没有交谈。只有吉诺曼先生低声说了这么一句，好象是对他自己说的：
“这是那刀斧手的笔迹。”
姑奶奶拿着那张纸颠来倒去，仔细研究，继又把它放回匣子里。
正在这时，一个长方形蓝纸包从那旅行服的一只衣袋里掉了出来。吉诺曼姑娘拾起它，打开那张蓝纸。这是马吕斯的那一百张名片。她拿出一张递给吉诺曼先生，他念道：“男爵马吕斯·彭眉胥。”
老头儿拉铃，妮珂莱特进来了。吉诺曼先生抓起那黑带、匣子和衣服，一股脑儿丢在客厅中间的地上，说道：
“把这些破烂拿回去。”
整整一个钟头在绝无声息的沉寂中过去了。那老人和老姑娘背对背坐着，各自想着各自的事，也许正是同一件事。
一个钟头过后，吉诺曼姑奶奶说：
“出色！”
过了一会，马吕斯出现了。他刚回来。在跨进门以前，他便望见他外祖父手里捏着一张他的名片，看着他进来了，便摆出豪绅们那种笑里带刺、蓄意挖苦的高傲态度，喊着说：
“了不起！了不起！了不起！了不起！了不起！你现在居然是爵爷了。我祝贺你。这究竟是什么意思呀？”
马吕斯脸上微微红了一下，回答说：
“这就是说，我是我父亲的儿子。”
吉诺曼先生收起笑容，厉声说道：
“你的父亲，是我。”
“我的父亲，”马吕斯低着眼睛，神情严肃的说，“是一个谦卑而英勇的人，他曾为共和国和法兰西光荣地服务，他是人类有史以来最伟大的时代中一个伟大的人，他在野营中生活了一个世纪的四分之一的时间，白天生活在炮弹和枪弹下，夜里生活在雨雪下和泥淖中，他夺取过两面军旗，受过二十处伤，死后却被人遗忘和抛弃，他一生只犯了一个错误，那就是：他过于热爱两个忘恩负义的家伙，祖国和我！”
这已不是吉诺曼先生所能听得进去的了。提到“共和国”这个词时，他站起来了，或者，说得更恰当些，他竖起来了。马吕斯刚才所说的每一句话，在那老保王派脸上所产生的效果，正如一阵阵从鼓风炉中吹到炽炭上的热气。他的脸由阴沉变红，由红而紫，由紫而变得烈焰直冒了。
“马吕斯！”他吼着说，“荒唐孩子！我不知道你父亲是什么东西！我也不愿知道！我不知他干过什么！我不知道这个人！但是我知道，在这伙人中，没有一个不是无赖汉！全是些穷化子、凶手、红帽子、贼！我说全是！我说全是！我可一个也不认识！我说全是，你听见了没有，马吕斯！你明白了吗，你是爵爷，就和我的拖鞋一样！全是些替罗伯斯庇尔卖命的匪徒！全是些替布--宛--纳--巴卖命的强盗！全是些背叛了，背叛了，背叛了他们的正统的国王的叛徒！全是些在滑铁卢见了普鲁士人和英格兰人便连忙逃命的胆小鬼！瞧！这就是我所知道的。假使您的令尊大人也在那里面，那我可不知道，我很生气，活该，您的仆人！”
这下，马吕斯成了炽炭，吉诺曼先生成了热风了。马吕斯浑身战栗，他不知道怎么办，他的脑袋冒火了。他好象是个望着别人把圣饼满地乱扔的神甫，是个看见过路人在他偶像身上吐唾沫的僧人。在他面前说了这种话而不受处罚，那是不行的。但是怎么办呢？他的父亲刚才被别人当着他的面践踏了一阵，被谁？被他的外祖父。怎样才能为这一个进行报复而不冒犯那一个呢？他不能侮辱他的外祖父，却又不能不为父亲雪耻。一方面是座神圣的孤坟，一方面是满头的白发。这一切在他的脑子里回旋冲突，他头重脚轻，摇摇欲倒，接着，他抬起了眼睛，狠狠盯着他的外祖父，霹雷似的吼着说：
“打倒波旁，打倒路易十八，这肥猪！”
路易十八死去已四年，但是他管不了这么多。
那老头儿，脸原是鲜红的，突然变得比他的头发更白了。他转身对着壁炉上的一座德·贝里公爵先生①的半身像，用一种奇特的庄重态度，深深鞠了一躬。随后，他从壁炉到窗口，又从窗口到壁炉，缓缓而肃静地来回走了两次，穿过那客厅，象个活的石人一样，压得地板嘎嘎响。在第二次走回来时，他向着他那个象一头在冲突面前发呆的老绵羊似的女儿弯下腰去，带着一种几乎是镇静的笑容对她说： 
①德·贝里公爵先生，当时法国国王查理十世的儿子，保王党都认他为王位继承人。
“象那位先生那样的一位爵爷和象我这样的一个老百姓是不可能住在同一个屋顶下面的。”
接着，他突然挺直身体，脸色发青，浑身发抖，横眉切齿，额头被盛怒的那种骇人的光芒所扩大，伸出手臂，指着马吕斯吼道：
“滚出去。”
马吕斯离开了那一家。
第二天，吉诺曼先生对他的女儿说：
“您每隔六个月，寄六十皮斯托尔①给这吸血鬼，从今以后，您永远不许再向我提到他。” 
①皮斯托尔（pistole），法国古币，相当于十个利弗。
由于还有大量余怒要消，但又不知怎么办，他便对着他的女儿连续称了三个多月的“您”。
至于马吕斯，他气冲冲地走出大门。有件应当提到的事使他心中的愤慨更加加重了。在家庭的变故中，往往会遇到这类阴错阳差的小事，使情况变得更复杂。错误虽未加多，冤仇却从而转深了。那妮珂莱特，当她在外祖父吩咐下，匆匆忙忙把马吕斯的那些“破烂”送回他屋子里去时，无意中把那个盛上校遗书的黑轧花皮圆匣子弄丢了，也许是掉在上顶楼去的楼梯上了，那地方原是不见阳光的。那张纸和那圆匣子都无法再找到。马吕斯深信“吉诺曼先生”棗从那时起他便不再用旁的名称称呼他了棗已把“他父亲的遗嘱”仍在火里去了。上校写的那几行字，原是他背熟了的，因此，他并无所失。但是，那张纸，那墨迹，那神圣的遗物，那一切，是他自己的心。而别人是怎样对待它的？
马吕斯走了，没有说去什么地方，也不知道有什么地方可去，身边带着三十法郎、一只表、一个装日常用具和衣服的旅行袋。他雇了一辆街车，说好按时计值，漫无目的地向着拉丁区走去。
马吕斯会怎样呢？
Part 3 Book 4 Chapter 1 A Group which barely missed becoming Historic
At that epoch, which was, to all appearances indifferent, a certain revolutionary quiver was vaguely current. Breaths which had started forth from the depths of '89 and '93 were in the air. Youth was on the point, may the reader pardon us the word, of moulting. People were undergoing a transformation, almost without being conscious of it, through the movement of the age. The needle which moves round the compass also moves in souls. Each person was taking that step in advance which he was bound to take. The Royalists were becoming liberals, liberals were turning democrats. It was a flood tide complicated with a thousand ebb movements; the peculiarity of ebbs is to create intermixtures; hence the combination of very singular ideas; people adored both Napoleon and liberty. We are making history here. These were the mirages of that period. Opinions traverse phases. Voltairian royalism, a quaint variety, had a no less singular sequel, Bonapartist liberalism.
Other groups of minds were more serious. In that direction, they sounded principles, they attached themselves to the right. They grew enthusiastic for the absolute, they caught glimpses of infinite realizations; the absolute, by its very rigidity, urges spirits towards the sky and causes them to float in illimitable space. There is nothing like dogma for bringing forth dreams. And there is nothing like dreams for engendering the future. Utopia to-day, flesh and blood to-morrow.
These advanced opinions had a double foundation. A beginning of mystery menaced "the established order of things," which was suspicious and underhand. A sign which was revolutionary to the highest degree. The second thoughts of power meet the second thoughts of the populace in the mine. The incubation of insurrections gives the retort to the premeditation of coups d'etat.
There did not, as yet, exist in France any of those vast underlying organizations, like the German tugendbund and Italian Carbonarism; but here and there there were dark underminings, which were in process of throwing off shoots. The Cougourde was being outlined at Aix; there existed at Paris, among other affiliations of that nature, the society of the Friends of the A B C.
What were these Friends of the A B C? A society which had for its object apparently the education of children, in reality the elevation of man.
They declared themselves the Friends of the A B C,--the Abaisse,-- the debased,--that is to say, the people. They wished to elevate the people. It was a pun which we should do wrong to smile at. Puns are sometimes serious factors in politics; witness the Castratus ad castra, which made a general of the army of Narses; witness: Barbari et Barberini; witness: Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram, etc., etc.
The Friends of the A B C were not numerous, it was a secret society in the state of embryo, we might almost say a coterie, if coteries ended in heroes. They assembled in Paris in two localities, near the fish-market, in a wine-shop called Corinthe, of which more will be heard later on, and near the Pantheon in a little cafe in the Rue Saint-Michel called the Cafe Musain, now torn down; the first of these meeting-places was close to the workingman, the second to the students.
The assemblies of the Friends of the A B C were usually held in a back room of the Cafe Musain.
This hall, which was tolerably remote from the cafe, with which it was connected by an extremely long corridor, had two windows and an exit with a private stairway on the little Rue des Gres. There they smoked and drank, and gambled and laughed. There they conversed in very loud tones about everything, and in whispers of other things. An old map of France under the Republic was nailed to the wall,-- a sign quite sufficient to excite the suspicion of a police agent.
The greater part of the Friends of the A B C were students, who were on cordial terms with the working classes. Here are the names of the principal ones. They belong, in a certain measure, to history: Enjolras, Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Lesgle or Laigle, Joly, Grantaire.
These young men formed a sort of family, through the bond of friendship. All, with the exception of Laigle, were from the South.
This was a remarkable group. It vanished in the invisible depths which lie behind us. At the point of this drama which we have now reached, it will not perhaps be superfluous to throw a ray of light upon these youthful heads, before the reader beholds them plunging into the shadow of a tragic adventure.
Enjolras, whose name we have mentioned first of all,--the reader shall see why later on,--was an only son and wealthy.
Enjolras was a charming young man, who was capable of being terrible. He was angelically handsome. He was a savage Antinous. One would have said, to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had already, in some previous state of existence, traversed the revolutionary apocalypse. He possessed the tradition of it as though he had been a witness. He was acquainted with all the minute details of the great affair. A pontifical and warlike nature, a singular thing in a youth. He was an officiating priest and a man of war; from the immediate point of view, a soldier of the democracy; above the contemporary movement, the priest of the ideal. His eyes were deep, his lids a little red, his lower lip was thick and easily became disdainful, his brow was lofty. A great deal of brow in a face is like a great deal of horizon in a view. Like certain young men at the beginning of this century and the end of the last, who became illustrious at an early age, he was endowed with excessive youth, and was as rosy as a young girl, although subject to hours of pallor. Already a man, he still seemed a child. His two and twenty years appeared to be but seventeen; he was serious, it did not seem as though he were aware there was on earth a thing called woman. He had but one passion--the right; but one thought--to overthrow the obstacle. On Mount Aventine, he would have been Gracchus; in the Convention, he would have been Saint-Just. He hardly saw the roses, he ignored spring, he did not hear the carolling of the birds; the bare throat of Evadne would have moved him no more than it would have moved Aristogeiton; he, like Harmodius, thought flowers good for nothing except to conceal the sword. He was severe in his enjoyments. He chastely dropped his eyes before everything which was not the Republic. He was the marble lover of liberty. His speech was harshly inspired, and had the thrill of a hymn. He was subject to unexpected outbursts of soul. Woe to the love-affair which should have risked itself beside him! If any grisette of the Place Cambrai or the Rue Saint-Jean-de-Beauvais, seeing that face of a youth escaped from college, that page's mien, those long, golden lashes, those blue eyes, that hair billowing in the wind, those rosy cheeks, those fresh lips, those exquisite teeth, had conceived an appetite for that complete aurora, and had tried her beauty on Enjolras, an astounding and terrible glance would have promptly shown her the abyss, and would have taught her not to confound the mighty cherub of Ezekiel with the gallant Cherubino of Beaumarchais.
By the side of Enjolras, who represented the logic of the Revolution, Combeferre represented its philosophy. Between the logic of the Revolution and its philosophy there exists this difference--that its logic may end in war, whereas its philosophy can end only in peace. Combeferre complemented and rectified Enjolras. He was less lofty, but broader. He desired to pour into all minds the extensive principles of general ideas: he said: "Revolution, but civilization"; and around the mountain peak he opened out a vast view of the blue sky. The Revolution was more adapted for breathing with Combeferre than with Enjolras. Enjolras expressed its divine right, and Combeferre its natural right. The first attached himself to Robespierre; the second confined himself to Condorcet. Combeferre lived the life of all the rest of the world more than did Enjolras. If it had been granted to these two young men to attain to history, the one would have been the just, the other the wise man. Enjolras was the more virile, Combeferre the more humane. Homo and vir, that was the exact effect of their different shades. Combeferre was as gentle as Enjolras was severe, through natural whiteness. He loved the word citizen, but he preferred the word man. He would gladly have said: Hombre, like the Spanish. He read everything, went to the theatres, attended the courses of public lecturers, learned the polarization of light from Arago, grew enthusiastic over a lesson in which Geoffrey Sainte-Hilaire explained the double function of the external carotid artery, and the internal, the one which makes the face, and the one which makes the brain; he kept up with what was going on, followed science step by step, compared Saint-Simon with Fourier, deciphered hieroglyphics, broke the pebble which he found and reasoned on geology, drew from memory a silkworm moth, pointed out the faulty French in the Dictionary of the Academy, studied Puysegur and Deleuze, affirmed nothing, not even miracles; denied nothing, not even ghosts; turned over the files of the Moniteur, reflected. He declared that the future lies in the hand of the schoolmaster, and busied himself with educational questions. He desired that society should labor without relaxation at the elevation of the moral and intellectual level, at coining science, at putting ideas into circulation, at increasing the mind in youthful persons, and he feared lest the present poverty of method, the paltriness from a literary point of view confined to two or three centuries called classic, the tyrannical dogmatism of official pedants, scholastic prejudices and routines should end by converting our colleges into artificial oyster beds. He was learned, a purist, exact, a graduate of the Polytechnic, a close student, and at the same time, thoughtful "even to chimaeras," so his friends said. He believed in all dreams, railroads, the suppression of suffering in chirurgical operations, the fixing of images in the dark chamber, the electric telegraph, the steering of balloons. Moreover, he was not much alarmed by the citadels erected against the human mind in every direction, by superstition, despotism, and prejudice. He was one of those who think that science will eventually turn the position. Enjolras was a chief, Combeferre was a guide. One would have liked to fight under the one and to march behind the other. It is not that Combeferre was not capable of fighting, he did not refuse a hand-to-hand combat with the obstacle, and to attack it by main force and explosively; but it suited him better to bring the human race into accord with its destiny gradually, by means of education, the inculcation of axioms, the promulgation of positive laws; and, between two lights, his preference was rather for illumination than for conflagration. A conflagration can create an aurora, no doubt, but why not await the dawn? A volcano illuminates, but daybreak furnishes a still better illumination. Possibly, Combeferre preferred the whiteness of the beautiful to the blaze of the sublime. A light troubled by smoke, progress purchased at the expense of violence, only half satisfied this tender and serious spirit. The headlong precipitation of a people into the truth, a '93, terrified him; nevertheless, stagnation was still more repulsive to him, in it he detected putrefaction and death; on the whole, he preferred scum to miasma, and he preferred the torrent to the cesspool, and the falls of Niagara to the lake of Montfaucon. In short, he desired neither halt nor haste. While his tumultuous friends, captivated by the absolute, adored and invoked splendid revolutionary adventures, Combeferre was inclined to let progress, good progress, take its own course; he may have been cold, but he was pure; methodical, but irreproachable; phlegmatic, but imperturbable. Combeferre would have knelt and clasped his hands to enable the future to arrive in all its candor, and that nothing might disturb the immense and virtuous evolution of the races. The good must be innocent, he repeated incessantly. And in fact, if the grandeur of the Revolution consists in keeping the dazzling ideal fixedly in view, and of soaring thither athwart the lightnings, with fire and blood in its talons, the beauty of progress lies in being spotless; and there exists between Washington, who represents the one, and Danton, who incarnates the other, that difference which separates the swan from the angel with the wings of an eagle.
Jean Prouvaire was a still softer shade than Combeferre. His name was Jehan, owing to that petty momentary freak which mingled with the powerful and profound movement whence sprang the very essential study of the Middle Ages. Jean Prouvaire was in love; he cultivated a pot of flowers, played on the flute, made verses, loved the people, pitied woman, wept over the child, confounded God and the future in the same confidence, and blamed the Revolution for having caused the fall of a royal head, that of Andre Chenier. His voice was ordinarily delicate, but suddenly grew manly. He was learned even to erudition, and almost an Orientalist. Above all, he was good; and, a very simple thing to those who know how nearly goodness borders on grandeur, in the matter of poetry, he preferred the immense. He knew Italian, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; and these served him only for the perusal of four poets: Dante, Juvenal, AEschylus, and Isaiah. In French, he preferred Corneille to Racine, and Agrippa d'Aubigne to Corneille. He loved to saunter through fields of wild oats and corn-flowers, and busied himself with clouds nearly as much as with events. His mind had two attitudes, one on the side towards man, the other on that towards God; he studied or he contemplated. All day long, he buried himself in social questions, salary, capital, credit, marriage, religion, liberty of thought, education, penal servitude, poverty, association, property, production and sharing, the enigma of this lower world which covers the human ant-hill with darkness; and at night, he gazed upon the planets, those enormous beings. Like Enjolras, he was wealthy and an only son. He spoke softly, bowed his head, lowered his eyes, smiled with embarrassment, dressed badly, had an awkward air, blushed at a mere nothing, and was very timid. Yet he was intrepid.
Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father and mother, who earned with difficulty three francs a day, and had but one thought, to deliver the world. He had one other preoccupation, to educate himself; he called this also, delivering himself. He had taught himself to read and write; everything that he knew,he had learned by himself. Feuilly had a generous heart. The range of his embrace was immense. This orphan had adopted the peoples. As his mother had failed him, he meditated on his country. He brooded with the profound divination of the man of the people, over what we now call the idea of the nationality, had learned history with the express object of raging with full knowledge of the case. In this club of young Utopians, occupied chiefly with France, he represented the outside world. He had for his specialty Greece, Poland, Hungary, Roumania, Italy. He uttered these names incessantly, appropriately and inappropriately, with the tenacity of right. The violations of Turkey on Greece and Thessaly, of Russia on Warsaw, of Austria on Venice, enraged him. Above all things, the great violence of 1772 aroused him. There is no more sovereign eloquence than the true in indignation; he was eloquent with that eloquence. He was inexhaustible on that infamous date of 1772, on the subject of that noble and valiant race suppressed by treason, and that three-sided crime, on that monstrous ambush, the prototype and pattern of all those horrible suppressions of states, which, since that time, have struck many a noble nation, and have annulled their certificate of birth, so to speak. All contemporary social crimes have their origin in the partition of Poland. The partition of Poland is a theorem of which all present political outrages are the corollaries. There has not been a despot, nor a traitor for nearly a century back, who has not signed, approved, counter-signed, and copied, ne variatur, the partition of Poland. When the record of modern treasons was examined, that was the first thing which made its appearance. The congress of Vienna consulted that crime before consummating its own. 1772 sounded the onset; 1815 was the death of the game. Such was Feuilly's habitual text. This poor workingman had constituted himself the tutor of Justice, and she recompensed him by rendering him great. The fact is, that there is eternity in right. Warsaw can no more be Tartar than Venice can be Teuton. Kings lose their pains and their honor in the attempt to make them so. Sooner or later, the submerged part floats to the surface and reappears. Greece becomes Greece again, Italy is once more Italy. The protest of right against the deed persists forever. The theft of a nation cannot be allowed by prescription. These lofty deeds of rascality have no future. A nation cannot have its mark extracted like a pocket handkerchief.
Courfeyrac had a father who was called M. de Courfeyrac. One of the false ideas of the bourgeoisie under the Restoration as regards aristocracy and the nobility was to believe in the particle. The particle, as every one knows, possesses no significance. But the bourgeois of the epoch of la Minerve estimated so highly that poor de, that they thought themselves bound to abdicate it. M. de Chauvelin had himself called M. Chauvelin; M. de Caumartin, M. Caumartin; M. de Constant de Robecque, Benjamin Constant; M. de Lafayette, M. Lafayette. Courfeyrac had not wished to remain behind the rest, and called himself plain Courfeyrac.
We might almost, so far as Courfeyrac is concerned, stop here, and confine ourselves to saying with regard to what remains: "For Courfeyrac, see Tholomyes."
Courfeyrac had, in fact, that animation of youth which may be called the beaute du diable of the mind. Later on, this disappears like the playfulness of the kitten, and all this grace ends, with the bourgeois, on two legs, and with the tomcat, on four paws.
This sort of wit is transmitted from generation to generation of the successive levies of youth who traverse the schools, who pass it from hand to hand, quasi cursores, and is almost always exactly the same; so that, as we have just pointed out, any one who had listened to Courfeyrac in 1828 would have thought he heard Tholomyes in 1817. Only, Courfeyrac was an honorable fellow. Beneath the apparent similarities of the exterior mind, the difference between him and Tholomyes was very great. The latent man which existed in the two was totally different in the first from what it was in the second. There was in Tholomyes a district attorney, and in Courfeyrac a paladin.
Enjolras was the chief, Combeferre was the guide, Courfeyrac was the centre. The others gave more light, he shed more warmth; the truth is, that he possessed all the qualities of a centre, roundness and radiance.
Bahorel had figured in the bloody tumult of June, 1822, on the occasion of the burial of young Lallemand.
Bahorel was a good-natured mortal, who kept bad company, brave, a spendthrift, prodigal, and to the verge of generosity, talkative, and at times eloquent, bold to the verge of effrontery; the best fellow possible; he had daring waistcoats, and scarlet opinions; a wholesale blusterer, that is to say, loving nothing so much as a quarrel, unless it were an uprising; and nothing so much as an uprising, unless it were a revolution; always ready to smash a window-pane, then to tear up the pavement, then to demolish a government, just to see the effect of it; a student in his eleventh year. He had nosed about the law, but did not practise it. He had taken for his device: "Never a lawyer," and for his armorial bearings a nightstand in which was visible a square cap. Every time that he passed the law-school, which rarely happened, he buttoned up his frock-coat,--the paletot had not yet been invented,--and took hygienic precautions. Of the school porter he said: "What a fine old man!" and of the dean, M. Delvincourt: "What a monument!" In his lectures he espied subjects for ballads, and in his professors occasions for caricature. He wasted a tolerably large allowance, something like three thousand francs a year, in doing nothing.
He had peasant parents whom he had contrived to imbue with respect for their son.
He said of them: "They are peasants and not bourgeois; that is the reason they are intelligent."
Bahorel, a man of caprice, was scattered over numerous cafes; the others had habits, he had none. He sauntered. To stray is human. To saunter is Parisian. In reality, he had a penetrating mind and was more of a thinker than appeared to view.
He served as a connecting link between the Friends of the A B C and other still unorganized groups, which were destined to take form later on.
In this conclave of young heads, there was one bald member.
The Marquis d'Avaray, whom Louis XVIII. made a duke for having assisted him to enter a hackney-coach on the day when he emigrated, was wont to relate, that in 1814, on his return to France, as the King was disembarking at Calais, a man handed him a petition.
"What is your request?" said the King.
"Sire, a post-office."
"What is your name?"
"L'Aigle."
The King frowned, glanced at the signature of the petition and beheld the name written thus: LESGLE. This non-Bonoparte orthography touched the King and he began to smile. "Sire," resumed the man with the petition, "I had for ancestor a keeper of the hounds surnamed Lesgueules. This surname furnished my name. I am called Lesgueules, by contraction Lesgle, and by corruption l'Aigle." This caused the King to smile broadly. Later on he gave the man the posting office of Meaux, either intentionally or accidentally.
The bald member of the group was the son of this Lesgle, or Legle, and he signed himself, Legle [de Meaux]. As an abbreviation, his companions called him Bossuet.
Bossuet was a gay but unlucky fellow. His specialty was not to succeed in anything. As an offset, he laughed at everything. At five and twenty he was bald. His father had ended by owning a house and a field; but he, the son, had made haste to lose that house and field in a bad speculation. He had nothing left. He possessed knowledge and wit, but all he did miscarried. Everything failed him and everybody deceived him; what he was building tumbled down on top of him. If he were splitting wood, he cut off a finger. If he had a mistress, he speedily discovered that he had a friend also. Some misfortune happened to him every moment, hence his joviality. He said: "I live under falling tiles." He was not easily astonished, because, for him, an accident was what he had foreseen, he took his bad luck serenely, and smiled at the teasing of fate, like a person who is listening to pleasantries. He was poor, but his fund of good humor was inexhaustible. He soon reached his last sou, never his last burst of laughter. When adversity entered his doors, he saluted this old acquaintance cordially, he tapped all catastrophes on the stomach; he was familiar with fatality to the point of calling it by its nickname: "Good day, Guignon," he said to it.
These persecutions of fate had rendered him inventive. He was full of resources. He had no money, but he found means, when it seemed good to him, to indulge in "unbridled extravagance." One night, he went so far as to eat a "hundred francs" in a supper with a wench, which inspired him to make this memorable remark in the midst of the orgy: "Pull off my boots, you five-louis jade."
Bossuet was slowly directing his steps towards the profession of a lawyer; he was pursuing his law studies after the manner of Bahorel. Bossuet had not much domicile, sometimes none at all. He lodged now with one, now with another, most often with Joly. Joly was studying medicine. He was two years younger than Bossuet.
Joly was the "malade imaginaire" junior. What he had won in medicine was to be more of an invalid than a doctor. At three and twenty he thought himself a valetudinarian, and passed his life in inspecting his tongue in the mirror. He affirmed that man becomes magnetic like a needle, and in his chamber he placed his bed with its head to the south, and the foot to the north, so that, at night, the circulation of his blood might not be interfered with by the great electric current of the globe. During thunder storms, he felt his pulse. Otherwise, he was the gayest of them all. All these young, maniacal, puny, merry incoherences lived in harmony together, and the result was an eccentric and agreeable being whom his comrades, who were prodigal of winged consonants, called Jolllly . "You may fly away on the four L's," Jean Prouvaire said to him.[23]
[23] L'Aile, wing.
Joly had a trick of touching his nose with the tip of his cane, which is an indication of a sagacious mind.
All these young men who differed so greatly, and who, on the whole, can only be discussed seriously, held the same religion: Progress.
All were the direct sons of the French Revolution. The most giddy of them became solemn when they pronounced that date: '89. Their fathers in the flesh had been, either royalists, doctrinaires, it matters not what; this confusion anterior to themselves, who were young, did not concern them at all; the pure blood of principle ran in their veins. They attached themselves, without intermediate shades, to incorruptible right and absolute duty.
Affiliated and initiated, they sketched out the ideal underground.
Among all these glowing hearts and thoroughly convinced minds, there was one sceptic. How came he there? By juxtaposition. This sceptic's name was Grantaire, and he was in the habit of signing himself with this rebus: R. Grantaire was a man who took good care not to believe in anything. Moreover, he was one of the students who had learned the most during their course at Paris; he knew that the best coffee was to be had at the Cafe Lemblin, and the best billiards at the Cafe Voltaire, that good cakes and lasses were to be found at the Ermitage, on the Boulevard du Maine, spatchcocked chickens at Mother Sauget's, excellent matelotes at the Barriere de la Cunette, and a certain thin white wine at the Barriere du Com pat. He knew the best place for everything; in addition, boxing and foot-fencing and some dances; and he was a thorough single-stick player. He was a tremendous drinker to boot. He was inordinately homely: the prettiest boot-stitcher of that day, Irma Boissy, enraged with his homeliness, pronounced sentence on him as follows: "Grantaire is impossible"; but Grantaire's fatuity was not to be disconcerted. He stared tenderly and fixedly at all women, with the air of saying to them all: "If I only chose!" and of trying to make his comrades believe that he was in general demand.
All those words: rights of the people, rights of man, the social contract, the French Revolution, the Republic, democracy, humanity, civilization, religion, progress, came very near to signifying nothing whatever to Grantaire. He smiled at them. Scepticism, that caries of the intelligence, had not left him a single whole idea. He lived with irony. This was his axiom: "There is but one certainty, my full glass." He sneered at all devotion in all parties, the father as well as the brother, Robespierre junior as well as Loizerolles. "They are greatly in advance to be dead," he exclaimed. He said of the crucifix: "There is a gibbet which has been a success." A rover, a gambler, a libertine, often drunk, he displeased these young dreamers by humming incessantly: "J'aimons les filles, et j'aimons le bon vin." Air: Vive Henri IV.
However, this sceptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticism was neither a dogma, nor an idea, nor an art, nor a science; it was a man: Enjolras. Grantaire admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras. To whom did this anarchical scoffer unite himself in this phalanx of absolute minds? To the most absolute. In what manner had Enjolras subjugated him? By his ideas? No. By his character. A phenomenon which is often observable. A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors. That which we lack attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind man. The dwarf adores the drum-major. The toad always has his eyes fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight. Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras. That chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid nature charmed him, without his being clearly aware of it, and without the idea of explaining it to himself having occurred to him. He admired his opposite by instinct. His soft, yielding, dislocated, sickly, shapeless ideas attached themselves to Enjolras as to a spinal column. His moral backbone leaned on that firmness. Grantaire in the presence of Enjolras became some one once more. He was, himself, moreover, composed of two elements, which were, to all appearance, incompatible. He was ironical and cordial. His indifference loved. His mind could get along without belief, but his heart could not get along without friendship. A profound contradiction; for an affection is a conviction. His nature was thus constituted. There are men who seem to be born to be the reverse, the obverse, the wrong side. They are Pollux, Patrocles, Nisus, Eudamidas, Ephestion, Pechmeja. They only exist on condition that they are backed up with another man; their name is a sequel, and is only written preceded by the conjunction and; and their existence is not their own; it is the other side of an existence which is not theirs. Grantaire was one of these men. He was the obverse of Enjolras.
One might almost say that affinities begin with the letters of the alphabet. In the series O and P are inseparable. You can, at will, pronounce O and P or Orestes and Pylades.
Grantaire, Enjolras' true satellite, inhabited this circle of young men; he lived there, he took no pleasure anywhere but there; he followed them everywhere. His joy was to see these forms go and come through the fumes of wine. They tolerated him on account of his good humor.
Enjolras, the believer, disdained this sceptic; and, a sober man himself, scorned this drunkard. He accorded him a little lofty pity. Grantaire was an unaccepted Pylades. Always harshly treated by Enjolras, roughly repulsed, rejected yet ever returning to the charge, he said of Enjolras: "What fine marble!"
这时代，表面上平静无事，暗地里却奔流着某种革命的震颤。来自八九和九三深谷的气流回到了空中。青年一代，请允许我们这样说，进入了发身期。他们随着时间的行进，几乎是不自觉地在起着变化。在时钟面上走动的针也在人的心里走动。每个人都迈出了他必须迈出的脚步。保王派成了自由派，自由派也成了民主派。
那好象是阵高涨中的海潮，东奔西突，百转千回，回转的特点便是交融，从而出现了一些非常奇特的思想的汇合，人们竟在崇拜拿破仑的同时也崇拜自由。我们在这里谈点历史。这正是那个时代的幻觉，见解的形成总得经过不同的阶段。伏尔泰保王主义，这一异种曾有过一个和它门当户对的主义，其奇特绝不在它之下：波拿巴自由主义。
另外一些组织比较严肃。有些探讨原理，有些热衷于人权。人们热烈追求绝对真理，探索无边的远景；这绝对真理，凭着它本身的严正，把人们的思想推向晴空，并使遨翔于霄汉。没有什么比信念更能产生梦想，也没有什么比梦想更能孕育未来。今天的乌托邦，明天的肉和骨。
在当时，先进思想有它的两种土壤，隐蔽和可疑的暗中活动正开始威胁着“既定秩序”。这苗头是极富于革命意味的。当政诸公的心计和人民的心计在坑道里碰了头。组织武装起义的准备和组织政变的密谋同在酝酿中。
当时在法国还没有象德国的道德协会①或意大利烧炭党那样庞大的地下组织，可是，这儿那儿，暗地里的渗透工作却在伸展蔓延。苦古尔德社正在艾克斯开始形成，巴黎方面，除了与这类似的一些团体以外，还有“ABC的朋友们社”。
什么是“ABC的朋友们”呢？这是一个在表面上倡导幼童教育而实际是以训练成人为宗旨的社团。
他们自称为ABC的朋友。Abaissé②，就是人民。他们要让人民站起来。这种双关的隐语，谁要嘲笑那是不对的。双关语在政治方面有时是严肃的，如Castratus　ad　castra③曾使纳尔塞斯④成为军团统帅，又如Barbari　et　Barberini⑤，又如Fueros　y　Fuegos⑥，又如Tu　es　Petrus　et　super　hanc　petram⑦，等等。 
①道德协会，德国爱国青年的组织，成立于一八○八年。
②Abaissé，法语，意思是“受屈辱的”，和ABC发音相同。
③拉丁语，意思是“阉人上战场”。
④纳尔塞斯（Narsès，472-568），拜占庭帝国的一个宦官，后为统帅。
⑤拉丁语，意思是“蛮族和巴尔柏里尼”。巴尔柏里尼是佛罗伦萨一有权势的家族，为了建造宫殿而进行抢劫。
⑥西班牙语，西班牙自由派联络的暗号，意思是“独立和策源地”。
⑦拉丁语，意思是“你是彼得（石头），在这石头上……”
ABC的朋友为数不多。那是个在胚胎状态的秘密组织，几乎可以说是一种自由结合，如果自由结合也能产生英雄人物的话。他们在巴黎有两处聚会场所，都在大市场附近，一处是名为“科林斯”的酒店，以后我们还会谈到这地方，一处是圣米歇尔广场的一家小咖啡馆，名为“缪尚咖啡馆”，现已被拆毁。这些聚会地方的第一处接近工人，第二处接近大学生。
“ABC的朋友们”的秘密会议经常是在缪尚咖啡馆的一间后厅里举行的，来往得经过一条很长的过道，厅和店相隔颇远，有两扇窗和一道后门，经过一道隐蔽的楼梯通到一条格雷小街。他们在那里抽烟，喝酒，玩耍，谈笑。他们对一切都高谈阔论，但当涉及某些事时，却又把声音低下来。墙上钉着一幅共和时期的法兰西的旧地图，这一标志足以使警探们警觉的了。
“ABC的朋友们”大部分是大学生，他们和几个工人有着深厚友谊。下面是几个主要人物的名字。这些人在某种程度上已是历史人物了：安灼拉、公白飞、让·勃鲁维尔、弗以伊、古费拉克、巴阿雷、赖格尔、若李、格朗泰尔。
这些青年，由于友情成了一家人。赖格尔除外，全出生在南方。
这一伙人是值得重视的。他们现在已消失在我们脑后的那些踪影全无的深渊中了。但在我们进入这段悲壮故事以前，在读者还没有见到他们在一场壮烈斗争中是怎样死去时，用一线光明把这些青年的面目照耀一下也许不是无益的。
安灼拉，我们称他为首领，下面就会知道这是为什么，他是一个有钱人家的独生子。
安灼拉是个具有魅力的青年，可是也会变得凶猛骇人。他有天使那么美。是安提诺①再世，但也粗野。 
①安提诺（Antinous），希腊著名美男子，罗马皇帝阿德里安的近侍。
当他那运用心思的神色从眼中闪射出来时，人们见了，也许会说他在前生的某一世便经历过革命风暴了。他仿佛亲眼见过并承袭了革命的传统。他知道这一大事的全部细节。性格庄严持重而又勇敢，这在青年人身上是少有的。他有才能，又有斗志，就目前的目标来说，他是个民主主义的战士，但处于当前的活动之上，他又是最高理想的宣传者。他目光深沉，眼睑微红，下嘴唇肥厚，易于露出轻蔑的神情，高额。脸上望去只见额头，就象地平线上有辽阔的天空。正如本世纪初和前世纪末的某些少年得志的青年人那样，他有着过多的青春活力，鲜润如少女，虽然偶尔也显得苍白。他已是成人了，却还象个孩子。他二十二岁，看去却象十七，性情庄重，似乎不知道人间有所谓女人。他只有一种热情：人权；一个志愿：清除障碍。在阿梵丹山上，他也许就是格拉古①，在国民公会里，他也许就是圣鞠斯特。他几乎不望玫瑰花，不知道春天是什么，也不听雀鸟歌唱；和阿利斯托吉通相比，爱华德内敞着的喉颈也不会更使他感动，对他来说，正如对阿尔莫迪乌斯②一样，鲜花的用处只在掩蔽利剑。他在欢乐中也不苟言笑。凡是和共和制度无关的，他见到便害臊似的把眼睛低下去。他是自由女神云石塑像的情人。他的语言是枯燥的，并且颤抖得象寺院中的歌声。他的举动常常显得突兀出人意外。哪个多情女子敢到他身边去冒险，算她自讨没趣！如果有个什么康勃雷广场或圣让·德·博韦街上的俏女工见了这张脸，以为是个逃学的中学生，看他的行动，又象个副官，还有那细长的淡黄睫毛、蓝眼睛、迎风飘动的头发、绯红的双颊、鲜艳的嘴唇、美妙的牙齿，竟至想要饱尝这满天曙光晓色的异味，而走到安灼拉跟前去卖弄姿色的话，一双料想不到的狠巴巴的眼睛便会突然向她显示出一道鸿沟，叫她不要把以西结③的二品天使和博马舍的风流天使混为一谈。 
①格拉古（Gracchus），兄弟俩，皆为罗马著名法官和演说家，他们曾建议制订土地法，限止罗马贵族的贪欲，分别在公元前一三三年和一二一年的暴乱中被杀。
②阿尔莫迪乌斯（Harmodius）和阿利斯托吉通（Aristogiton）是公元前六世纪的雅典人，曾合力杀死暴君伊巴尔克。
③以西结（Ezéchiel），希伯来著名先知，《圣经·旧约》中四大先知的第三名，传为《以西结书》的作者。
在代表革命逻辑的安灼拉旁边，有个代表哲学的公白飞。在革命的逻辑和它的哲学之间，有这样一种区别：它的逻辑可以归结为战斗，它的哲学却只能导致和平。公白飞补充并纠正着安灼拉。他没有那么高，横里却比较壮些。他要求把一般思想的广泛原理灌输给人们，他常说“革命，然而不忘文明”，在山峰的四周，他展示着广阔的碧野。因而在公白飞的全部观点中，有些可以实现也切实可用的东西。公白飞倡导的革命比安灼拉所倡导的要来得易于接受。安灼拉宣扬革命的神圣权利，而公白飞宣扬自然权利。前者紧跟着罗伯斯庇尔，后者局限于孔多塞。公白飞比安灼拉更多地过着人人所过的生活。如果这两个青年当年登上了历史舞台，也许一个会成为公正无私的人，而另一个则成为慎思明辨的人。安灼拉近于义，公白飞近于仁。仁和义，这正是他俩之间的细微区别。公白飞的温和，由于天性纯洁，正好和安灼拉的严正相比。他爱“公民”这个词，但是更爱“人”这个字，他也许还乐意学西班牙人那样说“Hombre”。他什么都读，常去看戏，参加大众学术讲座，跟阿拉戈学习光的极化，听了若弗卢瓦·圣伊雷尔在一堂课里讲解心外动脉和心内动脉的双重作用而大为兴奋，这两动脉一个管面部，一个管大脑。他关心时事，密切注意科学的发展，对圣西门和傅立叶作比较分析，研究古埃及文字，随手敲破鹅卵石来推断地质，凭记忆描绘飞蛾，指责科学院词典中的法文错误，研究普伊赛古和德勒兹①的著述，什么也不肯定，连奇迹也不肯定，什么也不否认，连鬼也不否认，浏览《通报》集，爱思索。他说未来是在小学教师的手里，他关心教育问题。他要求社会为知识水平和道德水平的提高、科学的实用、思想的传播以及青年智力的增长而不断工作，他担心目前治学方法的贫乏，两三个世纪以来所谓古典文学拙劣观点的局限、官家学者的专横教条、学究们的成见和旧习气，这一切最后会把我们的学校都变成牡蛎的人工培养池。他学识渊博，自奉菲薄，精细，多才多艺，钻劲十足，同时也爱深思默虑，“甚至想入非非”，他的朋友们常这样说他。他对铁路、外科手术上的免痛法、暗室中影象的定影法、电报、气球的定向飞驰都深信不疑。此外，对迷信、专制、成见等为了反对人类而四处建造起来的种种堡垒，他都不大害怕。他和有些人一样，认为科学总有一天能扭转这种形势。安灼拉是个首领，公白飞是个向导。人们愿意跟那个战斗，也愿意跟这个前进。这并不是因为公白飞不能战斗，他并不拒绝和障碍进行肉搏，他会使出全身力气不顾生死地向它攻打，但是他觉得，一点一点地，通过原理的启导和法律明文的颁布，使人类各自安于命运，这样会更合他的心意；在两种光明中他倾向于光的照耀，不倾向于烈火的燃烧。一场大火当然也能照亮半边天，但是为什么不等待日出呢？火山能发光，但究竟不及曙光好。公白飞爱好美的白色也许更胜于辉煌的烈焰。夹杂着烟尘的光明，用暴力换来的进步，对这温柔严肃的心灵来说只能满足他一半。象悬崖直下那样使人民突然得到真理，九三年使他惧怕，可是停滞不前的状态却又是他所更加憎恶的，他在这里嗅到腐朽和死亡的恶臭。整个地说，他爱泡沫甚于沼气，急流甚于污池，尼亚加拉瀑布甚于隼山湖。总之，他既不要停滞不前，也不要操之过急。当他那些纷纭喧噪的朋友们剑拔弩张地一心向往着绝对真理、热烈号召进行辉煌灿烂的革命斗争时，公白飞却展望着进步的自然发展，他倾向于一种善良的进步，也许冷清，但是纯净；井井有条，但是无可指责；静悄悄，但是摇撼不动。公白飞也许能双膝着地，两手合十，以待未来天真无邪地到来，希望人们去恶从善的巨大进化不至于受到任何阻扰。“善应当是纯良的。”他不断地这样反复说。的确，如果革命的伟大就是看准了光彩夺目的理想，爪子上带着血和火，穿越雷霆，向它飞去，那么，进步的美，也就是无瑕可指；华盛顿代表了其中的一个，丹东体现了其中的另一个，他俩的区别，正如生着天鹅翅膀的天使不同于生着雄鹰翅膀的天使。 
①普伊赛古和德勒兹，两个磁学专家。
让·勃鲁维尔的色调比公白飞来得更柔和些。他自称“热安”①，那是那本在研究中世纪时必读的书里那次强烈而深刻的运动连系在一起、凭一时小小的奇想触发的。让·勃鲁维尔是个多情种子，他喜欢栽盆花，吹笛子，作诗，爱人民，为妇女叫屈，为孩子流泪，把未来和上帝混在同一种信心里，责怪革命革掉了一个国王和安德烈·舍尼埃②的头。他说话的声音经常是柔婉的，但又能突然刚劲起来。他有文学修养，甚至达到渊博的程度，他也几乎是个东方通。他最突出的特点是性情和善；在作诗方面，他爱豪放的风格，这对那些知道善良和伟大是多么相近的人来说是极简单的事。他懂意大利文、拉丁文、希腊文和希伯来文，这对他所起的作用是他只读四个诗人的作品：但丁、尤维纳利斯、埃斯库罗斯和以赛亚③。在法文方面，他爱高乃依胜过拉辛④，爱阿格里帕·多比涅⑤胜过高乃依。他喜欢徘徊在长着燕麦和矢车菊的田野里，对浮云和世事几乎寄以同样的关切。他的精神有两个方面，一面向人，一面朝着上帝；他寻求知识，也静观万物。他整天深入钻研这样一些社会问题：工资、资本、信贷、婚姻、宗教、思想自由、爱的自由、教育、刑罚、贫困、结社、财产、生产和分配、使下界芸芸众生蒙蔽在阴暗中的谜；到了夜间，他仰望群星，那些巨大的天体。和安灼拉一样，他也是个有钱人家的独生子。他说起话来语调轻缓，俯首低眉，腼腆地微笑着，举动拘束，神气笨拙，无缘无故地脸羞得通红，胆怯。然而，猛不可当。 
①热安（Jehan），十五世纪一部小说中的主人公，是个嘲弄英国老国王的法国青年王子。热安与让（Jean）读音近似。
②安德烈·舍尼埃（AndréChénier，1762-1794），法国诗人，写了许多反革命诗歌，还从事反革命政治活动，一七九四年以“人民敌人”的罪名处死。
国王路易十六在他前一年上了断头台。
③以赛亚（EsaiGe），希伯来先知，是《圣经·旧约》中四大先知之一。
④拉辛（Racine，1639-1699），法国剧作家，法国古典主义的著名代表。
⑤阿格里帕·多比涅（AgrippadAubigné，1552?630），法国十七世纪诗人。
弗以伊是个制扇工人，一个无父无母的孤儿，每天挣不到三个法郎，他只有一个念头：拯救世界。他还另外有种愿望：教育自己，他说这也是拯救自己。通过自学他能读能写，凡是他所知道的，全是他自己学来的。弗以伊是个性情豪放的人。他有远大的抱负。这孤儿认人民为父母。失去了双亲，他便思念祖国。他不愿世上有一个没有祖国的人。他胸中有来自民间的人所具有的那种锐利的远见，孕育着我们今天所说的“民族思想”。他学习历史为的是使自己能对他人的所作所为愤慨。在这一伙怀有远大理想的青年人当中，别人所关心的主要是法国，而他所注意的是国外。他的专长是希腊、波兰、匈牙利、罗马尼亚、意大利。这些国名是他经常以公正无私的顽强态度不断提到的，无论提得恰当或不恰当。土耳其对克里特岛和塞萨利亚，俄罗斯对华沙，奥地利对威尼斯所犯的那些暴行使他无比愤怒。尤其是一七七二年①的那次暴行更使他无法容忍。真理与愤慨相结合，能使辩才所向披靡，他有的正是这种辩才。他滔滔不绝地谈着一七七二这可耻的年份，这个被叛变行为所伤害的高尚勇敢的民族，由三国同谋共犯的罪行，这丑恶而巨大的阴谋，从这以后，好几个国家都被吞并掉，仿佛一笔勾销了它们的出生证，种种亡国惨祸都是以一七七二作为模型和榜样复制出来的。现代社会的一切罪行都是由瓜分波兰演变来的。瓜分波兰仿佛成了一种定理，而目前的一切政治暴行只是它的推演。近百年来，没有一个暴君，没有一个叛逆，绝无例外，不曾在瓜分波兰的罪证上盖过印、表示过同意、签字、画押的。当人们调阅近代叛变案件的卷宗时，最先出现的便是这一件。维也纳会议②在完成它自己的罪行之前便参考过这一罪行。一七七二响起了猎狗出动的号角，一八一五响起了猎狗分赃的号角。这是弗以伊常说的话。这位可怜的工人把自己当作公理的保护人，公理给他的报答便是使他伟大。正义确是永恒不变的。华沙不会永远属于鞑靼族，正如威尼斯不会永远属于日耳曼族。君王们枉费心机，徒然污损自己的声誉。被淹没的国家迟早要重行浮出水面的。希腊再成为希腊，意大利再成为意大利。正义对事实提出的抗议是顽强存在着的。从一个民族那里抢来的赃物不会由于久占而取得所有权。这种高级的巧取豪夺行为绝不会有前途。人总不能把一个国家当作一块手绢那样随意去掉它的商标纸。 
①一七七二年，俄、普、奥三国初次瓜分波兰。
②一八一五年，拿破仑失败后，俄、普、奥三战胜国在维也纳举行会议。
古费拉克的父亲叫德·古费拉克先生。对贵族的风尚，在王朝复辟期间，资产阶级有过这样一种错误的认识，那就是他们很重视这个小小的字。我们知道，这个小小的字并没有什么含义。可是《密涅瓦》①时代的资产阶级把这可怜的“德”字看得那么高，以致认为非把它废掉不可。德·肖弗兰先生改称为肖弗兰先生，德·科马尔丹先生改称为科马尔丹先生，德·贡斯当·德·勒贝克先生改称为班加曼·贡斯当先生，德·拉斐德先生改称为拉斐德②先生。古费拉克不甘落后，也干脆自称为古费拉克。
关于古费拉克，我们几乎可以仅仅只谈这些，并只补充这么一点：古费拉克象多罗米埃③。 
①《密涅瓦》（Minerve），法国王朝复辟时期一种流行的周刊。
②拉斐德（Lafayette，1757-1834），法国将军，北美殖民地独立战争（1775-1783）的参加者，十八世纪末法国资产阶级革命时期的大资产阶级的领袖之一。一七九二年八月十日后逃往国外，一八三○年七月革命的领袖之一。
③多罗术埃，即珂赛特的父亲，见本书第一部。
古费拉克确实具有人们称为鬼聪明的那种青春热力。这种热力，和小猫的可爱一样，过后是会消失的，整个这种妩媚潇洒的风度，在两只脚上，会变成资产阶级，在四个爪子上，便会变成老猫。
这种鬼聪明在年年走出学校和年年应征入伍的青年中，几乎是老一套，一辈又一辈地彼此竞相传递着，因此，正如刚才我们指出的，任何一个人如果在一八二八年听到古费拉克谈话，便会以为自己是在一八一七年听到多罗米埃谈话。不过古费拉克是个诚实的孩子。从表现出来的聪明看，多罗米埃和他有着同样的外貌，可是在外貌的后面他们是大不相同的。存在于他们里面的那两个内在的人，彼此是截然不同的。在多罗米埃身上蕴藏着一个法官，在古费拉克身上蕴藏着一个武士。
安灼拉是首领，公白飞是向导，古费拉克是中心。其他的人发着较多的光，而他散着更多的热，事实是他有一个中心人物所应有的种种品质。
巴阿雷参加过一八二二年六月年轻的拉勒芒①出殡那天的流血冲突。 
①拉勒芒（Lallemand），参加一八二二年六月自由派游行示威的被害者。
巴阿雷是个善于诙谐而难与相处的人，诚实，爱花钱，挥霍到近于奢侈，多话到近于悬河，横蛮到近于不择手段，是当魔鬼最好的材料；穿着大胆的坎肩，怀着朱红的见解；捣起乱来，唯恐捣得不够，就是说，他感到再没有什么比争吵更可爱的了，如果这不是骚动的话；也感到再没有什么比骚动更可爱的了，如果这不是革命的话。随时都准备砸破一块玻璃，再掘掉一条街上的铺路石，再搞垮一个政府，为的是要看看效果。他是十一年级的学生。他嗅着法律，但不学它。他的铭言是“决不当律师”，他的徽志是个露着一顶方顶帽的便桶柜子。他每次打法学院门前走过时（这对他来说是不常有的事），他便扣好他的骑马服（当时短上衣还没有被发明），并采取卫生措施。望见学院的大门，他便说：“好一个神气的老头儿！”望见院长代尔凡古尔先生，却说：“好一座大建筑！”他常在他的课本里发现歌曲的题材，也常在教师们的身上发现漫画的形象。他无所事事地吃着一笔相当大的学膳费，三千法郎。他的父母是农民，对父母他是知道反复表示敬意的。
关于他们，他常这样说：“这是些农民，不是资产阶级，正因为这样，他们才有点智慧。”
巴阿雷，这个任性的怪人，常在好几个咖啡店里走动，别人有常到的地点，而他却没有。他四处游荡。徘徊，人人都会，唯有游荡是巴黎人的习性。究其实，他是个感觉敏锐的人，不能以貌取人，他是有思想的。
他在“ABC的朋友们”和其他一些还没有具体成立、要到后来才形成的组织之间，起着联络作用。
在这一群青年的组织里，有一个秃顶成员。
阿瓦雷侯爷是在路易十八逃亡那天把他扶上一辆雇用马车而被升为侯爵的，这位侯爷曾谈过这样一件事：国王在一八一四年从加来登陆回到法国时，有个人向他递了一份呈文。国王说：“您想要什么？”“陛下，一个驿站。”“您叫什么名字？”“赖格尔。”①国王皱起眉头，望那呈文上的签字，看见那名字是这样写的：Lesgle。这个波拿巴味道不浓的写法感动了国王，他开始带点笑容了。“陛下，”那个递呈文的人说，“我的祖先是养狗官，诨名叫Lesgueules。这诨名成了我的名字。我叫做LesAgueules，简写是Lesgle，写错便成了L’Aigle。”这样一说，国王越发笑了起来。过后，他把莫城②的驿站派给了他，也许是故意，也许是无心。
这组织里的那个秃顶成员便是这Lesgle或L’Aigle的儿子，他自己签字是赖格尔（德·莫）。他的同学们，为了省事，干脆称他为博须埃③。 
①棘格尔（L’Aigle），鹰，是拿破仑的徽志，所以国王听了不顺耳。
②莫城（Meaux），在巴黎附近。
③十七世纪，法国有个出名的教士，叫博须埃（Bossuet），当过莫城的主教，被称为莫城的鹰（L’Aigle　de　Meaux），因而这个赖格尔·德·莫就被同学们称为博须埃。
博须埃是个遭遇不好的快乐孩子。他的专长是一事无成，相反地对一切都付之一笑。二十五岁，便秃了顶。他的父亲终于有了一所房子和一块田地，可是他，做儿子的，急急忙忙，在一次失算的投机买卖中，把这房子和田地全赔光了。他有学识和智力，但不成功。他处处失利，事事落空，他架起的楼阁老砸在自己头上。他砍柴也会砍着自己的手指。他找到一个情妇，立即会发现他也有了个朋友。他随时都能遇到倒霉事，因此，他总是快快活活的。他常说：“我住在摇摇欲坠的瓦片下面。”他从不大惊小怪，因为意外的事，对他来说，正是意料中事，他面对逆运，泰然自若，对命运的戏弄，报以微笑，只当别人在闹着玩儿。他没有钱，可他衣袋里的兴致是取不尽用不完的。他能很快用到他最后一个苏，却从不会笑到他的最后一声笑。恶运来临，他便对这老相知致以亲切的敬礼，灾星下降，他拍拍它的肚子，遇到厄运，他也亲热到叫它的小名。“你好，小淘气。”他常这样说。
命运的种种折磨使他成了个富有创造力的人。他胸中满是门道。他一文钱也没有，可他有办法在他高兴时“一掷万金”。一天晚上，他竟带着个傻大姐，一顿夜宵吃了一百法郎，这次的欢宴触发了他的灵感，使他说了这么一句值得回忆的话：“五个路易的姑娘①替我脱靴。” 
①法语Fille　de　cinq　louis（五个路易的姑娘）和Fille　de　Saint　Louis（圣路易的女儿）读音相同。路易是法国金币，值二十法郎，圣路易是十三世纪法兰西国王。
博须埃慢慢地走向当律师的职业，他学习法律，和巴阿雷的态度一样。博须埃不大有住处，有时还完全没有。他时而和这个同住，时而和那个同住，和若李同住的时候最多。若李攻读医学，比博须埃小两岁。
若李是个无病呻吟的青年。他学医的收获是治病不成反得病。二十三岁，他便以病夫自居，日日夜夜对着镜子看自己的舌头。他认为人和针一样，可以磁化，于是，他把卧室里的床摆成南北向，使他血液的循环不致受到地球大磁场的干扰。遇到大风大雨，便摸自己的脉搏。可是在所有这些人中，他是最热闹的一个。年轻，乖僻，体弱，兴致高，这一切不相连属的性格汇集在他一人身上，结果使他成了个放荡不羁而又惹人喜爱的人，那些不怕浪费子音的同学们常称他为Jolllly。“你可以在四个翅膀①上飞翔了。”让·勃鲁维尔常向他这样说。 
①若李（Joly）名字中只有一个l，而l和aile（翅膀）发音相同。若李的同学们把他名字中的l慢慢发出来，听来就象有四个l。
若李惯常用他的手杖头叩自己的鼻尖，这是心思细密的人的一种标志。
所有这些年轻人，尽管形形色色，却有一个共同的信念：
进步。我们只能抱着严肃的态度来谈他们。
他们全是法兰西革命的亲生儿子。其中最轻佻的几个在提到八九年时也都会庄重起来。他们的父辈，感受各不相同，或曾是斐扬派、保王派、空论派，这没有多大关系，他们年轻，发生在他们以前的那种混乱状态和他们无关，道义的纯洁血液在他们的血管里流着。他们坚持着不容腐蚀的正义和绝对的职责，没有中间色彩。
他们有组织，有初步认识，在暗地里追寻理想。
在这一伙热情奔放和信心十足的心灵中，却有一个怀疑派。他是怎样到这里来的呢？连比而来。这个怀疑派的名字叫格朗泰尔，他惯于用R①这个有两重意义的字母来签字。格朗泰尔是个不让自己轻信什么的人。他还是那些在巴黎求学的大学生中学习得最多的一个，他知道最好的咖啡是在朗布兰咖啡馆，最好的台球台是在伏尔泰咖啡馆，在梅恩路的隐士居有绝妙的千层饼和绝妙的姑娘，沙格大娘铺子里有无骨烤鸡，古内特便门有上好的葱烧鱼，战斗便门有一种不出名的好酒。无论什么，他全知道哪里的好；此外，他能踢飞脚，弹腿，也稍能跳舞，还是个有造诣的棍术家。尤其是个大酒鬼。他的相貌，丑到出奇，当时的一个最漂亮的绣靴帮的女工，伊尔玛·布瓦西，为他相貌丑陋而生气时，曾下过这样的判词“格朗泰尔是不可能的”，但是自命不凡的格朗泰尔并不因此而扫兴。他见到所有的女人总一往情深地呆望着，那神气仿佛是对她们中的每一个都想说：“我愿意……”而且老要使同学们相信他是受到普遍的追求的。 
①大写的R（grand　r）和Grantaire（格朗泰尔）发音相同。
民权、人权、社会契约、法兰西革命、共和、民主、人道、文明、宗教、进步，所有这些词儿，对格朗泰尔来说都几乎是毫无意义的。他对这些都报以微笑。怀疑主义，人类智慧的这一痈疽，不曾在他思想里留下一个完整的概念。他在嘲笑中过活。这是他常说的一句话：“只有一件事是可靠的：我的杯子满了。”对任何方面的忠心，无论是同辈或父辈，无论是年轻的罗伯斯庇尔或洛瓦兹罗尔，他一概加以嘲笑。他常这样说：“这些人死了也是先进的。”对耶稣受难像，他说：“这才是个成功的绞刑架呢。”游手好闲、赌博、放荡、时常醉酒，他还不怕那些思考问题的青年们厌烦，不停地唱着：“我爱姑娘们，我也爱好酒。”曲调用的是《亨利四世万岁》。
此外，这怀疑派有一种狂热病。这狂热病既不是一种思想，一种教条，也不是一种艺术，一种科学，而是一个人：安灼拉。这个乱七八糟的怀疑者在这一伙信心坚定的人中，向谁靠拢呢？向最坚定的一个。安灼拉又是怎样控制着他的呢？从思想方面吗？不是。从性格方面。这是常有的现象。一个无所不疑的人依附一个一无所疑的人，这是和色彩配合律一样简单的。我们所没有的往往吸引着我们。没有谁比瞎子更喜爱阳光。没有谁比矮子更崇拜军鼓手。癞蛤蟆的眼睛总是向着天，为什么？为了看鸟飞。格朗泰尔，因为疑心在他身体里蠢动，所以爱看安灼拉的信心飞翔。他需要安灼拉。这个束身自爱、健康、坚定、正直、刚强、淳朴的性格常使他依依不舍，这是他自己不清楚也不想对自己分析清楚的。他凭本能羡慕着自己的反面。他的那些软弱无力、曲就退让、支离破碎、病态畸形的思想把安灼拉当作脊梁那样紧紧依靠着。他精神的支柱离不了这坚强的人。在安灼拉的身旁，格朗泰尔才有点象人。他本身其实是由两种从表面看来似乎不相容的成分构成的。他爱挖苦人，但也忠厚，一切无所谓，但也有所爱好。他的精神可以不要信念，他的心却不能没有友情。这是种深深的矛盾，因为感情也是一种信念。他的性格就是这样的。有些人仿佛生来就是充当反面、背面、翻面的。波吕丢刻斯、帕特洛克罗斯、尼絮斯、厄达米达斯、埃菲西荣、佩什美雅便是这类人物。他们只是在依附另一个人的情况下才有生活；他们的名字是附属物，总是写在连接词“和”的后面的；他们的存生不属于他们自己，而是别人命运的另一面。格朗泰尔便是这一类人中的一个。他是安灼拉的背面。
人们几乎可以说：这种结合是从字母开始的。在字母的次序当中，O和P是分不开的。照你的意见读O和P也可以，读俄瑞斯忒斯和皮拉得斯①也可以。
格朗泰尔，安灼拉的真正的卫星，寓居在这些青年人的活动场所里，他生活在那里，他只是在那里才感到舒适，他随时随地都跟着他们。他的快乐便是望着这些人的影子在酒气中来来往往。大家看见他的兴致高，也就对他采取了容忍态度。
安灼拉，一个信心坚定的人，是瞧不起这种怀疑派的，他生活有节制，更瞧不起这种醉鬼。他只对他表示一点点高傲的怜悯心。格朗泰尔想做皮拉得斯也办不到。他经常受到安灼拉的冲撞，严厉的摈斥，被撵以后，仍旧回来，他说，安灼拉是“座多美的云石塑像”！ 
①希腊神话中一对好朋友。俄瑞斯忒斯（Oreste）是阿伽门农和克吕泰涅斯特拉之子，阿伽门农被其妻及奸夫杀害后，俄瑞斯忒斯之姐将其送往父亲好友斯特洛菲俄斯家避难，俄瑞斯忒斯长大后与其姐共谋，杀死母亲及奸夫，为其父报仇。皮拉得斯（Pylade），斯特洛菲俄斯之子，俄瑞斯忒斯的好友，他帮助俄瑞斯忒斯报杀父之仇。 
Part 3 Book 4 Chapter 4 The Back Room of the Cafe Musain
One of the conversations among the young men, at which Marius was present and in which he sometimes joined, was a veritable shock to his mind.
This took place in the back room of the Cafe Musain. Nearly all the Friends of the A B C had convened that evening. The argand lamp was solemnly lighted. They talked of one thing and another, without passion and with noise. With the exception of Enjolras and Marius, who held their peace, all were haranguing rather at hap-hazard. Conversations between comrades sometimes are subject to these peaceable tumults. It was a game and an uproar as much as a conversation. They tossed words to each other and caught them up in turn. They were chattering in all quarters.
No woman was admitted to this back room, except Louison, the dish-washer of the cafe, who passed through it from time to time, to go to her washing in the "lavatory."
Grantaire, thoroughly drunk, was deafening the corner of which he had taken possession, reasoning and contradicting at the top of his lungs, and shouting:--
"I am thirsty. Mortals, I am dreaming: that the tun of Heidelberg has an attack of apoplexy, and that I am one of the dozen leeches which will be applied to it. I want a drink. I desire to forget life. Life is a hideous invention of I know not whom. It lasts no time at all, and is worth nothing. One breaks one's neck in living. Life is a theatre set in which there are but few practicable entrances. Happiness is an antique reliquary painted on one side only. Ecclesiastes says: `All is vanity.' I agree with that good man, who never existed, perhaps. Zero not wishing to go stark naked, clothed himself in vanity. O vanity! The patching up of everything with big words! a kitchen is a laboratory, a dancer is a professor, an acrobat is a gymnast, a boxer is a pugilist, an apothecary is a chemist, a wigmaker is an artist, a hodman is an architect, a jockey is a sportsman, a wood-louse is a pterigybranche. Vanity has a right and a wrong side; the right side is stupid, it is the negro with his glass beads; the wrong side is foolish, it is the philosopher with his rags. I weep over the one and I laugh over the other. What are called honors and dignities, and even dignity and honor, are generally of pinchbeck. Kings make playthings of human pride. Caligula made a horse a consul; Charles II. made a knight of a sirloin. Wrap yourself up now, then, between Consul Incitatus and Baronet Roastbeef. As for the intrinsic value of people, it is no longer respectable in the least. Listen to the panegyric which neighbor makes of neighbor. White on white is ferocious; if the lily could speak, what a setting down it would give the dove! A bigoted woman prating of a devout woman is more venomous than the asp and the cobra. It is a shame that I am ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass of things; but I know nothing. For instance, I have always been witty; when I was a pupil of Gros, instead of daubing wretched little pictures, I passed my time in pilfering apples; rapin[24] is the masculine of rapine. So much for myself; as for the rest of you, you are worth no more than I am. I scoff at your perfections, excellencies, and qualities. Every good quality tends towards a defect; economy borders on avarice, the generous man is next door to the prodigal, the brave man rubs elbows with the braggart; he who says very pious says a trifle bigoted; there are just as many vices in virtue as there are holes in Diogenes' cloak. Whom do you admire, the slain or the slayer, Caesar or Brutus? Generally men are in favor of the slayer. Long live Brutus, he has slain! There lies the virtue. Virtue, granted, but madness also. There are queer spots on those great men. The Brutus who killed Caesar was in love with the statue of a little boy. This statue was from the hand of the Greek sculptor Strongylion, who also carved that figure of an Amazon known as the Beautiful Leg, Eucnemos, which Nero carried with him in his travels. This Strongylion left but two statues which placed Nero and Brutus in accord. Brutus was in love with the one, Nero with the other. All history is nothing but wearisome repetition. One century is the plagiarist of the other. The battle of Marengo copies the battle of Pydna; the Tolbiac of Clovis and the Austerlitz of Napoleon are as like each other as two drops of water. I don't attach much importance to victory. Nothing is so stupid as to conquer; true glory lies in convincing. But try to prove something! If you are content with success, what mediocrity, and with conquering, what wretchedness! Alas, vanity and cowardice everywhere. Everything obeys success, even grammar. Si volet usus, says Horace. Therefore I disdain the human race. Shall we descend to the party at all? Do you wish me to begin admiring the peoples? What people, if you please? Shall it be Greece? The Athenians, those Parisians of days gone by, slew Phocion, as we might say Coligny, and fawned upon tyrants to such an extent that Anacephorus said of Pisistratus: "His urine attracts the bees." The most prominent man in Greece for fifty years was that grammarian Philetas, who was so small and so thin that he was obliged to load his shoes with lead in order not to be blown away by the wind. There stood on the great square in Corinth a statue carved by Silanion and catalogued by Pliny; this statue represented Episthates. What did Episthates do? He invented a trip. That sums up Greece and glory. Let us pass on to others. Shall I admire England? Shall I admire France? France? Why? Because of Paris? I have just told you my opinion of Athens. England? Why? Because of London? I hate Carthage. And then, London, the metropolis of luxury, is the headquarters of wretchedness. There are a hundred deaths a year of hunger in the parish of Charing-Cross alone. Such is Albion. I add, as the climax, that I have seen an Englishwoman dancing in a wreath of roses and blue spectacles. A fig then for England! If I do not admire John Bull, shall I admire Brother Jonathan? I have but little taste for that slave-holding brother. Take away Time is money, what remains of England? Take away Cotton is king, what remains of America? Germany is the lymph, Italy is the bile. Shall we go into ecstasies over Russia? Voltaire admired it. He also admired China. I admit that Russia has its beauties, among others, a stout despotism; but I pity the despots. Their health is delicate. A decapitated Alexis, a poignarded Peter, a strangled Paul, another Paul crushed flat with kicks, divers Ivans strangled, with their throats cut, numerous Nicholases and Basils poisoned, all this indicates that the palace of the Emperors of Russia is in a condition of flagrant insalubrity. All civilized peoples offer this detail to the admiration of the thinker; war; now, war, civilized war, exhausts and sums up all the forms of ruffianism, from the brigandage of the Trabuceros in the gorges of Mont Jaxa to the marauding of the Comanche Indians in the Doubtful Pass. `Bah!' you will say to me, `but Europe is certainly better than Asia?' I admit that Asia is a farce; but I do not precisely see what you find to laugh at in the Grand Lama, you peoples of the west, who have mingled with your fashions and your elegances all the complicated filth of majesty, from the dirty chemise of Queen Isabella to the chamber-chair of the Dauphin. Gentlemen of the human race, I tell you, not a bit of it! It is at Brussels that the most beer is consumed, at Stockholm the most brandy, at Madrid the most chocolate, at Amsterdam the most gin, at London the most wine, at Constantinople the most coffee, at Paris the most absinthe; there are all the useful notions. Paris carries the day, in short. In Paris, even the rag-pickers are sybarites; Diogenes would have loved to be a rag-picker of the Place Maubert better than to be a philosopher at the Piraeus. Learn this in addition; the wineshops of the ragpickers are called bibines; the most celebrated are the Saucepan and The Slaughter-House. Hence, tea-gardens, goguettes, caboulots, bouibuis, mastroquets, bastringues, manezingues, bibines of the rag-pickers, caravanseries of the caliphs, I certify to you, I am a voluptuary, I eat at Richard's at forty sous a head, I must have Persian carpets to roll naked Cleopatra in! Where is Cleopatra? Ah! So it is you, Louison. Good day."
[24] The slang term for a painter's assistant.
Thus did Grantaire, more than intoxicated, launch into speech, catching at the dish-washer in her passage, from his corner in the back room of the Cafe Musain.
Bossuet, extending his hand towards him, tried to impose silence on him, and Grantaire began again worse than ever:--
"Aigle de Meaux, down with your paws. You produce on me no effect with your gesture of Hippocrates refusing Artaxerxes' bric-a-brac. I excuse you from the task of soothing me. Moreover, I am sad. What do you wish me to say to you? Man is evil, man is deformed; the butterfly is a success, man is a failure. God made a mistake with that animal. A crowd offers a choice of ugliness. The first comer is a wretch, Femme--woman--rhymes with infame,-- infamous. Yes, I have the spleen, complicated with melancholy, with homesickness, plus hypochondria, and I am vexed and I rage, and I yawn, and I am bored, and I am tired to death, and I am stupid! Let God go to the devil!"
"Silence then, capital R!" resumed Bossuet, who was discussing a point of law behind the scenes, and who was plunged more than waist high in a phrase of judicial slang, of which this is the conclusion:--
"--And as for me, although I am hardly a legist, and at the most, an amateur attorney, I maintain this: that, in accordance with the terms of the customs of Normandy, at Saint-Michel, and for each year, an equivalent must be paid to the profit of the lord of the manor, saving the rights of others, and by all and several, the proprietors as well as those seized with inheritance, and that, for all emphyteuses, leases, freeholds, contracts of domain, mortgages--"
"Echo, plaintive nymph," hummed Grantaire.
Near Grantaire, an almost silent table, a sheet of paper, an inkstand and a pen between two glasses of brandy, announced that a vaudeville was being sketched out.
This great affair was being discussed in a low voice, and the two heads at work touched each other: "Let us begin by finding names. When one has the names, one finds the subject."
"That is true. Dictate. I will write."
"Monsieur Dorimon."
"An independent gentleman?"
"Of course."
"His daughter, Celestine."
"--tine. What next?"
"Colonel Sainval."
"Sainval is stale. I should say Valsin."
Beside the vaudeville aspirants, another group, which was also taking advantage of the uproar to talk low, was discussing a duel. An old fellow of thirty was counselling a young one of eighteen, and explaining to him what sort of an adversary he had to deal with.
"The deuce! Look out for yourself. He is a fine swordsman. His play is neat. He has the attack, no wasted feints, wrist, dash, lightning, a just parade, mathematical parries, bigre! and he is left-handed."
In the angle opposite Grantaire, Joly and Bahorel were playing dominoes, and talking of love.
"You are in luck, that you are," Joly was saying. "You have a mistress who is always laughing."
"That is a fault of hers," returned Bahorel. "One's mistress does wrong to laugh. That encourages one to deceive her. To see her gay removes your remorse; if you see her sad, your conscience pricks you."
"Ingrate! a woman who laughs is such a good thing! And you never quarrel!"
"That is because of the treaty which we have made. On forming our little Holy Alliance we assigned ourselves each our frontier, which we never cross. What is situated on the side of winter belongs to Vaud, on the side of the wind to Gex. Hence the peace."
"Peace is happiness digesting."
"And you, Jolllly, where do you stand in your entanglement with Mamselle-- you know whom I mean?"
"She sulks at me with cruel patience."
"Yet you are a lover to soften the heart with gauntness."
"Alas!"
"In your place, I would let her alone."
"That is easy enough to say."
"And to do. Is not her name Musichetta?"
"Yes. Ah! my poor Bahorel, she is a superb girl, very literary, with tiny feet, little hands, she dresses well, and is white and dimpled, with the eyes of a fortune-teller. I am wild over her."
"My dear fellow, then in order to please her, you must be elegant, and produce effects with your knees. Buy a good pair of trousers of double-milled cloth at Staub's. That will assist."
"At what price?" shouted Grantaire.
The third corner was delivered up to a poetical discussion. Pagan mythology was giving battle to Christian mythology. The question was about Olympus, whose part was taken by Jean Prouvaire, out of pure romanticism.
Jean Prouvaire was timid only in repose. Once excited, he burst forth, a sort of mirth accentuated his enthusiasm, and he was at once both laughing and lyric.
"Let us not insult the gods," said he. "The gods may not have taken their departure. Jupiter does not impress me as dead. The gods are dreams, you say. Well, even in nature, such as it is to-day, after the flight of these dreams, we still find all the grand old pagan myths. Such and such a mountain with the profile of a citadel, like the Vignemale, for example, is still to me the headdress of Cybele; it has not been proved to me that Pan does not come at night to breathe into the hollow trunks of the willows, stopping up the holes in turn with his fingers, and I have always believed that Io had something to do with the cascade of Pissevache."
In the last corner, they were talking politics. The Charter which had been granted was getting roughly handled. Combeferre was upholding it weakly. Courfeyrac was energetically making a breach in it. On the table lay an unfortunate copy of the famous Touquet Charter. Courfeyrac had seized it, and was brandishing it, mingling with his arguments the rattling of this sheet of paper.
"In the first place, I won't have any kings; if it were only from an economical point of view, I don't want any; a king is a parasite. One does not have kings gratis. Listen to this: the dearness of kings. At the death of Francois I., the national debt of France amounted to an income of thirty thousand livres; at the death of Louis XIV. it was two milliards, six hundred millions, at twenty-eight livres the mark, which was equivalent in 1760, according to Desmarets, to four milliards, five hundred millions, which would to-day be equivalent to twelve milliards. In the second place, and no offence to Combeferre, a charter granted is but a poor expedient of civilization. To save the transition, to soften the passage, to deaden the shock, to cause the nation to pass insensibly from the monarchy to democracy by the practice of constitutional fictions,--what detestable reasons all those are! No! no! let us never enlighten the people with false daylight. Principles dwindle and pale in your constitutional cellar. No illegitimacy, no compromise, no grant from the king to the people. In all such grants there is an Article 14. By the side of the hand which gives there is the claw which snatches back. I refuse your charter point-blank. A charter is a mask; the lie lurks beneath it. A people which accepts a charter abdicates. The law is only the law when entire. No! no charter!"
It was winter; a couple of fagots were crackling in the fireplace. This was tempting, and Courfeyrac could not resist. He crumpled the poor Touquet Charter in his fist, and flung it in the fire. The paper flashed up. Combeferre watched the masterpiece of Louis XVIII. burn philosophically, and contented himself with saying:--
"The charter metamorphosed into flame."
And sarcasms, sallies, jests, that French thing which is called entrain, and that English thing which is called humor, good and bad taste, good and bad reasons, all the wild pyrotechnics of dialogue, mounting together and crossing from all points of the room, produced a sort of merry bombardment over their heads.
马吕斯时常参加那些青年人的交谈，有时也谈上几句，有一次的交谈在他的精神上引起了真正的震动。
那是在缪尚咖啡馆的后厅里发生的。“ABC的朋友们”的人那晚几乎都到齐了。大家谈这谈那，兴致不高，声音可大。除了安灼拉和马吕斯没开口，其余每个人都多少说了几句。同学们之间的谈话有时是会有这种平静的喧嚷的。那是一种游戏，一种胡扯，也是一种交谈。大家把一些词句抛来抛去。他们在四个角上交谈着。
任何女人都是不许进入那后厅的，除了那个洗杯盘的女工路易松，她不时从洗碗间穿过厅堂走向“实验室”。
格朗泰尔，已经醉到昏天黑地，在他占领的那个角落里闹得人们耳朵发聋。他胡言乱语地大叫大嚷。他吼道：“我口渴。臭皮囊们，我正做梦呢，梦见海德堡的大酒桶突然害着脑溢血，人们在它上面放十二条蚂蝗，我就是其中的一条。我要喝。我要忘记人生。人生，我不知道是谁搞出来的一种极为恶劣的发明。一下子就完了，一文也不值。为了生活，把个人弄到腰酸背痛。人生是一种没有多大用处的装饰品。幸福是个只有一面上了漆的旧木头框框。《传道书》说：‘一切全是虚荣’，我同意这位仁兄的话，他也许从来就没有存在过。零，它不愿赤身露体地走路，便穿上虚荣外衣。呵虚荣！你用美丽的字眼替一切装金！厨房叫做实验室，跳舞的叫做教授，卖技的叫做体育家，打拳的叫做武士，卖药的叫做化学家，理发的叫做艺术家，刷墙的叫做建筑师，赛马的叫做运动员，土鳖叫做鼠妇。虚荣有一个反面和一个正面，正面傻，是满身烧料的黑人，反面蠢，是衣服破烂的哲人。我为一个哭，也为另一个笑。人们所谓的荣誉和尊贵，即使是荣誉和尊贵吧，也普遍是假金的。帝王们拿人类的自尊心当作玩具。卡利古拉①把他的坐骑封为执政官，查理二世把一块牛腰肉封为骑士。你们现在到英西塔土斯执政官和牛排小男爵中去夸耀你们自己吧。至于人的本身价值，那也不见得就比较可敬些，相差有限。 
①卡利古拉（Caligula，12-41），罗马帝国皇帝，以专横出名，曾封他的坐骑英西塔土斯（Incitatus）为执政官。
听听邻居是怎样恭维邻居的吧。白对白是残酷无情的。假使百合花能说话，不知道它会怎样糟蹋白鸽呢。虔诚婆子议论一个笃信宗教的妇人来比蛇口蝎尾还恶毒。可惜我是个无知的人，否则我会为你们叙述一大堆这类的事，但是我什么也不知道。说也奇怪，我素来有点小聪明，我在格罗画室里当学生时，就不大喜欢拿起笔来东涂西抹，而是把我的时间消磨在偷苹果上。艺术家，骗术家，不过一字之差。我是这个样子，至于你们这些人，也不见得高明。我根本瞧不上你们的什么完美，高妙，优点。任何优点都倾向一种缺点，节俭近于吝啬，慷慨有如挥霍，勇敢不离粗暴，十分虔敬恭顺也就有点类似伪君子，美德的里面满是丑行，正如第欧根尼的宽袍上满是窟窿。你们佩服谁，被杀的人还是杀人的人，恺撒还是布鲁图斯？一般说来，人们总是站在杀人者一边的。布鲁图斯万岁！他杀成了。这便是美德。美德么？就算是吧，可也是疯狂。这些伟大人物都有些奇怪的污点。杀了恺撒的那个布鲁图斯爱过一个小男孩的塑像。这个塑像是希腊雕塑家斯特隆奇里翁的作品，他还雕塑过一个骑马女子厄克纳木斯，又叫美腿妇人，这塑像是尼禄旅行时经常带在身边的。这位斯特隆奇里翁只留下两个塑像，把布鲁图斯和尼禄结成同道，布鲁图斯爱一个，尼禄爱另一个。整个历史是一种没完没了的反复。一个世纪是另一世纪的再版。马伦哥战役是比德纳①战役的复制，克洛维一世的托尔比亚克②和拿破仑的奥斯特里茨如同两滴血那样相象。对胜利我是不大感兴趣的。再没有什么比征服更愚蠢的事了，真正的光荣在于说服。你们拿点事实出来证明吧。你们满足于成功，好不庸俗！还满足于征服，真是可怜！唉，到处是虚荣和下流。一切服从于成功，连语言学也不例外。 
①比德纳（Pydna），马其顿城市，公元前二世纪，罗马军队在这里消灭了马其顿军队。
②克洛维一世（Clovis　I，465-511），墨洛温王朝的法兰克国王（481-511），公元四九六年击败日耳曼族于莱茵河中游的托尔比亚克（Tolbiac）。
贺拉斯说过：‘假使他重习俗。’因此我鄙视人类。我们是不是也降下来谈谈国家呢？你们要我敬佩某些民族么？请问是哪一种民族呀？希腊吗？雅典人，这古代的巴黎人，杀了伏西翁①，正如巴黎人杀了科里尼②，并且向暴君献媚到了这样程度，安纳赛弗尔居然说庇西特拉图③的尿招引蜜蜂。五十年间希腊最重要的人物只是那位语法学家费勒塔斯，可他是那么矮，那么小，以致他必须在鞋上加铅才不致被风刮跑。在科林斯最大的广场上有一座西拉尼翁雕的塑像，曾被普林尼编入目录，这座像塑的是埃庇斯塔特。埃庇斯塔特干过些什么呢？他创造过一种旋风脚。这些已够概括希腊的荣誉了。让我们来谈谈旁的。我钦佩英国吗？我钦佩法国吗？法国？为什么？为了巴黎么？我刚才已和你们谈过我对雅典的看法了。英国么？为什么？为了伦敦么？我恨迦太基。并且，伦敦，这奢侈的大都市，是贫穷的总部。仅仅在查林－克洛斯这一教区，每年就要饿死一百人。阿尔比昂④便是这样。为了充分说明，我补充这一点：我见过一个英国女子戴着玫瑰花冠和蓝眼镜跳舞。因此，英国，去它的。如果我不钦佩约翰牛，我会钦佩约纳森吗？⑤这位买卖奴隶的兄弟不怎么合我胃口。去掉‘时间即金钱’，英国还能剩下什么？去掉‘棉花是王’，美国又还剩下什么？德国，是淋巴液，意大利，是胆汁。我们要不要为俄罗斯来陶醉一下呢？伏尔泰钦佩它。他也钦佩中国。我同意俄罗斯有它的美，特别是它那一套结实的专制制度，但是我可怜那些专制君主。他们的健康是娇弱的，一个阿列克赛丢了脑袋，一个彼得被小刀戳死，一个保罗被扼杀，另一个保罗被靴子的后跟踩得塌扁，好几个伊凡被掐死，好几个尼古拉和瓦西里被毒死，这一切都说明俄罗斯皇宫是处在一种有目共睹的不卫生状况中。每个文明的民族都让思想家欣赏这一细节：战争，或者战争，文明的战争，竭尽并汇总了土匪行为的一切方式，从喇叭枪队伍在雅克沙峡谷的掠夺直到印第安可曼什人在可疑隘道对生活物品的抢劫。呸！你们也许会对我说：‘欧洲总比亚洲好些吧？’我承认亚洲是笑话，但是我看不出你们这些西方人，把和王公贵族混在一起的各种秽物，从伊莎贝尔王后的脏衬衫直到储君的恭桶都拿来和自己的时装艳服揉在一起的人’又怎能笑那位大喇嘛。说人话的先生们，我告诉你们，事情并不那么简单。人们在布鲁塞尔消耗的啤酒最多，在斯德哥尔摩消耗的酒精最多，在阿姆斯特丹消耗的杜松子酒最多，在伦敦消耗的葡萄酒最多，在君士坦丁堡消耗的咖啡最多，在巴黎消耗的苦艾酒最多；全部有用的知识都在这里了。归根到底，巴黎首屈一指。在巴黎，连卖破衣烂衫的人也是花天酒地的。在比雷埃夫斯当哲人的第欧根尼也许同样愿意在莫贝尔广场卖破衣烂衫。你们还应当学学这些：卖破衣烂衫的人喝酒的地方叫做酒缸，最著名的是‘铫子’和‘屠宰场’。因此，呵，郊外酒楼、狂欢酒家、绿叶酒肆、小醉酒铺、清唱酒馆、零售酒店、酒桶、酒户、酒缸、骆驼帮的酒棚，我向你们证明那儿全是好地方，我是个爱及时行乐的人，我经常在理查饭店吃四十个苏一顿的饭，我要一条波斯地毯来裹一丝不挂的克娄巴特拉！克娄巴特拉在哪里？
啊！就是你，路易松。你好。” 
①伏西翁（Phocion，约前400-317），雅典将军，演说家。
②科里尼（Coligny，1519-1572），法国海军大将，因信新教，被谋害。
③庇西特拉图（Pisistrate，前600-527），雅典僭主。
④阿尔比昂（Albion），英格兰的古称。
⑤约翰牛（John　Bull），指英国人。约纳森（Jonathan），美国人的别名。
昏天黑地的格朗泰尔便是这样在缪尚后厅的角落里缠住那洗杯盏的女工胡言乱语的。
博须埃向他伸着手，想使他安静下来，格朗泰尔却嚷得更厉害了：
“莫城的鹰，收起你的爪子。你那种希波克拉底①拒绝阿尔塔薛西斯②的破钢烂铁的姿势对我一丁点作用也不起。请不用费心想使我安静下来。况且我正在愁眉不展，你们要我谈些什么呢？人是坏种，人是畸形的，蝴蝶成了功，人却失败了。上帝没有把这动物造好。人群是丑态的集成。任挑一个也是无赖。女人是祸水。是呵，我害着抑郁病，加上忧伤，还带思乡症，更兼肝火旺，于是我发愁，于是我发狂，于是我打呵欠，于是我憋闷，于是我发怒，于是我百无聊赖！上帝找他的魔鬼去吧！” 
①希波克拉底（Hippocrate，前460-377），古希腊著名的医生。
②阿尔塔薛西斯（Artaxerce，前465-425在位），古波斯阿契美尼德王朝国王。
“不许闹了，大写的R！”博须埃又说，他正在和一伙不大多话的人讨论一个法律上的问题，一句用法学界行话来说的话正说了大半，后半句是这样的：
“……至于我，虽然还不怎么够得上称为法学家，至多也还只是个业余的检察官，可我支持这一点：按照诺曼底习惯法的规定，每年到了圣米歇节，所有的人和每个人，无论是业主或继承权的取得者，除了其他义务以外都得向领主缴纳一种等值税，这一规定并适用于一切长期租约、地产租约、免赋地权、教产契约、典押契约……”
“回音，多愁多怨的仙女们。”格朗泰尔在低声吟哦。
紧靠着格朗泰尔的，是一张几乎冷冷清清的桌子、一张纸、一瓶墨水和一支笔，放在两个小酒杯中间，宣告着一个闹剧剧本正在酝酿。这一件大事是在低微的对话中进行的，两个从事工作的脑袋碰在一起。
“让我们先把角色的名字定下来。有了名字，主题也就有了。”
“对。你说，我写。”
“多利蒙先生？”
“财主？”
“当然。”
“他的女儿，赛莱斯丁。”
“……丁。还有呢？”
“中校塞瓦尔。”
“塞瓦尔太陈旧了，叫瓦尔塞吧。”
在这两位新进闹剧作家的旁边，另外一伙人也正利用喧杂的声音在谈论一场决斗。一个三十岁的老手正在点拨一个十八岁的少年，向他讲解他要对付的是一个什么样的对手：
“见鬼！您得仔细哟。那是一个出色的剑手。他的手法一点不含糊。他攻得猛，没有不必要的虚招，腕力灵活，火力足，动作快，招架稳当，反击准确，了不起！并且用左手。”
在格朗泰尔对面的角落里，若李和巴阿雷一面玩骨牌，一面谈爱情问题。
“你多幸福，你，”若李说，“你有一个爱笑的情妇。”
“这正是她的缺点，”巴阿雷回答，“当情妇的人总以少笑为妙。多笑，便容易使人家想到要抛弃她。看见她高兴，你就不会受到内心的谴责，看见她闷闷不乐，你才会良心不安。”
“你真不识好歹！一个老笑着的女人有多好！并且你们从来不吵嘴！”
“这是因为我们有这样一条规定，在组织我们这个小小神圣同盟时，我们便划定了边界，互不侵犯。河水不犯井水，井水也不犯河水。这才能和睦相处。”
“和睦相处，这幸福多美满。”
“你呢，若李，你和那姑娘的争吵，你知道我指的是谁，现在怎样了？”
“她耐着性子，狠着心在和我赌气。”
“你也算得上是个肯为爱情憔悴的小伙子了。”
“可不是！”
“要是我处在你的地位，我早把她甩了。”
“说说容易。”
“做也不难。她不是叫做米西什塔吗？”
“是的。唉！我可怜的巴阿雷，这姑娘可真棒，很有文学味，一双小脚，一双小手，会打扮，生得白净、丰满，一双抽牌算命的女人的那种眼睛。我要为她发疯了。”
“亲爱的，既是这样，你便应当去讨她好，穿得漂漂亮亮，常到她那里去走走。到施托伯店里去买一条高级麂皮裤吧。有出租的。”
“多少钱一条？”格朗泰尔大声问。
在第三个角落里，大家正谈着诗的问题。世俗的神话和基督教的神话在纠缠不清。话题涉及奥林匹斯山，出自浪漫主义让·勃鲁维尔在支持它。让·勃鲁维尔只是在休息时才胆小。一旦受到刺激，他便会爆发，从热情中迸发出豪兴，他是既诙谐又抒情的。
“不要亵渎众神吧，”他说，“众神也许并没有离开呢。朱庇特，在我看来，并没有死。按照你们的说法众神只是一些幻象。可是，即使是在自然界里，在现实的自然界里，在众神消逝以后我们也还能找到所有那些伟大古老的世俗的神。那些轮廓象城堡的山，如维尼玛尔峰，对我来说仍是库柏勒①的发髻；也没有什么能向我证明潘②不会在夜晚来吹柳树的空干，用他的手指轮换着按树干上的孔；我还始终认为伊娥③和牛溺瀑布多少有些关系。” 
①库柏勒（Cybèle），希腊神话中众神之母。
②潘（Pan），希腊神话中山林畜牧之神，头生羊角，脚如羊蹄，爱吹箫，为山林女神伴舞。
③伊娥（Io），希腊神话中伊那科斯的女儿，为宙斯所爱，被赫拉变为小母牛。
在最后一个角落里，人们在谈论政治。大家正在抨击那恩赐的宪章。公白飞有气无力地支持它。古费拉克却对它大肆攻击。桌子上不巧正摆着一份著名的杜凯宪章。古费拉克把它捏在手里，一面议论，一面把那张纸抖得瑟瑟响。
“首先，我不要国王。哪怕只从经济观点出发，我也不要，国王是种寄生虫。世上没有免费的国王。请你们听听这个：国王的代价。弗朗索瓦一世死后，法兰西的公债是年息三万利弗；路易十四死后，是二十六亿，二十八个利弗合一马克，这就是说，在一七六○年，根据德马雷的计算，合四十五亿，到今天，便等于一百二十亿。其次，公白飞听了不要不高兴，所谓恩赐宪章，那只是一种恶劣的文明手法。什么避免变革，缓和过度，消除震荡，利用立宪的虚文来使这个君主制的国家在不知不觉中转为民主制，所有这一切，全是些可鄙的论点！不要！不要！永远不要用这种虚伪的光去欺骗人民。主义将枯萎在你们那种立宪的黑地窨子里。不要变种。不要冒牌货。不要国王向人民恩赐什么。在所有这些恩赐的条文里，就有个第十四条。在给东西的那只手旁边，便有一只收回东西的爪子。我干脆拒绝你们的那个宪章。宪章是个假面具，盖在那下面的是谎话。人民接受宪章便是退位。只有完整的人权才是人权。不！
不要宪章！”
那时正是冬季，两根木柴在壁炉里烧得劈啪作响。这是具有吸引力的，古费拉克毫不迟疑。他把那倒霉的杜凯宪章捏在掌心里揉作一团，扔了在火里。那张纸立即着起来了。公白飞呆呆地望着路易十八的那张杰作燃烧，只说了一句：
“宪章化成了一缕青烟。”
辛辣的讥刺，解颐的妙语，尖刻的笑谑，法国人特有的那种所谓活力，英国人特有的那种所谓幽默，好和坏的趣味，好和坏的论点，种种纵情肆意的谈锋，在那间厅里同时齐发，从各方面交织在一起，在人们的头顶上形成一种欢快的轰击。
Part 3 Book 4 Chapter 5 Enlargement of Horizon
The shocks of youthful minds among themselves have this admirable property, that one can never foresee the spark, nor divine the lightning flash. What will dart out presently? No one knows. The burst of laughter starts from a tender feeling.
At the moment of jest, the serious makes its entry. Impulses depend on the first chance word. The spirit of each is sovereign, jest suffices to open the field to the unexpected. These are conversations with abrupt turns, in which the perspective changes suddenly. Chance is the stage-manager of such conversations.
A severe thought, starting oddly from a clash of words, suddenly traversed the conflict of quips in which Grantaire, Bahorel, Prouvaire, Bossuet, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were confusedly fencing.
How does a phrase crop up in a dialogue? Whence comes it that it suddenly impresses itself on the attention of those who hear it? We have just said, that no one knows anything about it. In the midst of the uproar, Bossuet all at once terminated some apostrophe to Combeferre, with this date:--
"June 18th, 1815, Waterloo."
At this name of Waterloo, Marius, who was leaning his elbows on a table, beside a glass of water, removed his wrist from beneath his chin, and began to gaze fixedly at the audience.
"Pardieu!" exclaimed Courfeyrac ("Parbleu" was falling into disuse at this period), "that number 18 is strange and strikes me. It is Bonaparte's fatal number. Place Louis in front and Brumaire behind, you have the whole destiny of the man, with this significant peculiarity, that the end treads close on the heels of the commencement."
Enjolras, who had remained mute up to that point, broke the silence and addressed this remark to Combeferre:--
"You mean to say, the crime and the expiation."
This word crime overpassed the measure of what Marius, who was already greatly agitated by the abrupt evocation of Waterloo, could accept.
He rose, walked slowly to the map of France spread out on the wall, and at whose base an island was visible in a separate compartment, laid his finger on this compartment and said:--
"Corsica, a little island which has rendered France very great."
This was like a breath of icy air. All ceased talking. They felt that something was on the point of occurring.
Bahorel, replying to Bossuet, was just assuming an attitude of the torso to which he was addicted. He gave it up to listen.
Enjolras, whose blue eye was not fixed on any one, and who seemed to be gazing at space, replied, without glancing at Marius:--
"France needs no Corsica to be great. France is great because she is France. Quia nomina leo."
Marius felt no desire to retreat; he turned towards Enjolras, and his voice burst forth with a vibration which came from a quiver of his very being:--
"God forbid that I should diminish France! But amalgamating Napoleon with her is not diminishing her. Come! let us argue the question. I am a new comer among you, but I will confess that you amaze me. Where do we stand? Who are we? Who are you? Who am I? Let us come to an explanation about the Emperor. I hear you say Buonaparte, accenting the u like the Royalists. I warn you that my grandfather does better still; he says Buonaparte'. I thought you were young men. Where, then, is your enthusiasm? And what are you doing with it? Whom do you admire, if you do not admire the Emperor? And what more do you want? If you will have none of that great man, what great men would you like? He had everything. He was complete. He had in his brain the sum of human faculties. He made codes like Justinian, he dictated like Caesar, his conversation was mingled with the lightning-flash of Pascal, with the thunderclap of Tacitus, he made history and he wrote it, his bulletins are Iliads, he combined the cipher of Newton with the metaphor of Mahomet, he left behind him in the East words as great as the pyramids, at Tilsit he taught Emperors majesty, at the Academy of Sciences he replied to Laplace, in the Council of State be held his own against Merlin, he gave a soul to the geometry of the first, and to the chicanery of the last, he was a legist with the attorneys and sidereal with the astronomers; like Cromwell blowing out one of two candles, he went to the Temple to bargain for a curtain tassel; he saw everything; he knew everything; which did not prevent him from laughing good-naturedly beside the cradle of his little child; and all at once, frightened Europe lent an ear, armies put themselves in motion, parks of artillery rumbled, pontoons stretched over the rivers, clouds of cavalry galloped in the storm, cries, trumpets, a trembling of thrones in every direction, the frontiers of kingdoms oscillated on the map, the sound of a superhuman sword was heard, as it was drawn from its sheath; they beheld him, him, rise erect on the horizon with a blazing brand in his hand, and a glow in his eyes, unfolding amid the thunder, his two wings, the grand army and the old guard, and he was the archangel of war!"
All held their peace, and Enjolras bowed his head. Silence always produces somewhat the effect of acquiescence, of the enemy being driven to the wall. Marius continued with increased enthusiasm, and almost without pausing for breath:--
"Let us be just, my friends! What a splendid destiny for a nation to be the Empire of such an Emperor, when that nation is France and when it adds its own genius to the genius of that man! To appear and to reign, to march and to triumph, to have for halting-places all capitals, to take his grenadiers and to make kings of them, to decree the falls of dynasties, and to transfigure Europe at the pace of a charge; to make you feel that when you threaten you lay your hand on the hilt of the sword of God; to follow in a single man, Hannibal, Caesar, Charlemagne; to be the people of some one who mingles with your dawns the startling announcement of a battle won, to have the cannon of the Invalides to rouse you in the morning, to hurl into abysses of light prodigious words which flame forever, Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram! To cause constellations of victories to flash forth at each instant from the zenith of the centuries, to make the French Empire a pendant to the Roman Empire, to be the great nation and to give birth to the grand army, to make its legions fly forth over all the earth, as a mountain sends out its eagles on all sides to conquer, to dominate, to strike with lightning, to be in Europe a sort of nation gilded through glory, to sound athwart the centuries a trumpet-blast of Titans, to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by dazzling, that is sublime; and what greater thing is there?"
"To be free," said Combeferre.
Marius lowered his head in his turn; that cold and simple word had traversed his epic effusion like a blade of steel, and he felt it vanishing within him. When he raised his eyes, Combeferre was no longer there. Probably satisfied with his reply to the apotheosis, he had just taken his departure, and all, with the exception of Enjolras, had followed him. The room had been emptied. Enjolras, left alone with Marius, was gazing gravely at him. Marius, however, having rallied his ideas to some extent, did not consider himself beaten; there lingered in him a trace of inward fermentation which was on the point, no doubt, of translating itself into syllogisms arrayed against Enjolras, when all of a sudden, they heard some one singing on the stairs as he went. It was Combeferre, and this is what he was singing:--
"Si Cesar m'avait donne[25] La gloire et la guerre, Et qu'il me fallait quitter L'amour de ma mere, Je dirais au grand Cesar: Reprends ton sceptre et ton char, J'aime mieux ma mere, o gue! J'aime mieux ma mere!"
[25] If Cesar had given me glory and war, and I were obliged to quit my mother's love, I would say to great Caesar, "Take back thy sceptre and thy chariot; I prefer the love of my mother."
The wild and tender accents with which Combeferre sang communicated to this couplet a sort of strange grandeur. Marius, thoughtfully, and with his eyes diked on the ceiling, repeated almost mechanically: "My mother?--"
At that moment, he felt Enjolras' hand on his shoulder.
"Citizen," said Enjolras to him, "my mother is the Republic."
青年们的相互接触有那么一种可喜的地方，那就是人们在其中无法预见火星，也无法预测闪电。过一会儿将会爆发什么？谁也不知道。温婉的交谈常引起一阵狂笑。人在戏谑时又常突然转入严肃的话题。偶然一个字能使人冲动。每个人都被激情所主宰。一句玩笑话已够打开一个意外的场面。这是一种山回路转、景物瞬息万变的郊游。偶然是这种交谈的幕后操纵者。
那天，格朗泰尔、巴阿雷、勃鲁维尔、博须埃、公白飞和古费拉克一伙谈得起劲，你一言，我一语，混战正酣，不料从唇枪舌剑中突然出现了一种奇怪的严肃思想，穿过喧杂的语声。
一句话怎样会在言谈中忽然出现的？它又怎么会突然吸引住听者的注意力？我们刚才说过，这是谁也不知道的。当时，在喧嚷哄闹声中，博须埃忽然对着公白飞随便说出了这个日期：
“一八一五年六月十八日：滑铁卢。”
马吕斯正对着一杯水，一手托着腮帮，支在一张桌子边上坐着，听到“滑铁卢”这三个字他的手腕便离开了下巴，开始注视在座的人们。
“上帝知道，”古费拉克喊着说（在当时，“天晓得”已经不大有人说了），“十八这个数字是个奇怪的数字，给我的印象非常深。这是决定波拿巴命运的数字。你把路易放在它的前面，雾月放在它的后面，①这人的整个命运便全显现在你面前了。这里又还有这么一个耐人寻味的特点，那就是开场是被结局紧跟着的。” 
①路易十八是拿破仑失败后的法国国王。十八雾月，指共和八年雾月十八日，是拿破仑发动政变取得第一执政衔的日子。按法语习惯，先说日期，后说月份。
安灼拉一直没有说过一句话，这时他才开口，对着古费拉克说了这么一句：
“你是要说罪行被惩罚紧跟着吧。”
马吕斯在突然听见人家提到“滑铁卢”时，他已很紧张了，现在又听人说出“罪行”这种字眼，那就更超出他所能接受的限度了。
他站起来，从容走向那张挂在墙上的法兰西地图，地图下端，原有一个隔开的方格，方格里有个岛，他把手指按在那方格上，说道：
“科西嘉。一个使法兰西变得相当伟大的小岛。”
这是一股冰冷的风。大家全不说话了。大家都觉得要发生什么事了。
巴阿雷正在摆出他常爱用的那种正襟危坐的姿势来和博须埃对驳，他也为了要听下文而放弃了那种姿态。
安灼拉的蓝眼睛并没有望着谁，仿佛只望着空间，这时他眼睛虽不望马吕斯，嘴里却回答说：
“法兰西并不需要科西嘉来使它自己伟大。法兰西之所以伟大，只因为它是法兰西。‘因为我的名字叫狮子。’”
马吕斯绝没有退却的意思，他转向安灼拉，他那出自肺腑的激越的声音爆发出来了：
“上帝惩罚我要是我有贬低法兰西的意思，但是把它和拿破仑结合在一起，这并不贬低它一丁点。真怪，我们来谈谈吧。我在你们中是个新来的，但是老实说，你们确使我感到奇怪。我们是在什么地方？我们是谁？你们是谁？我是谁？让我们就皇帝这个问题来谈谈各自的见解吧。我常听见你们说布宛纳巴，象那些保王党人一样，强调那个‘乌’音。老实告诉你们，我那外祖父念得还更好听些：他说布宛纳巴退。我总以为你们都是青年。你们的热情究竟寄托在什么地方？你们的热情究竟要用来作什么？你们佩服的是谁，如果你们不佩服皇上？你们还要求什么？如果你们不要这么一个伟大的人物，你们要的又是些什么样伟大的人物？他是一个全才。他是一个完人。他的脑子包含着人类种种才智的三乘。他象查士丁尼那样制定法典，象恺撒那样独理万机，他的谈吐兼有帕斯加尔的闪电和塔西佗的雷霆，他创造历史，也写历史，他的战报是诗篇，他把牛顿的数字和穆罕默德的妙喻糅合在一起，他在东方留下了象金字塔那样高大的训谕；他在提尔西特把朝仪教给各国帝王，他在科学院里和拉普拉斯争鸣，他在国务会议上和梅尔兰辩论，他经心整饬纪律，悉力排难解纷，他象检察官一样了解法律，象天文学家一样了解天文；象克伦威尔吹灭两支蜡烛中的一支那样，他也到大庙①去为一粒窗帘珠子讨价还价；他见到一切，他知道一切，这并不妨碍他伏在他小儿子的摇篮上笑得象个天真烂漫的人；突然，惊骇中的欧洲屏息细听，大军源源开拔了，炮队纷纷滚动了，长江大河上建起了浮桥，狂风中驰聘着漫山遍野的骑兵，叫喊声，号角声，所有的宝座全震动了，所有的王国的国境线全在地图上摇晃起来了，人们听到一把超人的宝剑的出鞘声，人们看见他屹立在天边，手里烈焰飞腾，眼里光芒四射，霹雳一声，展开了他的两翼，大军和老羽林军，威猛天神也不过如此！” 
①巴黎的大庙是摊贩集中的地方。　
大家全不言语，安灼拉低着脑袋。寂静总多少有那么点默许或哑口无言的味儿。马吕斯，几乎没有喘气，以更加激动的心情继续说：
“我的朋友们，应该公正些！帝国有这么一个皇帝，这是一个民族多么辉煌的命运啊，而这个民族又正是法兰西，并且能把自己的天才附丽于这个人的天才！到一国便统治一国，打一仗便胜一仗，以别国的首都为兵站，封自己的士卒为国王，连连宣告王朝的灭亡，以冲锋的步伐改变欧洲的面貌，你一发威，人们便感到你的手已握住了上帝的宝剑的柄；追随汉尼拔、恺撒和查理大帝于一人；作一个能使每天的曙光为你带来响亮的前线捷报的人的人民；以残废军人院的炮声为闹钟，把一些彪炳千古的神奇的词抛上光明的天际，马伦哥、阿尔科拉、奥斯特里茨、耶拿、瓦格拉姆！随时把一些胜利的星斗罗列在几个世纪的天顶，使罗马帝国因法兰西帝国而不能专美于前，建大国，孕育大军，象一座高山向四方分遣它的雄鹰那样，使他的百万雄师飞遍整个大地，征服，控制，镇压，在欧洲成为一种因丰功伟绩而金光灿烂的民族，在历史中吹出天人的奏凯乐，两次征服世界，凭武功，又凭耀眼的光芒，这真卓绝，还能有什么比这更伟大的呢？”
“自由。”公白飞说。
这一下，马吕斯也把头低下去了。这个简单冰冷的词儿象把钢刀似的插进他那激昂慷慨的倾诉里，登时使他冷了半截。当他抬起眼睛时，公白飞已不在那里了。他也许因为能对那谀词泼上一瓢冷水而心满意足，便悄悄地走了，大家也全跟着他一道走了，只留下安灼拉一个人。那厅堂变成空的。安灼拉独自待在马吕斯旁边，闷闷地望着他。马吕斯这时已稍稍理了一下自己的思绪，但仍没有认输的意思，他心里还剩下一股未尽的热流在沸腾着，正待慢条斯理地向安灼拉展开争论，忽又听到有人在一面下楼梯一面歌唱，那正是公白飞的声音，他唱的是：
恺撒如给我
光荣与战争，
而我应抛弃
爱情与母亲，
我将对伟大的恺撒说：
收回你那指挥杖和战车，
我更爱我的母亲，咿呀嗨！
我更爱我的母亲！
公白飞的既柔婉又粗放的歌声给了那叠句一种雄伟的气势。马吕斯若有所思，呆望着天花板，几乎是机械地跟着唱：
“我的母亲！”
这时，他觉得安灼拉的手在他的肩头上。
“公民，”安灼拉对他说，“我的母亲是共和国。”
Part 3 Book 4 Chapter 6 Res Angusta
That evening left Marius profoundly shaken, and with a melancholy shadow in his soul. He felt what the earth may possibly feel, at the moment when it is torn open with the iron, in order that grain may be deposited within it; it feels only the wound; the quiver of the germ and the joy of the fruit only arrive later.
Marius was gloomy. He had but just acquired a faith; must he then reject it already? He affirmed to himself that he would not. He declared to himself that he would not doubt, and he began to doubt in spite of himself. To stand between two religions, from one of which you have not as yet emerged, and another into which you have not yet entered, is intolerable; and twilight is pleasing only to bat-like souls. Marius was clear-eyed, and he required the true light. The half-lights of doubt pained him. Whatever may have been his desire to remain where he was, he could not halt there, he was irresistibly constrained to continue, to advance, to examine, to think, to march further. Whither would this lead him? He feared, after having taken so many steps which had brought him nearer to his father, to now take a step which should estrange him from that father. His discomfort was augmented by all the reflections which occurred to him. An escarpment rose around him. He was in accord neither with his grandfather nor with his friends; daring in the eyes of the one, he was behind the times in the eyes of the others, and he recognized the fact that he was doubly isolated, on the side of age and on the side of youth. He ceased to go to the Cafe Musain.
In the troubled state of his conscience, he no longer thought of certain serious sides of existence. The realities of life do not allow themselves to be forgotten. They soon elbowed him abruptly.
One morning, the proprietor of the hotel entered Marius' room and said to him:--
"Monsieur Courfeyrac answered for you."
"Yes."
"But I must have my money."
"Request Courfeyrac to come and talk with me," said Marius.
Courfeyrac having made his appearance, the host left them. Marius then told him what it had not before occurred to him to relate, that he was the same as alone in the world, and had no relatives.
"What is to become of you?" said Courfeyrac.
"I do not know in the least," replied Marius.
"What are you going to do?"
"I do not know."
"Have you any money?"
"Fifteen francs."
"Do you want me to lend you some?"
"Never."
"Have you clothes?"
"Here is what I have."
"Have you trinkets?"
"A watch."
"Silver?"
"Gold; here it is."
"I know a clothes-dealer who will take your frock-coat and a pair of trousers."
"That is good."
"You will then have only a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, a hat and a coat."
"And my boots."
"What! you will not go barefoot? What opulence!"
"That will be enough."
"I know a watchmaker who will buy your watch."
"That is good."
"No; it is not good. What will you do after that?"
"Whatever is necessary. Anything honest, that is to say."
"Do you know English?"
"No."
"Do you know German?"
"No."
"So much the worse."
"Why?"
"Because one of my friends, a publisher, is getting up a sort of an encyclopaedia, for which you might have translated English or German articles. It is badly paid work, but one can live by it."
"I will learn English and German."
"And in the meanwhile?"
"In the meanwhile I will live on my clothes and my watch."
The clothes-dealer was sent for. He paid twenty francs for the cast-off garments. They went to the watchmaker's. He bought the watch for forty-five francs.
"That is not bad," said Marius to Courfeyrac, on their return to the hotel, "with my fifteen francs, that makes eighty."
"And the hotel bill?" observed Courfeyrac.
"Hello, I had forgotten that," said Marius.
The landlord presented his bill, which had to be paid on the spot. It amounted to seventy francs.
"I have ten francs left," said Marius.
"The deuce," exclaimed Courfeyrac, "you will eat up five francs while you are learning English, and five while learning German. That will be swallowing a tongue very fast, or a hundred sous very slowly."
In the meantime Aunt Gillenormand, a rather good-hearted person at bottom in difficulties, had finally hunted up Marius' abode.
One morning, on his return from the law-school, Marius found a letter from his aunt, and the sixty pistoles, that is to say, six hundred francs in gold, in a sealed box.
Marius sent back the thirty louis to his aunt, with a respectful letter, in which he stated that he had sufficient means of subsistence and that he should be able thenceforth to supply all his needs. At that moment, he had three francs left.
His aunt did not inform his grandfather of this refusal for fear of exasperating him. Besides, had he not said: "Let me never hear the name of that blood-drinker again!"
Marius left the hotel de la Porte Saint-Jacques, as he did not wish to run in debt there.
这晚的聚谈使马吕斯深深受了震动，并在他的心中留下了愁人的黑影。他的感受也许象土地在被人用铁器扒开，放下一颗麦粒时那样，它只感到所受的伤，种子的震颤和结实的欢乐要到日后才会到来。
马吕斯是沉郁的。他为自己建立起一种信念，那还是不久以前的事，难道就该抛弃了吗？他对自己肯定地说不能。他对自己说他是不愿意怀疑的，可是他已不自主地开始怀疑了。处于两种信仰中，一种还没有走出，一种还没有进入，这是叫人受不了的，这样的黄昏只能使象蝙蝠似的人喜悦。马吕斯是个心明眼亮的人，他非见到真正的晴光不可，疑信之间的那种半明不暗的光使他痛苦。无论他是怎样要求自己停在原处并在那里坚持，他仍无可奈何地被迫继续前进，研究，思考，走得更远一些。这股力量将把他带到什么地方去呢？他走了那么多的路，才靠近，了他的父亲，现在想到也许又要离开他，便不免有些惶惑起来。来到他心头的思绪越多，他的苦闷也越沉重。他感到危崖险道已在他的四周显现出来。他既不同意他的外祖父，也不同意他的朋友们，对于前者他是心雄气壮的，对于后者却落后了，他承认自己在老辈一边或在青年一边都是孤立的。他不再去缪尚咖啡馆了。
在这心绪紊乱时，他几乎没有再去想人生中某些重要方面。生活的现实却是不肯让人忽视的。它突然来到他跟前，打了个照面。
一天早晨，那旅店老板走进马吕斯的房间，对他说：
“古费拉克先生说过他负责你的事？”
“是的。”
“但是我得有钱才行。”
“请古费拉克来跟我谈吧。”马吕斯说。
古费拉克来了，老板离开了他们。马吕斯把自己还没有想到要告诉他的种种全和他谈了，说他在这世界上可说是孑然一身，无亲无故。
“您打算怎么办呢？”古费拉克说。
“我一点也不知道。”马吕斯回答。
“您想干些什么？”
“我一点也不知道。”
“您有钱吗？”
“十五法郎。”
“要我借点给您吗？”
“绝对不要。”
“您有衣服吗？”
“就这些。”
“您有些值钱的东西吗？”
“有只表。”
“银的？”
“金的。就是这个。”
“我认识一个服装商人，他能收买您这件骑马服和一条长裤。”
“好的。”
“您只剩下一条长裤，一件背心，一顶帽子和一件短上衣了。”
“还有这双靴子。”
“怎么！您不光着脚走路？多有钱啊！”
“这样已经够了。”
“我认识一个钟表商，他会买您的表。”
“好的。”
“不，不见得好。您以后怎么办呢？”
“得怎么办，就怎么办。只要是诚诚实实的，至少。”
“您懂英语吗？”
“不懂。”
“您懂德语吗？”
“不懂。”
“那就不用谈了。”
“为什么？”
“因为我有个朋友，开书店的，正在编一种百科词典，您有能力的话，可以为它翻译一些德语或英语的资料。报酬少，但也够活命的。”
“我来学英语和德语就是。”
“学的时候怎么办呢？”
“学的时候，我吃我这衣服和表。”
他们把那服装商人找来。他出二十法郎买了那身短命衣。他们到那钟表商的店里，他买进那只表，付了四十五法郎。“这不坏，”在回旅馆时马吕斯对古费拉克说，“加上我那十五法郎，这就有八十法郎了。”
“还有这旅馆的账单呢？”古费拉克提醒他。
“呃，我早忘了。”马吕斯说。
马吕斯立刻照付了旅店老板的账单，总共七十法郎。
“我只剩十法郎了。”马吕斯说。
“见鬼，”古费拉克说，“您得在学英语时吃五个法郎，学德语时吃五个法郎。那就是说，您啃书得赶快，啃那值一百个苏的银币得尽量慢。”
正在这时，吉诺曼姑奶奶棗她其实是个见到别人困难心肠就软的人棗终于找到了马吕斯的住处。一天上午，马吕斯从学校回来，发现他大姨的一封信和六十个皮斯托尔，就是说六百金法郎封在一个匣子里。
马吕斯把这笔钱如数退还给他大姨，并附上一封措词恭顺的信，信里说，他有办法谋生，今后已能满足自己的一切需要。而在当时他只剩三个法郎了。
关于这次拒绝，那位姑奶奶一点也没在他外祖父跟前提起，怕他听了更加冒火。况且他早已说过：“永远不许再向我提到这吸血鬼！”
马吕斯从圣雅克门旅馆搬了出来，不愿在那里负债。
Part 3 Book 5 Chapter 1 Marius Indigent
Life became hard for Marius. It was nothing to eat his clothes and his watch. He ate of that terrible, inexpressible thing that is called de la vache enrage; that is to say, he endured great hardships and privations. A terrible thing it is, containing days without bread, nights without sleep, evenings without a candle, a hearth without a fire, weeks without work, a future without hope, a coat out at the elbows, an old hat which evokes the laughter of young girls, a door which one finds locked on one at night because one's rent is not paid, the insolence of the porter and the cook-shop man, the sneers of neighbors, humiliations, dignity trampled on, work of whatever nature accepted, disgusts, bitterness, despondency. Marius learned how all this is eaten, and how such are often the only things which one has to devour. At that moment of his existence when a man needs his pride, because he needs love, he felt that he was jeered at because he was badly dressed, and ridiculous because he was poor. At the age when youth swells the heart with imperial pride, he dropped his eyes more than once on his dilapidated boots, and he knew the unjust shame and the poignant blushes of wretchedness. Admirable and terrible trial from which the feeble emerge base, from which the strong emerge sublime. A crucible into which destiny casts a man, whenever it desires a scoundrel or a demi-god.
For many great deeds are performed in petty combats. There are instances of bravery ignored and obstinate, which defend themselves step by step in that fatal onslaught of necessities and turpitudes. Noble and mysterious triumphs which no eye beholds, which are requited with no renown, which are saluted with no trumpet blast. Life, misfortune, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are the fields of battle which have their heroes; obscure heroes, who are, sometimes, grander than the heroes who win renown.
Firm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a step-mother, is sometimes a mother; destitution gives birth to might of soul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; unhappiness is a good milk for the magnanimous.
There came a moment in Marius' life, when he swept his own landing, when he bought his sou's worth of Brie cheese at the fruiterer's, when he waited until twilight had fallen to slip into the baker's and purchase a loaf, which he carried off furtively to his attic as though he had stolen it. Sometimes there could be seen gliding into the butcher's shop on the corner, in the midst of the bantering cooks who elbowed him, an awkward young man, carrying big books under his arm, who had a timid yet angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from a brow whereon stood drops of perspiration, made a profound bow to the butcher's astonished wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid six or seven sous for it, wrapped it up in a paper, put it under his arm, between two books, and went away. It was Marius. On this cutlet, which he cooked for himself, he lived for three days.
On the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the fat, on the third he gnawed the bone. Aunt Gillenormand made repeated attempts, and sent him the sixty pistoles several times. Marius returned them on every occasion, saying that he needed nothing.
He was still in mourning for his father when the revolution which we have just described was effected within him. From that time forth, he had not put off his black garments. But his garments were quitting him. The day came when he had no longer a coat. The trousers would go next. What was to be done? Courfeyrac, to whom he had, on his side, done some good turns, gave him an old coat. For thirty sous, Marius got it turned by some porter or other, and it was a new coat. But this coat was green. Then Marius ceased to go out until after nightfall. This made his coat black. As he wished always to appear in mourning, he clothed himself with the night.
In spite of all this, he got admitted to practice as a lawyer. He was supposed to live in Courfeyrac's room, which was decent, and where a certain number of law-books backed up and completed by several dilapidated volumes of romance, passed as the library required by the regulations. He had his letters addressed to Courfeyrac's quarters.
When Marius became a lawyer, he informed his grandfather of the fact in a letter which was cold but full of submission and respect. M. Gillenormand trembled as he took the letter, read it, tore it in four pieces, and threw it into the waste-basket. Two or three days later, Mademoiselle Gillenormand heard her father, who was alone in his room, talking aloud to himself. He always did this whenever he was greatly agitated. She listened, and the old man was saying: "If you were not a fool, you would know that one cannot be a baron and a lawyer at the same time."
人生对马吕斯来说，变得严峻起来了。吃自己的衣服和自己的表，这不算什么。他还吃着人们所谓“疯母牛”的那种说不出的东西。这可怕的东西包含着没有面包的白天，没有睡眠的黑夜，没有蜡烛的晚间，没有火的炉子，没有工作的星期，没有希望的前途，肘弯有窟窿的衣服，惹姑娘们嘲笑的破帽子，由于欠付房租因而大门夜晚紧闭，看门人和客店主人的傲慢，邻居的作弄，屈辱，被糟蹋的尊严，被迫接受的任何活计，厌恶，苦恼，疲惫。马吕斯学会了怎样吞这些东西，也知道了常常是除这些以外便没有什么可吞的东西。他正处在一个人由于需要爱而需要自尊心的时候，却感到自己由于衣服破旧而受人嘲弄，由于贫穷而显得可笑。在那种年龄，青春使你心里充满雄心壮志，而他呢，不止一次地低着眼去望他那双穿了孔的靴子，认识到贫穷所引起的那种种不公平的耻辱和锥心的羞惭。可喜可怕的考验，通过它，意志薄弱的人能变得卑鄙无耻，坚强的人能转为卓越非凡。每当命运需要一个坏蛋或是一个英雄时，它便把一个人丢在这种试验杯里。
因为在小小的斗争里，常有许多伟大的活动。常有些顽强而不为人知的勇敢行为使人在黑暗中步步提防那些因生活所需和丑恶的动机的致命袭击。高贵隐秘的胜利是任何肉眼所不见，任何声誉所不被，任何鼓乐所不歌颂的。生活，苦难，孤独，遗弃，贫困，这些都是战场，都有它们的英雄，无名英雄，有时比显赫的英雄更伟大。
坚强稀有的性格便是这样创造出来的，苦难经常是后娘，但有时也是慈母，困苦能孕育灵魂和精神的力量，灾难是傲骨的奶娘，祸患是豪杰的好乳汁。
在马吕斯的生活中有个时期，他自己扫楼梯，到水果店去买一个苏的布里干酪，有时要等到天快黑了才走进面包铺买个面包，遮遮掩掩地回到自己的顶楼，那面包好象是他偷来的。有时，人们看见一个形容笨拙的青年，一只胳臂夹着几本书，神气腼腆而莽撞，溜进那街角上的肉铺子，挤在一些嘴里没好话、把他东推西撞的厨娘中间，一进门便摘下帽子，满额头的汗珠直冒，对那受宠若惊的老板娘深深一鞠躬，继又对砍肉的伙计另外行个礼，要一块羊排骨，付六个或七个苏，用张纸把它裹上，夹在胳膊下的两本书中走了。这人便是马吕斯。
他有了这块排骨，亲自煮熟以后便能过三天。
第一天，他吃肉，第二天，吃油，第三天，啃骨头。
吉诺曼姑奶奶曾多次设法，把那六十个皮斯托尔送给他。
马吕斯每次都退了回去，说他什么也不需要。
我们在前面曾谈到他内心的革命，那时，他还在为父丧戴孝。从那时起，他便没有脱离过黑衣服。可是衣服脱离了他。到后来，他连短上衣也没有了。只有一条长裤还过得去。怎么办呢？他以前曾替古费拉克办过几件事，古费拉克这时便送了他一件旧的短上衣。花上三十个苏，马吕斯随便找个看门的妇人把它翻过来，便又成了一件新衣。可是这件衣是绿色的。马吕斯只在天黑以后才出门。这样他的衣服便是黑的了。他要永远居丧，只好以夜色为丧服。
在这期间他已被接受为律师。他自称住在古费拉克的那间屋里，那原是间雅洁的屋子，里面也有一定数量的法律书籍，加上一些残缺不全的小说，凑合布置一下，便也算有了些业务需要的藏书。他的通讯地址就是古费拉克的这间房。
马吕斯当了律师以后，写了一封信，把这消息通知他外祖父，措词是冷冰冰的，但也全是恭顺的话。吉诺曼先生接到那封信，双手发颤，念完以后，撕成四片，扔在字纸篓里。两三天过后，吉诺曼姑娘听见她父亲在他的卧室里独自一人高声说话。他每次在心情非常激动时总是这样。她听见那老人说道：“假使你不是蠢才，你便应当知道，人不能同时是男爵又是律师。”
Part 3 Book 5 Chapter 2 Marius Poor
It is the same with wretchedness as with everything else. It ends by becoming bearable. It finally assumes a form, and adjusts itself. One vegetates, that is to say, one develops in a certain meagre fashion, which is, however, sufficient for life. This is the mode in which the existence of Marius Pontmercy was arranged:
He had passed the worst straits; the narrow pass was opening out a little in front of him. By dint of toil, perseverance, courage, and will, he had managed to draw from his work about seven hundred francs a year. He had learned German and English; thanks to Courfeyrac, who had put him in communication with his friend the publisher, Marius filled the modest post of utility man in the literature of the publishing house. He drew up prospectuses, translated newspapers, annotated editions, compiled biographies, etc.; net product, year in and year out, seven hundred francs. He lived on it. How? Not so badly. We will explain.
Marius occupied in the Gorbeau house, for an annual sum of thirty francs, a den minus a fireplace, called a cabinet, which contained only the most indispensable articles of furniture. This furniture belonged to him. He gave three francs a month to the old principal tenant to come and sweep his hole, and to bring him a little hot water every morning, a fresh egg, and a penny roll. He breakfasted on this egg and roll. His breakfast varied in cost from two to four sous, according as eggs were dear or cheap. At six o'clock in the evening he descended the Rue Saint-Jacques to dine at Rousseau's, opposite Basset's, the stamp-dealer's, on the corner of the Rue des Mathurins. He ate no soup. He took a six-sou plate of meat, a half-portion of vegetables for three sous, and a three-sou dessert. For three sous he got as much bread as he wished. As for wine, he drank water. When he paid at the desk where Madam Rousseau, at that period still plump and rosy majestically presided, he gave a sou to the waiter, and Madam Rousseau gave him a smile. Then he went away. For sixteen sous he had a smile and a dinner.
This Restaurant Rousseau, where so few bottles and so many water carafes were emptied, was a calming potion rather than a restaurant. It no longer exists. The proprietor had a fine nickname: he was called Rousseau the Aquatic.
Thus, breakfast four sous, dinner sixteen sous; his food cost him twenty sous a day; which made three hundred and sixty-five francs a year. Add the thirty francs for rent, and the thirty-six francs to the old woman, plus a few trifling expenses; for four hundred and fifty francs, Marius was fed, lodged, and waited on. His clothing cost him a hundred francs, his linen fifty francs, his washing fifty francs; the whole did not exceed six hundred and fifty francs. He was rich. He sometimes lent ten francs to a friend. Courfeyrac had once been able to borrow sixty francs of him. As far as fire was concerned, as Marius had no fireplace, he had "simplified matters."
Marius always had two complete suits of clothes, the one old, "for every day"; the other, brand new for special occasions. Both were black. He had but three shirts, one on his person, the second in the commode, and the third in the washerwoman's hands. He renewed them as they wore out. They were always ragged, which caused him to button his coat to the chin.
It had required years for Marius to attain to this flourishing condition. Hard years; difficult, some of them, to traverse, others to climb. Marius had not failed for a single day. He had endured everything in the way of destitution; he had done everything except contract debts. He did himself the justice to say that he had never owed any one a sou. A debt was, to him, the beginning of slavery. He even said to himself, that a creditor is worse than a master; for the master possesses only your person, a creditor possesses your dignity and can administer to it a box on the ear. Rather than borrow, he went without food. He had passed many a day fasting. Feeling that all extremes meet, and that, if one is not on one's guard, lowered fortunes may lead to baseness of soul, he kept a jealous watch on his pride. Such and such a formality or action, which, in any other situation would have appeared merely a deference to him, now seemed insipidity, and he nerved himself against it. His face wore a sort of severe flush. He was timid even to rudeness.
During all these trials he had felt himself encouraged and even uplifted, at times, by a secret force that he possessed within himself. The soul aids the body, and at certain moments, raises it. It is the only bird which bears up its own cage.
Besides his father's name, another name was graven in Marius' heart, the name of Thenardier. Marius, with his grave and enthusiastic nature, surrounded with a sort of aureole the man to whom, in his thoughts, he owed his father's life,--that intrepid sergeant who had saved the colonel amid the bullets and the cannon-balls of Waterloo. He never separated the memory of this man from the memory of his father, and he associated them in his veneration. It was a sort of worship in two steps, with the grand altar for the colonel and the lesser one for Thenardier. What redoubled the tenderness of his gratitude towards Thenardier, was the idea of the distress into which he knew that Thenardier had fallen, and which had engulfed the latter. Marius had learned at Montfermeil of the ruin and bankruptcy of the unfortunate inn-keeper. Since that time, he had made unheard-of efforts to find traces of him and to reach him in that dark abyss of misery in which Thenardier had disappeared. Marius had beaten the whole country; he had gone to Chelles, to Bondy, to Gourney, to Nogent, to Lagny. He had persisted for three years, expending in these explorations the little money which he had laid by. No one had been able to give him any news of Thenardier: he was supposed to have gone abroad. His creditors had also sought him, with less love than Marius, but with as much assiduity, and had not been able to lay their hands on him. Marius blamed himself, and was almost angry with himself for his lack of success in his researches. It was the only debt left him by the colonel, and Marius made it a matter of honor to pay it. "What," he thought, "when my father lay dying on the field of battle, did Thenardier contrive to find him amid the smoke and the grape-shot, and bear him off on his shoulders, and yet he owed him nothing, and I, who owe so much to Thenardier, cannot join him in this shadow where he is lying in the pangs of death, and in my turn bring him back from death to life! Oh! I will find him!" To find Thenardier, in fact, Marius would have given one of his arms, to rescue him from his misery, he would have sacrificed all his blood. To see Thenardier, to render Thenardier some service, to say to him: "You do not know me; well, I do know you! Here I am. Dispose of me!" This was Marius' sweetest and most magnificent dream.
穷困和其他事物是一样的。它可以由习惯成自然。久而久之，它能定形，并且稳定下来。人们节衣缩食，也就是以一种仅足维持生命的清苦方式成长着。我们来看看马吕斯·彭眉胥的生活是怎样安排的：
他从最窄的路上走出来，眼见那狭路逐渐开阔了。由于勤劳，振作，有恒心和志气，每年他终于能从工作中获得大概七百法郎。他学会了德文和英文，古费拉克把他介绍给他那个开书店的朋友，马吕斯便成了那书店文学部门里一个低微而有用的人。他写书评，译报刊资料，作注解，编纂一些人的生平事迹，等等。无论旺年淡年，净得七百法郎。他以此维持生活。怎样过的呢？过得不坏。我们就来谈谈。
马吕斯在那戈尔博老屋里每年花上三十法郎的租金，占了一间名为办公室而没有壁炉的破烂屋子，至于里面的家具只是些必不可少的而已。家具是他自己的。他每月付三个法郎给那当二房东的老妇人，让她来打扫屋子，每天早晨送他一点热水，一个新鲜蛋和一个苏的面包。这面包和蛋便是他的午餐。午餐得花二至四个苏，随着蛋价的涨落而不同。傍晚六点，他沿着圣雅克街走下去，到马蒂兰街转角处巴赛图片制版印刷铺对面的卢梭餐馆去吃晚饭。他不喝汤。他吃一盘六个苏的肉，半盘三个苏的蔬菜和一份三个苏的甜品。另添三个苏的面包。至于酒，他代以白开水。柜台上，端坐着当时仍然肥硕鲜润的卢梭大娘，付帐时，他给堂倌一个苏，卢梭大娘则对他报以微笑。接着，他便走了。花上十六个苏，他能得到一掬笑容和一顿晚饭。
在卢梭餐馆里，酌空的酒瓶非常少，倒空的水瓶却非常多，那好象是一种安神的地方，而不是果腹之处。今天它已不存在了。那老板有个漂亮的绰号，人们称他为“水旅卢梭”。
因此，午餐四个苏，晚餐十六个苏，他在每天伙食上得花二十个苏；每年便是三百六十五法郎。加上三十法郎房租，三十六法郎给那老妇人，再加上一点零用，一共四百五十法郎，马吕斯便有吃有住有人服侍了。外面衣服得花费他一百法郎，换洗衣服五十法郎，洗衣费五十法郎。总共不超过六百五十法郎。还能剩余五十法郎。他宽裕起来了。他有时还能借十个法郎给朋友，有一次，古费拉克竟向他借了六十法郎。至于取暖，由于没有壁炉，马吕斯也就把这一项“简化”了。
马吕斯经常有两套外面的衣服，一套旧的，供平时穿着，一套全新的，供特殊用途。两套全是黑的。他只有三件衬衫，一件穿在身上，一件放在抽斗里，一件在洗衣妇人那里。磨损了，他便补充。那些衬衫经常是撕破了的，因此他总把短外衣一直扣到下巴。
马吕斯经过了好几年才能达到这种富裕的境地。这些年是艰苦的、困难的，有些是度过去的，有些是熬过去的。马吕斯一天也不曾灰心丧气。任何窘困，他全经历过了，什么他都干过，除了借债。他扪心自问，不曾欠过任何人一个苏。他感到借债便是奴役的开始。他甚至认为债主比奴隶主更可怕，因为奴隶主只能占有你的肉体，而债主却占有你的尊严，并且能伤害你的尊严。他宁肯不吃，也不愿借债。他曾多次整天不吃东西。他感到人间事物是一一相承，物质的缺乏可以导致灵魂的堕落，于是便疾恶如仇捍卫着自己的自尊心。在其他不同的情况下，当某种习俗或某种举动使他感到低贱或使他觉得卑劣时，他便振作起来。凡事他都不图侥幸，因为他不愿走回头路。在他的脸上常有一种不可辱的羞涩神情。他腼腆到了鲁莽的程度。
在他所受到的各种考验中，他感到他心里有种秘密的力量在鼓励他，有时甚至在推动他。灵魂扶助肉体，某些时刻甚至还能提挈它。这是唯一能忍受鸟笼的鸟。
在马吕斯心里，在他父亲的名字旁边还铭刻着另一个名字：德纳第。马吕斯天性诚挚严肃，在他思想里这勇敢的中士曾在滑铁卢把上校从炮弹和枪弹中救出来，是他父亲的恩人，因而他常在想象中把一圈光轮绕在这人的头顶上。他从不把对这人的追念和对他父亲的追念分开来，他把他俩合并在他崇敬的心中。这好象是一种两级的崇拜，大龛供上校，小龛供德纳第。他知道德纳第已陷入逆境，每次想到，他那感戴不尽的心情便变得格外凄惘。马吕斯曾在孟费郿听人谈到过这位不幸的客店老板亏本和破产的情况。从那时起，他便作了空前的努力去寻访他的踪迹，想在那淹没德纳第的黑暗深渊里到达他的跟前。马吕斯走遍了那一带，他到过谢尔，到过邦迪，到过古尔内，到过诺让，到过拉尼。三年当中他顽强地东寻西访，把他积蓄的一点钱全花在这上面了。谁也不能为他提供德纳第的消息，人们认为他已到国外去了。他的债主们也在寻他，爱慕的心不及马吕斯，而顽强却不在马吕斯之下，也都没能抓到他。马吕斯探寻不出，便责怪自己，几乎怨恨自己。这是上校留给他唯一的一件未了的事，如果不办妥，他将愧为人子。
“怎么！”他想道，“当我的父亲奄奄一息躺在战场上时，他，德纳第，知道从硝烟弹雨中去找到他，把他扛在肩上救走，当时他并不欠他一点什么，而我，有这么大的恩德要向德纳第报答，我却不能在他呻吟待毙的困境中和他相见，让我同样去把他从死亡中救活！啊！我一定能找到他！”为了找到德纳第，马吕斯确实愿牺牲一条胳膊，为了把他从困苦中救出来，他也确实愿流尽他的血。和德纳第相见，为德纳第出任何一点力并对他说：“您不认识我，没有关系，而我，却认识您！我在这里！请吩咐我应当怎么办吧！”这便是马吕斯最甜、最灿烂的梦想了。
Part 3 Book 5 Chapter 3 Marius Grown Up
At this epoch, Marius was twenty years of age. It was three years since he had left his grandfather. Both parties had remained on the same terms, without attempting to approach each other, and without seeking to see each other. Besides, what was the use of seeing each other? Marius was the brass vase, while Father Gillenormand was the iron pot.
We admit that Marius was mistaken as to his grandfather's heart. He had imagined that M. Gillenormand had never loved him, and that that crusty, harsh, and smiling old fellow who cursed, shouted, and stormed and brandished his cane, cherished for him, at the most, only that affection, which is at once slight and severe, of the dotards of comedy. Marius was in error. There are fathers who do not love their children; there exists no grandfather who does not adore his grandson. At bottom, as we have said, M. Gillenormand idolized Marius. He idolized him after his own fashion, with an accompaniment of snappishness and boxes on the ear; but, this child once gone, he felt a black void in his heart; he would allow no one to mention the child to him, and all the while secretly regretted that he was so well obeyed. At first, he hoped that this Buonapartist, this Jacobin, this terrorist, this Septembrist, would return. But the weeks passed by, years passed; to M. Gillenormand's great despair, the "blood-drinker" did not make his appearance. "I could not do otherwise than turn him out," said the grandfather to himself, and he asked himself: "If the thing were to do over again, would I do it?" His pride instantly answered "yes," but his aged head, which he shook in silence, replied sadly "no." He had his hours of depression. He missed Marius. Old men need affection as they need the sun. It is warmth. Strong as his nature was, the absence of Marius had wrought some change in him. Nothing in the world could have induced him to take a step towards "that rogue"; but he suffered. He never inquired about him, but he thought of him incessantly. He lived in the Marais in a more and more retired manner; he was still merry and violent as of old, but his merriment had a convulsive harshness, and his violences always terminated in a sort of gentle and gloomy dejection. He sometimes said: "Oh! if he only would return, what a good box on the ear I would give him!"
As for his aunt, she thought too little to love much; Marius was no longer for her much more than a vague black form; and she eventually came to occupy herself with him much less than with the cat or the paroquet which she probably had. What augmented Father Gillenormand's secret suffering was, that he locked it all up within his breast, and did not allow its existence to be divined. His sorrow was like those recently invented furnaces which consume their own smoke. It sometimes happened that officious busybodies spoke to him of Marius, and asked him: "What is your grandson doing?" "What has become of him?" The old bourgeois replied with a sigh, that he was a sad case, and giving a fillip to his cuff, if he wished to appear gay: "Monsieur le Baron de Pontmercy is practising pettifogging in some corner or other."
While the old man regretted, Marius applauded himself. As is the case with all good-hearted people, misfortune had eradicated his bitterness. He only thought of M. Gillenormand in an amiable light, but he had set his mind on not receiving anything more from the man who had been unkind to his father. This was the mitigated translation of his first indignation. Moreover, he was happy at having suffered, and at suffering still. It was for his father's sake. The hardness of his life satisfied and pleased him. He said to himself with a sort of joy that-- it was certainly the least he could do; that it was an expiation;-- that, had it 
not been for that, he would have been punished in some other way and later on for his impious indifference towards his father, and such a father! that it would not have been just that his father should have all the suffering, and he none of it; and that, in any case, what were his toils and his destitution compared with the colonel's heroic life? that, in short, the only way for him to approach his father and resemble him, was to be brave in the face of indigence, as the other had been valiant before the enemy; and that that was, no doubt, what the colonel had meant to imply by the words: "He will be worthy of it." Words which Marius continued to wear, not on his breast, since the colonel's writing had disappeared, but in his heart. 
And then, on the day when his grandfather had turned him out of doors, he had been only a child, now he was a man. He felt it. Misery, we repeat, had been good for him. Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, has this magnificent property about it, that it tu hs the whole will towards effor? and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty instantly lays material life bare and renders it hideous; hence inexpressible bounds towards the ideal life. The wealthy young man has a hundred coarse and brilliant distractions, horse races, hunting, dogs, tobacco, gaming, good repasts, and all the rest of it; occupations for the baser side of the soul, at the expense of the loftier and more delicate sides. The poor young man wins his bread with difficulty; he eats; when he has eaten, he has nothing more but meditation. He goes to the spectacles which God furnishes gratis; he gazes at the sky, space, the stars, flowers, children, the humanity among which he is suffering, the creation amid which he beams. He gazes so much on humanity that he perceives its soul, he gazes upon creation to such an extent that he beholds God. He dreams, he feels himself great; he dreams on, and feels himself tender. From the egotism of the man who suffers he passes to the compassion of the man who meditates. An admirable sentiment breaks forth in him, forgetfulness of self and pity for all. As he thinks of the innumerable enjoyments which nature offers, gives, and lavishes to souls which stand open, and refuses to souls that are closed, he comes to pity, he the millionnaire of the mind, the millionnaire of money. All hatred departs from his heart, in proportion as light penetrates his spirit. And is he unhappy? No. The misery of a young man is never miserable. The first young lad who comes to hand, however poor he may be, with his strength, his health, his rapid walk, his brilliant eyes, his warmly circulating blood, his black hair, his red lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will always arouse the envy of an aged emperor. And then, every morning, he sets himself afresh to the task of earning his bread; and while his hands earn his bread, his dorsal column gains pride, his brain gathers ideas. His task finished, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplation, to joys; he beholds his feet set in afflictions, in obstacles, on the pavement, in the nettles, sometimes in the mire; his head in the light. He is firm serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, kindly; and he thanks God for having bestowed on him those two forms of riches which many a rich man lacks: work, which makes him free; and thought, which makes him dignified.
This is what had happened with Marius. To tell the truth, he inclined a little too much to the side of contemplation. From the day when he had succeeded in earning his living with some approach to certainty, he had stopped, thinking it good to be poor, and retrenching time from his work to give to thought; that is to say, he sometimes passed entire days in meditation, absorbed, engulfed, like a visionary, in the mute voluptuousness of ecstasy and inward radiance. He had thus propounded the problem of his life: to toil as little as possible at material labor, in order to toil as much as possible at the labor which is impalpable; in other words, to bestow a few hours on real life, and to cast the rest to the infinite. As he believed that he lacked nothing, he did not perceive that contemplation, thus understood, ends by becoming one of the forms of idleness; that he was contenting himself with conquering the first necessities of life, and that he was resting from his labors too soon.
It was evident that, for this energetic and enthusiastic nature, this could only be a transitory state, and that, at the first shock against the inevitable complications of destiny, Marius would awaken.
In the meantime, although he was a lawyer, and whatever Father Gillenormand thought about the matter, he was not practising, he was not even pettifogging. Meditation had turned him aside from pleading. To haunt attorneys, to follow the court, to hunt up cases-- what a bore! Why should he do it? He saw no reason for changing the manner of gaining his livelihood! The obscure and ill-paid publishing establishment had come to mean for him a sure source of work which did not involve too much labor, as we have explained, and which sufficed for his wants.
One of the publishers for whom he worked, M. Magimel, I think, offered to take him into his own house, to 
$odge him well, to furnish him with regular occupation, and to give him fifteen hundred francs a year. To be well lodged! Fifteen hundred francs! No doubt. But renounce his liberty! Be on fixed wages! A sort of hired man of letters! According to Marius' opinion, if he accepted, his position would become both better and worse at the same time, he acquired comfort, and lost his dignity; it was a fine and complete unhappiness converted into a repulsive and ridiculous state of torture: something like the case of a blind man who should recover the sight of one eye. He refused. 
Marius dwelt in solitude. Owing to his taste for remaining outside of everything, and through having been too much alarmed, he had not entered decidedly into the group presided ove 
by Enjolras. They had remained good friends; they were ready to assist each other on occasion in every possible way; but nothing more. Marius had two friends: one young, Courfeyrac; and one old, M. Mabeuf. He inclined more to the old man. In the first p倀 
ce, he owed to him the revolution which had taken place within him; to him he was indebted for having known and loved his father. "He operated on me for a cataract," he said. 
The churchwarden had certainly played a decisive part.
It was not, however, that M. Mabeuf had been anything but the calm and impassive agent of Providence in this connection. He had enlightened Marius by chance and without being aware of the fact, as does a candle which some one brings; he had been the candle and not the some one.
As for Marius' inward political revolution, M. Mabeuf was totally incapable of comprehending it, of willing or of directing it.
As we shall see M. Mabeuf again, later on, a few words will not be superfluous.
当时，马吕斯已二十岁了。他离开他的外祖父已有三年。他们彼此之间都保持着原有状态，既不想接近，也不图相见。此外，见面，这有什么好处？为了冲突吗？谁又能说服谁呢？马吕斯是铜瓶，而吉诺曼公公是铁钵。
说实在的，马吕斯误解了他外祖父的心。他以为吉诺曼先生从来不曾爱他，并且认为这个粗糙、心硬而脸笑、经常咒骂、叫嚷、发脾气、举手杖的老先生，对他至多也只是怀着喜剧中常见的那种顽固老长辈的轻浮而苛刻的感情罢了。马吕斯错了。天下有不爱儿女的父亲，却没有不疼孙子的祖父。究其实，吉诺曼先生对马吕斯是无比钟爱的。他以他的方式爱着他，爱他而又任性，甚至要打他嘴巴，可是，当孩子不在眼前时，他心里又感到一片漆黑和空虚。他曾禁止旁人再向他提到他，心里却在悄悄埋怨别人对他会那么顺从。最初，他还抱着希望，这波拿巴分子，这雅各宾分子，这恐怖分子，这九月暴徒①总会回来的。但是一周又一周过去了，一月又一月过去了，一年又一年过去了，吉诺曼先生大失所望，这吸血鬼竟一去不复返，那位老祖宗常对自己说：“除了撵他走，我没有别的办法呀。”他又常问自己：“假使能再和好，我能再和好么？”他的自尊心立刻回答能，但是他那频频点着的老顽固脑袋却又悲伤地回答说不能。他万分颓丧，感到日子好难挨。他一心惦念着马吕斯。老人需要温情如同需要日光。这是热。无论他的性格是多么顽强，马吕斯的出走使他的心情多少改变了一点。无论如何，他不愿意向这“小把戏”走近一步，但他心里痛苦。他从不探听他的消息，却又随时在想他。他生活在沼泽区，越来越不和人接近了。他和往常一样，还是又愉快又暴躁的，但是他那愉快有一种痉挛性的僵硬味儿，好象那里有着苦痛和隐怒，他那暴躁也老是以一种温和而阴郁的颓丧状态结束。有时他会说出这样的话：“啊！要是他回来，我得好好给他几个耳光！” 
①九月暴徒，指一七九二年九月的屠杀。一七九二年八月底，巴黎公社为了粉碎国内反革命阴谋，逮捕了约一万二千名嫌疑分子，其中有贵族和奸细。但监狱管理不严，被捕者竟在狱中张灯结彩，庆祝革命军队军事失利。这一切使人民愤怒，九月二日下午二时，无套裤汉奔到各监狱去镇压被捕的人，动用私刑。巴黎公社不赞成这种镇压，派代表去各监狱拯救许多囚犯的生命。尽管如此，九月二日至三日，被击毙的囚犯仍在一千名左右。
至于那位姨母，由于脑子动得太少，也就不大知道什么是爱，马吕斯，对她来说，已只是一种朦胧的黑影，她对马吕斯反而不及她对猫儿和鹦鹉那么操心，很可能她是有过猫儿和鹦鹉的。
加深吉诺曼公公的内心痛苦的是他把痛苦全部闷在心里，绝不让人猜到。他的悲伤就象那种新近发明的连烟也烧尽的火炉。有时，有些不大知趣的应酬朋友和他谈到马吕斯，问他说：“您的那位外孙先生近来怎么样了？”或是“他在干什么呀？”这老绅士，当时如果过于郁闷，便叹口气，如果要装作愉快，便弹着自己的衣袖回答说：“彭眉胥男爵先生大概在什么地方兜揽诉讼。”
当这老人深自悔恨时，马吕斯却在拍手称快。正如所有心地善良的人那样，困难已扫除了他的苦恼。他只是心平气和地偶尔想到吉诺曼先生，但是他坚持不再接受这个“待他父亲不好”的人的任何东西。现在他已从他最初的愤恨中变得平和了。另外，他为自己曾受苦、并继续受苦而感到快乐。这是为了他的父亲。生活的艰难使他感到满足，使他感到舒适。他有时大为得意地说：“这不算什么”，“这是一种赎罪行为”，“不这样，由于对自己的父亲，对这样一个父亲极其可耻的不关心，他日后也还是要在不同的情况下受到惩罚的”，“他父亲从前受尽了苦痛而他一点也不受，这未免太不公平”，“况且，他的辛劳，他的穷困和上校英勇的一生比起来，又算得了什么？”
“归根结底，他要和他父亲接近，向他学习的唯一办法便是对贫苦奋勇斗争，正如他父亲当年敢与敌人搏斗那样，这一定就是上校留下的‘他是当之无愧的’那句话的含义了”。那句话，由于上校的遗书已经丢失，他不能再佩带在胸前，但仍铭刻在他心里。
此外，他外祖父把他撵走时，他还只是个孩子，现在他已是成人了。他自己也这样觉得。穷苦，让我们强调这点，对他起了好的作用。青年时代的穷苦当它成功时，有这样一种可贵之处，就是它能把人的整个意志转向发愤的道路，把人的整个灵魂引向高尚的愿望。穷苦能立即把物质生活赤裸裸地暴露出来，并使它显得异常丑恶，从而产生使人朝着理想生活发出无可言喻的一往无前的毅力。阔少们有百十种华贵而庸俗的娱乐，赛马，打猎，养狗，抽烟，赌博，宴饮和其他种种，这全是些牺牲了心灵高尚优美的一面来满足心灵低劣一面的消遣。穷苦少年为一块面包而努力，他吃，吃过以后，剩下的便只是梦幻。他去欣赏上帝准备的免费演出，他望着天、空间、群星、花木、孩子们、使他受苦的人群、使他心花怒放的天地万物。对人群望久了，他便能看见灵魂，对天地万物望久了，他便能看见上帝。他梦想，觉得自己伟大，他再梦想，感到自己仁慈。他从受苦人的自私心转到了深思者的同情心。一种可喜的感情，忘我悯人的心在他胸中开花了。当他想到天地专为胸襟开豁的人提供无穷无尽的乐事让他们尽情受用，而对心地狭窄的人们则加以拒绝，他便以智慧方面的富豪自居，而怜悯那些金钱方面的富豪了。光明进入他的心灵，憎恨也就离开他的意念。这样他会感到不幸吗？不会。年轻人的穷苦是从来不苦的。任何一个年轻孩子，无论穷到什么地步，有了他的健康、他的体力、他那矫健的步伐、明亮的眼睛、热烘烘流着的血液、乌黑的头发、鲜润的双颊、绯红的嘴唇、雪白的牙齿、纯净的气息，便能使年老的帝王羡慕不止。后来，每个早晨他又开始挣他的面包，当他的手挣到了面包，他的脊梁里也赢得了傲气，他的头脑里也赢得了思想。工作完毕了，他又回到那种不可名状的喜悦、景慕、欢乐之中，在生活里，他的两只脚不离痛楚、障碍、石块路、荆棘丛，有时还踏进污泥，头却伸在光明里。他是坚定、宁静、温良、和平、警惕、严肃、知足和仁慈的，他颂扬上帝给了他许多富人没有的这两种财富：使他自由的工作和使他高尚的思想。
这便是在马吕斯心中发生的一切。他甚至，说得全面一点，有点过于偏向景慕一面了。从他的生活大体上能稳定下来的那天起，他便止步不前，他认为安贫是好事，于是放松了工作去贪图神游。这就是说，他有时把整整好几天的时光都花在冥想里，如同老僧入定，沉浸迷失在那种怡然自得和游心泰玄的寂静享受中了。他这样安排他的生活，尽可能少做物质方面的工作，以便尽可能多做捉摸不到的工作，换句话说，留几个钟点在实际生活里，把其余的时间投入太空。他自以为什么也不缺了，却没有看到这样去认识景慕，结果是一种懒惰的表现，他以能争取到生活的最低要求而心满意足，他歇息得过早了。
当然，象他这样一个坚强豪迈的性格，这只可能是一种过渡状况，一旦和命运的那些不可避免的复杂问题发生冲突时，马吕斯是会觉醒的。
他目前虽是律师，也不管吉诺曼公公的看法如何，他却从不出庭辩护，更谈不上兜揽诉讼。梦幻使他远离了耍嘴皮子的生涯。和法官们鬼混，随庭听讼，穷究案由，太厌烦。为什么要那么干呢？他想不出任何理由要他改变谋生方式。这家默默无闻的商务书店向他提供了一种稳定的工作，一种劳动强度不大的工作，我们刚才说过，这已使他感到满足了。
他为之工作的几家书商之一，我想，是马其美尔先生吧，曾建议聘他专为他的书店服务，供给他舒适的住处和固定的工作，年薪一千五百法郎。舒适的住处！一千五百法郎！当然不错。但是放弃自由！当一种书役！一种雇用文人！在马吕斯的思想里，如果接受这种条件，他的地位会好转，但同时也会变得更坏，他能得到优裕的生活，但也会丧失自己的尊严，这是以完全清白的穷苦换取丑陋可笑的束缚，这是使瞎子变成独眼龙。他拒绝了。
马吕斯过着孤独的生活。由于他那种喜欢独来独往的性情，也由于他所受的刺激太大了，他完全没有参加那个以安灼拉为首的组织。大家仍是好朋友，彼此之间也有在必要时竭力互相帮助的准备，如是而已。马吕斯有两个朋友，一个年轻的，古费拉克，一个年老的，马白夫先生。他和那年老的更相投一些。首先，他内心的革命是由他引起的，受赐于他，他才能认识并爱戴他的父亲。他常说：“他切除了我眼珠上的白翳。”
毫无疑问，这位理财神甫是起了决定性作用的。
可是马白夫先生在这里只不过是上苍所遣的一个平静的无动于衷的使者罢了。他偶然不自觉地照亮了马吕斯的心，仿佛是一个人手里的蜡烛，他是那支烛，不是那个人。
至于马吕斯心中的政治革命，那绝不是马白夫先生所能了解，所能要求，所能指导的。
我们在下面还会遇到马白夫先生，因此在这里谈上几句不是无用的。
Part 3 Book 5 Chapter 4 M. Mabeuf
On the day when M. Mabeuf said to Marius: "Certainly I approve of political opinions," he expressed the real state of his mind. All political opinions were matters of indifference to him, and he approved them all, without distinction, provided they left him in peace, as the Greeks called the Furies "the beautiful, the good, the charming," the Eumenides. M. Mabeuf's political opinion consisted in a passionate love for plants, and, above all, for books. Like all the rest of the world, he possessed the termination in ist, without which no one could exist at that time, but he was neither a Royalist, a Bonapartist, a Chartist, an Orleanist, nor an Anarchist; he was a bouquinist, a collector of old books. He did not understand how men could
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? ?瘃@ the charter, democracy, legitimacy, monarchy, the republic, etc., when there were in the world all sorts of mosses, grasses, and shrubs which they might be looking at, and heaps of folios, and even of 32mos, which they might turn over. He took good care not to become useless; having books did not prevent his reading, being a botanist did not prevent his being a gardener. When he made Pontmercy's acquaintance, this sympathy had existed between the colonel and himself--that what the colonel did for flowers, he did for fruits. M. Mabeuf had succeeded in producing seedling pears as savory as the pears of St. Germain; it is from one of his combinations, apparently, that the October Mirabelle, now celebrated and no less perfumed than the summer Mirabelle, owes its origin. He went to mass rather from gentleness than from piety, and because, as he loved the faces of men, but hated their noise, he found them assembled and silent only in church. Feeling that he must be something in the State, he had chosen the career of warden. However, he had never succeeded in loving any woman as much as a tulip bulb, nor any man as much as an Elzevir. He had long passed sixty, when, one day, some one asked him: "Have you never been married?" "I have forgotten," said he. When it sometimes happened to him--and to whom does it not happen?-- to say: "Oh! if I were only rich!" it was not when ogling a pretty girl, as was the case with Father Gillenormand, but when contemplating an old book. He lived alone with an old housekeeper. He was somewhat gouty, and when he was asleep, his aged fingers, stiffened with rheumatism, lay crooked up in the folds of his sheets. He had composed and published a Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz, with colored plates, a work which enjoyed a tolerable measure of esteem and which sold well. People rang his bell, in the Rue Mesieres, two or three times a day, to ask for it. He drew as much as two thousand francs a year from it; this constituted nearly the whole of his fortune. Although poor, he had had the talent to form for himself, by dint of patience, privations, and time, a precious collection of rare copies of every sort. He never went out without a book under his arm, and he often returned with two. The sole decoration of the four rooms on the ground floor, which composed his lodgings, consisted of framed herbariums, and engravings of the old masters. The sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood. He had never approached a cannon in his life, even at the Invalides. He had a passable stomach, a brother who was a cure, perfectly white hair, no teeth, either in his mouth or his mind, a trembling in every limb, a Picard accent, an infantile laugh, the air of an old sheep, and he was easily frightened. Add to this, that he had no other friendship, no other acquaintance among the living, than an old bookseller of the Porte-Saint-Jacques, named Royal. His dream was to naturalize indigo in France.
His servant was also a sort of innocent. The poor good old woman was a spinster. Sultan, her cat, which might have mewed Allegri's miserere in the Sixtine Chapel, had filled her heart and sufficed for the quantity of passion which existed in her. None of her dreams had ever proceeded as far as man. She had never been able to get further than her cat. Like him, she had a mustache. Her glory consisted in her caps, which were always white. She passed her time, on Sundays, after mass, in counting over the linen in her chest, and in
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? 7笪6@ and never had made up. She knew how to read. M. Mabeuf had nicknamed her Mother Plutarque.
M. Mabeuf had taken a fancy to Marius, because Marius, being young and gentle, warmed his age without startling his timidity. Youth combined with gentleness produces on old people the effect of the sun without wind. When Marius was saturated with military glory, with gunpowder, with marches and countermarches, and with all those prodigious battles in which his father had given and received such tremendous blows of the sword, he went to see M. Mabeuf, and M. Mabeuf talked to him of his hero from the point of view of flowers.
His brother the cure died about 1830, and almost immediately, as when the night is drawing on, the whole horizon grew dark for M. Mabeuf. A notary's failure deprived him of the sum of ten thousand francs, which was all that he possessed in his brother's right and his own. The Revolution of July brought a crisis to publishing. In a period of embarrassment, the first thing which does not sell is a Flora. The Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz stopped short. Weeks passed by without a single purchaser. Sometimes M. Mabeuf started at the sound of the bell. "Monsieur," said Mother Plutarque sadly, "it is the water-carrier." In short, one day, M. Mabeuf quitted the Rue Mesieres, abdicated the functions of warden, gave up Saint-Sulpice, sold not a part of his books, but of his prints,-- that to which he was the least attached,--and installed himself in a little house on the Rue Montparnasse, where, however, he remained but one quarter for two reasons: in the first place, the ground floor and the garden cost three hundred francs, and he dared not spend more than two hundred francs on his rent; in the second, being near Faton's shooting-gallery, he could hear the pistol-shots; which was intolerable to him.
He carried off his Flora, his copper-plates, his herbariums, his portfolios, and his books, and established himself near the Salpetriere, in a sort of thatched cottage of the village of Austerlitz, where, for fifty crowns a year, he got three rooms and a garden enclosed by a hedge, and containing a well. He took advantage of this removal to sell off nearly all his furniture. On the day of his entrance into his new quarters, he was very gay, and drove the nails on which his engravings and herbariums were to hang, with his own hands, dug in his garden the rest of the day, and at night, perceiving that Mother Plutarque had a melancholy air, and was very thoughtful, he tapped her on the shoulder and said to her with a smile: "We have the indigo!"
Only two visitors, the bookseller of the Porte-Saint-Jacques and Marius, were admitted to view the thatched cottage at Austerlitz, a brawling name which was, to tell the truth, extremely disagreeable to him.
However, as we have just pointed out, brains which are absorbed in some bit of wisdom, or folly, or, as it often happens, in both at once, are but slowly accessible to the things of actual life. Their own destiny is a far-off thing to them. There results from such concentration a passivity, which, if it were the outcome of reasoning, would resemble philosophy. One declines, descends, trickles away, even crumbles away, and yet is hardly conscious of it one's self. It always ends, it is true, in an awakening, but the awakening is ta
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? 冢屙@in the game which is going on between our happiness and our unhappiness. We are the stake, and we look on at the game with indifference.
It is thus that, athwart the cloud which formed about him, when all his hopes were extinguished one after the other, M. Mabeuf remained rather puerilely, but profoundly serene. His habits of mind had the regular swing of a pendulum. Once mounted on an illusion, he went for a very long time, even after the illusion had disappeared. A clock does not stop short at the precise moment when the key is lost.
M. Mabeuf had his innocent pleasures. These pleasures were inexpensive and unexpected; the merest chance furnished them. One day, Mother Plutarque was reading a romance in one corner of the room. She was reading aloud, finding that she understood better thus. To read aloud is to assure one's self of what one is reading. There are people who read very loud, and who have the appearance of giving themselves their word of honor as to what they are perusing.
It was with this sort of energy that Mother Plutarque was reading the romance which she had in hand. M. Mabeuf heard her without listening to her.
In the course of her reading, Mother Plutarque came to this phrase. It was a question of an officer of dragoons and a beauty:--
"--The beauty pouted, and the dragoon--"
Here she interrupted herself to wipe her glasses.
"Bouddha and the Dragon," struck in M. Mabeuf in a low voice. "Yes, it is true that there was a dragon, which, from the depths of its cave, spouted flame through his maw and set the heavens on fire. Many stars had already been consumed by this monster, which, besides, had the claws of a tiger. Bouddha went into its den and succeeded in converting the dragon. That is a good book that you are reading, Mother Plutarque. There is no more beautiful legend in existence."
And M. Mabeuf fell into a delicious revery.
那次，马白夫先生说“政治上的见解，我当然全都赞同”，当时他确实表达了自己真实的思想状况。任何政治见解对他来说全是无所谓的，他一概不加区别地表示赞同，只要这些见解能让他自由自在，正如希腊人可以称那些蛇发女神为“美女、善女、仙女、欧墨尼得斯①那样”。马白夫先生的政治见解是热爱花木，尤其热爱书籍。象大家一样也属于一个“派”，当时，无派的人是无法生存的，但是他既不是保王派，也不是波拿巴派，也不是宪章派，也不是奥尔良派，也不是无政府主义派，他是书痴派。 
①欧墨尼得斯（Euménides），复仇三女神。　
他不能理解，在世上有种种苔藓草木可观赏，有种种对开本、甚至三十二开本可浏览，而偏偏要为宪章、民主、正统、君主制、共和制……这一些劳什子去互相仇恨。他严防自己成为无用的人，有书并不妨碍他阅读，做一个植物学家也不妨碍他当园艺工人。当他认得了彭眉胥，他和那位上校之间有着这样一种共同的爱好，就是上校培植花卉，他培植果树。马白夫先生能用梨籽结出和圣热尔曼梨①那样鲜美的梨，今天广受欢迎的那种香味不亚于夏季小黄梅的十月小黄梅，据说是用他发明的一种嫁接方法栽培出来的。他去望弥撒是为修心养性，并非全为敬神，他喜欢看见人的脸，却又厌恶人的声音，只有在礼拜堂里，他才能找到人们聚集一堂而又寂静无声。他感到自己不能没有一个职业，于是便选择理财神甫这一行当。他从来没能象爱一个洋葱的球茎那样去爱一个妇女，也从没有能象爱一册善本书那样去爱一个男人。一天在他早已过了六十岁时，有个人问他：“难道您从来没有结过婚吗？”他说：“我忘了。”当他偶然想起了要说（谁不想要这样说呢？）：“啊！假使我有钱！”那决不会在瞄一个漂亮姑娘时，象吉诺曼公公那样，而是在观赏一本旧书时。他孤零零一个人过活，带着一个老女仆。他有点痛风，睡着的时候他那些被风湿病僵化了的手指在被单的皱折里老弓曲着。他编过并印过一本《柯特雷茨附近的植物图说》，那是本评价相当高的书，书里有不少彩色插图，铜版是他自己的，书也由他自己卖。每天总有两三个人到梅齐埃尔街他家门口去拉动门铃，来买一本书。他因而每年能挣两千法郎，这便是他的全部家产了。虽然穷，他却有能力通过耐心、节约和时间来收藏许多各种类型的善本书。他在出门时，手臂下从来只夹一本书，而回家时却常常带着两本。他住在楼下，有四间屋子和一个小花园，家里唯一的装饰是些嵌在玻璃框里的植物标本和一些老名家的版画。刀枪一类的东西使他见了胆寒。他一生从不曾走近一尊大炮，即使是在残废军人院里。他有一个过得去的胃、一个当本堂神甫的兄弟、一头全白的头发、一张掉光了牙的嘴和一颗掉光了牙的心、一身的抖颤、一口庇卡底的乡音、童子的笑声、易惊的神经、老绵羊的神情。除此以外，在活着的人中，他只有一个常来往的知心朋友，圣雅克门的一个开书店的老头，叫鲁瓦约尔。他的梦想是把靛青移植到法国来。 
①圣热尔曼梨，一种多汁的大蜜梨。　
他的女仆，也是个天真无邪的人物。那可怜慈祥的妇人是个老处女。苏丹，她的猫，一只能在西斯廷教堂咪嗷咪嗷歌唱阿列格利所作《上帝怜我》诗篇的老雄猫，已经充满了她的心，也满足了她身上那点热情。在梦中她也从没有接触到男人，她从来没有超越过她这只猫。她，和它一样，嘴上也生胡须。她的光轮出自始终白洁的睡帽。星期天，望过弥撒后，她的时间便用来清点她箱子里的换洗衣裳，并把她买来而从不找人裁缝的裙袍料子一一摊在床上。她能阅读。马白夫替她取了个名字，叫“普卢塔克妈妈”。
马白夫先生喜欢马吕斯，是因为马吕斯年少温存，能使他在衰年感到温暖而又不使他那怯弱的心情受惊扰。老年人遇到和善的青年犹如见了日暖风和的佳日。每当马吕斯带着满脑子的军事光荣、火药、进攻、反攻以及所有那些有他父亲在场挥刀大砍同时也受人砍的惊心动魄的战斗情景去看马白夫先生时，马白夫先生便从品评花卉的角度和他谈论这位英雄。
一八三○年前后，他那当本堂神甫的兄弟死了，死得很突然，如同黑夜降临，马白夫先生眼前的景物全暗下去了。一次公证人方面的背约行为使他损失了一万法郎，这是他兄弟名下和他自己名下的全部钱财。七月革命引起了图书业的危机。在困难时期，卖不出去的首先是《植物图说》这一类的书。《柯特雷茨附近的植物图说》立即无人过问了。几星期过去也不见一个顾主。有时马白夫先生听到门铃响而惊动起来。普卢塔克妈妈愁闷地说道：“是送水的。”后来，马白夫先生离开梅齐埃尔街，辞去理财神甫的职务，脱离了圣稣尔比斯，卖掉一部分……不是他的书，而是他的雕版图片棗这是他最放得下的东西了棗搬到巴纳斯山大街的一栋小房子里去住。他在那里只住了一个季度，为了两种原因，第一，那楼下一层和园子得花三百法郎，而他不敢让自己的房租超出二百法郎；第二，那地方隔壁便是法都射击场，他整天听到手枪射击声，这使他受不了。
他带走了他的《植物图说》、他的铜版、他的植物标本、他的书包和书籍，去住在妇女救济院附近，奥斯特里茨村的一种茅屋里，每年租金五十埃居，有三间屋子和一个围着篱笆的园子，还有一口井。他趁这次搬家的机会，把家具几乎全卖了。他迁入新居那天，心情非常愉快，亲自钉了许多钉子，挂那些图片和标本，余下的时间，便在园里锄地，到了晚上，看见普卢塔克妈妈神情郁闷，心事重重，便拍着她的肩头，对她微笑说：
“不要紧！我们还有靛青呢！”
只有两个客人，圣雅克门的那个书商和马吕斯得到许可，可以到奥斯特里茨的茅屋里来看他，奥斯特里茨这名字对他来说，毕竟是喧嚣刺耳的。
可是正如我们刚才所指出的，凡是钻在一种学问或是一种癖好里，或者这是常有的事，两种同时都钻的头脑，才能很慢被生活中的事物所渗透。他们觉得自己的前程还很远大。从这种专一的精神状态中产生出来的是一种被动性，这被动性，如果出自理智，便象哲学。这些人偏朝一边，往下走，往下溜，甚至往下倒，而他们自己并不怎么警觉。这种状况到后来确也会有醒觉的一天，但这一天不会早日来到。在目前，这些人仿佛是处在自身幸福与自身苦难的赌博中而无动于衷。自己成了赌注，却漠不关心地听凭别人摆布。
马白夫先生便是这样，他在处境日益黯淡、希望一一消失的情况下心境却仍然宁静如初，这虽然带点稚气，但很固执。他精神的习性有如钟摆的来回摆动。一旦被幻想上紧发条，他就要走很长一段时间，即使幻想已经破灭。挂钟不会正在钥匙丢失的那会儿突然停摆的。
马白夫先生有些天真的乐趣。这不需要多大的代价，并且往往是无意中得来的，一点偶然机会便能提供这种乐趣。一天，普卢塔克妈妈坐在屋角里读一本小说。她老喜欢大声读，觉得这样容易领会些。大声读，便是不断对自己肯定我确实是在从事阅读。有些人读得声音极高，仿佛是在对他们所读的东西发誓赌咒。
普卢塔克妈妈正使出这种活力读着她捧在手里的那本小说。马白夫先生漫不经心地听着她读。
一路读来，普卢塔克妈妈读到了这样一句，那是关于一个龙骑兵军官和一个美人的故事：
“……美人弗特和龙……”
读到此地，她停下来擦她的眼镜。
“佛陀和龙，”马白夫先生低声说，“是呀，确有过这回事。从前有条龙，住在山洞里，口里吐出火焰来烧天。好几颗星星已被这怪物烧到着火了，它脚上长的是老虎爪子。佛陀进到它洞里，感化了它。您读的是本好书呢，普卢塔克妈妈。没有比这再好的传奇故事了。”
马白夫先生随即又沉浸在美妙的梦幻中了。
Part 3 Book 5 Chapter 5 Poverty a Good Neighbor for Misery
Marius liked this candid old man who saw himself gradually falling into the clutches of indigence, and who came to feel astonishment, little by little, without, however, being made melancholy by it. Marius met Courfeyrac and sought out M. Mabeuf. Very rarely, however; twice a month at most.
Marius' pleasure consisted in taking long walks alone on the outer boulevards, or in the Champs-de-Mars, or in the least frequented alleys of the Luxembourg. He often spent half a day in gazing at a market garden, the beds of lettuce, the chickens on the dung-heap, the horse turning the water-wheel. The passers-by stared at him in surprise, and some of them thought his attire suspicious and his mien sinister. 
He was only a poor young man dreaming in an objectless way.
It was during one of his strolls that he had hit upon the Gorbeau house, and, tempted by its isolation and its cheapness, had taken up his abode there. He was known there only under the name of M. Marius.
Some of his father's old generals or old comrades had invited him to go and see them, when they learned about him. Marius had not refused their invitations. They afforded opportunities of talking about his father. Thus he went from time to time, to Comte Pajol, to General Bellavesne, to General Fririon, to the Invalides. There was music and dancing there. On such evenings, Marius put on his new coat. But he never went to these evening parties or balls except on days when it was freezing cold, because he could not afford a carriage, and he did not wish to arrive with boots 
otherwise than like mirrors.
He said sometimes, but without bitterness: "Men are so made that in a drawing-room you may be soiled everywhere except on your shoes. In order to insure a good reception there, only one irreproachable thing is asked of you; your conscience? No, your boots."
All passions except those of the heart are dissipated by revery. Marius' political fevers vanished thus. The Revolution of 1830 assisted in the process, by satisfying and calming him. He remained the same, setting aside his fits of wrath. He still held the same opinions. Only, they had been tempered. To speak accurately, he had no longer any opinions, he had sympathies. To what party did he belong? To the party of humanity. Out of humanity he chose France; out of the Nation he chose the people; out of the people he chose the woman. It was to that point above all,that his pity was directed. Now he preferred an idea to a deed,a poet to a hero, and he admired a book like Job more than an event like Marengo. And then, when, after a day spent in meditation, he returned in the evening through the boulevards, and caught a glimpse through the branches of the trees of the fathomless space beyond, the nameless gleams, the abyss, the shadow, the mystery, all that which is only human seemed very pretty indeed to him.
He thought that he had, and he really had, in fact, arrived at the truth of life and of human philosophy, and he had ended by gazing at nothing but heaven, the only thing which Truth can perceive from the bottom of her well.
This did not prevent him from multiplying his plans, his combinations,his scaffoldings, his projects for the future. In this state of revery, an eye which could have cast a glance into Marius'interior would have been dazzled with the purity of that soul. In fact, had it been given to our eyes of the flesh to gaze into the consciences of others, we should be able to judge a man much more surely according to what he dreams, than according to what he thinks. There is will in thought, there is none in dreams. Revery, which is utterly spontaneous, takes and keeps, even in the gigantic and the ideal, the form of our spirit. Nothing proceeds more directly and more sincerely from the very depth of our soul, than our unpremeditated and boundless aspirations towards the splendors of destiny. In these aspirations, much more than in deliberate, rational coordinated ideas, is the real character of a man to be found. Our chimeras are the things which the most resemble us. Each one of us dreams of the unknown and the impossible in accordance with his nature.
Towards the middle of this year 1831, the old woman who waited on Marius told him that his neighbors, the wretched Jondrette family, had been turned out of doors. Marius, who passed nearly the whole of his days out of the house, hardly knew that he had any neighbors. 
"Why are they turned out?" he asked.
"Because they do not pay their rent; they owe for two quarters."
"How much is it?"
"Twenty francs," said the old woman.
Marius had thirty francs saved up in a drawer.
"Here," he said to the old woman, "take these twenty-five francs. Pay for the poor people and give them five francs, and do not tell them that it was I."
马吕斯喜欢这个憨厚的老人，老人已看到自己慢慢为贫寒所困，逐渐惊惶起来了，却还没有感到愁苦。马吕斯常遇见古费拉克，也常去找马白夫先生，可是次数很少，每月至多一两次。
马吕斯的兴趣是独自一人到郊外的大路上、或马尔斯广场或卢森堡公园中人迹罕到的小路上去作长时间的散步。他有时花上半天时间去看蔬菜种植场的园地、生菜畦、粪草堆里的鸡群和拉水车轮子的马。过路的人都带着惊奇的眼光打量他，有些人还觉得他服装可疑，面目可憎。这只是个毫无意图站着做梦的穷少年罢了。
他正是在这样闲逛时发现那戈尔博老屋的，这地方偏僻，租价低廉，中了他的意，他便在那里住下来了。大家只知道他叫马吕斯先生。
有几个引退的将军或是他父亲的老同事认识了他，曾邀请他去看看他们。马吕斯没有拒绝。这是些谈他父亲的机会。因此他不时去巴若尔伯爵家、培拉韦斯纳将军家、弗里利翁将军家和残废军人院。那些人家有音乐，也跳舞。马吕斯在这样的晚上便穿上他的新衣。但是他一定要到天气冻得石头发裂时才去参加这些晚会或舞会，因为他没有钱雇车，而又要在走进人家大门时脚上的靴子能和镜子一般亮。
他有时说（丝毫没有抱怨的意思）：“人是这样一种东西，在客厅里，全身都可以脏，鞋子却不能。那些地方的人为了要好好接待你，只要求你一件东西必须是无可指摘的，良心吗？
不，是靴子。”
任何热情，除非出自内心，全会在幻想中消失。马吕斯的政治狂热症已成过去。一八三○年的革命①在满足他安慰他的同时，也在这方面起了帮助作用。他还和从前一样，除了那种愤激心情，他对事物还抱着原来的见解，不过变得温和一些了。严格地说，他并没有什么见解，只有同情心。他偏爱什么呢？偏爱人类。在人类中，他选择了法兰西；在国家中，他选择了人民；在人民中，他选择了妇女。这便是他的怜悯心所倾注的地方。现在他重视理想胜于事实，重视诗人胜于英雄，他欣赏《约伯记》②这类书胜过马伦哥的事迹。并且，当他在遐想中度过了一天，傍晚沿着大路回来时，从树枝间窥见了无限广阔的天空，无名的微光、深远的空间、黑暗、神秘后，凡属人类的事物他都感到多么渺小。 
①一八三○年革命推翻了波旁王朝。
②《约伯记》，《圣经·旧约》中的一篇。
他觉得他已见到了，也许真正见到了生命的真谛和人生的哲理，到后来，除了天以外的一切他全不大注意了，天，是真理唯一能从它的井底见到的东西。
这并不阻止他增多计划、办法、空中楼阁和长远规划。在这种梦境中，如果有人细察马吕斯的内心，他的眼睛将被这人心灵的纯洁所炫惑。的确，如果我们的肉眼能看见别人的心，我们便能根据一个人的梦想去判断他的为人，这比从他的思想去判断会更可靠些。思想有意愿，梦想却没有。梦想完全是自发的，它能反映并保持我们精神的原有面貌，即使是在宏伟和理想的想象跟前，只有我们对命运的光辉所发的未经思考和不切实际的向往才是出自我们灵魂深处的最直接和最真诚的思想。正是在这些向往中，而不是在那些经过综合、分析、组织的思想中，我们能找出每个人的真实性格。我们的幻想是我们最逼真的写照。每个人都随着自己的性格在梦想着未知的和不可能的事物。
在一八三一这年的夏秋之间，那个服侍马吕斯的老妇人告诉他说，他的邻居，一个叫容德雷特的穷苦人家，将要被撵走。马吕斯几乎整天在外面，不大知道他还有邻居。
“为什么要撵走他们？”他说。
“因为他们不付房租。他们已经欠了两个季度的租金了。”
“那是多少钱呢？”
“二十法郎。”老妇人说。
马吕斯有三十法郎的机动款在一只抽屉里。
“拿着吧，”他向那老妇人说，“这儿是二十五法郎。您就替这些穷人付了房租吧，另外五个法郎也给他们，可不要说是我给的。”
Part 3 Book 5 Chapter 6 The Substitute
It chanced that the regiment to which Lieutenant Theodule belonged came to perform garrison duty in Paris. This inspired Aunt Gillenormand with a second idea. She had, on the first occasion, hit upon the plan of having Marius spied upon by Theodule; now she plotted to have Theodule take Marius' place.
At all events and in case the grandfather should feel the vague need of a young face in the house,--these rays of dawn are sometimes sweet to ruin,--it was expedient to find another Marius. "Take it as a simple erratum," she thought, "such as one sees in books. For Marius, read Theodule."
A grandnephew is almost the same as a grandson; in default of a lawyer one takes a lancer.
One morning, when M. Gillenormand was about to read something in the Quotidienne, his daughter entered and said to him in her sweetest voice; for the question concerned her favorite:--
"Father, Theodule is coming to present his respects to you this morning."
"Who's Theodule?"
"Your grandnephew."
"Ah!" said the grandfather.
Then he went back to his reading, thought no more of his grandnephew, who was merely some Theodule or other, and soon flew into a rage, which almost always happened when he read. The "sheet" which he held, although Royalist, of course, announced for the following day, without any softening phrases, one of these little events which were 
of daily occurrence at that date in Paris: "That the students of the schools of law and medicine were to assemble on the Place du Pantheon, at midday,--to deliberate." The discussion concerned one of the questions of the moment, the artillery of the National Guard, and a conflict between the Minister of War and "the citizen's militia," on the subject of the cannon parked in the courtyard of the Louvre.The students were to "deliberate" over this. It did not take much more than this to swell M. Gillenormand's rage. 
He thought of Marius, who was a student, and who would probably go with the rest, to "deliberate, at midday, on the Place du Pantheon." 
As he was indulging in this painful dream, Lieutenant Theodule entered clad in plain clothes as a bourgeois, which was clever of him, and was discreetly introduced by Mademoiselle Gillenormand. The lancer had reasoned as follows: "The old druid has not sunk all his money in a life pension. It is well to disguise one's self as a civilian from time to time." 
Mademoiselle Gillenormand said aloud to her father:-- 
"Theodule, your grandnephew."
And in a low voice to the lieutenant:--
"Approve of everything."
And she withdrew.
The lieutenant, who was but little accustomed to such venerable encounters, stammered with some timidity: "Good day, uncle,"-- and made a salute composed of the involuntary and mechanical outline of the military salute finished off as a bourgeois salute.
"Ah! so it's you; that is well, sit down," said the old gentleman.
That said, he totally forgot the lancer.
Theodule seated himself, and M. Gillenormand rose.
M. Gillenormand began to pace back and forth, his hands in his pockets, talking aloud, and twitching, with his irritated old fingers, at the two watches which he wore in his two fobs. 
"That pack of brats! They convene on the Place du Pantheon! By my life! Urchins who were with their nurses but yesterday! If one were to squeeze their noses, milk would burst out. And they deliberate to-morrow, at midday. What are we coming to? What are we coming to? It is clear that we are making for the abyss. That is what the descamisados have brought us to! To deliberate on the citizen artillery! To go and jabber in the open air over the jibes of the National Guard! And with whom are they to meet there? Just see whither Jacobinism leads. I will bet anything you like, a million against a counter, that there will be no one there but returned convicts and released galley-slaves. The Republicans and the galley-slaves,--they form but one nose and one handkerchief. Carnot used to say:`Where would you have me go, traitor?' Fouche replied:Wherever you please, imbecile!' That's what the Republicans are like."
"That is true," said Theodule.
M. Gillenormand half turned his head, saw Theodule, and went on:--
"When one reflects that that scoundrel was so vile as to turn carbonaro! Why did you leave my house? To go and become a Republican! Pssst! In the first place, the people want none of your republic, they have common sense, they know well that there always have been kings, and that there always will be; they know well that the people are only the people, after all, they make sport of it, of your republic-- do you understand, idiot?Is it not a horrible caprice?To fall in love with Pere Duchesne, to make sheep's-eyes at the guillotine, to sing romances, and play on the guitar under the balcony of '93--it's enough to make one spit on all these young fellows,such fools are they! They are all alike. Not one escapes. It suffices for them to breathe the air which blows through the street to lose their senses. The nineteenth century is poison. The first scamp that happens along lets his beard grow like a goat's,
thinks himself a real scoundrel, and abandons his old relatives. He's a Republican, he's a romantic. What does that mean, romantic? Do me the favor to tell me what it is. All possible follies. A year ago, they ran to Hernani. Now, I just ask you, Hernani! Antitheses! Abominations which are not even written in French! And then, they have cannons in the courtyard of the Louvre. Such are the rascalities of this age!"
"You are right, uncle," said Theodule.
M. Gillenormand resumed:--
"Cannons in the courtyard of the Museum! For what purpose? Do you want to fire grape-shot at the Apollo Belvedere? What have those cartridges to do with the Venus de Medici? Oh! The young men of the present day are all blackguards! What a pretty creature is their Benjamin Constant! And those who are not rascals are simpletons! They do all they can to make themselves ugly, they are badly dressed, they are afraid of women, in the presence of petticoats they have a mendicant air which sets the girls into fits of laughter; on my word of honor, one would say the poor creatures were ashamed of love. They are deformed, and they complete themselves by being stupid;they repeat the puns of Tiercelin and Potier, they have sack coats, stablemen's waistcoats, shirts of coarse linen, trousers of coarse cloth, boots of coarse leather, and their rigmarole resembles their plumage. One might make use of their jargon to put new soles on their old shoes. And all this awkward batch of brats has political opinions, if you please. Political opinions should be strictly forbidden. They fabricate systems, they recast society, they demolish the monarchy, they fling all laws to the earth, they put the attic in the cellar's place and my porter in the place of the King, they turn Europe topsy-turvy, they reconstruct the world, and all their love affairs consist in staring slily at the ankles of the laundresses as these women climb into their carts. Ah! Marius! Ah! You blackguard! To go and vociferate on the public place! To discuss, to debate, to take measures! They call that measures, just God! Disorder humbles itself and becomes silly. I have seen chaos,I now see a mess. Students deliberating on the National Guard,--such a thing could not be seen among the Ogibewas nor the Cadodaches! Savages who go naked, with their noddles dressed like a shuttlecock,with a club in their paws, are less of brutes than those bachelors of arts! The four-penny monkeys!And they set up for judges! Those creatures deliberate and ratiocinate! The end of the world is come! This is plainly the end of this miserable terraqueous globe! A final hiccough was required, and France has emitted it. Deliberate, my rascals! Such things will happen so long as they go and read the newspapers under the arcades of the Odeon. That costs them a sou, and their good sense, and their intelligence,and their heart and their soul, and their wits. They emerge thence,and decamp from their families. All newspapers are pests; all, even the Drapeau Blanc! At bottom, Martainville was a Jacobin. Ah! Just Heaven! You may boast of having driven your grandfather to despair,that you may!"
"That is evident," said Theodule.
And profiting by the fact that M. Gillenormand was taking breath, the lancer added in a magisterial manner:--
"There should be no other newspaper than the Moniteur, and no other book than the Annuaire Militaire."
M. Gillenormand continued:--
"It is like their Sieyes! A regicide ending in a senator; for that is the way they always end. They give themselves a scar with the address of thou as citizens, in order to get themselves called, eventually, Monsieur le Comte. Monsieur le Comte as big as my arm, assassins of September. The philosopher Sieyes! I will do myself the justice to say, that I have never had any better opinion of the philosophies of all those philosophers, than of the spectacles of the grimacer of Tivoli! One day I saw the Senators cross the Quai Malplaquet in mantles of violet velvet sown with bees, with hats a la Henri IV. They were hideous. One would have pronounced them monkeys from the tiger's court. Citizens, I declare to you, that your progress is madness, that your humanity is a dream, that your revolution is a crime, that your republic is a monster, that your young and virgin France comes from the brothel, and I maintain it against all, whoever you may be, whether journalists, economists, legists, or even were you better judges of liberty, of equality, and fraternity than the knife of the guillotine! And that I announce to you, my flne fellows!"
"Parbleu!" cried the lieutenant, "that is wonderfully true."
M. Gillenormand paused in a gesture which he had begun, wheeled round, stared Lancer Theodule intently in the eyes, and said to him:--
"You are a fool."
恰巧，那位忒阿杜勒中尉所属的团队调来巴黎驻防了。这事为吉诺曼姑奶奶提供了进行第二个计谋的机会。第一次，她曾想到让忒阿杜勒去监视马吕斯，现在，她暗中策划要让忒阿杜勒接替马吕斯。
不管怎么样，老人也很可能多少会感到家里需要一张年轻人的脸，正如曙光有时能给古迹以温暖的感觉。另找一个马吕斯确是个好主意。“就这样，”她想道，“简单得很，这好象是我在好些书里看见的那种勘误表；马吕斯应改为忒阿杜勒。”
侄孙和外孙，区别不大，丢了个律师，来个长矛兵。
一天早晨，吉诺曼先生正在念着《每日新闻》这一类的东西，他的女儿走了进来，用她最柔和的声音对他说，因为这里涉及到她心疼的人儿：
“我的父亲，今天早晨忒阿杜勒要来向您请安。”
“谁呀，忒阿杜勒？”
“您的侄孙。”
“啊！”老头说。
他随即又开始读报，不再去想那侄孙，一个什么不相干的忒阿杜勒，并且他心里已经上了火，这几乎是他每次读报必定会发生的事。他手里拿着的那张纸，不用说，是保王派的刊物，那上面报导在明天，风雨无阻，又将发生一件在当时的巴黎天天发生的那种小事，说是中午十二点，法学院和医学院的学生们将在先贤祠广场聚集，举行讨论会。内容涉及时事问题之一：国民自卫军的炮队问题以及军政部与民兵队因卢浮宫庭院里大炮的排列而发生的争执。学生们将在这上面进行“讨论”。不用更多的消息已够使吉诺曼先生气胀肚子了。
他想到了马吕斯，他正是个大学生，很可能，他会和大家一道，“中午十二点，在先贤祠广场，开会讨论”。
正当他想着这痛心的事时，忒阿杜勒中尉进来了，穿着绅士服装棗这一着大有讲究棗由吉诺曼姑娘引导着。这位长矛兵作过这样的考虑：这老祖宗也许不曾把全部财产变作终身年金。常常穿件老百姓的衣服是值得的。
吉诺曼姑娘对她父亲大声说：
“忒阿杜勒，您的侄孙。”
又低声对中尉说：
“顺着他说。”
接着便退出去了。
中尉对这么庄严的会见还不大习惯，怯头怯脑地嘟囔着：“您好，我的叔公。”同时无意中机械地行了个以军礼开头却以鞠躬结尾的综合礼。
“啊！是你，好，坐吧。”那老祖宗说。
说完这话，他把那长矛兵完全丢在脑后了。
忒阿杜勒坐下去，吉诺曼先生却站了起来。
吉诺曼先生来回走着，两手插在衣袋里，高声说着话，继又用他那十个激动的老指头把放在两个背心口袋里的两只表乱抓乱捏。
“这堆流鼻涕的小鬼！居然要在先贤祠广场集会！我的婊子的贞操！一群小猢狲，昨天还吃着娘奶！你去捏捏他们的鼻子吧，准有奶水流出来！而这些家伙明天中午要开会讨论！成什么世界！还成什么世界！不用说，昏天黑地的世界！这是那些短衫党人带给我们的好榜样！公民炮队！讨论公民炮队问题！跑到广场上去对着国民自卫军的连珠屁胡说八道！他们和一些什么人混在一起呢？请你想想雅各宾主义要把我们带到什么地方去。随你要我打什么赌，我赌一百万，我赢了，不要你一文，明天到会的，肯定尽是些犯过法的坏种和服过刑的囚犯。共和党和苦役犯，就象鼻子和手绢是一伙。卡诺说：‘你要我往哪里走，叛徒？’富歇回答说：‘随你的便，蠢材！’这就是所谓共和党人。”
“这是正确的。”忒阿杜勒说。
吉诺曼先生把头转过一半，看见了忒阿杜勒，又继续说：
“当我想起这小把戏竟能狂妄到要去学烧炭党！你为什么要离开我的家？为了去当共和党。慢点，慢点！首先人民不赏识你那共和制，他们不赏识，他们懂道理，他们知道自古以来就有国王，将来也永远会有国王，他们知道，说来说去，人民还只不过是人民，他们瞧着不顺眼，你那共和制，你听见吗，傻蛋！够叫人恶心的了，你那种冲动！爱上杜善伯伯，和断头台眉来眼去，溜到九三号阳台下面去唱情歌，弹吉他，这些年轻人，真该朝他们每个人的脸上吐上一口唾沫，他们竟会蠢到这种地步！他们全是这样的，没有一个例外。只要嗅点街上的空气就已使你鬼迷心窍的了。十九世纪是种毒物。随便一个小鬼也要留上一撮山羊胡子，自以为的的确确象个人样了，却把年老的长辈丢下不管。这就是共和党人。这就是浪漫派。什么叫做浪漫派？请你赏个脸，告诉我什么叫做浪漫派吧。疯狂透顶。一年前，这些家伙使你跑去捧《艾那尼》①，我倒要问问你，《艾那尼》！对比的词句，丑恶不堪的东西，连法文也没有写通！而且，卢浮宫的院子里安上了大炮。这些全是我们这个时代的土匪行为。”
“您说得对，我的叔公。”忒阿杜勒说。
吉诺曼先生往下说：
“博物馆的院子里安上大炮！干什么？大炮，你要对我怎么样？你想轰贝尔韦德尔的《阿波罗》②吗？火药包和梅迪契的《维纳斯》③又有什么关系？呵！现在的这些年轻人，全是些无赖！他们的班加曼·贡斯当简直算不了什么东西！这些家伙不是坏蛋也是脓包！他们挖空心思要出丑，他们的衣服好难看，他们害怕女人，他们围着一群小姑娘，就象叫化子在乞讨，惹得那些女招待放声大笑，说句良心话，这些可怜虫，仿佛想到爱情便害臊似的。他们的样子很难看，加上傻头傻脑，真算得上是才貌双全，他们嘴上离不了蒂埃斯兰和博基埃的俏皮话，他们的衣服象个布口袋，穿着马夫的坎肩、粗布衬衫、粗呢长裤、粗皮靴子，衣料上的条纹象鸟毛。他们粗俗的语言只配拿来补他们的破鞋底。而所有这些莫名其妙的娃娃在政治问题上有他们的意见。应当严厉禁止发表政治意见。他们创立制度，他们改造社会，他们推翻君主制，他们把整套法律扔在地上，他们把顶楼放在地窖所在处，又把我的门房放在王位上，他们把欧洲搞得天翻地覆，他们重建世界，而他们的开心事是贼头贼脑地去偷看那些跨上车去的洗衣女人的大腿！啊！马吕斯！啊！淘气包！到公共广场上去鬼喊怪叫吧！讨论，争辩，决定办法！他们把这叫做办法，公正的老天爷！捣乱鬼缩小了身体，变成个笨蛋。我见过兵荒马乱的世界，今天又见到乱七八糟的局面。小学生居然讨论国民自卫军的问题，这种事在蛮子国里也不见得有吧！那些赤身露体、脑袋上顶着一个毽子似的发髻，爪子里抓着一根大头棒的野蛮人也赶不上这些学士们的野蛮劲儿！几个苏一个的猴崽子，也自以为了不起，要发号施令！要讨论，要开动脑袋瓜子！这是世界的末日。肯定是这个可怜的地球的末日。还得打个最后的嗝，法兰西正准备着。讨论吧，你们这些流氓！这些事总是要发生的，只要他们到奥德翁戏院的走廊下去读报纸。他们付出的代价是一个苏，加上他们的理性，再加上他们的智慧，再加上他们的心，再加上他们的灵魂，再加上他们的精神。从那地方出来的人也就不愿再回家了。一切报纸全是瘟神，一概如此，连《白旗报》也算在内！马尔坦维尔在骨子里也还是个雅各宾党人。啊！公正的天！你把你的外公折磨得好苦，你这总算得意了吧，你！”
“这当然。”忒阿杜勒说。 
①《艾那尼》（Hernani），雨果所作戏剧。一八三○年首次公演，曾引起古典派与浪漫派之间的激烈斗争。
②③两尊有名的古代塑像。　
趁着吉诺曼先生要松一口气时，那长矛兵又一本正经地补上一句：
“除了《通报》以外，就不应再有旁的报纸，除了军事年刊以外，也不应再有旁的书。”
吉诺曼先生继续说：
“就好象他们的那个西哀士①！从一个弑君贼做到元老院元老！因为他们最后总是要达到那地位的。起初，大家不怕丢人，用公民来你我相称，到后来，却要人家称他为伯爵先生，象手臂一样粗的伯爵先生，九月的屠夫②！哲学家西哀士！我敢夸句口：我从来没有把这批哲学家的哲学看得比蒂沃利的那个做丑脸的小丑的眼镜更重一些！有一次我看见几个元老院的元老打马拉盖河沿走过，披着紫红丝绒的斗篷，上面绣的是蜜蜂③，头上戴着亨利四世式的帽子。他们那模样真是丑态百出，就象老虎手底下的猴儿。公民们，我向你们宣告，你们的进步是一种疯癫病，你们的人道是一种空想，你们的革命是一种罪行，你们的共和是一种怪物，你们的年轻美丽的法兰西是臭婊子家里生出来的，并且我在你们中的每一个人面前坚持我的看法，不管你们是什么人，你们是政论家也好，是经济学家也好，是法学家也好，也不管你们在自由、平等、博爱方面是否比对断头台上的板斧有更深的体会！我告诉你们这些，我的傻小子们！”
“佩服，佩服，”中尉嚷着说，“这是千真万确的。” 
①西哀士（Sieyès，1748?836），神甫，革命时期的制宪议会代表，国民公会代表，雅各宾派中大资产阶级的代表，元老院元老。
②九月的屠夫，即“九月暴徒”。
③拿破仑曾把蜜蜂定为勤劳的标志。
吉诺曼先生把一个已开始要作的手势停下来，转身瞪眼望着那长矛兵忒阿杜勒，对他说：
“你是个蠢材。”
Part 3 Book 6 Chapter 1 The Sobriquet; Mode of Formation of Family Names
Marius was, at this epoch, a handsome young man, of medium stature,with thick and intensely black hair, a lofty and intelligent brow,well-opened and passionate nostrils, an air of calmness and sincerity,and with something indescribably proud, thoughtful, and innocent over his whole countenance. His profile, all of whose lines were rounded, without thereby losing their firmness, had a certain Germanic sweetness, which has made its way into the French physiognomy by way of Alsace and Lorraine, and that complete absence of angles which rendered the Sicambres so easily recognizable among the Romans, and which distinguishes the leonine from the aquiline race.He was at that period of life when the mind of men who think is composed, in nearly equal parts, of depth and ingenuousness. A grave situation being given, he had all that is required to be stupid: one more turn of the key, and he might be sublime.His manners were reserved, cold, polished, not very genial.As his mouth was charming, his lips the reddest, and his teeth the whitest in the world, his smile corrected the severity of his face, as a whole. At certain moments, that pure brow and that voluptuous smile presented a singular contrast. His eyes were small, but his glance was large.
At the period of his most abject misery, he had observed that young girls turned round when he passed by, and he fled or hid,with death in his soul. He thought that they were staring at him because of his old clothes, and that they were laughing at them;the fact is, that they stared at him because of his grace, and that they dreamed of him.
This mute misunderstanding between him and the pretty passers-by had made him shy. He chose none of them for the excellent reason that he fled from all of them. He lived thus indefinitely,-- stupidly, as Courfeyrac said.
Courfeyrac also said to him: "Do not aspire to be venerable" [they called each other thou; it is the tendency of youthful friendships to slip into this mode of address]. "Let me give you a piece of advice, my dear fellow. Don't read so many books, and look a little more at the lasses. The jades have some good points about them, O Marius! By dint of fleeing and blushing,you will become brutalized."
On other occasions, Courfeyrac encountered him and said:--"Good morning, Monsieur l'Abbe!"
When Courfeyrac had addressed to him some remark of this nature, Marius avoided women, both young and old, more than ever for a week to come, and he avoided Courfeyrac to boot.
Nevertheless, there existed in all the immensity of creation, two women whom Marius did not flee, and to whom he paid no attention whatever.In truth, he would have been very much amazed if he had been informed that they were women. One was the bearded old woman who swept out his chamber, and caused Courfeyrac to say: "Seeing that his servant woman wears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard." The other was a sort of little girl whom he saw very often,and whom he never looked at.
For more than a year, Marius had noticed in one of the walks of the Luxembourg, the one which skirts the parapet of the Pepiniere,a man and a very young girl, who were almost always seated side by side on the same bench, at the most solitary end of the alley, on the Rue de l'Ouest side. Every time that that chance which meddles with the strolls of persons whose gaze is turned inwards,led Marius to that walk,--and it was nearly every day,--he found this couple there. The man appeared to be about sixty years of age;he seemed sad and serious; his whole person presented the robust and weary aspect peculiar to military men who have retired from the service. If he had worn a decoration, Marius would have said:"He is an ex-officer." He had a kindly but unapproachable air,and he never let his glance linger on the eyes of any one. He wore blue trousers, a blue frock coat and a broad-brimmed hat,which always appeared to be new, a black cravat, a quaker shirt,that is to say, it was dazzlingly white, but of coarse linen. A grisette who passed near him one day, said: "Here's a very tidy widower." His hair was very white.
The first time that the young girl who accompanied him came and seated herself on the bench which they seemed to have adopted,she was a sort of child thirteen or fourteen years of age, so thin as to be almost homely, awkward, insignificant, and with a possible promise of handsome eyes. Only, they were always raised with a sort of displeasing assurance. Her dress was both aged and childish,like the dress of the scholars in a convent; it consisted of a badly cut gown of black merino. They had the air of being father and daughter.
Marius scanned this old man, who was not yet aged, and this little girl,who was not yet a person, for a few days, and thereafter paid no attention to them. They, on their side, did not appear even to see him.They conversed together with a peaceful and indifferent air. The girl chattered incessantly and merrily. The old man talked but little, and,at times, he fixed on her eyes overflowing with an ineffable paternity.
Marius had acquired the mechanical habit of strolling in that walk.He invariably found them there.This is the way things went:--
Marius liked to arrive by the end of the alley which was furthest from their bench; he walked the whole length of the alley, passed in front of them, then returned to the extremity whence he had come,and began again. This he did five or six times in the course of his promenade, and the promenade was taken five or six times a week, without its having occurred to him or to these people to exchange a greeting. That personage, and that young girl,although they appeared,--and perhaps because they appeared,--to shun all glances, had, naturally, caused some attention on the part of the five or six students who strolled along the Pepiniere from time to time; the studious after their lectures, the others after their game of billiards. Courfeyrac, who was among the last,had observed them several times, but, finding the girl homely,he had speedily and carefully kept out of the way. He had fled,discharging at them a sobriquet, like a Parthian dart.Impressed solely with the child's gown and the old man's hair,he had dubbed the daughter Mademoiselle Lanoire, and the father,Monsieur Leblanc, so that as no one knew them under any other title,this nickname became a law in the default of any other name.The students said: "Ah! Monsieur Leblanc is on his bench."And Marius, like the rest, had found it convenient to call this unknown gentleman Monsieur Leblanc.
We shall follow their example, and we shall say M. Leblanc,in order to facilitate this tale.
So Marius saw them nearly every day, at the same hour, during the first year. He found the man to his taste, but the girl insipid.
马吕斯在这时已是个美少年，中等身材，头发乌黑而厚，额高而聪明，鼻孔轩豁，富有热情，气度诚挚稳重，整个面貌有种说不出的高傲、若有所思和天真的神态。他侧面轮廓的线条全是圆的，但并不因此而失其刚强，他有经阿尔萨斯和洛林传到法兰西民族容貌上来的那种日耳曼族的秀气，也具有使西康伯尔①族在罗马人中极容易被识别出来并使狮族不同于鹰族的那种完全不见棱角的形相。他现在处于人生中深沉和天真几乎相等各占思想一半的时期。在困难重重的逆境中，他完全可以愕然不知所措，把钥匙拨转一下，他又能变得卓越不凡。他的态度是谦逊、冷淡、文雅、不很开朗的。由于他的嘴生得动人，是世上嘴唇里最红的，牙齿里最白的，他微微一笑便可纠正整个外貌的严肃气氛。有时，那真是一种奇特的对比，额头高洁而笑容富于肉感。他的眼眶小，目光却远大。 
①西康伯尔（Sicambre），古代日耳曼民族的一个支系。
在他最穷困时，他发现年轻姑娘们见他走过，常把头转过来望他，他连忙避开，或是躲起来，心情万分颓丧。他以为她们看他是因为他的衣服破旧，在讥笑他，其实她们看他是为了他的风韵，她们在梦想。
和这些漂亮过路女子之间的误会他都憋在心里，使他变成一个性情孤僻的人。在她们中他一个也没选中，绝妙的理由是他见到任何一个都逃走。他便这样漫无目标地活着，古费拉克却说他是傻里呱唧地活着。
古费拉克还对他这样说：“你不该有当道学先生的想法（他们之间已用“你”相称，这是年轻人友情发展的必然趋向）。老兄，我进个忠告，不要老这样钻在书本里，多看看那些破罐子。风骚女人是有些好处的，呵，马吕斯！你老这样开溜，老这样脸嫩，你会变成个憨子。”
在另一些时候，古费拉克遇见了他，便对他说：
“你好，神甫先生。”
在古费拉克对他讲了这一类话以后，马吕斯整个星期都不敢见女人，无论是年轻的或年老的，他比以前任何时候都避得更厉害，尤其避免和古费拉克见面。
在整个广阔的宇宙间却有两个女人是马吕斯不逃避也不提防的。老实说，假使有人告诉他，说这是两个女人，他还会大吃一惊。一个是那替他打扫屋子的老妇人，因为她嘴上生了胡子，古费拉克曾经说：“马吕斯看见他的女用人已经留了胡子，所以他自己便不用留了。”另一个是个小姑娘，是他经常见到却从来不看的。
一年多以来，马吕斯发现在卢森堡公园里一条僻静的小路上，就是沿着苗圃石栏杆的那条小路上，有一个男子和一个很年轻的姑娘，几乎每次都是并排坐在靠近游人最少的西街那边的一条板凳上，从来不换地方。每次当机缘，那些只管眼睛朝里看的人散步时的机缘，把马吕斯引上这条小路时，也就是说，几乎每天引他上那儿时，他准能在老地方遇到那一老一小。那男子大致有六十来岁，他神情抑郁而严肃，他整个人表现出退伍军人的那种强健和疲乏的形相。假使他有一条勋带，马吕斯还会说：“这是个退伍军官。”他那神气是善良的，但又使人感到难于接近，他的目光从来不停留在别人的眼睛上。他穿一条蓝色长裤，一件蓝色骑马服，戴顶宽边帽，好象永远是新的，结一条黑领带，穿件教友派衬衫，就是说，那种白到耀眼的粗布衬衫。一天，有个俏女人打他身边走过，说道：“好一个干净的老光棍。”他的头发雪白。
那年轻姑娘，当她初次陪同他来坐在这条仿佛是他们的专用板凳上时，是个十三四岁的女娃，瘦到近乎难看，神情拙笨，毫无可取之处，只有一双眼睛也许还能变得秀丽。不过她抬起眼睛望人时，总有那么一种不懂得避嫌疑的神气，不怎么讨人喜欢。她的打扮是修道院里寄读生的那种派头，既象老妇人，又象小孩，穿一件不合身的黑色粗呢裙袍。看上去他们是父女俩。
马吕斯把这个还不能称为老头儿的老人和那个还没成人的小姑娘研究了两三天，便再也不去注意了。至于他们那方面，他俩似乎根本没有看见他。他们安安静静谈着话，全不注意旁人。那姑娘不停地又说又笑。老人不大开口，不时转过眼睛，满含着一种说不出的父爱望着她。
马吕斯已经养成机械的习惯，必定要到这小路上来散步。
他每次准能遇见他们。
事情的经过是这样的：
马吕斯最喜欢一直走到那条小路的尽头，他们的板凳对面。他在那条小路上，从一头走到一头，经过他们面前，再转身回到原处，接着又走回来。他每次散步，总得这样来回五六趟，而这样的散步，每星期又有五六次，可是那两个人和他却从来不曾打过一次招呼。那男子和那年轻姑娘，虽然他们好象有意要避开别人的注视，也许正因为他们有意要避开别人的注视，便自然而然地多少引起了五六个经常沿着苗圃散步的大学生的注意，有些是来作课后散步的用功学生，另一些是弹子打够了来散步的。古费拉克属于后者，也曾对他们留意观察了一些时候，但是觉得那姑娘生得丑，便很快地小心谨慎地避开了。他象帕尔特人①射回马箭那样，在逃走时射了个绰号。由于那小姑娘的裙袍和那老人的头发给他的印象特别深，因此他称那姑娘为“黑姑娘”，老人为“白先生”，谁也不知道他们姓啥名谁，没有真名，绰号便也成立了。那些大学生常说：“啊！白先生已在他的板凳上了！”马吕斯和他们一样，觉得称那不知名的先生为白先生也还方便。 
①帕尔特（Parthes），伊朗北部里海一带的古代游牧民族，以善于骑在马上向后射杀敌人著名。
我们仿效他们，为了叙述方便，也将称他为白先生。
这样，在最初一年当中，马吕斯几乎每天在同一钟点，总见到他们。他对那男子的印象不坏，对那姑娘却感到不怎么入眼。
Part 3 Book 6 Chapter 2 Lux Facta Est
During the second year, precisely at the point in this history which the reader has now reached, it chanced that this habit of the Luxembourg was interrupted, without Marius himself being quite aware why, and nearly six months elapsed, during which he did not set foot in the alley. One day, at last, he returned thither once more;it was a serene summer morning, and Marius was in joyous mood,as one is when the weather is fine. It seemed to him that he had in his heart all the songs of the birds that he was listening to,and all the bits of blue sky of which he caught glimpses through the leaves of the trees.
He went straight to "his alley," and when he reached the end of it he perceived, still on the same bench, that well-known couple.Only, when he approached, it certainly was the same man; but it seemed to him that it was no longer the same girl. The person whom he now beheld was a tall and beautiful creature, possessed of all the most charming lines of a woman at the precise moment when they are still combined with all the most ingenuous graces of the child; a pure and fugitive moment, which can be expressed only by these two words,--"fifteen years." She had wonderful brown hair, shaded with threads of gold, a brow that seemed made of marble, cheeks that seemed made of rose-leaf, a pale flush, an agitated whiteness, an exquisite mouth,whence smiles darted like sunbeams, and words like music, a head such as Raphael would have given to Mary, set upon a neck that Jean Goujon would have attributed to a Venus. And, in order that nothing might be lacking to this bewitching face, her nose was not handsome--it was pretty; neither straight nor curved, neither Italian nor Greek;it was the Parisian nose, that is to say, spiritual, delicate,irregular, pure,--which drives painters to despair, and charms poets.
When Marius passed near her, he could not see her eyes, which were constantly lowered. He saw only her long chestnut lashes,permeated with shadow and modesty.
This did not prevent the beautiful child from smiling as she listened to what the white-haired old man was saying to her,and nothing could be more fascinating than that fresh smile,combined with those drooping eyes.
For a moment, Marius thought that she was another daughter of the same man, a sister of the former, no doubt. But when the invariable habit of his stroll brought him, for the second time, near the bench, and he had examined her attentively, he recognized her as the same. In six months the little girl had become a young maiden; that was all.Nothing is more frequent than this phenomenon. There is a moment when girls blossom out in the twinkling of an eye, and become roses all at once. One left them children but yesterday; today, one finds them disquieting to the feelings.
This child had not only grown, she had become idealized. As three days in April suffice to cover certain trees with flowers,six months had sufficed to clothe her with beauty. Her April had arrived.
One sometimes sees people, who, poor and mean, seem to wake up, pass suddenly from indigence to luxury, indulge in expenditures of all sorts, and become dazzling, prodigal, magnificent, all of a sudden. That is the result of having pocketed an income; a note fell due yesterday. The young girl had received her quarterly income.
And then, she was no longer the school-girl with her felt hat, her merino gown, her scholar's shoes, and red hands; taste had come to her with beauty; she was a well-dressed person, clad with a sort of rich and simple elegance, and without affectation. She wore a dress of black damask, a cape of the same material,and a bonnet of white crape. Her white gloves displayed the delicacy of the hand which toyed with the carved, Chinese ivory handle of a parasol, and her silken shoe outlined the smallness of her foot. When one passed near her, her whole toilette exhaled a youthful and penetrating perfume.
As for the man, he was the same as usual.
The second time that Marius approached her, the young girl raised her eyelids; her eyes were of a deep, celestial blue, but in that veiled azure, there was, as yet, nothing but the glance of a child.She looked at Marius indifferently, as she would have stared at the brat running beneath the sycamores, or the marble vase which cast a shadow on the bench, and Marius, on his side, continued his promenade, and thought about something else.
He passed near the bench where the young girl sat, five or six times,but without even turning his eyes in her direction.
On the following days, he returned, as was his wont, to the Luxembourg;as usual, he found there "the father and daughter;" but he paid no further attention to them. He thought no more about the girl now that she was beautiful than he had when she was homely. He passed very near the bench where she sat, because such was his habit.
第二年，正是在本故事的读者刚读到的这个时刻，马吕斯常去卢森堡公园的习惯忽然中断了，他自己也不知道这是为了什么，几乎一连六个月没有到那条小路上去走过一步。可是，有一天，他又去了。那是在夏天的一个晴朗的上午。马吕斯心情欢畅，和风丽日给予人的感受正是如此。他仿佛觉得所有他听到的雀鸟唱和的声音，所有他从树叶中望见的片片蓝天全深入到了他的心里。
他直向“他的小路”走去。到了尽头，他又望见了那两个面熟的人，仍旧坐在从前的那条板凳上。不过当他走近时，那男子还是那男子，姑娘却不象是从前的那个了。现在在他眼前的是个秀长、美丽、有着女性已届成年却仍全部保有女孩那极尽天真情态的体形的最动人的人儿，这是倏忽和纯洁的时刻，要表达只能用这几个字：芳龄十五。那便是使人惊叹并夹着金丝纹的栗色头发，光洁如玉的额头，艳如一瓣蔷薇的双颊，晶莹的红，含羞的白，一张妙嘴，出来的笑声如同光明、语声如同音乐，一个让·古戎①要摹刻的维纳斯的颈子而拉斐尔要描绘的马利亚的头。并且，为了使动人的脸什么也不缺，那鼻子虽生得不美，却是生得漂亮的，不直不弯，非意大利型也非希腊型，而是巴黎型的鼻子，那就是说某种俏皮、秀气、不正规、纯净、使画家失望诗人迷惑的鼻子。 
①让·古戎（Jean　Goujon，1510?568），法国雕塑家和建筑学家。
马吕斯走过她身边，却没能看见她那双一直低垂着的眼睛。他只见到栗色的长睫毛，掩映着幽娴贞静的神态。
这并不妨碍她微笑着听那白发老人和她谈话，并且再没有什么比低着眼睛微笑更荡人心魂的了。
最初，马吕斯以为这是同一男子的另一个女儿，大致是从前那一个的姐姐。但是，当那一贯的散步习惯第二次引他到那板凳近旁，他留意打量以后才认出她还是原来的那一个。六个月，小姑娘已经变成了少女，如是而已。这种现象是极常见的。有那么一种时刻，姑娘们好象是忽然吐放的蓓蕾，一眨眼便成了一朵朵玫瑰。昨天人们还把她们当作孩子没理睬，今天重相见，已感到她们乱人心意了。
这一个不但长大了，而且理想化了。正如在四月里一样，三天的时间足使某些树木花开满枝，六个月已同样够使她周身秀美了。她的四月已经到来。
我们有时看见一些穷而吝啬的人，好象一觉醒来，忽然从赤贫转为巨富，一下子变得奢侈豪华。那是因为他们收到了一笔年金，昨天到了付款日期。这姑娘领到了一个季度的利息。
并且她已不是从前那个戴着棉绒帽子，穿件毛呢裙袍和双平底鞋，两手发红的寄读生，审美力已随容光的焕发来到了，她已是个打扮得简单、雅致、挺秀、脱俗的少女。她穿一件黑花缎裙袍，一件同样料子的短披风，戴一顶白绉纱帽子。白手套显出一双细长的手，手里玩着一把中国象牙柄的遮阳伞，一双缎鞋衬托出她脚的秀气。当人们走过她身边，她的全身衣着吐着青春的那种强烈香气。
至于那男子，还是从前那一个。
马吕斯再次走近她时，那姑娘抬起了眼睑。她的眼睛是深蓝色的，但是在这蒙蒙的天空中还只有孩子的神气。她自自然然地望着马吕斯，仿佛她望见的只是一个在槭树下跑着玩的孩子，或是照在那板凳上的一个云石花盆的影子，马吕斯也只管往前走，心里想着旁的事儿。
他在那年轻姑娘的板凳旁边又走了四五趟，连眼睛也没有向她转一下。
后来几天，他和平时一样，天天去卢森堡公园，和平时一样，他总在那地方见到那“父女俩”，但是他已不再注意了。
他在那姑娘变美了的时候并不比她丑的时候对她想得多些，他照旧紧挨着她坐的那条板凳旁边走过，因为这是他的习惯。
Part 3 Book 6 Chapter 3 Effect of the Spring
One day, the air was warm, the Luxembourg was inundated with light and shade, the sky was as pure as though the angels had washed it that morning, the sparrows were giving vent to little
twitters in the depths of the chestnut-trees. Marius had thrown open his whole soul to nature, he was not thinking of anything, he simply lived and breathed, he passed near the bench, the young girl raised her eyes to him, the two glances met.
What was there in the young girl's glance on this occasion? Marius could not have told. There was nothing and there was everything.It was a strange flash.
She dropped her eyes, and he pursued his way.
What he had just seen was no longer the ingenuous and simple eye of a child; it was a mysterious gulf which had half opened, then abruptly closed again.
There comes a day when the young girl glances in this manner.  Woe to him who chances to be there!　
That first gaze of a soul which does not, as yet, know itself, is like the dawn in the sky. It is the awakening of something radiant and strange. Nothing can give any idea of the dangerous
charm of that unexpected gleam, which flashes suddenly and vaguely forth from adorable shadows, and which is composed of all the innocence of the present, and of all the passion of the future. It is a sort of undecided tenderness which reveals itself by chance, and which waits. It is a snare which the innocent maiden sets unknown to herself, and in which she captures hearts without either wishing or knowing it. It is a virgin looking like a woman.
It is rare that a profound revery does not spring from that glance, where it falls. All purities and all candors meet in that celestial and fatal gleam which, more than all the best-planned tender glances of coquettes, possesses the magic power of causing the sudden blossoming, in the depths of the soul, of that sombre flower,impregnated with perfume and with poison, which is called love.　　
That evening, on his return to his garret, Marius cast his eyes over his garments, and perceived, for the first time, that he had been so slovenly, indecorous, and inconceivably stupid as to go for his walk in the Luxembourg with his "every-day clothes," that is to say, with a hat battered near the band, coarse carter's boots, black trousers which showed white at the knees, and a black coat which was pale at the elbows.
一天，空气温和，卢森堡公园中一片阳光和绿影，天空明净，仿佛天使们一早便把它洗过了似的，小鸟在栗林深处轻轻地叫着，马吕斯把整个胸怀向这良辰美景敞开了。他什么也不想，他活着，呼吸着。他从那条板凳旁边走过，那年轻姑娘抬起了眼睛向着他，他们两个人的目光碰在一起了。
这次在那年轻姑娘的目光里，有了什么呢？马吕斯搞不清楚。那里面什么也没有，可是什么也全在那里了，那是一种奇特的闪光。
她低下了眼睛，他也继续往前走。
他刚才见到的，不是一个孩子的那种天真单纯的眼光，而是一种奥秘莫测的深窟，稍稍张开了一线，接着又立即关闭了。
每一个少女都有这样望人的一天。谁碰上了，就该谁苦恼！
这种连自己也莫名其妙的心灵的最初一望，有如天边的曙光。不知是种什么灿烂的东西的醒觉。这种微光，乘人不备，突然从朦胧可爱的黑夜中隐隐地显现出来，半是现在的天真，半是未来的情爱，它那危险的魅力，绝不是言语所能形容的，那是一种在期待中偶然流露的迷离惝恍的柔情。是天真于无意中设下的陷阱，勾摄了别人的心，既非出于有意，自己也并不知道。那是一个以妇人的神情望人的处子。
在这种目光瞥到的地方，很少能不惹起连绵的梦想。所有的纯洁感情和所有的强烈欲念都集中在这一线天外飞来、操人生死的闪光里，远非妖冶妇女做作出来的那种绝妙秋波所能及，它的魔力能使人在灵魂深处突然开出一种奇香异毒的黑花，这便是人们所说的爱。
那天晚上，马吕斯回到他的破屋子里，对身上的衣服望了一眼，第一次发现自己邋里邋遢，不修边幅，穿着这样的“日常”衣服，就是说，戴一顶帽边丝带附近已破裂的帽子，穿双赶车夫的大靴，一条膝头泛白的黑长裤，一件肘弯发黄的黑上衣，却要到卢森堡公园里去散步，真是荒唐透了顶。
Part 3 Book 6 Chapter 4 Beginning of a Great Malady
On the following day, at the accustomed hour, Marius drew from his wardrobe his new coat, his new trousers, his new hat, and his new boots; he clothed himself in this complete panoply, put on his gloves, a tremendous luxury, and set off for the Luxembourg.
On the way thither, he encountered Courfeyrac, and pretended not to see him. Courfeyrac, on his return home, said to his friends:--
"I have just met Marius' new hat and new coat, with Marius inside them. He was going to pass an examination, no doubt.He looked utterly stupid."
On arriving at the Luxembourg, Marius made the tour of the fountain basin, and stared at the swans; then he remained for a long time in contemplation before a statue whose head was perfectly black with mould, and one of whose hips was missing. Near the basin there was a bourgeois forty years of age, with a prominent stomach, who was holding by the hand a little urchin of five, and saying to him: "Shun excess, my son, keep at an equal distance from despotism and from anarchy." Marius listened to this bourgeois. Then he made the circuit of the basin onur s in the sand, with the cane which he held in his hand.
Then he turned abruptly in the direction opposite to the bench,to M. Leblanc and his daughter, and went home.
That day he forgot to dine. At eight o'clock in the evening he perceived this fact, and as it was too late to go down to the Rue Saint-Jacques, he said: "Never mind!" and ate a bit of bread.<磿&X?the very top, pulled it down on his body so that there might be no wrinkles, examined, with a certain complaisance, the lustrous gleams of his trousers, and marched on the bench. This march savored of an attack, and certainly of a desire for conquest. So I say that he marched on the bench, as I should say: "Hannibal marched on Rome."
However, all his movements were purely mechanical, and he had interrupted none of the habitual preoccupations of his mind and labors. At that moment, he was thinking that the Manuel du Baccalaureat was a stupid book, and that it must have been drawn up by rare idiots, to allow of three tragedies of Racine and only one comedy of Moliere being analyzed therein as masterpieces of the human mind. There was a piercing whistling going on in his ears.  As he approached the bench, he held fast to the folds in his coat,and fixed his eyes on the young girl. It seemed to him that she filled the entire extremity of the alley with a vague blue light.
In proportion as he drew near, his pace slackened more and more.   On arriving at some little distance from the bench, and long before he had reached the end of the walk, he halted, and could not explain to himself why he retraced his steps. He did not even say to himself that he would not go as far as the end. It was only with difficulty that the young girl could have perceived him in the distance and noted his fine appearance in his new clothes. Nevertheless, he held himself very erect, in case any one should be looking at him from behind.
He attained the opposite end, then came back, and this time he approached a little nearer to the bench. He even got to within  three intervals of trees, but there he felt an indescribable impossibility of proceeding further, and he hesitated. He thought he saw the young girl's face bending towards him. But he exerted a manly and violent effort, subdued his hesitation, and walked straight ahead. A few seconds later, he rushed in front of the bench, erect and firm, reddening to the very ears, without daring to cast a glance either to the right or to the left, with his hand thrust into his coat like a statesman. At the moment when he passed,-- under the cannon of the place,--he felt his heart beat wildly. As on the preceding day, she wore her damask gown and her crape bonnet. He heard an ineffable voice, which must have been "her voice." She was talking tranquilly. She was very pretty. He felt it,although he made no attempt to see her. "She could not, however,"he thought, "help feeling esteem and consideration for me, if sheonly knew that I am the veritable author of the dissertation onMarcos Obregon de la Ronde, which M. Francois de Neufchateau put,as though it were his own, at the head of his edition of Gil Blas."He went beyond the bench as far as the extremity of the walk,which was very near, then turned on his heel and passed once more in front of the lovely girl. This time, he was very pale.Moreover, all his emotions were disagreeable. As he went further from the bench and the young girl, and while his back was turned to her, he fancied that she was gazing after him, and that made him stumble.
He did not attempt to approach the bench again; he halted near the middle of the walk, and there, a thing which he never did,he sat down, and reflecting in the most profoundly indistinct depths of his spirit, that after all, it was hard that persons whose white bonnet and black gown he admired should be absolutely insensible to his splendid trousers and his new coat.
At the expiration of a quarter of an hour, he rose, as though he were on the point of again beginning his march towards that bench which was surrounded by an aureole. But he remained standing there, motionless. For the first time in fifteen months, he said to himself that that gentleman who sat there every day with his daughter, had,on his side, noticed him, and probably considered his assiduity singular.
For the first time, also, he was conscious of some irreverence in designating that stranger, even in his secret thoughts, by the sobriquet of M. le Blanc.
He stood thus for several minutes, with drooping head, tracing figures in the sand, with the cane which he held in his hand.
Then he turned abruptly in the direction opposite to the bench,to M. Leblanc and his daughter, and went home.
That day he forgot to dine. At eight o'clock in the evening he perceived this fact, and as it was too late to go down to the Rue Saint-Jacques, he said: "Never mind!" and ate a bit of bread.
He did not go to bed until he had brushed his coat and folded it up with great care.
第二天，到了寻常的钟点，马吕斯从衣柜里拖出了他的新衣、新裤、新帽、新靴，他把这全副盔甲穿上身，戴上手套棗
骇人听闻的奢侈品，到卢森堡公园去。
半路上，他遇到古费拉克，只装作没看见。古费拉克回到家里对他的朋友们说：“我刚才遇见了马吕斯的新帽子和新衣服，里面裹着一个马吕斯。他一定是去参加考试。脸上一副傻相。”
到了公园，马吕斯围着喷水池绕了一圈，看天鹅，接着又站在一座满头黑霉并缺一块腰胯的塑像跟前，呆呆地望了许久。喷水池旁边，一个四十来岁的大肚子绅士，手里牵着一个五岁的孩子，对他说：“凡事不能过分，我的儿，应当站在专制主义和无政府主义的中间，不偏这边也不偏那边。”马吕斯细听着那老财谈论。随后，他又围着喷水池兜了个圈子。最后他才朝着“他的小路”走去，慢吞吞地，仿佛懊悔不该来，仿佛有谁在逼着他去阻止他去似的。他自己却一点也没有感到这一切，还自以为和平时一样在散步。
在走上那小路时，他望见路的尽头白先生和那姑娘已经坐在“他们的板凳”上了。他把自己的上衣一直扣到顶，挺起腰板，不让它有一丝皱折，略带满足的心情望了望长裤上光泽的反射，向那板凳进军。他的步伐带着一股冲锋陷阵的味道，想必也有旗开得胜的想望。因此我说，他向那板凳进军，正如我说汉尼拔向罗马进军。
此外，他的动作没有一个不是机械的，他也绝没有中断他平时精神方面和工作方面的思想活动。这时，他心里正在想：“《学士手册》确是一本荒谬的书，一定是出自一伙稀有蠢材的手笔，才会在谈到人类思想代表作时去对拉辛的三个悲剧作分析，而莫里哀的喜剧反而只分析一个。”他耳朵里起了一阵尖锐的叫声。他一面朝板凳走去，一面拉平衣服上的皱折，两眼盯住那姑娘。他仿佛看见她把整个小路尽头都洒满了蓝色的光辉。
他越往前走，他的脚步也越慢。他走到离板凳还有相当距离，离小路尽头还很远的地方，忽然停了下来，连他自己也不知道是怎么回事，竟转身走回来了。他心里一点也没想过不要再往前走。很难说那姑娘是否从远处望见了他，是否看清了他穿上新衣的漂亮风度。可是他仍旧把腰板挺得笔直，以备万一有人从他后面望来，他仍是好样儿的。
他走到了这一端的尽头，再往回走，这一次，离板凳比较近了。他居然到达相隔还有三棵树的地方，这里，不知为什么，他感到确实无法再前进，心里迟疑起来了。他认为已看到那姑娘把脸转向了他。于是他作一番心雄气壮的努力，解除了顾虑，继续往前走。几秒钟后，他从那板凳前面走过，身躯笔直，意志坚强，连耳朵也涨红了，不敢向右看一眼，也不敢向左看一眼，一只手插在衣襟里，象个政府要人。当他走过……那炮台的时候，他感到心跳得真难受。她呢，和昨天一样，花缎裙袍，绉纱帽。他听到一种形容不出的谈话声音，那一定是“她的声音”了。她正在安详地谈着话。她长得美极了。这是他感到的，他并不曾打算要看她。他心里想道：“她一定不能不敬重我，假使她知道弗朗沙·德·纳夫夏多先生出版的《吉尔·布拉斯》前面那篇关于马可·奥白尔贡·德·拉龙达的论文是冒用的，而真正的作者却是我！”
他走过了板凳，直到相距不远的尽头，接着又回头，再次经过那美丽姑娘的面前。这次，他的脸白得象张纸。他的感受也完全不是味儿。他离开了那条板凳和那姑娘，背对着她，却感到她正在打量自己，这一想象几乎使他摔倒。
他不想再到那板凳近旁去试了，走到小路中段便停下来，并且，破天荒第一次，在那里坐下了，斜着眼睛朝一边频频偷看，在极端模糊的精神状态中深深地在想，他既然羡慕别人的白帽子和黑裙袍，别人也就很难对他那条发亮的长裤和那件新上衣完全无动于衷。
坐了一刻钟，他站起来，仿佛又要向那条被宝光笼罩着的板凳走去。可是他立看不动。十五个月以来第一次，他心里想到那位天天陪着女儿坐在那里的先生也许已经注意他，并会觉得他这样殷勤有些古怪。
也是第一次，他感到用“白先生”这个绰号，即使是在心里去称呼这个不相识的人，多少也有些不恭敬。
他这样低着头，呆想了几分钟，同时用手里的一根棍子在沙上画了许多画。
随后，他突然转身过来，背对着那条板凳以及白先生和他的女儿，一径回家去了。
那天他忘了吃晚饭。晚上八点钟，他才想起来，但是时间已经太迟，不用再去圣雅克街了，他说：“嘿！”吃了一块面包。
他刷净衣服裤子，仔仔细细叠好，然后上床睡了。
Part 3 Book 6 Chapter 6 Taken Prisoner
On one of the last days of the second week, Marius was seated on his bench, as usual, holding in his hand an open book, of which he had not turned a page for the last two hours. All at once he started. An event was taking place at the other extremity of the walk. Leblanc and his daughter had just left their seat, and the daughter had taken her father's arm, and both were advancing slowly, towards the middle of the alley where Marius was. Marius closed his book,then opened it again, then forced himself to read; he trembled;the aureole was coming straight towards him. "Ah! good Heavens!"thought he, "I shall not have time to strike an attitude." Still the how, by some portion of your thought which was fluttering loose, by some distraction which had attacked you. You are lost. The whole of you passes into it. A chain of mysterious forces takes possession of you. You struggle in vain; no more human succor is possible. You go on falling from gearing to gearing, from agony to agony,from torture to torture, you, your mind, your fortune, your future,your soul; and, according to whether you are in the power of a wicked creature, or of a noble heart, you will not escape from this terrifying machine otherwise than disfigured with shame,or transfigured by passion.
He felt his brain on fire. She had come to him, what joy! And then, how she had looked at him! She appeared to him more beautiful than he had ever seen her yet. Beautiful with a beauty which was wholly feminine and angelic, with a complete beauty which would have made Petrarch sing and Dante kneel. It seemed to him that he was floating free in the azure heavens. At the same time,he was horribly vexed because there was dust on his boots.
He thought he felt sure that she had looked at his boots too.
He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared. Then he started up and walked about the Luxembourg garden like a madman. It is possible that, at times, he laughed to himself and talked aloud. He was so dreamy when he came near the children's nurses, that each one of them thought him in love with her.
He quitted the Luxembourg, hoping to find her again in the street. He encountered Courfeyrac under the arcades of the Odeon, and said to him: "Come and dine with me." They went off to Rousseau's and spent six francs. Marius ate like an ogre. He gave the waiter six sous. At dessert, he said to Courfeyrac. "Have you read the paper? What a fine discourse Audry de Puyraveau delivered!"
He was desperately in love.
After dinner, he said to Courfeyrac: "I will treat you to the play."  They went to the Porte-Sainte-Martin to see Frederick in l'Auberge des Adrets. Marius was enormously amused.
At the same time, he had a redoubled attack of shyness.  On emerging from the theatre, he refused to look at the garter of a modiste who was stepping across a gutter, and Courfeyrac,who said: "I should like to put that woman in my collection,"almost horrified him.
Courfeyrac invited him to breakfast at the Cafe Voltaire on the following morning. Marius went thither, and ate even more than on the preceding evening. He was very thoughtful and very merry. One would have said that he was taking advantage of every occasion to laugh uproariously. He tenderly embraced some man or other from the provinces, who was presented to him. A circle of students formed round the table, and they spoke of the nonsense paid for by the State which was uttered from the rostrum in the Sorbonne, then the conversation fell upon the faults and omissions in Guicherat's dictionaries and grammars. Marius interrupted the discussion to exclaim: "But it is very agreeable, all the same to have the cross!"　　
"That's queer!" whispered Courfeyrac to Jean Prouvaire.
"No," responded Prouvaire, "that's serious."
It was serious; in fact, Marius had reached that first violent and charming hour with which grand passions begin.
A glance had wrought all this.
When the mine is charged, when the conflagration is ready, nothing is more simple. A glance is a spark.
It was all over with him. Marius loved a woman. His fate was entering the unknown.　
The glance of women resembles certain combinations of wheels, which are tranquil in appearance yet formidable. You pass close to them every day, peaceably and with impunity, and without a suspicion of anything. A moment arrives when you forget that the thing is there. You go and come, dream, speak, laugh. All at once you feel yourself clutched; all is over. The wheels hold you fast, the glance has ensnared you. It has caught you, no matter where or how, by some portion of your thought which was fluttering loose, by some distraction which had attacked you. You are lost. The whole of you passes into it. A chain of mysterious forces takes possession of you. You struggle in vain; no more human succor is possible. You go on falling from gearing to gearing, from agony to agony,from torture to torture, you, your mind, your fortune, your future,your soul; and, according to whether you are in the power of a wicked creature, or of a noble heart, you will not escape from this terrifying machine otherwise than disfigured with shame,or transfigured by passion.
在第二个星期最后几天中的一天，马吕斯照常坐在他的板凳上，手里拿着一本书，打开已经两个钟头了，却一页还没有翻过。他忽然吃了一惊。在那小路的那一头发生了一件大事。白先生和他的女儿刚刚离开了他们的板凳，姑娘挽着她父亲的手臂，两个人一同朝着小路的中段，马吕斯所在的地方，慢慢走来了。马吕斯连忙合上他的书，继又把它打开，继又强迫自己阅读。他浑身发抖。那团宝光直向他这面来了。“啊！我的天主！”他想，“我再也来不及摆出一个姿势了。”这时，那白发男子和姑娘向前走着。他仿佛觉得这事将延续一个世纪，同时又感到只要一秒钟便完了。“他们到这边来干什么？”他问他自己，“怎么！她要走过这儿！她的脚会在这沙子上踩过去，会在这小路上，离我两步远的地方走过去！”他心慌得厉害，他多么希望自己是个极美的男子，他多么希望自己能有一个十字勋章。他听到他们脚步的软柔、有节奏的声音越来越近了。他想白先生一定瞪着一双生气的眼睛在望他。他想道：“难道这位先生要来找我的麻烦不成？”他把头埋了下去；当他重行抬起头来时，他们已到了他身边。那姑娘走过去了，一面望着他一面走过去。她带一种若有所思的和蔼神情，定定地望着他，使马吕斯从头颤抖到脚。他仿佛觉得她是在责备他这么多天不到她那边去，并且是在对他说：“我只好找来了。”马吕斯面对这双光辉四射、深不可测的眸子，心慌目眩，呆呆地发愣。
他感到在他脑子里燃起了一团炽炭。她居然来就他，多大的喜悦啊！并且她又是怎样望着他的呵！她的相貌，比起他从前见到的显得更加美丽了。她的美是由女性美和天仙美合成的，是要使彼特拉克①歌唱、但丁拜倒的完全的美。他好象已在遨游碧空了。同时他又感到事不凑巧，心里好不难过，因为他的靴子上有尘土。 
①彼特拉克（Pétrarque，1304?374），文艺复兴时期杰出的意大利诗人。
毫无疑问他认为她一定也注视过他的靴子。
他用眼睛伴送着她，直到望不见她的时候。随后，他象个疯子似的在公园里走来走去。很可能他曾多次独自大笑，大声说话。他在那些领孩子的保姆跟前显得那么心事重重，使她们每个人都认为他爱上了自己。
他跑出公园，希望能在街上遇到她。
他在奥德翁戏院的走廊下碰见了古费拉克，他说：“我请你吃晚饭。”他们去到卢梭店里，花了六个法郎。马吕斯象饿鬼似的吃了一顿，给了堂倌六个苏。在进甜食时，他对古费拉克说：“你读过报纸了？奥德利·德·比拉弗①的那篇讲演多么漂亮！”
他已经爱到了神魂颠倒的地步。
晚饭后，他又对古费拉克说：“我请你看戏。”他们走到圣马尔丹门去看弗雷德里克演《阿德雷客店》。马吕斯看得兴高采烈。
同时，他也比平日显得格外腼腆。他们走出戏院时，有个做帽子的女工正跨过一条水沟，他避而下看她的吊袜带，当时古费拉克说：“我很乐意把这女人收在我的集子里。”他几乎感到恶心。
第二天，古费拉克邀他到伏尔泰咖啡馆吃午饭。马吕斯去了，比前一晚吃得更多。他好象有满腹心事，却又非常愉快。仿佛他要抓住一切机会来扯开嗓子狂笑。有人把一个不相干的外省人介绍给他，他竟一往情深地拥抱他。许多同学走来挤在他们的桌子周围，大家谈了些关于由国家出钱收买到巴黎大学讲坛上散播的傻话，继又谈到多种词典和基什拉②诗律学中的错误和漏洞。马吕斯忽然打断大家的谈话大声嚷道：“能搞到一个十字勋章，那才惬意呐！” 
①奥德利·德·比拉弗，当时夏朗德省极左派议员。
②基什拉（Quicherat，1799?884），法国哲学家，文字学家。
“这真滑稽！”古费拉克低声对让·勃鲁维尔说。
“不，”让·勃鲁维尔回答，“这真严重。”
确实严重。马吕斯正处在狂烈感情前期那惊心动魄的阶段。
这全是望了一眼的后果。
当炸药已装好，引火物已备妥，这就再简单也没有了。一盼便是一粒火星。
全完了。马吕斯爱上了一个女人。他的命运进入了未知的境地。
女性的那一眼很象某些成套的齿轮，外表平静，力量却猛不可当。人每天安安稳稳、平安无事地打它旁边走过，并不怀疑会发生什么意外，有时甚至会忘记身边的这样东西。大家走来走去，胡思乱想，有说有笑。突然一下有人感到被夹住了，全完了。那齿轮把你拖住了，那一眼把你勾住了。它勾住了你，无论勾住什么地方，怎样勾住你的，勾住你拖沓的思想的一角也好，勾住你一时的大意也好棗你算是完了。你整个人将滚进去。一连串神秘的力量控制着你。你挣扎，毫无用处。人力已无能为力。你将从一个齿轮转到另一个齿轮，一层烦恼转到另一层烦恼，一场痛苦转到另一场痛苦，你，你的精神，你的财富，你的前途，你的灵魂，而且，还得看你是落在一个性情凶恶的人手里还是落在一个心地高尚的人手里，你将来从这骇人的机器里出来时只能羞惭满面，不成人形，或是被这狂烈感情改变得面目一新。
Part 3 Book 6 Chapter 7 Adventures of the Letter U delivered over to Conjectures
Isolation, detachment, from everything, pride, independence, the taste of nature, the absence of daily and material activity,the life within himself, the secret conflicts of chastity,a benevolent ecstasy towards all creation, had prepared Marius for this possession which is called passion. His worship of his father had gradually become a religion, and, like all religions, it had retreated to the depths of his soul. Something was required in the foreground. Love came.
A full month elapsed, during which Marius went every day to the Luxembourg. When the hour arrived, nothing could hold him back.--"He is on duty," said Courfeyrac. Marius lived in a state of delight. It is certain that the young girl did look at him.
He had finally grown bold, and approached the bench. Still, he did not pass in front of it any more, in obedience to the instinct of timidity and to the instinct of prudence common to lovers. He considered it better not to attract "the attention of the father." He combined his stations behind the trees and the pedestals of the statues with a profound diplomacy, so that he might be seen as much as possible by the young girl and as little as possible by the old gentleman. Sometimes, he remained motionless by the half-hour together in the shade of a Leonidas or a Spartacus, holding in his hand a book, above which his eyes, gently raised,sought the beautiful girl, and she, on her side, turned her charming profile towards him with a vague smile. While conversing in the most natural and tranquil manner in the world with the white-haired man,she bent upon Marius all the reveries of a virginal and passionate eye. Ancient and time-honored manoeuvre which Eve understood from the very first day of the world, and which every woman understands from the very first day of her life! her mouth replied to one, and her glance replied to another.
It must be supposed, that M. Leblanc finally noticed something, for often, when Marius arrived, he rose and began to walk about. He had abandoned their accustomed place and had adopted the bench by the Gladiator, near the other end of the walk, as though with the object of seeing whether Marius would pursue them thither. Marius did not understand, and committed this error. "The father" began to grow inexact, and no longer brought "his daughter" every day. Sometimes, he came alone. Then Marius did not stay. Another blunder.
Marius paid no heed to these symptoms. From the phase of timidity, he had passed, by a natural and fatal progress, to the phase of blindness. His love increased. He dreamed of it every night. And then, an unexpected bliss had happened to him, oil on the fire,a redoubling of the shadows over his eyes. One evening, at dusk,he had found, on the bench which "M. Leblanc and his daughter"had just quitted, a handkerchief, a very simple handkerchief,without embroidery, but white, and fine, and which seemed to him to exhale ineffable perfume. He seized it with rapture.This handkerchief was marked with the letters U. F. Marius knew nothing about this beautiful child,--neither her family name,her Christian name nor her abode; these two letters were the first thing of her that he had gained possession of, adorable initials,upon which he immediately began to construct his scaffolding.U was evidently the Christian name. "Ursule!" he thought,"what a delicious name!" He kissed the handkerchief, drank it in,placed it on his heart, on his flesh, during the day, and at night,laid it beneath his lips that he might fall asleep on it.
"I feel that her whole soul lies within it!" he exclaimed.
This handkerchief belonged to the old gentleman, who had simply let it fall from his pocket.
In the days which followed the finding of this treasure, he only displayed himself at the Luxembourg in the act of kissing the handkerchief and laying it on his heart. The beautiful child understood nothing of all this, and signified it to him by imperceptible signs.
"O modesty!" said Marius.
孤单，和一切脱节，傲气，独立性格，对自然界的爱好，物质方面日常活动的缺少，与世隔绝的生活，为洁身自好而进行的秘密斗争，对天地万物的爱慕，这一切都为马吕斯准备了被狂烈感情控制的条件。对他父亲的崇拜已逐渐变成一种宗教信仰，并且，和任何宗教信仰一样，已退藏在灵魂深处了。表层总还得有点什么，于是爱情便乘虚而入。
整整一个月过去了，在这期间，马吕斯天天去卢森堡公园。时间一到，什么也不能阻挡他。古费拉克常说他“上班去了”。马吕斯生活在好梦中。毫无疑问，那姑娘常在注视他。
到后来，他能放大胆逐渐靠近那条板凳了。但是他仍同时服从情人们那种怯弱和谨慎的本能，不再往前移动。他意识到不引起“父亲的注意”是有好处的。他运用一种深得马基雅弗利主义的策略，把他的据点布置在树和塑像底座的后面，让那姑娘很可能见到他，也让那老先生很不可能见到他。有时，在整整半个钟点里，他一动不动，待在任何一个莱翁尼达斯或任何一个斯巴达克的阴影①里，手里拿着一本书，眼睛却从书本上微微抬起，去找那美丽的姑娘，她呢，也带着不明显的微笑，把她那动人的侧影转向他这边。她一面和那白发男子极自然极安详地谈着话，一面又以热情的处女神态把一切梦想传达给马吕斯。这是由来已久的老把戏，夏娃在混沌初开的第一天便已知道，每个女人在生命开始的第一天也都知道。她的嘴在回答这一个，她的眼睛却在回答那一个。 
①莱翁尼达斯和斯巴达克都是公园里的塑像。　
但也应当相信，到后来白先生还是有所察觉的，因为，常常马吕斯一到，他便站起来走动。他放弃了他们常坐的地方转到小路的另一端，选择了那个角斗士塑像附近的一条板凳，仿佛是要看看马吕斯会不会跟随他们。马吕斯一点不懂，居然犯了这个错误。那“父亲”开始变得不准时了，也不再每天都领“他的女儿”来了。有时他独自一个人来。马吕斯见了便不再待下去。这又是一个错误。
马吕斯毫不注意这些征兆。他已从胆小期进入盲目期，这是自然的和必然的进步。他的爱情在发展中。他每晚都梦见这些事。此外他还遇到一件意外的喜事，火上加油，他的眼睛更加瞎了。一天，黄昏时候，他在“白先生和他女儿”刚刚离开的板凳上拾到一块手帕。一块极简单的手帕，没有绣花，但是白洁，细软，微微发出一种无以名之的芳香。他心花怒放地把它收了起来。手帕上有两个字母U．F．，马吕斯一点也不知道这个美丽的孩子的情况，她的家庭，她的名字，她的住处，全不知道，这两个字母是他得到的属于她的第一件东西，从这两个可爱的起首字母上，他立即开始营造他的空中楼阁。U当然是教名了。“Ursule！”（玉秀儿！）他想，“一个多么美妙的名字！”他吻着那手帕，闻它，白天，把它放在贴胸的心坎上，晚上，便压在嘴唇下面睡。
“我在这里闻到了她的整个灵魂！”他兴奋地说。
这手帕原是那老先生的，偶然从他衣袋里掉出来罢了。
在拾得这宝物后的几天中，他一到公园便吻那手帕，把它压在胸口。那美丽的孩子一点也不懂这是什么意思，连连用一些察觉不出的动作向他表示。
“害羞了！”马吕斯说。
Part 3 Book 6 Chapter 8 The Veterans themselves can be Happy
Since we have pronounced the word modesty, and since we conceal nothing, we ought to say that once, nevertheless, in spite of his ecstasies, "his Ursule" caused him very serious grief. It was on one of the days when she persuaded M. Leblanc to leave the bench and stroll along the walk. A brisk May breeze was blowing, which swayed the crests of the plaintain-trees. The father and daughter, arm in arm, had just passed Marius' bench. Marius had risen to his feet behind them, and was following them with his eyes, as was fitting in the desperate situation of his soul.
All at once, a gust of wind, more merry than the rest, and probably charged with performing the affairs of Springtime, swept down from the nursery, flung itself on the alley, enveloped the young girl in a delicious shiver, worthy of Virgil's nymphs, and the fawns of Theocritus, and lifted her dress, the robe more sacred than that of Isis, almost to the height of her garter. A leg of exquisite shape appeared. Marius saw it. He was exasperated and furious.
The young girl had hastily thrust down her dress, with a divinely troubled motion, but he was none the less angry for all that. He was alone in the alley, it is true. But there might have been some one there. And what if there had been some one there! Can any one comprehend such a thing? What she had just done is horrible!--Alas, the poor child had done nothing; there had been but one culprit, the wind; but Marius, in whom quivered the Bartholo who exists in Cherubin,was determined to be vexed, and was jealous of his own shadow. It is thus, in fact, that the harsh and capricious jealousy of the flesh awakens in the human heart, and takes possession of it,even without any right. Moreover, setting aside even that jealousy,the sight of that charming leg had contained nothing agreeable for him;the white stocking of the first woman he chanced to meet would have afforded him more pleasure.
When "his Ursule," after having reached the end of the walk,retraced her steps with M. Leblanc, and passed in front of the bench on which Marius had seated himself once more, Marius darted a sullen and ferocious glance at her. The young girl gave way to that slight straightening up with a backward movement, accompanied by a raising of the eyelids, which signifies: "Well, what is the matter?"
This was "their first quarrel."
Marius had hardly made this scene at her with his eyes, when some one crossed the walk. It was a veteran, very much bent, extremely wrinkled, and pale, in a uniform of the Louis XV. pattern, bearing on his breast the little oval plaque of red cloth, with the crossed swords, the soldier's cross of Saint-Louis,and adorned, in addition, with a coat-sleeve, which had no arm within it, with a silver chin and a wooden leg. Marius thought he perceived that this man had an extremely well satisfied air. It even struck him that the aged cynic, as he hobbled along past him, addressed to him a very fraternal and very merry wink,as though some chance had created an understanding between them,and as though they had shared some piece of good luck together.What did that relic of Mars mean by being so contented? What had passed between that wooden leg and the other? Marius reached a paroxysm of jealousy.--"Perhaps he was there!" he said to himself; "perhaps he saw!"--And he felt a desire to exterminate the veteran.
With the aid of time, all points grow dull. Marius' wrath against "Ursule," just and legitimate as it was, passed off. He finally pardoned her; but this cost him a great effort; he sulked for three days.
Nevertheless, in spite of all this, and because of all this,his passion augmented and grew to madness.
我们既已提到“害羞”这个词儿，既然什么也不打算隐藏，我们便应当说，有一次，正当他痴心向往的时候，“他的玉秀儿”可给了他一场极严重的苦痛。在这些日子里，她常要求白先生离开座位，到小路上去走走，事情便是在这些日子里发生的。那天，春末夏初的和风吹得正有劲，摇晃着悬铃木的梢头。父亲和女儿，挽着手臂，刚从马吕斯的坐凳跟前走了过去。马吕斯在他们背后站了起来，用眼睛跟着他们，这在神魂颠倒的情况下是会做出来的。
忽然来了一阵风，吹得特别轻狂，也许负有什么春神的使命，从苗圃飞来，落在小路上，裹住了那姑娘，惹起她一身寒噤，使人忆及维吉尔的林泉女仙和泰奥克利特①的牧羊女那妩媚的姿态，这风竟把她的裙袍，比伊希斯②的神衣更为神圣的裙袍掀起来，几乎到了吊袜带的高度。一条美不胜收的腿露了出来。马吕斯见了大为冒火，怒不可遏。 
①泰奥克利特（Théocrite），希腊诗人，生于公元前四世纪。
②伊希斯（Isis），埃及女神，是温存之妻的象征。　
那姑娘以一种天仙似的羞恼动作，连忙把裙袍拂下去，但是他并没有因此而息怒。他是独自一人在那小路上，这没错。但也可能还有旁人。万一真有旁人在呢？这种样子真是太不成话！她刚才那种行为怎能不叫人生气！唉！可怜的孩子并没有做错什么，这里唯一的罪人是风，但是马吕斯心里的爱火和妒意正在交相煎逼，他下决心非生气不可，连对自己的影子也妒嫉。这种苦涩离奇的妒嫉确是会这样从人的心里冒出来，并且无缘无故强迫人去消受。另外，即使去掉这种妒嫉心，那条腿的动人形相对他来说也丝毫没有什么可喜的，任何一个女人的白长袜也许更能引起他的兴趣来。
当“他的玉秀儿”从那小路尽头转回来时，马吕斯已坐在他的板凳上，她随着白先生走过他跟前，马吕斯瞪起一双蛮不讲理的眼睛对她狠狠望了一眼。那姑娘把身体向后微微挺了一下，同时也张了一下眼皮，意思仿佛说：“怎么了，有什么事？”
这是他们的“初次争吵”。
正好在马吕斯用眼睛和她闹性子时，小路上又过来一个人。那是个残废军人，背驼得厉害，满脸皱皮，全白的头发，穿一身路易十五时期的军服，胸前有一块椭圆形的小红呢牌子，上面是两把交叉的剑，这便是大兵们的圣路易十字勋章，他另外还挂一些别的勋章：一只没有手臂的衣袖、一个银下巴和一条木腿。马吕斯认为已经看出这人的神气是极其得意的。他甚至认为仿佛已看见这刻薄鬼在一步一拐地打他身边走过时对他非常亲昵、非常快乐地挤了一下眼睛，似乎有个什么偶然机会曾把他俩串连到一起，共同享受一种意外的异味。这战神的废料，他有什么事值得这么高兴呢？这条木腿和那条腿之间发生了什么事呢？马吕斯醋劲大发。“刚才他也许正在这儿，”他心里想，“他也许真看见了。”他恨不得把那残废军人消灭掉。
时间能磨秃利器的锋尖。马吕斯对“玉秀儿”的怒火，不管它是多么公正，多么合法，终于熄灭了。他到底谅解了，但是得先经过一番很大的努力，他一连赌了三天气。
可是，经过这一切，也正因为这一切，那狂烈的感情更加炽热了，成了疯狂的感情。
Part 3 Book 6 Chapter 9 Eclipse
The reader has just seen how Marius discovered, or thought that he discovered, that She was named Ursule.
Appetite grows with loving. To know that her name was Ursule was a great deal; it was very little. In three or four weeks,Marius had devoured this bliss. He wanted another. He wanted to know where she lived.
He had committed his first blunder, by falling into the ambush of the bench by the Gladiator. He had committed a second, by not remaining at the Luxembourg when M. Leblanc came thither alone. He now committed a third, and an immense one. He followed "Ursule."
She lived in the Rue de l'Ouest, in the most unfrequented spot,in a new, three-story house, of modest appearance.
From that moment forth, Marius added to his happiness of seeing her at the Luxembourg the happiness of following her home.
His hunger was increasing. He knew her first name, at least,a charming name, a genuine woman's name; he knew where she lived;he wanted to know who she was.
One evening, after he had followed them to their dwelling,and had seen them disappear through the carriage gate, he entered in their train and said boldly to the porter:--
"Is that the gentleman who lives on the first floor, who has just come in?"
"No," replied the porter. "He is the gentleman on the third floor."
Another step gained. This success emboldened Marius.
"On the front?" he asked.
"Parbleu!" said the porter, "the house is only built on the street."
"And what is that gentleman's business?" began Marius again.
"He is a gentleman of property, sir. A very kind man who does good to the unfortunate, though not rich himself."
"What is his name?" resumed Marius.
The porter raised his head and said:--
"Are you a police spy, sir?"
Marius went off quite abashed, but delighted. He was getting on.
"Good," thought he, "I know that her name is Ursule, that she is the daughter of a gentleman who lives on his income, and that she lives there, on the third floor, in the Rue de l'Ouest."
On the following day, M. Leblanc and his daughter made only a very brief stay in the Luxembourg; they went away while it was still broad daylight. Marius followed them to the Rue de l'Ouest, as he had taken up the habit of doing. On arriving at the carriage entrance M. Leblanc made his daughter pass in first, then paused,before crossing the threshold, and stared intently at Marius.
On the next day they did not come to the Luxembourg. Marius waited for them all day in vain.
At nightfall, he went to the Rue de l'Ouest, and saw a light in the windows of the third story.
He walked about beneath the windows until the light was extinguished.
The next day, no one at the Luxembourg. Marius waited all day,then went and did sentinel duty under their windows. This carried him on to ten o'clock in the evening.
His dinner took care of itself. Fever nourishes the sick man,and love the lover.
He spent a week in this manner. M. Leblanc no longer appeared at the Luxembourg.
Marius indulged in melancholy conjectures; he dared not watch the porte cochere during the day; he contented himself with going at night to gaze upon the red light of the windows. At times he saw shadows flit across them, and his heart began to beat.
On the eighth day, when he arrived under the windows, there was no light in them.
"Hello!" he said, "the lamp is not lighted yet. But it is dark. Can they have gone out?" He waited until ten o'clock. Until midnight. Until one in the morning. Not a light appeared in the windows of the third story, and no one entered the house.
He went away in a very gloomy frame of mind.
On the morrow,--for he only existed from morrow to morrow,there was, so to speak, no to-day for him,--on the morrow,he found no one at the Luxembourg; he had expected this. At dusk,he went to the house.
No light in the windows; the shades were drawn; the third floor was totally dark.
Marius rapped at the porte cochere, entered, and said to the porter:--
"The gentleman on the third floor?"
"Has moved away," replied the porter.
Marius reeled and said feebly:--
"How long ago?"
"Yesterday."
"Where is he living now?"
"I don't know anything about it."
"So he has not left his new address?"
"No."
And the porter, raising his eyes, recognized Marius.
"Come! So it's you!" said he; "but you are decidedly a spy then?"
我们刚才已看到马吕斯是怎样发现，或自以为发现了她的名字叫玉秀儿。
胃口越爱越大。知道她叫玉秀儿，这已经不坏，但是还太少。马吕斯饱啖这一幸福已有三或四个星期。他要求另一幸福。他要知道她住在什么地方。
他犯过第一次错误：曾在那角斗士旁边的板凳附近中计。他犯了第二次错误：白先生单独去公园，他便不待下去。他还要犯第三次错误，绝大的错误，他跟踪“玉秀儿”。
她住在西街行人最少的地方，一栋外表朴素的四层新楼房里。
从这时起，马吕斯在他那公园中相见的幸福之外又添了种一直跟她到家的幸福。
他的食量增加了。他已经知道她的名字，她的教名，至少，那悦耳的名字，那个真正的女性的名字，他也知道了她住在什么地方，他还要知道她是谁。
一天傍晚，他跟着他们到了家，看见他们从大门进去以后，接着他也跟了进去，对那看门的大模大样地说：
“刚才回家的是二楼上的那位先生吗？”
“不是，”看门的回答说，“是四楼上的先生。”
又进了一步。这一成绩壮了马吕斯的胆。
“是住在临街这面的吗？”
“什么临街不临街，”看门的说，“这房子只有临街的一面。”
“这先生是干什么事的？”马吕斯又问。
“是靠年金生活的人，先生。一个非常好的人，虽然不很阔，却能对穷人作些好事。”
“他叫什么名字？”马吕斯又问。
那门房抬起了头，说道：
“先生是个密探吧？”
马吕斯很难为情，走了，但是心里相当高兴。因为他又有了收获。
“好，”他心里想，“我知道她叫‘玉秀儿’，是个有钱人的女儿，住在这里，西街，四楼。”
第二天，白先生和他的女儿只在卢森堡公园待了不大一会儿，他们离开时，天还很亮。马吕斯跟着他们到西街，这已成了习惯。走到大门口，白先生让女儿先进去，他自己在跨门坎以前，停下来回头对着马吕斯定定地看了一眼。
次日，他们没有来公园。马吕斯白等了一整天。
天黑以后，他到西街去，看见第四层的窗子上有灯光，便在窗子下面走来走去，直到熄灯。
再过一日，公园里没人。马吕斯又等了一整天，然后再到那些窗户下面去巡逻，直到十点。晚饭是谈不上了。高烧养病人，爱情养情人。
这样过了八天。白先生和他的女儿不再在卢森堡公园出现了。马吕斯无精打采地胡思乱想，他不敢白天去张望那扇大门，只好在晚上以仰望窗口玻璃片上带点红色的灯光来满足自己。有时见到人影在窗子里走动，他的心便跳个不停。第八天，他走到窗子下面，却不见灯光。“咦！”他说，“还没有点灯，可是天已经黑了，难道他们出去了？”他一直等到十点，等到午夜，等到凌晨一点。四楼窗口还是没有灯亮，也不见有人回来。他垂头丧气地走了。
第二天棗因为他现在是老靠第二天过活的，可以说他已无所谓有今天了棗第二天，他又去公园，谁也没遇见，他在那儿等下去，傍晚时又到那楼房下面。窗子上一点光也没有，板窗也关上了，整个第四层是漆黑的。
马吕斯敲敲大门，走进去问那看门的：
“四楼上的那位先生呢？”
“搬了。”看门的回答。
马吕斯晃了一下，有气无力地问道：
“几时搬的？”
“昨天。”
“他现在住在什么地方？”
“我不知道。”
“他没把新地址留下？”
“没有。”
看门的抬起鼻子，认出了马吕斯。
“嘿！是您！”他说，“您肯定是个探子。”
Part 3 Book 7 Chapter 1 Mines and Miners
Human societies all have what is called in theatrical parlance, a third lower floor. The social soil is everywhere undermined, sometimes for good, sometimes for evil. These works are superposed one upon the other. There are superior mines and inferior mines. There is a top and a bottom in this obscure sub-soil, which sometimes gives way beneath civilization, and which our indifference and heedlessness trample under foot. The Encyclopedia, in the last century,was a mine that was almost open to the sky. The shades, those sombre hatchers of primitive Christianity, only awaited an opportunity to bring about an explosion under the Caesars and to inundate the human race with light. For in the sacred shadows there lies latent light. Volcanoes are full of a shadow that is capable of flashing forth. Every form begins by being night. The catacombs, in which the first mass was said, were not alone the cellar of Rome, they were the vaults of the world.　
Beneath the social construction, that complicated marvel of a structure, there are excavations of all sorts. There is the religious mine, the philosophical mine, the economic mine, the revolutionary mine. Such and such a pick-axe with the idea, such a pick with ciphers.Such another with wrath. People hail and answer each other from one catacomb to another. Utopias travel about underground, in the pipes.There they branch out in every direction. They sometimes meet,and fraternize there. Jean-Jacques lends his pick to Diogenes, who lends him his lantern. Sometimes they enter into combat there.Calvin seizes Socinius by the hair. But nothing arrests nor interrupts the tension of all these energies toward the goal, and the vast, simultaneous activity, which goes and comes, mounts, descends, and mounts again in these obscurities, and which immense unknown swarming slowly transforms the top and the bottom and the inside and the outside. Society hardly even suspects this digging which leaves its surface intact and changes its bowels. There are as many different subterranean stages as there are varying works, as there are extractions. What emerges from these deep excavations? The future.
The deeper one goes, the more mysterious are the toilers. The work is good, up to a degree which the social philosophies are able to recognize; beyond that degree it is doubtful and mixed;lower down, it becomes terrible. At a certain depth, the excavations are no longer penetrable by the spirit of civilization, the limit breathable by man has been passed; a beginning of monsters is possible.
The descending scale is a strange one; and each one of the rungs of this ladder corresponds to a stage where philosophy can find foothold, and where one encounters one of these workmen, sometimes divine, sometimes misshapen. Below John Huss, there is Luther; below Luther, there is Descartes; below Descartes, there is Voltaire; below Voltaire, there is Condorcet; below Condorcet, there is Robespierre;below Robespierre, there is Marat; below Marat there is Babeuf.  And so it goes on. Lower down, confusedly, at the limit which separates the indistinct from the invisible, one perceives other gloomy men, who perhaps do not exist as yet. The men of yesterday are spectres;those of to-morrow are forms. The eye of the spirit distinguishes them but obscurely. The embryonic work of the future is one of the visions of philosophy.　
A world in limbo, in the state of foetus, what an unheard-of spectre! 
Saint-Simon, Owen, Fourier, are there also, in lateral galleries.
Surely, although a divine and invisible chain unknown to themselves, binds together all these subterranean pioneers who, almost always, think themselves isolated, and who are not so, their works vary greatly, and the light of some contrasts with the blaze of others. The first are paradisiacal, the last are tragic. Nevertheless, whatever may be the contrast, all these toilers, from the highest to the most nocturnal, from the wisest to the most foolish, possess one likeness, and this is it: disinterestedness. Marat forgets himself like Jesus. They throw themselves on one side, they omit themselves, they think not of themselves. They have a glance, and that glance seeks the absolute. The first has the whole heavens in his eyes; the last, enigmatical though he may be, has still, beneath his eyelids, the pale beam of the infinite. Venerate the man, whoever he may be, who has this sign--the starry eye.
The shadowy eye is the other sign.
With it, evil commences. Reflect and tremble in the presence of any one who has no glance at all. The social order has its black miners.
There is a point where depth is tantamount to burial, and where light becomes extinct.
Below all these mines which we have just mentioned, below all these galleries, below this whole immense, subterranean, venous system of progress and utopia, much further on in the earth, much lower than Marat, lower than Babeuf, lower, much lower, and without any connection with the upper levels, there lies the last mine. A formidable spot. This is what we have designated as the le troisieme dessous. It is the grave of shadows. It is the cellar of the blind. Inferi.　
This communicates with the abyss.
人类的各种社会全有剧院里所说的那种“第三地下层”。在社会的土壤下面，处处都有活动，有的为善，有的为恶。这些坑道是层层相叠的。有上层坑道和下层坑道。在这黑暗的地下层里，有一个高区和一个低区，地下层有时会崩塌在文明的底下，并因我们的不闻不问和麻木不仁而被践踏在我们的脚下。《百科全书》在前一世纪，是个坑道，几乎是露天的。原始基督教义的一种未受重视的孵化设备棗黑暗，它只待时机成熟，便在暴君们的座下爆炸开来，并以光明照耀人类。因为神圣的黑暗有它潜在的光。火山是充满了黑暗的，但有能力使烈焰腾空。火山的熔液是在黑暗中开始形成的。最初举行弥撒的地下墓道，不仅只是罗马的地下建筑，也是世界的坑道。①在社会建筑的下面有着形形色色的挖掘工程，犹如一栋破烂房屋下的错综复杂的奇迹。有宗教坑道、哲学坑道、政治坑道、经济坑道、革命坑道。有的用思想挖掘，有的用数字挖掘，有的用愤怒挖掘。人们从一个地下墓道向另一个地下墓道互相呼应。种种乌托邦都经过这些通道在地下行进。它们向各个方向伸展蔓延。它们有时会彼此接触，并相互友爱。让－雅克②把他的尖镐借给第欧根尼，第欧根尼也把他的灯笼③借给他。有时它们也互相排斥。加尔文④揪住索齐尼⑤的头发。但是没有什么东西能阻止或中断这一切力量向目标推进的张力和活动，那些活动同时在黑暗中往来起伏，再起，并从下面慢慢改变上面，从里面慢慢改变外面，这是人所未知的大规模的蠕动。社会几乎没有意识到这种给它留下表皮、换掉脏腑的挖掘工作。有多少地下层，便有多少种不同的工程，多少种不同的孔道。从这一切在深处进行的发掘中产生出来的是什么呢？未来。 
①基督教在四世纪以前受到罗马帝国的仇视，教徒常被杀害，因而在地下墓道里秘密举行宗教仪式，宣传教义。地下墓道原是废弃了的采矿坑道。罗马人火化尸体，而基督教徒一定要埋葬尸体，废矿道便成了基督教徒的墓地。
②让－雅克是卢梭的名字。尖镐应指他的笔。
③有一次第欧根尼白天提着灯笼在雅典街上走，有人问他为什么，他说：
“我找一个人。”
④加尔文（Calvin，1509?564），法国宗教改革运动的著名活动家，新教宗派之一棗加尔文教的创始人，这一宗派反映了资本原始积累时期的资产阶级利益。
⑤索齐尼（Socin，1525?562），又译苏西努，意大利宗教改革家，倡导“上帝一位论”学说。
人们越往下看，所发现的活动者便越是神秘。直到社会哲学还能认识的一级，活动总还是好的，再下去，那种活动便可怕了。到了某一深度，那些洞窟孔道便不再是文明的精神力量能钻得进的，人的呼吸能力的限度已经被超出，魔怪有了开始出现的可能。
这下行梯阶是奇怪的，它的每一级都通到一个哲学可以立足的地下层，在那里，人还可以遇到一个那样的工人，有的是高明的，有的不成人形。在扬·胡斯①的下面有路德②，在路德的下面有笛卡儿，在笛卡儿的下面有伏尔泰，在伏尔泰的下面有孔多塞，在孔多塞的下面有罗伯斯庇尔，在罗伯斯庇尔的下面有马拉，在马拉的下面有巴贝夫③。并且这还没有完。再往下去，朦朦胧胧，在不清晰和看不见之间的分界线上，人们可以望见其他一些现在也许还不存在的人的黑影。昨天的那些是一些鬼物，明天的那些是一些游魂。智慧眼能隐隐约约地见到它们。未来世界的萌芽工作是哲学家的一种景象。 
①扬·胡斯（Jan　Hus，约1369?415），捷克宗教改革的领袖，布拉格大学教授，捷克民族解放运动的鼓吹者，被控为异教徒后被处以死刑。
②路德（Martin　Luther，1483?546），宗教改革运动的著名活动家，德国新教（路德教）的创始人，德国市民等级的思想家。
③巴贝夫（Babeuf，1760?797），法国革命家，空想平均共产主义的著名代表，平等派密谋的组织者。
一个处于胚胎状态的鬼域里的世界，这是多么离奇的形相！
圣西门、欧文、傅立叶，也都在那里的一些侧坑里。
所有这些地下开路先锋几乎经常认为他们彼此之间是隔绝的，其实不然，有一条他们不知道的神链在他们之间连系着，虽然如此，他们的工作是大不相同的，这一些人的光和另一些人的烈焰形成对比。有的属于天堂，有的属于悲剧。可是，尽管他们各不相似，所有这些工作者，从最高尚的到最阴狠的，从最贤明的到最疯狂的，都有一个共同点：忘我。马拉能象耶稣一样忘我。他们把自己放在一旁，取消自我，绝不考虑自己。他们看见的是本人以外的东西。他们有种目光，这种目光搜寻的是绝对真理。最初的那个有整个天空在他的眼睛里，最末的那个，尽管他是多么莫测高深，在他的眉毛下却也还有那种苍白的太空的光。任何人，不问他是干什么的，只要他有这一特征，便应受到崇敬，这特征是：充满星光的眸子。
充满黑影的眸子是另一种特征。
恶从它开始。在眼睛阴森的人面前，想想吧，发抖吧。社会秩序有它的黑帮。
有那么一个地方，在那里，挖掘便是埋葬，光明已经绝灭。
在我们刚才所指出的那一切坑道下，在所有那些走廊下，在进步和乌托邦那整个庞大的地下管道系统下，在地下还更深许多的地方，比马拉还要低，比巴贝夫也还要低，再往下，再往下深入许多，和上面的那几层绝无关系的地方，还有最低的泥坑。那是个可怕的地方。也就是我们在上面所说的“第三地下层”。那是个一片漆黑的阴沟，瞎子的窟窖、地狱。
Part 3 Book 7 Chapter 2 The Lowest Depths
There disinterestedness vanishes. The demon is vaguely outlined; each one is for himself. The _I_ in the eyes howls, seeks, fumbles, and gnaws. The social Ugolino is in this gulf.
The wild spectres who roam in this grave, almost beasts, almost phantoms, are not occupied with universal progress; they are ignorant both of the idea and of the word; they take no thought for anything but the satisfaction of their individual desires. They are almost unconscious, and there exists within them a sort of terrible obliteration. They have two mothers, both step-mothers, ignorance and misery. They have a guide, necessity; and for all forms of satisfaction, appetite. They are brutally voracious, that is to say, ferocious, not after the fashion of the tyrant, but after the fashion of the tiger. From suffering these spectres pass to crime; fatal affiliation, dizzy creation, logic of darkness. That which crawls in the social third lower level is no longer complaint stifled by the absolute; it is the protest of matter.  Man there becomes a dragon. To be hungry, to be thirsty--that is the point of departure; to be Satan--that is the point reached. From that vault Lacenaire emerges.
We have just seen, in Book Fourth, one of the compartments of the upper mine, of the great political, revolutionary, and philosophical excavation. There, as we have just said, all is pure, noble, dignified, honest. There, assuredly, one might be misled; but error is worthy of veneration there, so thoroughly does it imply heroism. The work there effected, taken as a whole has a name: Progress.
The moment has now come when we must take a look at other depths, hideous depths. There exists beneath society, we insist upon this point, and there will exist, until that day when ignorance shall be dissipated, the great cavern of evil.
This cavern is below all, and is the foe of all. It is hatred, without exception. This cavern knows no philosophers; its dagger has never cut a pen. Its blackness has no connection with the sublime blackness of the inkstand. Never have the fingers of night which contract beneath this stifling ceiling, turned the leaves of a book nor unfolded a newspaper. Babeuf is a speculator to Cartouche; Marat is an aristocrat to Schinderhannes. This cavern has for its object the destruction of everything.
Of everything. Including the upper superior mines, which it execrates.   It not only undermines, in its hideous swarming, the actual social order; it undermines philosophy, it undermines human thought, it undermines civilization, it undermines revolution, it undermines progress.  Its name is simply theft, prostitution, murder, assassination.It is darkness, and it desires chaos. Its vault is formed of ignorance.
All the others, those above it, have but one object--to suppress it.   It is to this point that philosophy and progress tend, with all their organs simultaneously, by their amelioration of the real,as well as by their contemplation of the absolute. Destroy the cavern Ignorance and you destroy the lair Crime.
Let us condense, in a few words, a part of what we have just written. The only social peril is darkness.
Humanity is identity. All men are made of the same clay. There is no difference, here below, at least, in predestination.The same shadow in front, the same flesh in the present, the same ashes afterwards. But ignorance, mingled with the human paste, blackens it. This incurable blackness takes possession of the interior of a man and is there converted into evil.
在这里，忘我精神已经消失。魔鬼隐约初具形相，各自为己。没有眼睛的我在吼着，寻着，摸着，啃着。群居的乌戈林①便在这黑洞里。 
①乌戈林（Ugolin），十三世纪比萨的暴君，大主教把他和他的两个儿子和两个孙子一同关在塔里，让他们饿死。乌戈林在试着吃他的儿孙以后才死去。
在这黑洞里游荡着的那些近似猛兽恶魔的狰狞鬼影是不管普遍的进步的，它们不理解思想和文字，它们所关心的只是个人满足。它们几乎没有善恶观念，内心空虚得骇人。它们有两个母亲，两个全是后娘：无知和穷困；一个向导：需要；唯一的满足形式：吃喝。它们粗鲁地大嚼大啖，这就是说，凶残到……不是象暴君那样，而是象猛虎。这些鬼怪从受苦走到犯罪，不可避免的传承，令人晕眩的接续，黑区的逻辑。匍匐在这社会第三地下层里的已不是对绝对真理发出那种受到窒息的要求，而是肉体的抗议。在这里，人成了毒龙。饥渴是起点，终点是成为撒旦。从这地窖里产生着拉色内尔。
我们刚才在第四卷里已经见过上层坑道的一角，那是政治、革命和哲学的大坑道。在那里，我们指出，一切都是高尚、纯洁、尊贵、诚实的。在那里，当然，人们可能走错路，而且是在错误的路上，但是那里的错误是可敬佩的，因为它含有牺牲精神。那里的工作，从全局看，有一个名称：进步。
现在是时候了，来看看另外一些深处，一些丑恶到极点的深处。
在社会的底下，让我们强调这一点，直到愚昧状态被清除的那一天，总还会有藏恶的大窟窖。
这个窟窖在一切窟窖之下，也是一切窟窖的敌人。那是普遍的恨。这窟窖不知道有哲学，它的尖刀从来没有削过一支笔。它的黑色和墨迹的卓越的黑色毫无关系。那些蜷曲在这毒气熏人的洞里的黑手指从不翻一页书，也从不打开一张报纸。对卡图什来说，巴贝夫是个剥削者，对施因德汉斯①来说，马拉还是个贵族。这窟窖的目的是推翻一切。 
①施因德汉斯（Schindehannes），原名约翰·毕克列尔（JohannBuHckler，约1780?803），德国强盗，莱茵区匪帮的魁首，绰号“施因德汉斯”（意即“屠夫汉斯”）。在德国文学中，施因德汉斯作为侠盗、打抱不平的斗士和穷人的保护者的形象而久负盛名。
一切。包括它所唾弃的那些上层坑道。在它那极为丑恶的蠕动当中，它不仅只是要钻垮现在的社会秩序，它还要钻垮哲学，钻垮科学，钻垮法律，钻垮人类的思想，钻垮文明，钻垮革命，钻垮进步。它的名字，简简单单地说，叫做偷盗，邪淫，谋害，暗杀。它代表黑暗，它要的是漆黑一团。这窟窖的顶是无知构成的。
在它上面的那些地窖全都只有一个愿望，把它消灭掉。这便是哲学和进步同时运用它们的全部人力物力，通过现实的改善和对绝对真理的向往，全力奔赴的目标。摧毁这个无知窟窖，那罪恶渊薮也就毁灭掉了。
让我们把刚才所说的一部分用几个字概括起来，社会的唯一危害是黑暗。
人类，便是同类。所有的人都是同一块粘土。在前定的命运里毫无区别，至少在下界是这样的。从前，同样的一个影子；现在，同样的一个肉体；将来，同样的一撮灰。但是，在做人的面糊里搀上无知，它便变成黑的。这种无法挽救的黑色透入人心，便成为恶。
Part 3 Book 7 Chapter 3 Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Montparnasse
A quartette of ruffians, Claquesous, Gueulemer, Babet, and Montparnasse governed the third lower floor of Paris, from 1830 to 1835.　
Gueulemer was a Hercules of no defined position. For his lair he had the sewer of the Arche-Marion. He was six feet high, his pectoral muscles were of marble, his biceps of brass, his breath was that of a cavern, his torso that of a colossus, his head that of a bird. One thought one beheld the Farnese Hercules clad in duck trousers and a cotton velvet waistcoat. Gueulemer, built after this sculptural fashion, might have subdued monsters; he had found it more expeditious to be one. A low brow, large temples, less than forty years of age, but with crow's-feet, harsh, short hair, cheeks like a brush, a beard like that of a wild boar; the reader can see the man before him. H=" " cellspacing="0" width="600"> 
?盙譺es. His occupation consisted in selling, in the open air, plaster busts and portraits of "the head of the State." In addition to this, he extracted teeth. He had exhibited phenomena at fairs, and he had owned a booth with a trumpet and this poster: "Babet, Dental Artist, Member of the Academies, makes physical experiments on metals and metalloids, extracts teeth, undertakes stumps abandoned by his brother practitioners. Price: one tooth, one franc, fifty centimes; two teeth, two francs; three teeth,
two francs, fifty. Take advantage of this opportunity."  This Take advantage of this opportunity meant: Have as many teeth extracted as possible. He had been married and had had children.  He did not know what had become of his wife and children. He had lost them as one loses his handkerchief. Babet read the papers, a striking exception in the world to which he belonged. One day, at the period when he had his family with him in his booth on wheels, he had read in the Messager, that a woman had just given birth to a child, who was doing well, and had a calf's muzzle, and he exclaimed: "There's a fortune! my wife has not the wit to present me with a child like that!"
Later on he had abandoned everything, in order to "undertake Paris."  This was his expression.　
Who was Claquesous? He was night. He waited until the sky was daubed with black, before he showed himself. At nightfall he emerged from the hole whither he returned before daylight. Where was this hole? No one knew. He only addressed his accomplices in the most absolute darkness, and with his back turned to them. Was his name Claquesous?  Certainly not. If a candle was brought, he put on a mask. He was a ventriloquist. Babet said: "Claquesous is a nocturne
for two voices." Claquesous was vague, terrible, and a roamer.   No one was sure whether he had a name, Claquesous being a sobriquet; none was sure that he had a voice, as his stomach spoke more frequently than his voice; no one was sure that he had a face, as he was never seen without his mask. He disappeared as though he had vanished into thin air; when he appeared, it was as though he sprang from the earth.　
A lugubrious being was Montparnasse. Montparnasse was a child; less than twenty years of age, with a handsome face, lips like cherries, charming black hair, the brilliant light of springtime in his eyes; he had all vices and aspired to all crimes.
The digestion of evil aroused in him an appetite for worse. It was the street boy turned pickpocket, and a pickpocket turned garroter. He was genteel, effeminate, graceful, robust, sluggish, ferocious. The rim of his hat was curled up on the left side, in order to make room for a tuft of hair, after the style of 1829. He lived by robbery with violence. His coat was of the best cut, but threadbare. Montparnasse was a fashion-plate in misery and given to the commission of murders. The cause of all this youth's crimes was the desire to be well-dressed. The first grisette who had said to him: "You are handsome!" had cast the stain of darkness into his heart, and had made a Cain of this Abel. Finding that he was handsome, he desired to be elegant: now, the height of elegance is idleness; idleness in a poor man means crime. Few prowlers were so dreaded as Montparnasse. At eighteen, he had already numerous corpses in his past. More than one passer-by lay with outstretched arms in the presence of this wretch, with his face in a pool of blood. Curled, pomaded, with laced waist, the hips of a woman, the bust of a Prussian officer, the murmur of admiration from the boulevard wenches surrounding him, his cravat knowingly tied, a bludgeon in his pocket, a flower in his buttonhole; such was this dandy of the sepulchre.
一个四人黑帮，巴伯、海嘴、铁牙和巴纳斯山，从一八三○到一八三五，统治着巴黎的第三地下层。
海嘴是个超级大力士。他的窝在马利容桥拱的暗沟里。他有六尺高，石胸，钢臂，山洞里风声似的鼻息，巨无霸的腰身，小雀的脑袋。人们见了他，还以为是法尔内斯的《赫拉克勒斯》穿上了棉布裤和棉绒褂子。海嘴有这种塑像似的身体，本可以驱除魔怪，但是他觉得不如自己当个魔怪来得更方便些。额头低，额角阔，不到四十岁两只眼角便有了鹅掌纹，毛发粗而短，板刷腮帮，野猪胡子。从这里我们可以想见其人。他的一身肌肉要求工作，但是他的愚蠢不愿意。这是个大力懒汉，凭懒劲杀人的凶手。有人认为他是个在殖民地生长的白人。他大致和布律纳①元帅有点关系，一八一五年曾在阿维尼翁当过扛夫。在那以后，他便当了土匪。 
①布律纳（Brune，1763?815），法国元帅，十八世纪末法国资产阶级革命活动家，右翼雅各宾党人，丹东分子，后为拿破仑的拥护者。在王朝复辟的白色恐怖时期，在阿维尼翁被害。
巴伯的清癯和海嘴的肥壮适成对比。巴伯瘦小而多才。他虽是透明的，却又叫别人看他不透。人们可以透过他的骨头看见光，但是透过他的瞳孔却什么也瞧不见。他自称是化学家。他在波白什戏班里当过丑角，在波比诺戏班里当过小花脸。他
在圣米耶尔演过闹剧。这是个装腔作势的人，能言会道，突出他的笑容，重视他的手势。他的行当是在街头叫卖石膏半身像和“政府首脑”的画片。此外，他还拔牙。他也在市集上展览一些畸形的怪物，并且有一个售货棚子，带个喇叭，张贴广告：“巴伯，牙科艺术家，科学院院士，金属和非金属实验家，拔牙专家，经营同行弟兄们抛弃的断牙根。收费：拔一个牙，一法郎五十生丁；两个牙，两法郎；三个牙，两法郎五十生丁。机会难得。”（这“机会难得”的意思是说“请尽量多拔”。）他结过婚，也有过孩子，却不知道妻子和儿女在干什么。他把他们丢了，象丢一块手帕。在他那黑暗的世界里，他是个了不起的突出人物：巴伯常看报纸。一天，那还是在他把妻子和流动货棚随身带上的时候，他在《消息报》上读到一则新闻，说有个妇人刚生下一个还能活的孩子，嘴巴象牛嘴，他大声喊道：“这是一笔好生意！我老婆是不会有本领替我生这么一个孩子的！”从这以后，他放弃了一切，去“经营巴黎”。他的原话如此。
铁牙又是什么东西呢？那是个夜猫子。他要等天上涂上黑色才出门。要到晚上他才从在天亮以前钻进去的那个洞里钻出来。这洞在什么地方？谁也不知道。即使是在伸手不见五指的黑暗中，对他同伙的人，他也只是在把背对着人时才说话。他真叫铁牙吗？不。他说：“我叫啥也不是。”碰到蜡烛突然亮时他便蒙上一个脸罩。他能用肚子说话。巴伯常说：“铁牙是个二声部夜曲。”铁牙是个行踪不定，东游西荡，可怕的人。他是否真有一个名字，这很难说，“铁牙”原是个绰号；他是否真能说话，这也很难说，他肚子说话时比嘴多；他是否真有一张脸，也很难说，人们看见的从来就只是他那脸罩。他能象烟一样忽然无影无踪，他出现时也好象是从地里冒出来的。
还有一个阴森人物，那便是巴纳斯山。巴纳斯山是个小伙子，不到二十岁，一张漂亮的脸，樱桃似的嘴唇，动人的黑头发，满眼春光，他干尽缺德事，任何罪恶他都想犯。干了坏事还想干更坏的事，食量越吃越大。他从野孩子变成流氓，又从流氓变成凶手。他是温和、娇柔、文雅、强健、软绵绵、凶狠毒辣的。他帽子的边照一八二九年的式样，卷起左面，让位给那丛蓬松的头发。他以暴力行劫为生。他的骑马服的剪裁是最好的，但是已经磨旧了。巴纳斯山，那是时装画册中的一张图片，是个谋财害命的穷苦人。这少年犯罪的唯一动机是要穿得考究。最先向他说“你漂亮”的那个轻佻女人已把恶念撒在他的心上，于是他成了那亚伯的该隐①。觉得自己漂亮，他便要求优美，优美的第一步是悠闲，穷人的悠闲便是犯罪。在盗匪中很少有象巴纳斯山那样可怕的。十八岁，他便已丢下好几个尸体。两臂张开、面朝血泊、倒在这无赖汉的黑影中的行人不止一个。烫头发，擦香膏，细腰，女人的胯，普鲁士军官的胸，街头的姑娘在他前后左右喁喁称羡的声音，结得别致的领带，衣袋里藏个阎王锤，饰孔上插朵鲜花，这个使人入墓的花花公子便是如此。 
①该隐和亚伯是亚当和夏娃的长子和次子，哥哥杀害了弟弟。（见《圣经·旧约》） 
Part 3 Book 7 Chapter 4 Composition of the Troupe
These four ruffians formed a sort of Proteus, winding like a serpent among the police, and striving to escape Vidocq's indiscreet glances "under divers forms, tree, flame, fountain," lending each other their names and their traps, hiding in their own shadows, boxes with secret compartments and refuges for each other, stripping off their personalities, as one removes his false nose at a masked ball, sometimes simplifying matters to the point of consisting of but one individual, sometimes multiplying themselves to such a point that Coco-Latour himself took them for a whole throng. 　
These four men were not four men; they were a sort of mysterious robber with four heads, operating on a grand scale on Paris; they were that monstrous polyp of evil, which inhabits the crypt of society.
Thanks to their ramifications, and to the network underlying their relations, Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Montparnasse were charged with the general enterprise of the ambushes of the department of the Seine. The inventors of ideas of that nature, men with nocturnal imaginations, applied to them to have their ideas executed. They furnished the canvas to the four rascals, and the latter undertook the preparation of the scenery. They labored at the stage setting. They were always in a condition to lend a force proportioned and suitable to all crimes which demanded a lift of the shoulder, and which were sufficiently lucrative.  When a crime was in quest of arms, they under-let their accomplices. They kept a troupe of actors of the shadows at the disposition of all underground tragedies.
They were in the habit of assembling at nightfall, the hour when they woke up, on the plains which adjoin the Salpetriere. There they held their conferences. They had twelve black hours before them; they regulated their employment accordingly.　
Patron-Minette,--such was the name which was bestowed in the subterranean circulation on the association of these four men. In the fantastic, ancient, popular parlance, which is vanishing day by day, Patron-Minette signifies the morning, the same as entre chien et loup--between dog and wolf--signifies the evening. This appellation, Patron-Minette, was probably derived from the hour at which their work ended, the dawn being the vanishing moment for phantoms and for the separation of ruffians. These four men were known under this title. When the President of the Assizes visited Lacenaire in his prison, and questioned him concerning a misdeed which Lacenaire denied, "Who did it?" demanded the President. Lacenaire made this response, enigmatical so far as the magistrate was concerned, but clear to the police: "Perhaps it was Patron-Minette." 　
A piece can sometimes be divined on the enunciation of the personages; in the same manner a band can almost be judged from the list of ruffians composing it. Here are the appellations to which the principal members of Patron-Minette answered,--for the names have survived in special memoirs.　
Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille.
Brujon. [There was a Brujon dynasty; we cannot refrain from interpolating this word.]
Boulatruelle, the road-mender already introduced.
Laveuve.
Finistere.
Homere-Hogu, a negro.
Mardisoir. (Tuesday evening.)
Depeche. (Make haste.)
Fauntleroy, alias Bouquetiere (the Flower Girl).
Glorieux, a discharged convict.
Barrecarrosse (Stop-carriage), called Monsieur Dupont.
L'Esplanade-du-Sud.
Poussagrive.
Carmagnolet.
Kruideniers, called Bizarro. 　
Mangedentelle. (Lace-eater.)　
Les-pieds-en-l'Air. (Feet in the air.) 　
Demi-Liard, called Deux-Milliards.
Etc., etc. 　
We pass over some, and not the worst of them. These names have faces attached. They do not express merely beings, but species. Each one of these names corresponds to a variety of those misshapen fungi from the under side of civilization.
Those beings, who were not very lavish with their countenances, were not among the men whom one sees passing along the streets. Fatigued by the wild nights which they passed, they went off by day to sleep, sometimes in the lime-kilns, sometimes in the abandoned quarries of Montmatre or Montrouge, sometimes in the sewers.They ran to earth.
What became of these men? They still exist. They have always existed. Horace speaks of them: Ambubaiarum collegia, pharmacopolae, mendici, mimae; and so long as society remains what it is,they will remain what they are. Beneath the obscure roof of their cavern, they are continually born again from the social ooze. They return, spectres, but always identical; only, they no longer bear the same names and they are no longer in the same skins.  The individuals extirpated, the tribe subsists. 　
They always have the same faculties. From the vagrant to the tramp, the race is maintained in its purity. They divine purses in pockets,they scent out watches in fobs. Gold and silver possess an odor for them. There exist ingenuous bourgeois, of whom it might be said, that they have a "stealable" air. These men patiently pursue these bourgeois. They experience the quivers of a spider at the passage of a stranger or of a man from the country. 　
These men are terrible, when one encounters them, or catches a glimpse of them, towards midnight, on a deserted boulevard. They do not seem to be men but forms composed of living mists;one would say that they habitually constitute one mass with the shadows,that they are in no wise distinct from them, that they possess no other soul than the darkness, and that it is only momentarily and for the purpose of living for a few minutes a monstrous life, that they have separated from the night. What is necessary to cause these spectres to vanish? Light. Light in floods. Not a single bat can resist the dawn.Light up society from below. 
这四个匪徒联合起来，成了一种变化多端的海怪，迂回曲折地钻警察的空子，“用不同的外貌、树、火焰、喷泉”来竭力躲避维多克阴沉的眼光，互相交换姓名和窍门，藏身在自己的影子里，共同使用他们的秘密窟和避难所，好象在化装舞会上取下自己的假鼻子那样改变他们的个人特征，有时把几个人简化为一人，有时又把一人化为几人，以致可可·拉古尔本人也以为他们是一大帮匪徒。
这四个人绝不是四个人，是一种有四个脑袋、在巴黎身上做大买卖的神秘大盗，是住在人类社会的地道里作恶的怪章鱼。
由于他们势力的伸张和因他们的关系而结成的地下网，巴伯、海嘴、铁牙和巴纳斯山总揽着塞纳省的一切盗杀活动。他们对着路上行人进行下面的政变。善于出这类主意，富于黑夜幻想的人都来找他们实现计划。人们把脚本供给他们，他们负责导演。他们还布置演出。任何杀人越货的勾当只要油水足，需要找人帮一把，他们总有办法分配胜任和适当的人手。当一件犯罪行为在寻找助力，他们便转租帮凶。他们有能力对任何阴惨悲剧提供黑演员。
他们经常傍晚棗这是他们睡醒的时候棗在妇女救济院附近的草地上碰头。在那里，他们进行会商。他们面前有十二个黑钟点，足供他们安排利用。
“猫老板”，这是在地下流传的人家送给这四人帮会的名称。在日趋消失的那种怪诞的古老民间语言中，“猫老板”的意思是早晨，正如“犬狼之间”的词义是傍晚。这名称，猫老板，也许是指他们活计结束的时刻天刚蒙蒙亮，正是鬼魂消散，匪徒分手的时候。这四个人是用这个字号露面的。刑事法院院长到监狱里去看拉色内尔时，曾向拉色内尔问到一件他不肯承认的案子。院长问道：“是谁干的？”拉色内尔回答了这样一句官员不懂、警察有数的话：“也许是猫老板。”
我们有时能从一张出场人物表去猜测一个剧本，同样，我们也几乎可以从一张匪徒的名单去估计这匪帮。下面棗这些名字是由专门记录保存下来的棗便是猫老板的主要伙伴的传呼称号：
邦灼，又叫春天，又叫比格纳耶。
普吕戎（原有过一个普吕戎世系，我们还会提到的）。
蒲辣秃柳儿，那个已经出现过的路工①。
寡妇。
地角。
荷马·阿巨，黑人。
星期二晚。
快报。
弗宛恩勒洛瓦，又叫卖花姑娘。
光荣汉，被释放了的苦役犯。
煞车，又叫杜邦先生。
南苑。
普萨格利弗。
小褂子。
克吕丹尼，又叫比查罗。吃花边。
脚朝天。
半文钱，又叫二十亿。
等等。 
①见本书第二部第二卷第二章。
我们只提这几个，最坏的几个已经提到了。这些名字都有代表性。它不只是说明个人，而是说明一种类型。这些名字中的每一个都代表文明底下的那些奇形怪状的毒蕈中的一种。
这些人是不轻易露面的，并不是人们在街头巷尾看见走过的那些。他们在黑夜里狠狠地干了一晚以后，疲乏了，白天便去睡觉，有时睡在石灰窑里，有时睡在蒙马特尔或蒙鲁日一带被抛弃了的采石场里，有时睡在阴沟里。他们把自己掩埋起来。
这些人到哪里去了呢？他们仍然存在。他们从来就一贯存在。贺拉斯曾说他们是吹笛子的穷汉、卖艺人、小丑、江湖郎中。并且，只要社会将来还是今天这个样，他们将来便也还是今天这个样。在他们窟窖的黑顶下面，他们将永远从社会潮湿的漏隙中生长出来。他们成了鬼，再回来，依然如故，不过他们的名字换了，他们的外皮换了。
个人被剔除，族类仍存在。
他们的感觉器官还是那么一些。从剪径贼到挡路虎，那是一个纯血统。他们能猜出衣袋里的钱包，能嗅出背心口袋里的表。金和银对他们来说，是有味的。有些憨老财，可以说是具有可偷性的。那些人便耐心地跟着这些老财们。他们见到一个外国人或外省人走过，便会突然惊觉，象个蜘蛛。
那些人，当人们夜半在荒凉的大路上遇到或瞧见了，那模样是可怕的。他们不象是人，而是有生命的雾所构成的形相，他们好象经常和黑暗合成一体，是看不清的，除了阴气以外没有旁的灵魂，并且只是为了过几分钟的厉鬼生活才和黑夜暂时分离一下。
怎样才能清除这些厉鬼呢？要有光明。要有滔天泻地的光明。没有一只蝙蝠能抗拒朝曦。应该去把地下社会照亮才是。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 1 Marius, while seeking a Girl in a Bonnet encounters a Man in a Cap
Summer passed, then the autumn; winter came. Neither M. Leblanc nor the young girl had again set foot in the Luxembourg garden. Thenceforth, Marius had but one thought,--to gaze once more on that sweet and adorable face. He sought constantly, he sought everywhere; he found nothing. He was no longer Marius, the enthusiastic dreamer, the firm, resolute, ardent man, the bold defier of fate, the brain which erected future on future, the young spirit encumbered with plans, with projects, with pride, with ideas and wishes; he was a lost dog.  He fell into a black melancholy. All was over. Work disgusted him, walking tired him. Vast nature, formerly so filled with forms, lights, voices, counsels, perspectives, horizons, teachings, now lay empty before him. It seemed to him that everything had disappeared. 　
He thought incessantly, for he could not do otherwise; but he no longer took pleasure in his thoughts. To everything that they proposed to him in a whisper, he replied in his darkness: "What is the use?"
He heaped a hundred reproaches on himself. "Why did I follow her?   I was so happy at the mere sight of her! She looked at me; was not that immense? She had the air of loving me. Was not that everything? I wished to have, what? There was nothing after that. I have been absurd. It is my own fault," etc., etc. Courfeyrac, to whom he confided nothing,--it was his nature,-- but who made some little guess at everything,--that was his nature,-- had begun by congratulating him on being in love, though he was amazed at it; then, seeing Marius fall into this melancholy state, he ended by saying to him: "I see that you have been simply an animal. Here, come to the Chaumiere." 　
Once, having confidence in a fine September sun, Marius had allowed himself to be taken to the ball at Sceaux by Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Grantaire, hoping, what a dream! that he might, perhaps, find her there. Of course he did not see the one he sought.--"But this is the place, all the same, where all lost women are found," grumbled Grantaire in an aside. Marius left his friends at the ball and returned home on foot, alone, through the night, weary, feverish, with sad and troubled eyes, stunned by the noise and dust of the merry wagons filled with singing creatures on their way home from the feast, which passed close to him, as he, in his discouragement, breathed in the acrid scent of the walnut-trees, along the road, in order to refresh his head. 　
He took to living more and more alone, utterly overwhelmed, wholly given up to his inward anguish, going and coming in his pain like the wolf in the trap, seeking the absent one everywhere, stupefied by love.
On another occasion, he had an encounter which produced on him a singular effect. He met, in the narrow streets in the vicinity of the Boulevard des Invalides, a man dressed like a workingman and wearing a cap with a long visor, which allowed a glimpse of locks of very white hair. Marius was struck with the beauty of this white hair, and scrutinized the man, who was walking slowly and as though absorbed in painful meditation. Strange to say, he thought that he recognized M. Leblanc. The hair was the same, also the profile, so far as the cap permitted a view of it, the mien identical, only more depressed. But why these workingman's clothes?  What was the meaning of this? What signified that disguise? Marius was greatly astonished. When he recovered himself, his first impulse was to follow the man; who knows whether he did not hold at last the clue which he was seeking? In any case, he must see the man near at hand, and clear up the mystery. But the idea occurred to him too late, the man was no longer there.   He had turned into some little side street, and Marius could not find him. This encounter occupied his mind for three days and then was effaced. "After all," he said to himself, "it was probably only a resemblance."
夏季过去了，秋季也过了，冬季到了。白先生和那姑娘都没有去过卢森堡公园。马吕斯只有一个念头，再见到那张温柔和令人拜倒的脸儿。他无时不找，无处不找，可是什么也没有找着。他已不是那个以一腔热忱梦想着未来的马吕斯，那个顽强、热烈、坚定的汉子，对命运的大胆挑战者，有着建造空中重楼叠阁的头脑，一个计划、远谋、豪情、思想、壮志满怀的青年，而是一条丧家之犬。他已陷在一筹莫展的苦境里。完了。工作使他反感，散步使他疲倦，孤独使他烦恼；广大的天地从前是如此充满形相、光彩、声音、启导、远景、见识和教育的，现在在他眼里竟成了一片空虚。他仿佛觉得一切全消失了。
他老在想，因为他不能不想，但是他已不能再感到想的乐趣。对他的思想向他不断低声建议的一切，他都黯然回答说：
“有什么意义？”
他不停地埋怨自己。当初我为什么要去跟她？那时我能看见她，便已那么快乐了。她望着我，难道这不是已很了不起吗？看神气，她在爱我。难道这还不美满吗？我还有什么可希求的呢？这以后已不会再有什么。我太傻了，是我错了。等等。他从不把他的心事泄露给古费拉克，这是他的性格，但是古费拉克多少猜到了一点，这也是他的性格，古费拉克开始祝贺他有了意中人，同时也感到这事来得突兀，随后，看见马吕斯那么苦闷，他终于对他说：“我看你这人太简单，只有兽性。来，到茅庐去走走！”
一次，马吕斯见到九月天美丽的阳光，满怀信心，跟着古费拉克、博须埃和格朗泰尔去参加索城的舞会，希望棗多美的梦！棗能有机会在那里遇见她。当然，他没有见到他寻找的人儿。“可是丢了的女人总能在这里找到的嘛。”格朗泰尔独自嘟囔着。马吕斯把他的朋友甩在舞会里，孤孤单单地走回家去了，摸着黑路，浑身疲倦，脑子发烧，眼睛矇眬忧郁，一辆一辆从舞会回来的车辆满载着尽情歌唱的人从他身边经过，他听到那种欢乐的声音，嗅到车轮卷起的尘土，感到非常烦乱，心灰意懒地呼吸着路旁核桃树的涩味来清醒自己的头脑。
他开始过着越来越狐独的生活，徬徨，沮丧，完全陷在内心的苦痛里，好象笼中狼那样，在他的悲戚中走去走来，四处张望那不在眼前的意中人，被爱情搞得晕头转向。
另一次，他遇见一个人，给了他一种异样的感受。他在残废军人院路附近的那些小街上，劈面遇见一个衣着象工人模样的男子，戴一顶长檐鸭舌帽，露出几绺雪白的头发。马吕斯瞥见那些白发，感到美得出奇，只见那人一步一步慢慢走着，好象心事重重，沉浸在忧伤的遐想里。说也奇怪，他仿佛认出了那人便是白先生。同样的头发，同样的侧面轮廓，至少露出在帽檐下的那部分是同样的，同样的走路姿态，只是比较忧郁些。但是为什么穿这身工人服呢？这怎么解释？为什么要乔装？马吕斯见了心里非常惊讶。当他的心情安定下来后，他的第一个动作便是去追那人，谁知他这次不会抓住他所寻找的线索呢？总之，应当跑到他近处去看个清楚，打破这闷葫芦。可是他的念头转得太迟，那人已不在那里了。他走进了一条横巷，马吕斯没有能再看见他。这次邂逅使他回想了好几天，印象才淡薄下去。他心里想道：“不用大惊小怪，这也许只是个相貌相象的人罢了。”
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 2 Treasure Trove
Marius had not left the Gorbeau house. He paid no attention to any one there.
At that epoch, to tell the truth, there were no other inhabitants in the house, except himself and those Jondrettes whose rent he had once paid, without, moreover, ever having spoken to either father, mother, or daughters. The other lodgers had moved away or had died, or had been turned out in default of payment. 　
One day during that winter, the sun had shown itself a little in the afternoon, but it was the 2d of February, that ancient Candlemas day whose treacherous sun, the precursor of a six weeks' cold spell, inspired Mathieu Laensberg with these two lines, which have with justice remained classic:--
Qu'il luise ou qu'il luiserne, L'ours rentre dans en sa caverne.[26] 　
[26] Whether the sun shines brightly or dim, the bear returns to his cave.
Marius had just emerged from his: night was falling. It was the hour for his dinner; for he had been obliged to take to dining again, alas! oh, infirmities of ideal passions!
He had just crossed his threshold, where Ma'am Bougon was sweeping at the moment, as she uttered this memorable monologue:-- 　
"What is there that is cheap now? Everything is dear. 　
There is nothing in the world that is cheap except trouble; you can get that for nothing, the trouble of the world!" 　
Marius slowly ascended the boulevard towards the barrier, in order to reach the Rue Saint-Jacques. He was walking along with drooping head.　
All at once, he felt some one elbow him in the dusk; he wheeled round, and saw two young girls clad in rags, the one tall and slim, the other a little shorter, who were passing rapidly, all out of breath, in terror, and with the appearance of fleeing; they had been coming to meet him, had not seen him, and had jostled him as they passed. Through the twilight, Marius could distinguish their livid faces, their wild heads, their dishevelled hair, their hideous bonnets, their ragged petticoats, and their bare feet. They were talking as they ran. The taller said in a very low voice:--　
"The bobbies have come. They came near nabbing me at the half-circle." The other answered: "I saw them. I bolted, bolted, bolted!"　
Through this repulsive slang, Marius understood that gendarmes or the police had come near apprehending these two children, and that the latter had escaped.
They plunged among the trees of the boulevard behind him, and there created, for a few minutes, in the gloom, a sort of vague white spot, then disappeared. 　
Marius had halted for a moment.　
He was about to pursue his way, when his eye lighted on a little grayish package lying on the ground at his feet. He stooped and picked it up. It was a sort of envelope which appeared to contain papers. 　
"Good," he said to himself, "those unhappy girls dropped it."
He retraced his steps, he called, he did not find them; he reflected that they must already be far away, put the package in his pocket, and went off to dine.
On the way, he saw in an alley of the Rue Mouffetard, a child's coffin, covered with a black cloth resting on three chairs, and illuminated by a candle. The two girls of the twilight recurred to his mind. 　
"Poor mothers!" he thought. "There is one thing sadder than to see one's children die; it is to see them leading an evil life." 　
Then those shadows which had varied his melancholy vanished from his thoughts, and he fell back once more into his habitual preoccupations. He fell to thinking once more of his six months of love and happiness in the open air and the broad daylight, beneath the beautiful trees of Luxembourg.　
"How gloomy my life has become!" he said to himself. "Young girls are always appearing to me, only formerly they were angels and now they are ghouls."
马吕斯一直住在戈尔博老屋里，从不留意旁人的事。
当时住在那栋破房子里的，确实也只有他和容德雷特一家，再没有旁人；容德雷特便是他上次代为偿清房租的那人，他却从来没有和那两老或那两个女儿谈过话。其他的房客都早已搬了，死了，或是因欠付租金而被撵走了。
那个冬季里的一天，太阳在午后稍稍露了一下面，那天正是二月二日，古老的圣烛节①的日子，这种骗人的太阳往往带来六个星期的寒冷，并曾触发过马蒂厄·朗斯贝尔的灵感，使他留下了两句够得上称为古典的诗句：
大晴或小晴，
群熊返山洞。 
①基督教徒纪念耶稣初次谒庙的日子，这天，教堂里遍燃蜡烛。这一节日又名“圣母行洁净礼日”或“主进殿节”。
马吕斯那天却走出了他的洞，天已快黑了，正是去吃晚饭的时候，因为饭总得要吃点，唉！想象的爱情的不治之症！
他正跨出门坎，布贡妈当时也正在扫地，一面嘴里说看这几句值得回忆的独白：
“有什么东西是便宜的，现在？全是贵的。只有世上的痛苦是便宜的，它一文也不值，这世上的痛苦！”
马吕斯慢慢地沿着大路，朝便门方向往圣雅克街走去。他正低着头想心事。
忽然，在迷雾中，他觉得有人撞了他一下，他回过头，看见两个衣服破烂的年轻姑娘，一个瘦长，一个较矮，两人都喘着气，慌慌张张，飞快地朝前走，好象怕人追上，要逃跑似的。她们向他迎面跑来，没看见他，到身边便碰了他一下。马吕斯在昏暗的暮色中看见她们那蜡黄的脸，光着脑袋，头发散乱，抓着两顶不成形的包头帽子，拖着两条稀烂的裙，赤脚。她们边跑边谈。大的那个用极低的声音说：
“雷子来了，差点儿铐住了我。”
另一个回答：“我望见他们，我就溜呀，溜呀，溜呀！”
通过那种丑恶的黑话，马吕斯懂得：宪兵或市警几乎逮捕了那两个孩子，两个孩子却逃跑了。
她们深入到他背后路旁的大树下去了，只见一种隐隐的微光渐渐消失的黑暗中。
马吕斯停下来望了一会儿。
他正要继续往前走，却看见他脚边地上有个灰色小包，他弯下腰去拾了起来。那是一种类似信封的东西，里面装的好象是纸。
“哼，”他说，“没准是那两个穷娃子掉的！”
他转身喊，没有喊住她们，他想她们已经走远了，便把那纸包揣在衣袋里，去吃晚饭。
走到半路，在穆夫达街的一条窄巷里，他看见一个孩子的棺材，盖一条黑布，放在三张椅子上，并点着一支蜡烛。暮色中的那两个女孩回到了他的脑子里。他想道：
“可怜的母亲们！有一件比看见亲生儿女死去更伤心的事，那便是看着他们活受苦。”
随后，这些使他触景生情的阴惨事儿从他的脑子里消失了，他重新回到他惯常的忆念中。他又开始想着在卢森堡公园晴光丽日的树影中度过的六个月。
“我的生活变得多么暗淡！”他心里想。“随时都有年轻姑娘出现在我眼前。可是从前我觉得她们全是天使，而现在觉得她们全是妖精。”
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 3 Quadrifrons
That evening, as he was undressing preparatory to going to bed, his hand came in contact, in the pocket of his coat, with the packet which he had picked up on the boulevard. He had forgotten it. He thought that it would be well to open it, and that this package might possibly contain the address of the young girls, if it really belonged to them, and, in any case, the information necessary to a restitution to the person who had lost it.
He opened the envelope.
It was not sealed and contained four letters, also unsealed. 
They bore addresses.
All four exhaled a horrible odor of tobacco.
The first was addressed: "To Madame, Madame la Marquise de Grucheray, the place opposite the Chamber of Deputies, No.--"
Marius said to himself, that he should probably find in it the information which he sought, and that, moreover, the letter being open, it was probable that it could be read without impropriety.
It was conceived as follows:-- 
Madame la Marquise: The virtue of clemency and piety is that which most closely unites sosiety. Turn your Christian spirit and cast a look of compassion on this unfortunate Spanish victim of loyalty and attachment to the sacred cause of legitimacy, who has given with his blood, consecrated his fortune, evverything, to defend that cause, and to-day finds himself in the greatest missery. He doubts not that your honorable person will grant succor to preserve an existence exteremely painful for a military man of education and honor full of wounds, counts in advance on the humanity which animates you and on the interest which Madame la Marquise bears to a nation so unfortunate. Their prayer will not be in vain, and their gratitude will preserve theirs charming souvenir. 
My respectful sentiments, with which I have the honor to be Madame, Don Alvares, Spanish Captain of Cavalry, a royalist who has take refuge in France, who finds himself on travells for his country, and the resources are lacking him to continue his travells. 
No address was joined to the signature. Marius hoped to find the address in the second letter, whose superscription read: A Madame, Madame la Comtesse de Montvernet, Rue Cassette, No. 9. This is what Marius read in it:-- 
Madame la Comtesse: It is an unhappy mother of a family of six children the last of which is only eight months old. I sick since my last confinement, abandoned by my husband five months ago, haveing no resources in the world the most frightful indigance.
In the hope of Madame la Comtesse, she has the honor to be, Madame, with profound respect, Mistress Balizard. 
Marius turned to the third letter, which was a petition like the preceding; he read:--
Monsieur Pabourgeot, Elector, wholesale stocking merchant, Rue Saint-Denis on the corner of the Rue aux Fers. 
I permit myself to address you this letter to beg you to grant me the pretious favor of your simpaties and to interest yourself in a man of letters who has just sent a drama to the Theatre-Francais. The subject is historical, and the action takes place in Auvergne in the time of the Empire; the style, I think, is natural, laconic, and may have some merit. There are couplets to be sung in four places. The comic, the serious, the unexpected, are mingled in a variety of characters, and a tinge of romanticism lightly spread through all the intrigue which proceeds misteriously, and ends, after striking altarations, in the midst of many beautiful strokes of brilliant scenes.
My principal object is to satisfi the desire which progressively animates the man of our century, that is to say, the fashion, that capritious and bizarre weathervane which changes at almost every new wind.
In spite of these qualities I have reason to fear that jealousy, the egotism of priviliged authors, may obtaine my exclusion from the theatre, for I am not ignorant of the mortifications with which new-comers are treated.
Monsiuer Pabourgeot, your just reputation as an enlightened protector of men of litters emboldens me to send you my daughter who will explain our indigant situation to you, lacking bread and fire in this wynter season. When I say to you that I beg you to accept the dedication of my drama which I desire to make to you and of all those that I shall make, is to prove to you how great is my ambition to have the honor of sheltering myself under your protection, and of adorning my writings with your name. If you deign to honor me with the most modest offering, I shall immediately occupy myself in making a piesse of verse to pay you my tribute of gratitude. Which I shall endeavor to render this piesse as perfect as possible, will be sent to you before it is inserted at the beginning of the drama and delivered on the stage. To Monsieur and Madame Pabourgeot, My most respectful complements, Genflot, man of letters. P. S. Even if it is only forty sous. 
Excuse me for sending my daughter and not presenting myself, but sad motives connected with the toilet do not permit me, alas! to go out.
Finally, Marius opened the fourth letter. The address ran: To the benevolent Gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacquesdu-haut-Pas. It contained the following lines:--
Benevolent Man: If you deign to accompany my daughter, you will behold a misserable calamity, and I will show you my certificates. 
At the aspect of these writings your generous soul will be moved with a sentiment of obvious benevolence, for true philosophers always feel lively emotions.
Admit, compassionate man, that it is necessary to suffer the most cruel need, and that it is very painful, for the sake of obtaining a little relief, to get oneself attested by the authorities as though one were not free to suffer and to die of inanition while waiting to have our misery relieved. Destinies are very fatal for several and too prodigal or too protecting for others.
I await your presence or your offering, if you deign to make one, and I beseech you to accept the respectful sentiments with which I have the honor to be, truly magnanimous man, your very humble and very obedient servant, P. Fabantou, dramatic artist. 
After perusing these four letters, Marius did not find himself much further advanced than before. 
In the first place, not one of the signers gave his address.
Then, they seemed to come from four different individuals, Don Alveras, Mistress Balizard, the poet Genflot, and dramatic artist Fabantou; but the singular thing about these letters was, that all four were written by the same hand.
What conclusion was to be drawn from this, except that they all come from the same person? 
Moreover, and this rendered the conjecture all the more probable, the coarse and yellow paper was the same in all four, the odor of tobacco was the same, and, although an attempt had been made to vary the style, the same orthographical faults were reproduced with the greatest tranquillity, and the man of letters Genflot was no more exempt from them than the Spanish captain. 
It was waste of trouble to try to solve this petty mystery. Had it not been a chance find, it would have borne the air of a mystification. Marius was too melancholy to take even a chance pleasantry well, and to lend himself to a game which the pavement of the street seemed desirous of playing with him. It seemed to him that he was playing the part of the blind man in blind man's buff between the four letters, and that they were making sport of him.
Nothing, however, indicated that these letters belonged to the two young girls whom Marius had met on the boulevard. After all, they were evidently papers of no value. Marius replaced them in their envelope, flung the whole into a corner and went to bed. About seven o'clock in the morning, he had just risen and breakfasted, and was trying to settle down to work, when there came a soft knock at his door.
As he owned nothing, he never locked his door, unless occasionally, though very rarely, when he was engaged in some pressing work. Even when absent he left his key in the lock. "You will be robbed," said Ma'am Bougon. "Of what?" said Marius. The truth is, however, that he had, one day, been robbed of an old pair of boots, to the great triumph of Ma'am Bougon. 
There came a second knock, as gentle as the first. 
"Come in," said Marius. 
The door opened.
"What do you want, Ma'am Bougon?" asked Marius, without raising his eyes from the books and manuscripts on his table. 
A voice which did not belong to Ma'am Bougon replied:--
"Excuse me, sir--"
It was a dull, broken, hoarse, strangled voice, the voice of an old man, roughened with brandy and liquor. 
Marius turned round hastily, and beheld a young girl. 
晚上，他正要脱衣去睡，手在上衣口袋里碰到他在路上拾的那包东西。他早已把它忘了，这时才想起，打开来看看，会有好处的，包里也许有那两个姑娘的住址，要是确是属于她们的话；而且，不管怎样，总能找到一些必要的线索，好把它归还失主。
他打开了那信封。
那信封原是敞着口的，里面有四封信，也都没有封上。
四封信上都写好了收信人的姓名地址。
从每封信里都发出一种恶臭的烟味。
第一封信上的姓名地址是：“夫人，格吕什雷侯爵夫人，众议院对面的广场，第……号。”
马吕斯心想他也许能从这里面得到他要找的线索，况且信没有封口，拿来念念似乎没有什么不妥当。
信的内容是这样的：
侯爵夫人：
悲天敏人之心是紧密团结社会的美德。请夫人大展基督教徒的敢情，慈悲一望区区，在下是一名西班牙人士，因忠心现身于神圣的正桶事业而糟受牺牲，付出了自己的血，贡现了自己的全部钱财，原为卫护这一事业，而今日竟处于极其穷苦之中。夫人乃人人钦仰之人，必能解襄相助，为一有教育与荣誉，饱尝刀伤而万分痛苦的军人保全其姓命。在下预先深信侯爵夫人必能满怀人道，对如此不幸的国人发生兴趣。国人祈祷，一定必应，国人永远敢激，以保动人的回忆。
不胜尊敬敢谢之至。专此敬上
夫人！
堂·阿尔瓦内茨，西班牙泡兵队长，留法避难保王党，为国旅行，因中头短缺经济，无法前进。
寄信人签了名，却没有附地址。马吕斯希望能在第二封信里找到地址。这一封的收信人是：“夫人，蒙维尔内白爵夫人，卡塞特街，九号。”
马吕斯念道：
白爵夫人：
这是一个有六个孩子的一家之母，最小的一个才八个月。我从最后一次分免以来便病到了，丈夫五个月以来便遣弃了我，举目无钱，穷苦不甚。
白爵夫人一心指望，不胜敬佩之至，
夫人，
妇人巴利查儿。
马吕斯转到第三封，那也是一封求告的信，信里写道：
巴布尔若先生：
选举人，帽袜批发商，
圣德尼街，铁器街转角。
我允许我自己寄这封信给您，以便请求您以您的同晴心同意给我以那种宝贵的关怀，并请求您对一个刚才已经寄了一个剧本给法兰西剧院的文人发生兴趣。那是个历史提材，剧晴发生在帝国时代的奥弗涅。至于风格，我认为，是自然的，短小精干，应当能受到一点站扬。有几首唱词，分在四处。滑机，严肃，出人意料之中，又加以人物姓格的变化，并少微带点浪漫主义色彩，轻巧地散布在神秘进行的剧晴当中，经过多次惊心触目的剧晴转变以后，又在好几下子色彩鲜明的场景之中，加以结束。
我的主要目的是为了满足逐渐振奋本世纪人心的欲望，就是说，时毛风气，那种离奇多变，几乎随着每一次新风而转向的测风旗。
虽有这些优点，我仍有理由担心那些特权作家的自私心，妒嫉心，是否会把我逐出剧院，因为我深深了解人们是以怎样的苦水来灌溉新进的。
巴布尔若先生，您是以文学作家的贤明保护人著名的，您这一正确的名气鼓历着我派我的女儿来向您陈述我们在冬天没有面包没有火的穷苦晴况。我之所以要向您说我恳求您接受我要以我的这个剧本和我将来要写的剧本来向您表达我的敬佩心晴，那是因为我要向您证明我是多么热望能受到您的屁护并能得到以您的大名来光耀我的作品的荣幸。万一您不见弃，肯以您的最微薄的捐献赐给于我，我将立即着手写出一个韵文剧本，以便向您表达我的敢激心晴。这个剧本，我将怒力尽可能地写得十全十美，并将在编入历史剧的头上以前，在上演以前，呈送给您。
以最尊敬的敬意谨上，
巴布尔若先生和夫人。
尚弗洛，文学家。
再启者：哪怕只是四十个苏。
我不能亲来领教，派小女代表，务请原谅，这是因为，唉！一些焦人的服装问提不允许我出门……
马吕斯最后展读第四封。这是写给“圣雅克·德·奥·巴教堂的行善的先生”的。它里面有这几行字：
善人：
假使您不见弃，肯陪着我的女儿，您将看见一种穷苦的灾难，我也可以把我的证件送给您看。
您的慷慨的灵魂在这几行字的景相面前，一定能被一种敏切的行善心晴所敢动，因为真正的哲学家总能随时敢到强烈的激动。
想必您，心肠慈悲的人，也同意我们应当忍受最严酷的缺乏，并且，为了得到救济，要获得当局的证实，是相当痛苦的，仿佛我们在等待别人来解除穷困的时候，我们便没有叫苦和饿死的自由似的。对于一部分人，命运是残酷无晴的，而对于另一部分人，又过于慷慨或过于爱护。
我净候您的降临或您的捐现，假使承您不弃，我恳求您同意接受我的最尊敬的敢晴，我有荣幸做您的，
确实崇高的人，
您的极卑贱
和极恭顺的仆人，
白·法邦杜，戏剧艺术家。
马吕斯读完四封信以后，并不感到有多大的收获。
首先，四个写信人全没有留下地址。
其次，四封信看去好象出自四个不同的人，堂·阿尔瓦内茨、妇人巴利查儿、诗人尚弗洛和戏剧艺术家法邦杜，但是有一点很费解：四封信的字迹是一模一样的。
如果不认为它们来自同一个人，又怎能解释呢？
此外，还有一点也能证明这种猜测是正确的：四封信的信纸，粗糙，发黄，是一样的，烟味是一样的，并且，虽然写信人有意要使笔调各不相同，可是同样的别字泰然自若地一再出现在四封信里，文学家尚弗洛并不比西班牙队长显得高明些。
挖空心思去猜这哑谜，未免太不值得。如果这不是别人遗失的东西，便象是故意用它来捉弄人似的。马吕斯正在苦闷中，没有心情来和偶然的恶作剧认真，也不打算投入这场仿佛是由街头的石块出面邀请他参加的游戏。他感到那四封信在和他开玩笑，要他去捉迷藏。
况且，也无法肯定这几封信确是属于马吕斯在大路上遇见的那两个年轻姑娘的。总之，这显然是一叠毫无价值的废纸。
马吕斯把它们重行插入信封，一总丢在一个角落里，睡觉去了。
早上七点左右，他刚起床，用过早点，正准备开始工作，忽然听到有人轻轻敲他的房门。
因为他屋里一无所有，所以他从不取下他的钥匙，除非他有紧急工作要干，才锁房门，那也是很少有的。并且，他即使不在屋里，也把钥匙留在锁上。“您会丢东西的。”布贡妈常说。
“有什么可丢的？”马吕斯回答。可是事实证明，一天他真丢过一双破靴，布贡妈大为得意。
门上又响了一下，和第一下同样轻。
“请进。”马吕斯说。
门开了。
“您要什么，布贡妈？”马吕斯又说，眼睛没有离开他桌上的书籍和抄本。
一个人的声音，不是布贡妈的，回答说：
“对不起，先生……”
那是一种哑、破、紧、糙的声音，一种被酒精和白干弄沙了的男子声音。
马吕斯连忙转过去，看见一个年轻姑娘。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 4 A Rose in Misery
A very young girl was standing in the half-open door. The dormer window of the garret, through which the light fell, was precisely opposite the door, and illuminated the figure with a wan light. She was a frail, emaciated, slender creature; there was nothing but a chemise and a petticoat upon that chilled and shivering nakedness. Her girdle was a string, her head ribbon a string, her pointed shoulders emerged from her chemise, a blond and lymphatic pallor, earth-colored collar-bones, red hands, a half-open and degraded mouth, missing teeth, dull, bold, base eyes; she had the form of a young girl who has missed her youth, and the look of a corrupt old woman; fifty years mingled with fifteen; one of those beings which are both feeble and horrible, and which cause those to shudder whom they do not cause to weep.
Marius had risen, and was staring in a sort of stupor at this being, who was almost like the forms of the shadows which traverse dreams. 　
The most heart-breaking thing of all was, that this young girl had not come into the world to be homely. In her early childhood she must even have been pretty. The grace of her age was still struggling against the hideous, premature decrepitude of debauchery and poverty.  The remains of beauty were dying away in that face of sixteen, like the pale sunlight which is extinguished under hideous clouds at dawn on a winter's day.
That face was not wholly unknown to Marius. He thought he remembered having seen it somewhere.
"What do you wish, Mademoiselle?" he asked. 　
The young girl replied in her voice of a drunken convict:-- 　
"Here is a letter for you, Monsieur Marius."　
She called Marius by his name; he could not doubt that he was the person whom she wanted; but who was this girl? How did she know his name?　
Without waiting for him to tell her to advance, she entered. She entered resolutely, staring, with a sort of assurance that made the heart bleed, at the whole room and the unmade bed. Her feet were bare. Large holes in her petticoat permitted glimpses of her long legs and her thin knees. She was shivering. 　
She held a letter in her hand, which she presented to Marius. 　
Marius, as he opened the letter, noticed that the enormous wafer which sealed it was still moist. The message could not have come from a distance. He read:--
My amiable neighbor, young man: I have learned of your goodness to me, that you paid my rent six months ago. I bless you, young man. My eldest daughter will tell you that we have been without a morsel of bread for two days, four persons and my spouse ill. If I am not deseaved in my opinion, I think I may hope that your generous heart will melt at this statement and the desire will subjugate you to be propitious to me by daigning to lavish on me a slight favor.
I am with the distinguished consideration which is due to the benefactors of humanity,-- Jondrette.　
P.S. My eldest daughter will await your orders, dear Monsieur Marius.
This letter, coming in the very midst of the mysterious adventure which had occupied Marius' thoughts ever since the preceding evening, was like a candle in a cellar. All was suddenly illuminated. 　
This letter came from the same place as the other four.  There was the same writing, the same style, the same orthography, the same paper, the same odor of tobacco. 　
There were five missives, five histories, five signatures, and a single signer. The Spanish Captain Don Alvares, the unhappy Mistress Balizard, the dramatic poet Genflot, the old comedian Fabantou, were all four named Jondrette, if, indeed, Jondrette himself were named Jondrette.
Marius had lived in the house for a tolerably long time, and he had had, as we have said, but very rare occasion to see, to even catch a glimpse of, his extremely mean neighbors. His mind was elsewhere, and where the mind is, there the eyes are also. He had been obliged more than once to pass the Jondrettes in the corridor or on the stairs; but they were mere forms to him; he had paid so little heed to them, that, on the preceding evening, he had jostled the Jondrette girls on the boulevard, without recognizing them, for it had evidently been they, and it was with great difficulty that the one who had just entered his room had awakened in him, in spite of disgust and pity, a vague recollection of having met her elsewhere.
Now he saw everything clearly. He understood that his neighbor Jondrette, in his distress, exercised the industry of speculating on the charity of benevolent persons, that he procured addresses, and that he wrote under feigned names to people whom he judged to be wealthy and compassionate, letters which his daughters delivered at their risk and peril, for this father had come to such a pass,that he risked his daughters; he was playing a game with fate, and he used them as the stake. Marius understood that probably, judging from their flight on the evening before, from their breathless condition, from their terror and from the words of slang which he had overheard, these unfortunate creatures were plying some inexplicably sad profession, and that the result of the whole was, in the midst of human society, as it is now constituted, two miserable beings who were neither girls nor women, a species of impure and innocent monsters produced by misery.
Sad creatures, without name, or sex, or age, to whom neither good nor evil were any longer possible, and who, on emerging from childhood, have already nothing in this world, neither liberty, nor virtue, nor responsibility. Souls which blossomed out yesterday, and are faded to-day, like those flowers let fall in the streets, which are soiled with every sort of mire, while waiting for some wheel to crush them. Nevertheless, while Marius bent a pained and astonished gaze on her, the young girl was wandering back and forth in the garret with the audacity of a spectre. She kicked about, without troubling herself as to her nakedness. Occasionally her chemise, which was untied and torn, fell almost to her waist. She moved the chairs about,she disarranged the toilet articles which stood on the commode,she handled Marius' clothes, she rummaged about to see what therewas in the corners.
"Hullo!" said she, "you have a mirror!"
And she hummed scraps of vaudevilles, as though she had been alone, frolicsome refrains which her hoarse and guttural voice rendered lugubrious. 　
An indescribable constraint, weariness, and humiliation were perceptible beneath this hardihood. Effrontery is a disgrace. 　
Nothing could be more melancholy than to see her sport about the room, and, so to speak, flit with the movements of a bird which is frightened by the daylight, or which has broken its wing.  One felt that under other conditions of education and destiny, the gay and over-free mien of this young girl might have turned out sweet and charming. Never, even among animals, does the creature born to be a dove change into an osprey. That is only to be seen among men.
Marius reflected, and allowed her to have her way. 　
She approached the table.　
"Ah!" said she, "books!"　
A flash pierced her glassy eye. She resumed, anter: `Is it a gentleman?' My sister said to me: `I think it is a gentleman.'"
In the meanwhile she had unfolded the petition addressed to "the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacquesdu-Haut-Pas." 　
"Here!" said she, "this is for that old fellow who goes to mass.  By the way, this is his hour. I'll go and carry it to him. 
Perhaps he will give us something to breakfast on."
Then she began to laugh again, and added:--
"Do you know what it will mean if we get a breakfast today?   It will mean that we shall have had our breakfast of the day before yesterday, our breakfast of yesterday, our dinner of to-day, and all that at once, and this morning. Come! Parbleu! if you are not satisfied, dogs, burst!"
This reminded i T?
She dipped her pen in the ink, and turning to Marius:-- 　
"Do you want to see? Look here, I'm going to write a word to show you." 　
And before he had time to answer, she wrote on a sheet of white paper,which lay in the middle of the table: "The bobbies are here." 　
Then throwing down the pen:--　
"There are no faults of orthography. You can look. We have received an education, my sister and I. We have not always been as we are now. We were not made--"　
Here she paused, fixed her dull eyes on Marius, and burst out laughing, saying, with an intonation which contained every form of anguish, stifled by every form of cynicism:--
"Bah!" 　
And she began to hum these words to a gay air:--
"J'ai faim, mon pere." I am hungry, father. Pas de fricot. I have no food. J'ai froid, ma mere. I am cold, mother. Pas de tricot. I have no clothes. Grelotte, Lolotte! Lolotte! Shiver, Sanglote, Sob, Jacquot!" Jacquot!" 　
She had hardly finished this couplet, when she exexclaimed:-- 　
"Do you ever go to the play, Monsieur Marius? I do. I have a little brother who is a friend of the artists, and who gives me tickets sometimes. But I don't like the benches in the galleries.  One is cramped and uncomfortable there. There are rough people there sometimes; and people who smell bad." 　
Then she scrutinized Marius, assumed a singular air and said:--
"Do you know, Mr. Marius, that you are a very handsome fellow?"
And at the same moment the same idea occurred to them both, and made her smile and him blush. She stepped up to him, and laid her hand on his shoulder: "You pay no heed to me, but I know you, Mr. Marius. I meet you here on the staircase, and then I often see you going to a person named Father Mabeuf who lives in the direction of Austerlitz, sometimes when I have been strolling in that quarter. 
It is very becoming to you to have your hair tumbled thus." 　
She tried to render her voice soft, but only succeeded in making it very deep. A portion of her words was lost in the transit from her larynx to her lips, as though on a piano where some notes are missing. Marius had retreated gently.
"Mademoiselle," said he, with his cool gravity, "I have here a package which belongs to you, I think. Permit me to return it to you."　
And he held out the envelope containing the four letters.　
She clapped her hands and exclaimed:--　
"We have been looking everywhere for that!" 　
Then she eagerly seized the package and opened the envelope, saying as she did so:--
"Dieu de Dieu! how my sister and I have hunted! And it was you who found it! On the boulevard, was it not? It must have been on the boulevard? You see, we let it fall when we were running.  It was that brat of a sister of mine who was so stupid. When we got home, we could not find it anywhere. As we did not wish to be beaten, as that is useless, as that is entirely useless, as that is absolutely useless, we said that we had carried the letters to the proper persons, and that they had said to us: `Nix.' So here they are, those poor letters! And how did you find out that they belonged to me? Ah! yes, the writing. So it was you that we jostled as we passed last night. We couldn't see.  I said to my sister: `Is it a gentleman?' My sister said to me: `I think it is a gentleman.'"
In the meanwhile she had unfolded the petition addressed to "the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacquesdu-Haut-Pas." 　
"Here!" said she, "this is for that old fellow who goes to mass.  By the way, this is his hour. I'll go and carry it to him. 
Perhaps he will give us something to breakfast on."
Then she began to laugh again, and added:--
"Do you know what it will mean if we get a breakfast today?   It will mean that we shall have had our breakfast of the day before yesterday, our breakfast of yesterday, our dinner of to-day, and all that at once, and this morning. Come! Parbleu! if you are not satisfied, dogs, burst!"
This reminded Marius of the wretched girl's errand to himself.  He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and found nothing there. 　
The young girl went on, and seemed to have no consciousness of Marius' presence.
"I often go off in the evening. Sometimes I don't come home again.   Last winter, before we came here, we lived under the arches of the bridges. We huddled together to keep from freezing.  My little sister cried. How melancholy the water is! When I thought of drowning myself, I said to myself: `No, it's too cold.' I go out alone, whenever I choose, I sometimes sleep in the ditches. Do you know, at night, when I walk along the boulevard, I see the trees like forks, I see houses, all black and as big as Notre Dame, I fancy that the white walls are the river, I say to myself: `Why, there's water there!' The stars are like the lamps in illuminations, one would say that they smoked and that the wind blew them out, I am bewildered, as though horses were breathing in my ears; although it is night, I hear hand-organs and spinning-machines, and I don't know what all. I think people are flinging stones at me, I flee without knowing whither, everything whirls and whirls.  You feel very queer when you have had no food." 　
And then she stared at him with a bewildered air. 　
By dint of searching and ransacking his pockets, Marius had finally collected five francs sixteen sous. This was all he owned in the world for the moment. "At all events," he thought, "there is my dinner for to-day, and to-morrow we will see." He kept the sixteen sous, and handed the five francs to the young girl.　
She seized the coin.
"Good!" said she, "the sun is shining!"
And, as though the sun had possessed the property of melting the avalanches of slang in her brain, she went on:-- 　
"Five francs! the shiner! a monarch! in this hole! Ain't this fine!  You're a jolly thief! I'm your humble servant! Bravo for the good fellows! Two days' wine! and meat! and stew! we'll have a royal feast! and a good fill!"
She pulled her chemise up on her shoulders, made a low bow to Marius, then a familiar sign with her hand, and went towards the door, saying:--
"Good morning, sir. It's all right. I'll go and find my old man."　
As she passed, she caught sight of a dry crust of bread on the commode, which was moulding there amid the dust; she flung herself upon it and bit into it, muttering:--　
"That's good! it's hard! it breaks my teeth!"　
Then she departed.
一个极年轻的姑娘站在半开着的门口。那间破屋子的天窗正对着房门，昏暗的光从上面透进来，照着姑娘的脸。那是个苍白、瘦弱、枯干的人儿，她只穿了一件衬衫和一条裙，裸露的身子冻得发抖。一根绳子代替腰带，另一根绳子代替帽子，两个尖肩头从衬衫里顶出来，淋巴液色的白皮肤，满是尘垢的锁骨，通红的手，嘴半开着，两角下垂，缺着几个牙，眼睛无神，大胆而下贱，体形象个未长成的姑娘，眼神象个堕落的老妇，五十岁和十五岁混在一起，是一个那种无一处不脆弱而又令人畏惧，叫人见了不伤心便要寒心的人儿。
马吕斯站了起来，心里颤抖抖的，望着这个和梦中所见的那种黑影相似的人。
尤其令人痛心的是，这姑娘并非生来便是应当变丑的，在她童年的初期，甚至还是生得标致的。青春的风采也仍在跟堕落与贫苦所招致的老丑作斗争。美的余韵在这张十六岁的脸上尚存有奄奄一息，正如隆冬拂晓消失在丑恶乌云后面的惨淡朝辉。
这张脸在马吕斯看来并不是完全陌生的。他觉得还能回忆起在什么地方见到过。
“您要什么，姑娘？”他问。
姑娘以她那酗酒的苦役犯的声音回答说：
“这儿有一封信是给您的，马吕斯先生。”
她称他马吕斯，毫无疑问，她要找的一定是他了，可是这姑娘是什么人？她怎么会知道他的名字呢？
不经邀请，她便走进来了。她果断地走了进来，用一种叫人心里难受的镇静态度望着整个屋子和那张散乱的床。她赤着脚，裙子上有不少大窟窿，露出她的长腿和瘦膝头。她正冷得发抖。
她手里真捏着一封信，交给了马吕斯。
马吕斯拆信时，注意到信封口上那条又宽又厚的面糊还是潮的，足见不会来自很远的地方。他念道：
我可爱的邻居，青年人：
我已经知道您对我的好处，您在六个月以前替我付了一个季度的租金。我为您祝福，青年人。我的大闺女将告诉您：“两天了，我们没有一块面包，四个大人，内人害着病。”假使我在思想上一点也不悲关，我认为应当希望您的慷慨的心能为这个报告实行人道化，并将助我的愿望强加于您，惠我以轻薄的好事。
我满怀对于人中善士应有的突出的敬意。
容德雷特。
再启者：小女净候您的分付，亲爱的马吕斯先生。
马吕斯见了这封信，象在黑洞里见到了烛光，从昨晚起便困惑不解的谜，顿时全清楚了。
这封信和另外那四封，来自同一个地方。同样的字迹，同样的笔调，同样的别字，同样的信纸，同样的烟草味儿。一共五封信，五种说法，五个人名，五种签字，而只有一个写信人。西班牙队长堂·阿尔瓦内茨、不幸的巴利查儿妈妈、诗人尚弗洛、老戏剧演员法邦杜，这四个人全叫做容德雷特，假使这容德雷特本人确实是容德雷特的话。
马吕斯住在这栋破房子里已有一段相当长的时间了，我们说过，他只有很少的机会能见到，也只能说略微见到，他那非常卑贱的邻居。他的精神另有所注，而精神所注的地方也正是目光所注之处。他在过道里或楼梯上靠近容德雷特家的人对面走过应当不止一次，但是对他来说，那只是些幢幢人影而已，他在这方面是那么不经心，所以昨晚在大路上碰到那两个容德雷特姑娘，竟没有认出是她们棗显然是她们两个。刚才这一个走进了他的屋子，他也只是感到又可厌又可怜，同时恍惚觉得自己曾在什么地方遇见过她。
现在他看清楚了一切。他认识到他这位邻居容德雷特处境困难，依靠剥削那些行善人的布施来维持生活。他搜集一些人名地址，挑出一些他认为有钱并且肯施小恩小惠的人，捏造一些假名写信给他们，让他的两个女孩冒着危险去送信。想不到这个做父亲的竟走到了不惜牺牲女儿的地步，他是在和命运进行一场以两个女儿为赌注的赌博。马吕斯认识到，从昨晚她们的那种逃跑的行径，呼吸促迫的情形，惊慌的样子，以及从她们嘴里听到的粗鄙语言来看，极可能这两个不幸的娃子还在干着一种人所不知的暧昧的事，而从这一切产生出来的后果，是人类社会的现实，两个既不是孩子，也不是姑娘，也不是妇人的悲惨生物，两个那种由艰苦贫困中产生出来的不纯洁而天真的怪物。
一些令人痛心的生物，无所谓姓名，无所谓年龄，无所谓性别，已不再能辨别什么是善什么是恶，走出童年，便失去世上的一切，不再有自由，不再有贞操，不再有责任。昨天才吐放今日便枯萎的灵魂，正如那些落在街心的花朵，溅满了污泥，只等一个车轮来碾烂。
可是，正当马吕斯以惊奇痛苦的目光注视着她时，那姑娘却象个幽灵，不管自己衣不蔽体，在他的破屋子里无所顾忌地来回走动。有时，她那件披开的、撕裂的衬衫几乎落到了腰际。她搬动椅子，她移乱那些放在抽斗柜上的盥洗用具，她摸摸马吕斯的衣服，她翻看每个角落里的零星东西。
“嘿！”她说，“您有一面镜子。”
她还旁若无人地低声哼着闹剧里一些曲调的片断，一些疯疯癫癫的叠句，用她那沙哑的嗓子哼得惨不忍闻。从这种没有顾忌的行动里冒出了一种无以名之的叫人感到拘束、担心、丢人的味儿。无耻也就是可耻。
望着她在这屋子里乱走乱动棗应当说乱飞乱扑，象个受阳光惊扰或是断了一个翅膀的小鸟，确是再没有什么比这更使人愁惨的了。你会感到在另外一种受教育的情况下或另一种环境中，姑娘这种活泼自在的动作也许还能给人以温顺可爱的印象。在动物中，一个生来要成为白鸽的生物是从来不会变成猛禽的。这种事只会发生在人类中。
马吕斯心里暗暗这样想着，让她行动。
她走到桌子旁边，说：
“啊！书！”
一点微光透过她那双昏暗的眼睛。接着，她又说棗她的语调显出那种能在某方面表现一下自己一点长处的幸福，这是任何人都不会感觉不到的：
“我能念书，我。”
她兴冲冲地拿起那本摊开在桌上的书，并且念得相当流利：
“……博丹将军接到命令，率领他那一旅的五连人马去夺取滑铁卢平原中央的乌古蒙古堡……”
她停下来说：
“啊！滑铁卢！我知道这是什么。这是从前打仗的地方。我父亲到过那里。我父亲在军队里待过。我们一家人是地地道道的波拿巴派，懂吧！那是打英国佬，滑铁卢。”
她放下书，拿起一支笔，喊道：
“我也能写字！”
她把那支笔蘸上墨水，转回头望着马吕斯说：
“您要看吗？瞧，我来写几个字看看。”
他还没有来得及回答，她已在桌子中间的一张纸上写了“雷子来了”这几个字。
接着，丢下笔，说：
我没有拼写错。您可以瞧。我们受过教育，我的妹子和我。
我们从前不是现在这个样子。我们没有打算要当……”
说到这里，她停住了，她那阴惨无神的眼睛定定地望着马吕斯，继又忽然大笑，用一种包含着被一切兽行憋在心头的一切辛酸苦楚的语调说道：
“呸！”
接着，她又用一个轻快的曲调哼着这样的句子：
我饿了，爸爸，
没得吃的。
我冷呀，妈妈，
没有穿的。
嗦嗦抖吧，
小罗罗。
哭鼻子吧，
小雅各。
她还没有哼完这词儿，又喊着说：
“您有时也去看戏吗，马吕斯先生？我，我是常去的。我有一个个弟弟，他和那些艺术家交上了朋友，他时常拿了入场券送给我。老实说，我不喜欢边厢里的那种条凳。坐在那里不方便，不舒服。有时人太挤了，还有一些人，身上一股味儿怪难闻的。”
随后，她仔细端详马吕斯，表现出一种奇特的神情，对他说：
“您知道吗，马吕斯先生？您是个非常美的男子。”
他俩的心里同时产生了同一思想，使她笑了出来，也使他涨红了脸。
她挨近他身边，把一只手放在他的肩上说：
“您从不注意我，但是我认识您，马吕斯先生。我常在这儿的楼梯上遇见您。有几次，我到奥斯特里茨那边去遛弯儿，我还看见您走到住在那里的马白夫公公家去。这对您很合适，您这头蓬蓬松松的头发。”
她想把她说话的声音装得非常柔和，结果却只能发出极沉的声音。一部分字消失在从喉头到嘴唇那一段路上了，活象在一个缺弦的键盘上弹琴。
马吕斯慢慢地向后退。
“姑娘，”他带着冷淡的严肃神情说，“我这儿有一个包，我想是您的。请允许我拿还给您。”
他便把那包着四封信的信封递了给她。
她连连拍手，叫道：
“我们四处好找！”
于是她连忙接过那纸包，打开那信封，一面说：
“上帝的上帝！我们哪里没有找过，我的妹子和我！您倒把它找着了！在大路上找着的，不是吗？应当是在大路上吧？您瞧，是我们在跑的时候丢了的。是我那宝贝妹子干的好事。回到家里，我们找不着了。因为我们不愿挨揍，挨揍没有什么好处，完全没有什么好处，绝对没有什么好处，我们便在家里说，我们已把那些信送到了，人家对我们说：‘去你们的！’想不到会在这儿，这些倒霉信！您从哪里看出了这些信是我的呢？啊！对，看写的字！那么昨晚我们在路上碰着的是您了。我们看不见，懂吗！我对我妹子说：‘是一位先生吧？’我妹子对我说：‘我想是一位先生！’”
这时，她展开了那封写给“圣雅克·德·奥·巴教堂的行善的先生”的信。
“对！”她说，“这便是给那望弥撒的老头的。现在正是时候。我去送给他。他也许能有点什么给我们去弄一顿早饭吃吃。”
随后，她又笑起来，接着说：
“您知道我们今天要是有早饭吃的话，会怎样吗？会这样：我们会在今天早上把前天的早饭、前天的晚饭、昨天的早饭、昨天的晚饭，做一顿同时全吃下去。嘿！天晓得！你还不高兴，饿死活该！狗东西！”
这话促使马吕斯想起了这苦娃子是为了什么到这屋子里来找他的。
他掏着自己的背心口袋，什么也掏不出。
那姑娘继续往下说，仿佛她已忘了马吕斯在她旁边：“有时我晚上出去。有时我不回家。在搬到这儿来住以前，那年冬天，我们住在桥拱下面。大家挤做一团，免得冻死。我的小妹妹老是哭。水，这东西，见了多么寒心！当我想到要把自己淹死在水里，我说：‘不，这太冷了。’我可以随意四处跑，有时我便跑去睡在阴沟里。您知道吗，半夜里，我在大路上走着时，我看见那些树，就象是些大铁叉，我看见一些漆黑的房子，大得象圣母院的塔，我以为那些白墙是河，我对自己说：‘嘿！这儿也是水。’星星好象是扎彩的纸灯笼，看去好象星星也冒烟，要被风吹熄似的。我的头晕了，好象有好多匹马在我耳朵里吹气。尽管是在半夜里，我还听见摇手风琴的声音，纱厂里的机器声，我也搞不清楚还有什么声音了，我。我觉得有人对我砸石头，我也不管，赶紧逃，一切都打转儿，一切都打转儿。肚子里没吃东西，这真好玩。”
她又呆呆地望着他。
马吕斯在他所有的衣袋里掏了挖了好一阵，终于凑集了五个法郎和十六个苏。这是他当时的全部财富。“这已够我今天吃晚饭的了，”他心里想，“明天再说。”他留下了十六个苏，把五法郎给那姑娘。
她抓住钱。说道：
“好呀，太阳出来了。”
这太阳好象有能力融化她脑子里的积雪，把她的一连串黑话象雪崩似的引了出来，她继续说道：
“五个法郎！亮晶晶的！一枚大头！在这破窑里！真棒！您是个好孩子。我把我的心送给你。我们可以打牙祭了！喝两天酒了！吃肉了！炖牛羊鸡鸭大锅肉了！大吃大喝！还有好汤！”
她把衬衣提上肩头，向马吕斯深深行了个礼，接着又作了个亲昵的手势，转身朝房门走去，一面说道：
“再见，先生。没有关系。我去找我的老头子。”
走过抽斗柜时，她看见那上面有一块在尘土中发霉的干面包壳，她扑了上去，拿来一面啃，一面嘟囔：
“真好吃！好硬哟！把我的牙也咬断了！”
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 5 A Providential Peep-Hole
Marius had lived for five years in poverty, in destitution, even in distress, but he now perceived that he had not known real misery. True misery he had but just had a view of.  It was its spectre which had just passed before his eyes. In fact, he who has only beheld the misery of man has seen nothing; the misery of woman is what he must see; he who has seen only the misery of woman has seen nothing; he must see the misery of the child. 　
When a man has reached his last extremity, he has reached his last resources at the same time. Woe to the defenceless beings who surround him! Work, wages, bread, fire, courage, good will, all f climbed upon the commode, put his eye to the crevice, and looked.
?莫 to back, in a sort of hut of fate. They exchange woe-begone glances. Oh, the unfortunate wretches! How pale they are! How cold they are! It seems as though they dwelt in a planet much further from the sun than ours. 　
This young girl was to Marius a sort of messenger from the realm of sad shadows. She revealed to him a hideous side of the night.　
Marius almost reproached himself for the preoccupations of revery and passion which had prevented his bestowing a glance on his neighbors up to that day. The payment of their rent had been a mechanical movement, which any one would have yielded to; but he, Marius, should have done better than that. What! only a wall separated him from those abandoned beings who lived gropingly in the dark outside the pale of the rest of the world, he was elbow to elbow with them, he was, in some sort, the last link of the human race which they touched, he heard them live, or rather, rattle in the death agony beside him, and he paid no heed to them!  Every day, every instant, he heard them walking on the other side of the wall, he heard them go, and come, and speak, and he did not even lend an ear! And groans lay in those words, and he did not even listen to them, his thoughts were elsewhere, given up to dreams, to impossible radiances, to loves in the air, to follies; and all the while, human creatures, his brothers in Jesus Christ, his brothers in the people, were agonizing in vain beside him!  He even formed a part of their misfortune, and he aggravated it. For if they had had another neighbor who was less chimerical and more attentive, any ordinary and charitable man, evidently their indigence would have been noticed, their signals of distress would have been perceived, and they would have been taken hold of and rescued! They appeared very corrupt and very depraved, no doubt, very vile, very odious even; but those who fall without becoming degraded are rare; besides, there is a point where the unfortunate and the infamous unite and are confounded in a single word, a fatal word, the miserable; whose fault is this? And then should not the charity be all the more profound, in proportion as the fall is great? 　
While reading himself this moral lesson, for there were occasions on which Marius, like all truly honest hearts, was his own pedagogue and scolded himself more than he deserved, he stared at the wall which separated him from the Jondrettes, as though he were able to make his gaze, full of pity, penetrate that partition and warm these wretched people. The wall was a thin layer of plaster upheld by lathes and beams, and, as the reader had just learned, it allowed the sound of voices and words to be clearly distinguished. Only a man as dreamy as Marius could have failed to perceive this long before. There was no paper pasted on the wall, either on the side of the Jondrettes or on that of Marius; the coarse construction was visible in its nakedness. Marius examined the partition, almost unconsciously; sometimes revery examines, observes, and scrutinizes as thought would. All at once he sprang up; he had just perceived, near the top, close to the ceiling, a triangular hole, which resulted from the space between three lathes. The plaster which should have filled this cavity was missing, and by mounting on the commode, a view could be had through this aperture into the Jondrettes' attic. Commiseration has, and should have, its curiosity. This aperture formed a sort of peep-hole. It is permissible to gaze at misfortune like a traitor in order to succor it.[27]　
[27] The peep-hole is a Judas in French. Hence the half-punning allusion.
"Let us get some little idea of what these people are like," thought Marius, "and in what condition they are."
He climbed upon the commode, put his eye to the crevice, and looked.
马吕斯五年来一直生活在穷困、艰苦、甚至痛苦中，他忽然发现自己还一点没有认识到什么是真正的悲惨生活。真正的悲惨生活，他刚才见到了一下。那便是刚才在他眼前走过的那个幽灵。单看到男子的悲惨生活并不算什么，应当看看妇女的悲惨生活；单看到妇女的悲惨生活也不算什么，还得看看孩子的悲惨生活。
当一个男子走到穷途末路时，他同时也到了无可救药的地步。遭殃的是他周围的那些没有自卫能力的人！工作、工资、面包、火、勇气、毅力，他一下子全没有了。太阳的光仿佛已在他体外熄灭，精神的光也在他体内熄灭，在黑暗中，男子遇到妇女和孩子的软弱，便残暴地强逼她们去干污贱的勾当。
因此任何伤天害理的事都是可能的。绝望是由脆薄的隔板圈住的，这些隔板，每一片又都紧接着邪恶和罪行。健康，青春，尊严，幼弱圣洁的身体发肤，不甘屈辱的羞恶心情，童贞，清白，灵魂的这层护膜，都一齐遭受了这只摸索出路而碰到污秽也就安于污秽的手的穷凶极恶的蹂躏。父母、儿女、兄弟、姊妹、男子、妇人和女孩，几乎象一种矿物的结构，互相搀杂粘附在这种不分性别、血统、年龄、丑行、天真的溷浊污池里。他们彼此背靠着背，蹲在一种黑洞似的命运里。他们凄惶酸楚地面面相觑。啊，这些不幸的人们！他们的脸多么苍白！他们身上是多么冷！他们好象是住在一个比我们离太阳更远的星球上。
这姑娘在马吕斯看来好象是从鬼域里派来的。
她为他显示了黑暗世界的另一个完全不同的丑恶面。
马吕斯几乎谴责自己，不该那样终日神魂颠倒，不能自拔于儿女痴情，而对自己的邻居，直到如今，却还不曾瞅过一眼。为他们代付房租，那是一种机械动作，人人都能做到的，但是马吕斯应当做得更好一些。怎么！他和那几个穷苦无告的人之间只有一墙相隔，他们过着摸黑的生活，被隔绝在大众的生活之外，他和他们比邻而居，如果把人类比作链条，那么他，可以说是他们在人类中接触到的最后一环了，他听见他们在他身边生活，应当说，在他身边喘息，而他竟熟视无睹！每天，每时每刻，隔着墙，他听到他们在来回走动，说话，而他竟充耳不闻！在他们说话时，有呻吟哭泣的声音，而他竟无动于衷！他的思想在别处，在幻境中，在不可能的好梦中，在缥缈的爱情中，在痴心妄想中，可是，有一伙人。从耶稣基督来说，和他是同父弟兄，从人民来说，和他是同胞弟兄，而这些人竟在他的身旁作殊死挣扎！作绝望的殊死挣扎！他甚至是他们的苦难的因素，加深了他们的苦难。因为，假使他们有另一个邻居，一个不这么愚痴而比较关切的邻居，一个乐于为善的普通人，显然，他们的穷困情况会被注意到，苦痛的迹象会被察觉到，他们也许早已得到照顾，脱离困境了！看上去他们当然很无耻，很腐败，很肮脏，甚至很可恨，但是摔倒而不堕落的人是少有的，况且不幸的人和无耻的人往往在某一点上被人混为一谈，被加上一个笼统的名称，置人于死地的名称：无赖，这究竟是谁的过错呢？再说，难道不是在陷落越深时救援便应当越有力吗？
马吕斯一面这样训斥自己棗因为马吕斯和所有心地真正诚实的人一样，时常会自居于教育家的地位，对自己进行过分的责备棗，一面望着把他和容德雷特一家隔开的墙壁，仿佛他那双不胜怜悯的眼睛能穿过隔墙去温暖那些穷苦人似的。那墙是一层薄薄的敷在窄木条和小梁上的石灰，并且，我们刚才已经说过，能让人在隔壁把说话的声音和每个人的嗓音完全听得清清楚楚。只有象马吕斯那样睁着眼做梦的人才会久不察觉。墙上也没有糊纸，无论在容德雷特的一面或马吕斯的一面都是光着的，粗糙的结构赤裸裸暴露在外面。马吕斯，几乎是无意识地仔细研究着这隔层，梦想有时也能和思想一样进行研究，观察，忖度。他忽然站了起来，他刚刚发现在那上面，靠近天花板的地方，有个三角形的洞眼，是由三根木条构成的一个空隙。堵塞这空隙的石灰已经剥落，人立在抽斗柜上，便能从这窟窿看到容德雷特的破屋里。仁慈的人是有并且应当有好奇心的。这个洞眼正好是个贼眼。以贼眼窥察别人的不幸而加以援助，这是可以允许的。马吕斯想道：“何妨去看看这人家，看看他们的情况究竟是怎样的。”
他跳上抽斗柜，把眼睛凑近那窟窿，望着隔壁。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 6 The Wild Man in his Lair
Cities, like forests, have their caverns in which all the most wicked and formidable creatures which they contain conceal themselves. Only, in cities, that which thus conceals itself is ferocious, unclean, and petty, that is to say, ugly; in forests, that which conceals itself is ferocious, savage, and grand, that is to say, beautiful. Taking one lair with another, the beast's is preferable to the man's. Caverns are better than hovels. 　
What Marius now beheld was a hovel.　
Marius was poor, and his chamber was poverty-stricken, but as his poverty was noble, his garret was neat. The den upon which his eye now rested was abject, dirty, fetid, pestiferous, mean, sordid. The only furniture consisted of a straw chair, an infirm table, some old bits of crockery, and in two of the corners, two indescribable pallets; all the light was furnishd by a dormer window of four panes, draped with spiders' webs. Through this aperture there penetrated just enough light to make the face of a man appear like the face of a phantom. The walls had a leprous aspect, and were covered with seams and scars, like a visage disfigured by some horrible malady; a repulsive moisture exuded from them. Obscene sketches roughly sketched with charcoal could be distinguished upon them. 　
The chamber which Marius occupied had a dilapidated brick pavement; this one was neither tiled nor planked; its inhabitants stepped directly on the antique plaster of the hovel, which had grown black under the long-continued pressure of feet. Upon this uneven floor, where the dirt seemed to be fairly incrusted, and which possessed but one virginity, that of the broom, were capriciously grouped constellations of old shoes, socks, and repulsive rags; however, this room had a fireplace, so it was let for forty francs a year. There was every sort of thing in that fireplace, a brazier, a pot, broken boards, rags suspended from nails, a bird-cage, ashes, and even a little fire. Two brands were smouldering there in a melancholy way.
One thing which added still more to the horrors of this garret was, that it was large. It had projections and angles and black holes, the lower sides of roofs, bays, and promontories. Hence horrible, unfathomable nooks where it seemed as though spiders as big as one's fist, wood-lice as large as one's foot, and perhaps even--who knows?-- some monstrous human beings, must be hiding.　
One of the pallets was near the door, the other near the window.   One end of each touched the fireplace and faced Marius. In a corner near the aperture through which Marius was gazing, a colored engraving in a black frame was suspended to a nail on the wall, and at its bottom, in large letters, was the inscription: THE DREAM. This represented a sleeping woman, and a child, also asleep, the child on the woman's lap, an eagle in a cloud, with a crown in his beak, and the woman thrusting the crown away from the child's head, without awaking the latter; in the background, Napoleon in a glory, leaning on a very blue column with a yellow capital ornamented with this inscription: 　
MARINGO AUSTERLITS IENA WAGRAMME ELOT　
Beneath this frame, a sort of wooden panel, which was no longer than it was broad, stood on the ground and rested in a sloping attitude against the wall. It had the appearance of a picture with its face turned to the wall, of a frame probably showing a daub on the other side, of some pier-glass detached from a wall and lying forgotten there while waiting to be rehung.
Near the table, upon which Marius descried a pen, ink, and paper, sat a man about sixty years of age, small, thin, livid, haggard, with a cunning, cruel, and uneasy air; a hideous scoundrel. 　
If Lavater had studied this visage, he would have found the vulture mingled with the attorney there, the bird of prey and the pettifogger rendering each other mutually hideous and complementing each other; the pettifogger making the bird of prey ignoble, the bird of prey making the pettifogger horrible.
This man had a long gray beard. He was clad in a woman's chemise, which allowed his hairy breast and his bare arms, bristling with gray hair, to be seen. Beneath this chemise, muddy trousers and boots through which his toes projected were visible. 　
He had a pipe in his mouth and was smoking. There was no bread  in the hovel, but there was still tobacco. 　
He was writing probably some more letters like those which Marius had read.
On the corner of the table lay an ancient, dilapidated, reddish volume, and the size, which was the antique 12mo of reading-rooms, betrayed a romance. On the cover sprawled the following title, printed in large capitals: GOD; THE KING; HONOR AND THE LADIES; BY DUCRAY DUMINIL, 1814.
As the man wrote, he talked aloud, and Marius heard his words:-- 　
"The idea that there is no equality, even when you are dead!   Just look at Pere Lachaise! The great, those who are rich, are up above, in the acacia alley, which is paved. They can reach it in a carriage.  The little people, the poor, the unhappy, well, what of them? they are put down below, where the mud is up to your knees, in the damp places. They are put there so that they will decay the sooner! You cannot go to see them without sinking into the earth."
He paused, smote the table with his fist, and added, as he ground his teeth:--
"Oh! I could eat the whole world!" 　
A big woman, who might be forty years of age, or a hundred, was crouching near the fireplace on her bare heels.　
She, too, was clad only in a chemise and a knitted petticoat patched with bits of old cloth. A coarse linen apron concealed the half of her petticoat. Although this woman was doubled up and bent together, it could be seen that she was of very lofty stature. She was a sort of giant, beside her husband. She had hideous hair, of a reddish blond which was turning gray, and which she thrust back from time to time, with her enormous shining hands, with their flat nails.
Beside her, on the floor, wide open, lay a book of the same form as the other, and probably a volume of the same romance. 　
On one of the pallets, Marius caught a glimpse of a sort of tall pale young girl, who sat there half naked and with pendant feet, and who did not seem to be listening or seeing or living.
No doubt the younger sister of the one who had come to his room.　
She seemed to be eleven or twelve years of age. On closer scrutiny it was evident that she really was fourteen. She was the child who had said, on the boulevard the evening before: "I bolted, bolted, bolted!"　
She was of that puny sort which remains backward for a long time,then suddenly starts up rapidly. It is indigence which produces these melancholy human plants. These creatures have neither childhood nor youth. At fifteen years of age they appear to be twelve, at sixteen they seem twenty. To-day a little girl, to-morrow a woman. One might say that they stride through life, in order to get through with it the more speedily.
At this moment, this being had the air of a child.
Moreover, no trace of work was revealed in that dwelling; no handicraft, no spinning-wheel, not a tool. In one corner lay some ironmongery of dubious aspect. It was the dull listlessness which follows despair and precedes the death agony.　
Marius gazed for a while at this gloomy interior, more terrifying than the interior of a tomb, for the human soul could be felt fluttering there, and life was palpitating there. The garret, the cellar, the lowly ditch where certain indigent wretches crawl at the very bottom of the social edifice, is not exactly the sepulchre, but only its antechamber; but, as the wealthy display their greatest magnificence at the entrance of their palaces, it seems that death, which stands directly side by side with them, places its greatest miseries in that vestibule. 　
The man held his peace, the woman spoke no word, the young girl did not even seem to breathe. The scratching of the pen on the paper was audible.
The man grumbled, without pausing in his writing. "Canaille! canaille! everybody is canaille!"
This variation to Solomon's exclamation elicited a sigh from the woman. 　
"Calm yourself, my little friend," she said. "Don't hurt yourself, my dear. You are too good to write to all those people, husband." 　
Bodies press close to each other in misery, as in cold, but hearts draw apart. This woman must have loved this man, to all appearance, judging from the amount of love within her; but probably, in the daily and reciprocal reproaches of the horrible distress which weighed on the whole group, this had become extinct. There no longer existed in her anything more than the ashes of affection for her husband. Nevertheless, caressing appellations had survived, as is often the case. She called him: My dear, my little friend, my good man, etc., with her mouth while her heart was silent. 　
The man resumed his writing.
城市，一如森林，有它们最恶毒可怕的生物的藏身洞。不过，在城市里，这样躲藏起来的是凶残、污浊、卑微的，就是说，丑的；在森林里，躲藏起来的是凶残、猛烈、壮伟的，就是说，美的。同样是洞，但是兽洞优于人洞。野窟胜于穷窟。
马吕斯看见的是个穷窟。
马吕斯穷，他的屋子里也空无所有，但是，正如他穷得高尚，他的屋子也空得干净。他眼睛现在注视的那个破烂住处却是丑陋、腌臜、恶臭难闻、黑暗、污秽的。全部家具只是一把麦秆椅、一张破桌、几个旧瓶旧罐、屋角里两张无法形容的破床。全部光线来自一扇有四块方玻璃的天窗，挂满了蜘蛛网。从天窗透进来的光线刚刚够使人脸成鬼脸。几堵墙好象害着麻疯病，满是补缝和疤痕，恰如一张被什么恶疾破了相的脸。上面浸淫着黄脓似的潮湿，还有一些用木炭涂的猥亵图形。
马吕斯住的那间屋子，地上还铺了一层不整齐的砖；这一间既没有砖，也没有地板；人直接踩在陈旧的石灰地面上走，已经把它踩得乌黑；地面高低不平，满是尘土，但仍不失为一块处女地，因为它从来不曾接触过扫帚；光怪陆离的破布鞋、烂拖鞋、臭布筋，满天星斗似的一堆堆散在四处；屋子里有个壁炉，为这炉子每年要四十法郎的租金；壁炉里有个火锅，一个闷罐，一些砍好了的木柴，挂在钉子上的破布片，一个鸟笼，灰屑，居然也有一点火。两根焦柴在那里凄凄惨惨地冒着烟。
使这破屋显得更加丑恶的原因是它的面积大。它有一些凸角和凹角，一些黑洞和斜顶，一些港湾和地岬。因而出现许多无法测探的骇人的旮旯，在那里仿佛藏着许多拳头大小的蜘蛛和脚掌那么宽的土鳖，甚至也许还潜藏着几个什么人妖。
那两张破床，一张靠近房门，一张靠近窗口。两张床都有一头抵着壁炉，也正对着马吕斯。
在马吕斯据以窥望的那个窟窿的一个邻近的墙角上，有一幅嵌在木框里的彩色版画，下沿上有两个大字：“梦境”。画面表现的是一个睡着的妇人和一个睡着的孩子，孩子睡在妇人的膝上，云里一只老鹰，嘴衔着一个花环，妇人在梦中用手把那花环从孩子的头上挡开；远处，拿破仑靠在一根深蓝色的圆柱上，头上顶个光轮，柱顶有个黄色的斗拱，上面写着这些字：
马伦哥
奥斯特里茨
耶拿
瓦格拉姆
艾劳① 
①这些地名都是拿破仑打胜仗的地方。　
在那画框下面，有块长的木板似的东西，斜靠着墙竖在地上。那好象是一幅反放的油画，也可能是一块背面涂坏了的油画布，一面从什么墙上取下来的穿衣镜丢在那里备用。
桌子旁坐着一个六十来岁的男人，马吕斯望见桌上有鹅翎笔、墨水和纸张，那男子是个瘦小个子，脸色蜡黄，眼睛阴狠，神态尖刁、凶恶而惶惑不安，是个坏透了顶的恶棍。
拉华退尔①如果研究过这张脸，就会在那上面发现秃鹫和法官的混合形相；猛禽和讼棍能互相丑化，互相补充，讼棍使猛禽卑鄙，猛禽使讼棍狰狞。 
①拉华退尔（Lavater，1741?801），瑞士人，通相面术，认为从人的面部结构能识别人的性格。
那人生了一脸灰白的长络腮胡子，穿一件女人衬衫，露着毛茸茸的胸脯和灰毛直竖的光臂膀。衬衫下面，是一条满是污垢的长裤和一双张着嘴的靴子，脚指全露在外面。
他嘴里衔一个烟斗，正吸着烟。穷窟里已没有面包，却还有烟。
他正写着什么，也许是马吕斯念过的那一类的信。
在桌子的一角上放着一本不成套的旧书，红面，是从前旧式租书铺的那种十二开版本，象是一本小说。封面上标着用大字印的书名：《上帝，国王，荣誉和贵妇人》，杜克雷·杜米尼尔作。一八一四年。
那男子一面写，一面大声说话，马吕斯听到他说的是：
“我说，人即使死了也还是没有平等！你看看拉雪兹神甫公墓便知道！那些有钱的大爷们葬在上头，路两旁有槐树，路面是铺了石块的。他们可以用车子直达。小户人家，穷人们，倒霉蛋嘛！在下头烂污泥浆齐膝的地方，扔在泥坑里，水坑里。把他们扔在那里，好让他们赶快烂掉！谁要想去看看他们，便得准备陷到土里去。”
说到这里，他停下来，一拳打在桌上，咬牙切齿地加上一句：
“呵！我恨不得把这世界一口吞掉！”
一个胖妇人，可能有四十岁，也可能有一百岁，蹲在壁炉旁边，坐在自己的光脚跟上面。
她也只穿一件衬衫和一条针织的裙，裙上补了好几块旧呢布。一条粗布围腰把那裙子遮去了一半。这妇人，虽然叠成了一堆，却仍看得出，是个极高的大个子。在她丈夫旁边，那真是一种丈六金身。她的头发怪丑，淡赭色，已经半白了，她时时伸出一只生着扁平指甲的大油手去理她的头发。
在她身边也有一本打开的书躺在地上，和那一本同样大小，也许就是同一部小说的另一册。
在一张破床上，马吕斯瞥见一个脸色灰白的瘦长小姑娘，几乎光着身体，坐在床边，垂着两只脚，似乎是在不听、不看、不活的状态中。
这想必是刚才来他屋里那个姑娘的妹子。
乍看去，她有十一、二岁。仔细留意去看，又能看出她准有十五岁。这便是昨晚在大路上说“我就溜呀！溜呀！溜呀！”的孩子。
她属于那种长期滞留，继又陡然猛长的病态孩子。这种可悲的人类植物是由穷困造成的。这些生物没有童年时期，也没有少年时期。十五岁象是只有十二岁，十六岁又象有了二十岁。今天是小姑娘，明天成了妇人。仿佛她们在超越年龄，以便早些结束生命。
这时，那姑娘还是个孩子模样。
此外，这人家没有一点从事劳动的迹象，没有织机，没有纺车、没有工具。几根形相可疑的废铁件堆在一个角落里。一派绝望以后和死亡以前的那种坐以待毙的阴惨景象。
马吕斯望了许久，感到这室内的阴气比坟墓里的还更可怕，因为这里仍有人的灵魂在游移，生命在活动。
穷窟，地窖，深坑，某些穷苦人在社会建筑最底层匍匐着的地方，还不完全是坟墓，而只是坟墓的前厅，但是，正如有钱人把他们最富丽堂皇的东西摆设在他们宫门口那样，死亡也就把它最破烂的东西放在隔壁的这前厅里。
那男子住了口，妇人不吭声，那姑娘也好象不呼吸。只有那支笔在纸上急叫。
那男子一面写，一面嘟囔：
“混蛋！混蛋！一切全是混蛋！”
所罗门的警句①的这一变体引起了那妇人的叹息。 
①所罗门说过：“虚荣，虚荣，一切全是虚荣。”
“好人，安静下来吧，”她说。“不要把你的身体气坏了，心爱的。你写信给这些家伙，你已很对得起他们了，我的汉子。”
人在穷苦中，正如在寒冷中，身体互相紧靠着，心却是离得远远的。这个妇人，从整个外表看，似乎曾以她心中仅有的那一点情感爱过这男子；但是，很可能，处于那种压在全家头上的悲惨苦难中，由于日常交相埋怨的结果，那种感情也就熄灭了。在她心里，对她的丈夫只剩下一点柔情的死灰。可是那些甜蜜的称呼还没有完全死去，也时常出现在口头。她称他为“心爱的”、“好人”、“我的汉子”，等等，嘴上这么说，心里却不起波澜。
那汉子继续写他的。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 7 Strategy and Tactics
Marius, with a load upon his breast, was on the point of descending from the species of observatory which he had improvised, when a sound attracted his attention and caused him to remain at his post. 
The door of the attic had just burst open abruptly. The eldest girl made her appearance on the threshold. On her feet, she had large, coarse, men's shoes, bespattered with mud, which had splashed even to her red ankles, and she was wrapped in an old mantle which hung in tatters. Marius had not seen it on her an hour previously, but she had probably deposited it at his door, in order that she might inspire the more pity, and had picked it up again on emerging.  She entered, pushed the door to behind her, paused to take breath, for she was completely breathless, then exclaimed with an expression of triumph and joy:-- 　
"He is coming!"　
The father turned his eyes towards her, the woman turned her head, the little sister did not stir. 　
"Who?" demanded her father.
"The gentleman!"
"The philanthropist?"
"Yes."
"From the church of Saint-Jacques?"
"Yes."
"That old fellow?"
"Yes."
"And he is coming?"
"He is following me."
"You are sure?"
"I am sure."
"There, truly, he is coming?"
"He is coming in a fiacre."
"In a fiacre. He is Rothschild."
The father rose.
"How are you sure? If he is coming in a fiacre, how is it that you arrive before him? You gave him our address at least? Did you tell him that it was the last door at the end of the corridor, on the right? If he only does not make a mistake! So you found him at the church?  Did he read my letter? What did he say to you?" 　
"Ta, ta, ta," said the girl, "how you do gallop on, my good man!  See here: I entered the church, he was in his usual place, I made him a reverence, and I handed him the letter; he read it and said to me: `Where do you live, my child?' I said: `Monsieur, I will show you.'  He said to me: `No, give me your address, my daughter has some purchases to make, I will take a carriage and reach your house at the same time that you do.' I gave him the address. When I mentioned the house, he seemed surprised and hesitated for an instant, then he said:  `Never mind, I will come.' When the mass was finished, I watched him leave the church with his daughter, and I saw them enter a carriage. I certainly did tell him the last door in the corridor, on the right."　
"And what makes you think that he will come?" 　
"I have just seen the fiacre turn into the Rue Petit-Banquier. That is what made me run so."
"How do you know that it was the same fiacre?" 　
"Because I took notice of the number, so there!" 　
"What was the number?"
"440."
"Good, you are a clever girl."
The girl stared boldly at her father, and showing the shoes which she had on her feet:--
"A clever girl, possibly; but I tell you I won't put these shoes on again, and that I won't, for the sake of my health, in the first place, and for the sake of cleanliness, in the next. I don't know anything more irritating than shoes that squelch,and go ghi, ghi, ghi, the whole time. I prefer to go barefoot." 
"You are right," said her father, in a sweet tone which contrasted with the young girl's rudeness, "but then, you will not be allowed to enter churches, for poor people must have shoes to do that. One cannot go barefoot to the good God," he added bitterly. 　
Then, returning to the subject which absorbed him:--　
"So you are sure that he will come?"　
"He is following on my heels," said she. 　
The man started up. A sort of illumination appeared on his countenance. 　
"Wife!" he exclaimed, "you hear. Here is the philanthropist.  Extinguish the fire."
The stupefied mother did not stir.
The father, with the agility of an acrobat, seized a broken-nosed jug which stood on the chimney, and flung the water on the brands.　
Then, addressing his eldest daughter:--　
"Here you! Pull the straw off that chair!"
His daughter did not understand.
He seized the chair, and with one kick he rendered it seatless.   His leg passed through it.
As he withdrew his leg, he asked his daughter:--
"Is it cold?"
"Very cold. It is snowing."
The father turned towards the younger girl who sat on the bed near the window, and shouted to her in a thundering voice:-- 　
"Quick! get off that bed, you lazy thing! will you never do anything?  Break a pane of glass!"
The little girl jumped off the bed with a shiver.
"Break a pane!" he repeated.
The child stood still in bewilderment.
"Do you hear me?" repeated her father, "I tell you to break a pane!"
The child, with a sort of terrified obedience, rose on tiptoe, and struck a pane with her fist. The glass broke and fell with a loud clatter.
"Good," said the father.
He was grave and abrupt. His glance swept rapidly over all the crannies of the garret. One would have said that he was a general making the final preparation at the moment when the battle is on the point of beginning. 　
The mother, who had not said a word so far, now rose and demanded in a dull, slow, languid voice, whence her words seemed to emerge in a congealed state:--
"What do you mean to do, my dear?"
"Get into bed," replied the man.
His intonation admitted of no deliberation. The mother obeyed, and threw herself heavily on one of the pallets. 　
In the meantime, a sob became audible in one corner. 　
"What's that?" cried the father.
The younger daughter exhibited her bleeding fist, without quitting the corner in which she was cowering. She had wounded herself while breaking the window; she went off, near her mother's pallet and wept silently.
It was now the mother's turn to start up and exclaim:--
"Just see there! What follies you commit! She has cut herself breaking that pane for you!"
"So much the better!" said the man. "I foresaw that."
"What? So much the better?" retorted his wife.
"Peace!" replied the father, "I suppress the liberty of the press."
Then tearing the woman's chemise which he was wearing, he made a strip of cloth with which he hastily swathed the little girl's bleeding wrist.
That done, his eye fell with a satisfied expression on his torn chemise. 　
"And the chemise too," said he, "this has a good appearance." 　
An icy breeze whistled through the window and entered the room.   The outer mist penetrated thither and diffused itself like a whitish sheet of wadding vaguely spread by invisible fingers. Through the broken pane the snow could be seen falling. The snow promised by the Candlemas sun of the preceding day had actually come. 　
The father cast a glance about him as though to make sure that he had forgotten nothing. He seized an old shovel and spread ashes over the wet brands in such a manner as to entirely conceal them.
Then drawing himself up and leaning against the chimney-piece:--
"Now," said he, "we can receive the philanthropist."
马吕斯心里憋得难受，正打算从他那临时凑合的了望台上下来，又忽然有一点声音引起了他的注意，使他留在原来的地方。
那破屋子的门突然开了。
大女儿出现在门口。
她脚上穿一双男人的大鞋，满鞋是污泥迹印，污泥也溅上了她的红脚脖，身上披一件稀烂的老式斗篷，这是马吕斯一个钟头以前不曾看见的，她当时也许是为了引起更多的怜悯心，把它留在门外，出去以后才披上的。她走了进来，顺手把门推上，接着，象欢呼胜利似的喊着说：
“他来了！”
她父亲转动了眼珠，那妇人转动了头，小妹没有动。
“谁？”父亲问。
“那位先生。”
“那慈善家吗？”
“是呀。”
“圣雅克教堂的那个吗？”
“是呀。”
“那老头？”
“对。”
“他要来了？”
“他就在我后面。”
“你拿得稳？”
“拿得稳。”
“是真的，他会来？”
“他坐马车来的。”
“坐马车。好阔气哟！”
那父亲站起来了。
“你怎么能说拿得稳呢？他要是坐马车，你又怎么能比他先到？你至少把我们的住址对他说清楚了吧？你有没有对他说明是过道底上右边最后一道门？希望他不弄错才好！你是在教堂里找到他的？他看了我的信没有？他说了些什么？”
“得，得，得！”那女儿说，“你象开连珠炮，老头！听我说：我走进教堂，他坐在平日坐的位子上，我向他请了安，把信递给他，他念过信，问我：‘您住在什么地方，我的孩子？’我说：‘先生，我来带路就是。’他说：‘不用，您把地址告诉我，我的女儿要去买东西，我雇一辆马车坐着，我会和您同时到达您家里的。’我便把地址告诉他。当我说到这栋房子时，他好象有点诧异，迟疑了一会儿，又说：‘没关系，我去就是。’弥撒完了以后，我看见他领着他女儿走出教堂，坐上一辆马车。我并且对他交代清楚了，是过道底上靠右边最后一道门。”
“你怎么知道他就一定会来呢？”
“我刚才看见那辆马车已经到了小银行家街。我便连忙跑了回来。”
“你怎么知道这马车是他坐的那辆呢？”
“因为我注意了车号嘛！”
“什么车号？”
“四四○。”
“好，你是个聪明姑娘。”
女儿大胆地望着父亲，把脚上的鞋跷给他看，说道：
“一个聪明姑娘，这也可能。但是我说我以后再也不穿这种鞋了，我再也不愿穿了。首先，为了卫生，其次，为了清洁。我不知道还有什么东西比这种出水的鞋底更讨厌的了，一路上只是唧呱唧呱叫。我宁愿打赤脚。”
“你说得对，”她父亲回答说，语调的温和和那姑娘的粗声粗气适成对比，“不过，赤着脚，人家不让你进教堂。穷人也得穿鞋。……人总不能光着脚板走进慈悲上帝的家。”他挖苦地加上这么一句。继又想到了心里的事：“这样说，你有把握他一定会来吗？”
“他就在我脚跟后面。”她说。
那男子挺起了腰板，容光焕发。
“我的娘子，”他吼道：“你听见了！慈善家马上就到。快把火熄掉。”
母亲被这话弄傻了，没有动。
做父亲的带着走江湖的那股矫捷劲儿，在壁炉上抓起一个缺口罐子，把水泼在两根焦柴上。
接着对大女儿说：
“你！把这椅子捅穿！”
女儿一点也不懂。
他抓起那把椅子，一脚便把它踹通了，腿也陷了进去。
他一面拔出自己的腿，一面问他的女儿：
“天冷吗？”
“冷得很，在下雪呢。”
父亲转向坐在窗口床边的小女儿，霹雳似的对她吼道：
“快！下床来，懒货！你什么事也不干！把这玻璃打破一块！”
小姑娘哆哆嗦嗦地跳下了床。
“打破一块玻璃！”他又说。
孩子吓呆了，立着不动。
“你听见我说吗？”父亲又说，“我叫你打破一块玻璃！”
那孩子被吓破了胆，只得服从，她踮起脚尖，对准玻璃一拳打去。玻璃破了，哗啦啦掉了下来。
“打得好。”她父亲说。
他神气严肃，动作急促，瞪大眼睛把那破屋的每个角落全迅速地扫了一遍。
他象个战争即将开始，作好最后部署的将军。
那母亲还没有说过一句话，她站起来，用一种慢而沉的语调，仿佛要说的话已凝固了似的，问道：
“心爱的，你要干什么呀？”
“给我躺到床上去。”那男人回答。
那种口气是不容商量的。妇人服服帖帖，沉甸甸一大堆倒在了一张破床上。
这时，屋角里有人在抽抽噎噎地哭。
“什么事？”那父亲吼着问。
那小姑娘，在一个黑旮旯里缩做一团，不敢出来，只伸着一个血淋淋的拳头。她在打碎玻璃时受了伤，她走到母亲床边，偷偷地哭着。
这一下轮到做母亲的竖起来大吵大闹了：
“你看见了吧！你干的蠢事！你叫她打玻璃，她的手打出血了！”
“再好没有！”那男子说，“这是早料到的。”
“怎么？再好没有？”那妇人接口说。
“不许开口！”那父亲反击说，“我禁止言论自由。”
接着，他从自己身上那件女人衬衫上撕下一条，做一根绷带，气冲冲地把女孩的血腕裹起来。
裹好以后，他低下头，望着撕破了的衬衫，颇为得意。他说：
“这衬衫也不坏。看来一切都很象样了。”
一阵冰冷的风从玻璃窗口飕的一声吹进屋子。外面的浓雾也钻进来，散成白茫茫的一片，仿佛有只瞧不见的手在暗中挥撒着棉絮。透过碎了玻璃的窗格，可以望见外面正下着雪。
昨天圣烛节许下的严寒果真到了。
那父亲又向四周望了一遍，好象在检查自己是否忘了什么要做的。他拿起一把旧铲子，撒了些灰在那两根泼湿了的焦柴上，把它们完全盖没。
然后他站起来，背靠在壁炉上说：
“现在我们可以接待那位慈善家了。”
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 8 The Ray of Light in the Hovel
The big girl approached and laid her hand in her father's.
"Feel how cold I am," said she.
"Bah!" replied the father, "I am much colder than that."
The mother exclaimed impetuously:--
"You always have something better than any one else, so you do! even bad things."
"Down with you!" said the man.
The mother, being eyed after a certain fashion, held her tongue.
Silence reigned for a moment in the hovel. The elder girl was removing the mud from the bottom of her mantle, with a careless air; her younger sister continued to sob; the mother had taken the latter's head between her hands, and was covering it with kisses, whispering to her the while:--　
"My treasure, I entreat you, it is nothing of consequence, don't cry, you will anger your father."　
"No!" exclaimed the father, "quite the contrary! sob! sob! that's right."
Then turning to the elder:--
"There now! He is not coming! What if he were not to come!  I shall have extinguished my fire, wrecked my chair, torn my shirt, and broken my pane all for nothing."　
"And wounded the child!" murmured the mother.　
"Do you know," went on the father, "that it's beastly cold in this devil's garret! What if that man should not come! Oh! See there, you! He makes us wait! He says to himself: `Well! they will wait for me! That's what they're there for.' Oh! how I hate them, and with what joy, jubilation, enthusiasm, and satisfaction I could strangle all those rich folks! all those rich folks!  These men who pretend to be charitable, who put on airs, who go to mass, who make presents to the priesthood, preachy, preachy, in their skullcaps, and who think themselves above us, and who come for the purpose of humiliating us, and to bring us `clothes,' as they say! old duds that are not worth four sous! And bread! That's not what I want, pack of rascals that they are, it's money! Ah! money! Never! Because they say that we would go off and drink it up, and that we are drunkards and idlers! And they! What are they, then, and what have they been in their time! Thieves! They never could have become rich otherwise! Oh! Society ought to be grasped by the four corners of the cloth and tossed into the air, all of it! It would all be smashed, very likely, but at least, no one would have anything, and there would be that much gained!  But what is that blockhead of a benevolent gentleman doing? Will he come? Perhaps the animal has forgotten the address!I'll bet that that old beast--"
At that moment there came a light tap at the door, the man rushed to it and opened it, exclaiming, amid profound bows and smiles of adoration:--
"Enter, sir! Deign to enter, most respected benefactor, and your charming young lady, also."
A man of ripe age and a young girl made their appearance on the threshold of the attic.
Marius had not quitted his post. His feelings for the moment surpassed the powers of the human tongue.
It was She!
Whoever has loved knows all the radiant meanings contained in those three letters of that word: She.　
It was certainly she. Marius could hardly distinguish her through the luminous vapor which had suddenly spread before his eyes. It was that sweet, absent being, that star which had beamed upon him for six months; it was those eyes, that brow, that mouth, that lovely vanished face which had created night by its departure. The vision had been eclipsed, now it reappeared.
It reappeared in that gloom, in that garret, in that misshapen attic, in all that horror.
Marius shuddered in dismay. What! It was she! The palpitations of his heart troubled his sight. He felt that he was on the brink of bursting into tears! What! He beheld her again at last, after having sought her so long! It seemed to him that he had lost his soul, and that he had just found it again. 　
She was the same as ever, only a little pale; her delicate face was framed in a bonnet of violet velvet, her figure was concealed beneath a pelisse of black satin. Beneath her long dress, a glimpse could be caught of her tiny foot shod in a silken boot.
She was still accompanied by M. Leblanc.　
She had taken a few steps into the room, and had deposited a tolerably bulky parcel on the table.　
The eldest Jondrette girl had retired behind the door, and was staring with sombre eyes at that velvet bonnet, that silk mantle, and that charming, happy face.
大女儿走过来，把手放在父亲的手上说：
“你摸摸，我多冷。”
“这算什么！”她父亲说，“我比这还冷得多呢。”
那母亲急躁地喊着说：
“你什么事都比别人强，你！连干坏事也是你强。”
“住嘴！”那男人说。
母亲看看神气不对，便不再吭气。
穷窟里一时寂静无声。大女儿闲着，正剔除她斗篷下摆上的泥巴，妹妹仍在抽抽搭搭地哭，母亲双手捧着她的头，频频亲吻，一面低声对她说：
“我的宝贝，求求你，不要紧的，别哭了，你父亲要生气的。”
“不！”她父亲喊着说，“正相反！你哭！你哭！哭哭会有好处。”
接着又对大的那个说：
“怎么了！他还不来！万一他不来呢！我泼灭了我的火，捅穿了我的椅子，撕破了我的衬衫，打碎了我的玻璃，那才冤呢！”
“还割伤了小妹！”母亲嘟囔着。
“你们知道，”父亲接着说，“在这鬼窝窝洞里，冷得象狗一样。假使那人不来！呵！我懂了！他有意叫我们等！他心想：‘好吧！就让他们等等我！这是他们分内的事！’呵！我恨透了这些家伙，我把他们一个个全掐死，这才心里欢畅、兴高采烈呢，这些阔佬！所有这些阔佬！这些自命为善士的人，满嘴蜜糖，望弥撒，信什么贼神甫，崇拜什么瓜皮帽子，颠来倒去，翻不完嘴上两张皮，还自以为要比我们高一等，走来羞辱我们，说得好听，说是来送衣服给我们！全是些不值四个苏的破衣烂衫，还有面包！我要的不是这些东西，你们这一大堆混蛋！我要的是钱！哼！钱！不用想！因为他们说我们会拿去喝酒，说我们全是醉鬼和懒汉！那么他们自己！他们是些什么东西？他们以前做过什么？做过贼！不做贼，他们哪能有钱！呵！这个社会，应当象提起台布的四只角那样，把它整个儿抛到空中！全完蛋，那是可能的，但是至少谁也不会再有什么，那样才合算呢！……他到底在干什么，你那行善的牛嘴巴先生？他究竟来不来！这畜生也许把地址忘了！我敢打赌这老畜生……”
这时，有人在门上轻轻敲了一下，那男人连忙赶到门口，开了门，一再深深敬礼，满脸堆起了倾心崇拜的笑容，一面大声说道：
“请进，先生！请赏光，进来吧，久仰了，我的恩人，您这位标致的小姐，也请进。”
一个年近高龄的男子和一个年轻姑娘出现在那穷窟门口。
马吕斯没有离开他站的地方。他这时的感受是人类语言所无法表达的。
是“她”来了。
凡是恋爱过的人都知道这个简单的“她”字所包含的种种光明灿烂的意义。
确实是她来了。马吕斯的眼上登时起了一阵明亮的水蒸气，几乎无法把她看清楚。那正是久别了的意中人，那颗向他照耀了六个月的星，那双眼睛，那个额头，那张嘴，那副在隐藏时把阳光也带走了的美丽容颜。原已破灭了的幻象现在竟又出现在眼前。
她重现在这黑暗中，在这破烂人家，在这不成形的穷窟里，在这丑陋不堪的地方！
马吕斯心惊体颤，为之骇然。怎么！竟会是她！他心跳到使他的眼睛望不真切。他感到自己要失声痛哭了。怎么！东寻西找了那么久，竟又在此地见到她！他仿佛感到他找到了自己失去的灵魂。
她仍是原来的模样，只稍微苍白一些，秀雅的面庞嵌在一顶紫绒帽子里，身体消失在黑缎斗篷里。在她的长裙袍下，能隐约看见一双缎靴紧裹着两只纤巧的脚。
她仍由白先生陪伴着。
她向那屋子中间走了几步，把一个相当大的包裹放在桌子上。
容德雷特大姑娘已退到房门背后，带着沉郁的神情望着那顶绒帽，那件缎斗篷和那张幸福迷人的脸。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 9 Jondrette comes near Weeping
The hovel was so dark, that people coming from without felt on entering it the effect produced on entering a cellar. The two new-comers advanced, therefore, with a certain hesitation, being hardly able to distinguish the vague forms surrounding them, while they could be clearly seen and scrutinized by the eyes of the inhabitants of the garret, who were accustomed to this twilight. 　
M. Leblanc approached, with his sad but kindly look, and said to Jondrette the father:--
"Monsieur, in this package you will find some new clothes and some woollen stockings and blankets."　
"Our angelicligiously, sir. I did not want them to take to the theatre. Ah! the hussies!  If I catch them tripping! I do not jest, that I don't! I read them lessons on honor, on morality, on virtue! Ask them! They have got to walk straight. They are none of your unhappy wretches who begin by having no family, and end by espousing the public. One is Mamselle Nobody, and one becomes Madame Everybody. Deuce take it! None of that in the Fabantou family! I mean to bring them up virtuously, and they shall be honest, and nice, and believe in God, by the sacred name! Well, sir, my worthy sir, do you know what is going to happen to-morrow? To-morrow is the fourth day of February, the fatal day, the last day of grace allowed me by my landlord; if by this evening I have not paid my rent, to-morrow my oldest daughter, my spouse with her fever, my child with her wound,-- we shall all four be turned out of here and thrown into the street, on t炓眺? 
"Monsieur Fabantou, yes, that is it. I remember."
"Dramatic artist, sir, and one who has had some success."
Here Jondrette evidently judged the moment propitious for capturing the "philanthropist." He exclaimed with an accent which smacked at the same time of the vainglory of the mountebank at fairs, and the humility of the mendicant on the highway:--
"A pupil of Talma! Sir! I am a pupil of Talma! Fortune formerly smiled on me--Alas! Now it is misfortune's turn. You see, my benefactor, no bread, no fire. My poor babes have no fire!  My only chair has no seat! A broken pane! And in such weather! My spouse in bed! Ill!"
"Poor woman!" said M. Leblanc. 　
"My child wounded!" added Jondrette.
The child, diverted by the arrival of the strangers, had fallen to contemplating "the young lady," and had ceased to sob. 　
"Cry! bawl!" said Jondrette to her in a low voice.
At the same time he pinched her sore hand. All this was done with the talent of a juggler.
The little girl gave vent to loud shrieks.
The adorable young girl, whom Marius, in his heart, called "his Ursule," approached her hastily.　
"Poor, dear child!" said she.
"You see, my beautiful young lady," pursued Jondrette "her bleeding wrist! It came through an accident while working at a machine to earn six sous a day. It may be necessary to cut off her arm."　
"Really?" said the old gentleman, in alarm.
The little girl, taking this seriously, fell to sobbing more violently than ever.
"Alas! yes, my benefactor!" replied the father. 　
For several minutes, Jondrette had been scrutinizing "the benefactor" in a singular fashion. As he spoke, he seemed to be examining the other attentively, as though seeking to summon up his recollections. All at once, profiting by a moment when the new-comers were questioning the child with interest as to her injured hand, he passed near his wife, who lay in her bed with a stupid and dejected air, and said to her in a rapid but very low tone:-- 　
"Take a look at that man!"　
Then, turning to M. Leblanc, and continuing his lamentations:-- 　
"You see, sir! All the clothing that I have is my wife's chemise!   And all torn at that! In the depths of winter! I can't go out for lack of a coat. If I had a coat of any sort, I would go and see Mademoiselle Mars, who knows me and is very fond of me. Does she not still reside in the Rue de la Tour-des-Dames? Do you know, sir? We played together in the provinces. I shared her laurels. Celimene would come to my succor, sir! Elmire would bestow alms on Belisaire! But no, nothing! And not a sou in the house! My wife ill, and not a sou! My daughter dangerously injured, not a sou! My wife suffers from fits of suffocation. It comes from her age, and besides, her nervous system is affected. She ought to have assistance, and my daughter also! But the doctor! But the apothecary! How am I to pay them? I would kneel to a penny, sir! Such is the condition to which the arts are reduced. And do you know, my charming young lady, and you, my generous protector, do you know, you who breathe forth virtue and goodness, and who perfume that church where my daughter sees you every day when she says her prayers?--For I have brought up my children religiously, sir. I did not want them to take to the theatre. Ah! the hussies!  If I catch them tripping! I do not jest, that I don't! I read them lessons on honor, on morality, on virtue! Ask them! They have got to walk straight. They are none of your unhappy wretches who begin by having no family, and end by espousing the public. One is Mamselle Nobody, and one becomes Madame Everybody. Deuce take it! None of that in the Fabantou family! I mean to bring them up virtuously, and they shall be honest, and nice, and believe in God, by the sacred name! Well, sir, my worthy sir, do you know what is going to happen to-morrow? To-morrow is the fourth day of February, the fatal day, the last day of grace allowed me by my landlord; if by this evening I have not paid my rent, to-morrow my oldest daughter, my spouse with her fever, my child with her wound,-- we shall all four be turned out of here and thrown into the street, on the boulevard, without shelter, in the rain, in the snow.  There, sir. I owe for four quarters--a whole year! that is to say, sixty francs."
Jondrette lied. Four quarters would have amounted to only forty francs, and he could not owe four, because six months had not elapsed since Marius had paid for two.
M. Leblanc drew five francs from his pocket and threw them on the table.
Jondrette found time to mutter in the ear of his eldest daughter:--　
"The scoundrel! What does he think I can do with his five francs?   That won't pay me for my chair and pane of glass! That's what comes of incurring expenses!"
In the meanwhile, M. Leblanc had removed the large brown great-coat which he wore over his blue coat, and had thrown it over the back of the chair.
"Monsieur Fabantou," he said, "these five francs are all that I have  about me, but I shall now take my daughter home, and I will return this evening,--it is this evening that you must pay, is it not?"　
Jondrette's face lighted up with a strange expression.  He replied vivaciously:--
"Yes, respected sir. At eight o'clock, I must be at my landlord's."
"I will be here at six, and I will fetch you the sixty francs."
"My benefactor!" exclaimed Jondrette, overwhelmed. And he added, in a low tone: "Take a good look at him, wife!"　
M. Leblanc had taken the arm of the young girl, once more, and had turned towards the door.　
"Farewell until this evening, my friends!" said he."Six o'clock?" said Jondrette.
"Six o'clock precisely."
At that moment, the overcoat lying on the chair caught the eye of the elder Jondrette girl.
"You are forgetting your coat, sir," said she.
Jondrette darted an annihilating look at his daughter, accompanied by a formidable shrug of the shoulders.
M. Leblanc turned back and said, with a smile:--
"I have not forgotten it, I am leaving it."
"O my protector!" said Jondrette, "my august benefactor, I melt into tears! Permit me to accompany you to your carriage."　
"If you come out," answered M. Leblanc, "put on this coat.  It really is very cold."
Jondrette did not need to be told twice. He hastily donned the brown great-coat. And all three went out, Jondrette preceding the two strangers.
这穷窟是那么阴暗，从外面刚走进去的人会以为是进了地窖。因此那两个新到的客人对四周人物的模样看去有点模糊不清，前进时不免有些迟疑，而他们自己却被那些住在这破屋里、早已习惯于微弱光线的人看得清清楚楚，并被这些人仔细观察。
白先生慈祥而抑郁地笑着走向家长容德雷特，对他说：“先生，这包里是几件家常衣服，新的，还有几双袜子和几条毛毯，请您收下。”
“我们天使般的恩人对我们太仁慈了。”容德雷特说，一面深深鞠躬，直到地面。随即又趁那两个客人打量室内惨状的机会，弯下腰去对着他大女儿的耳朵匆匆忙忙地细声说：
“没有错吧？我早料到了吧？破衣烂衫！没有钱！他们全是这样的！还有，我写给这老饭桶的信上，签的是什么名字？”
“法邦杜。”他女儿回答。
“戏剧艺术家，对！”
算是容德雷特的运气好，因为正在这时，白先生转身过来和他谈话，那说话的神气仿佛是一时想不起他的名字：
“看来您的情况确实是不称心的……先生。”
“法邦杜。”容德雷特连忙回答说。
“法邦杜先生，对，是呀，我想起来了。”
“戏剧艺术家，先生，并且还有过一些成就。”
说到这里，容德雷特显然认为抓住这“慈善家”的时机已经到了。他大声谈了起来，那嗓子的声音兼有市集上卖技人的大言不惭的气派和路旁乞丐的那种苦苦哀求的味儿：“塔尔马的学生，先生！我是塔尔马的学生！从前，我有过一帆风顺的时候。唉！可是现在，倒了运。您瞧吧，我的恩人，没有面包，没有火。两个闺女没有火！唯一的一张椅子也坐通了！碎了一块玻璃！特别是在这种天气！内人又躺下了！害着病！”
“可邻的妇人！”白先生说。
“还有个孩子受了伤！”容德雷特又补上一句。那孩子，由于客人们到来，分了心去细看“那小姐”，早已不哭了。
“哭嘛！叫呀！”容德雷特偷偷地对她说。
同时他在她那只受了伤的手上掐了一把。所有这一切都是用魔术师般巧妙手法完成的。
小姑娘果然高声叫喊。
马吕斯心中私自称为“他的玉秀儿”的那个年轻姑娘赶忙走过去：
“可怜的亲爱的孩子！”她说。
“您瞧，我的美丽的小姐，”容德雷特紧接着说，“她这淌血的手腕！为了每天挣六个苏，她便在机器下碰到这种意外的事故。这手臂也许非锯掉不成呢！”
“真的？”那位吃惊的老先生说。
小姑娘以为这是真话，又开始伤心地哭起来。
“可不是，我的恩人！”那父亲回答。
在这以前，容德雷特早已鬼鬼祟祟地在留意观察这“慈善家”了。他一面谈着话，一面仔细端详他，仿佛想要回忆起什么旧事。突然，趁那两个新来客人对小姑娘就她的伤势亲切慰问的那一会儿，他走向躺着他那个颓丧痴癔的女人的床边，以极低的声音对她急促地说：
“留心看那老头儿！”
随即又转向白先生，继续诉他的苦：
“您瞧，先生，我只有这么一件衬衫，我，还是我内人的，除此以外，便再没有什么衣服了！并且已破得不成样子！又是在这冬季里最冷的时候。我不能出门，因为没有外面的衣服。要是有一件不管什么样的外衣，我便可以去看看马尔斯小姐了，她认得我，并且对我很够交情。她不是一直住在圣母院塔街吗？您知道吗，先生？我们曾在外省合演过戏。我分享了她的桂冠。我原想色里曼纳①会来援助我，先生！以为艾耳密尔②会救济维利萨里③的！但是没有，什么也没有。并且家里一个苏也没有！内人病了，一个苏也没有！小女受了重伤，很危险，一个苏也没有！我老婆常犯气结病。这是由于她的年龄，这里也有神经系统的问题。她非得有人帮助不成，小女也是这样！可是医生！可是药剂师！用什么来支付呢？一文小钱也没有！我愿对一个大钱下跪，先生！您瞧艺术的价值低到什么程度！并且，您知道吗，我的标致的小姐，还有您，我的慷慨的保护人，您知道吗，您二位都呼吸着美德和仁慈，礼拜堂也因您二位而有了芬芳，您二位每天都去那礼拜堂，我这可怜的女儿也每天要去那里祷告，她天天都看见您二位……因为我是在宗教信仰中培养我这两个女儿的，先生。我不愿她们去演戏。啊！贱丫头！只要她们敢胡来！我决不开玩笑，我！我经常把荣誉、道德、操行的观念灌输给她们！您问问她们便知道。她们应当走正路。她们是有父亲的人。她们不是那种以无家可归开始、以人尽可夫收场的苦命人。确有一些人是从没人管的姑娘变成大众的太太的。谢天谢地！法邦杜的家里幸而没有这种丑事！我要把她们教育成贞洁的人，她们应当是诚实的，并且应当是温雅的，并且应当信仰天主！信仰这神圣的称号！……可是，先生，我的尊贵的先生，您知道明天会发生什么事吗？明天，二月四日，是个要命的日子，是我的房东给我的最后期限，假使今晚我不把钱付给他，那么，明天我的大女儿、我自己、我这发高烧的妻子、受了伤的孩子，全会从这里被驱逐出去，丢到外面去，丢在街上、大路上、雨里、雪里，没有安身的地方。就这样，先生。我欠了四个季度的租金，整整一年！就是说，六十法郎。” 
①色里曼纳（Célimène），莫里哀戏剧《厌世者》里的人物，常用以泛指一般演重头戏的女演员。
②艾耳密尔（Elmire），莫里哀戏剧《伪君子》里的人物，常用以泛指一般诚实而不拘小节的妇女。
③维利萨里（Bélisaire，约494?65），东罗马帝国的名将，为皇帝所忌，被黜，相传两眼被挖，行乞以终。　
容德雷特在撒谎。四个季度也只是四十法郎，他也不可能欠上四个季度，马吕斯在六个月以前便替他付了两个季度。
白先生从自己的衣袋里掏出五个法郎，放在桌上。
容德雷特觑个空，对着他大女儿的耳朵抱怨：
“坏蛋！他要我拿他这五个法郎去干什么？还不够赔偿我的椅子和玻璃！我得有钱花呀！”
这时白先生已把他套在那身蓝色骑马服上的一件栗壳色大衣从身上脱了下来，放在椅背上。
“法邦杜先生，”他说，“我身边只有这五个法郎，但是我把我的女儿送回家以后，今晚再来一趟，您不是今晚要付款吗？”
容德雷特的脸上出现了一种奇特的表情。他兴冲冲地回答说：
“是呀，我的尊贵的先生。八点钟，我得到达我房东家。”
“我六点钟来此地，把那六十法郎带来给您。”
“我的恩人！”疯了似的容德雷特喊着说。
他又极低声地说：
“注意看他，我的妻！”
白先生挽着那年轻貌美的姑娘的胳臂，转向房门，一面说：
“今晚再见，我的朋友们。”
“六点吗？”容德雷特问。
“六点正。”
这时，留在那椅背上的外套引起了容德雷特大姑娘的注意。
“先生，”她说，“别忘了您的大衣。”
容德雷特对他女儿狠巴巴地瞪了一眼，同时怪怕人地耸了一下肩头。
白先生转过来笑眯眯地回答：
“我不是把它忘了，是留下的。”
“哦，我的保护人，”容德雷特说，“我的崇高的恩主，我真的泪下如雨了！请不要嫌弃，允许我来领路，一直送您上车吧。”
“假使您一定要出去，”白先生接着说，“您就穿上这件外套吧。天气确是很冷呢。”
容德雷特不用别人请两次，他连忙套上那件栗壳色大衣。
他们三个人一同出去了，容德雷特走在两个客人的前面。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 10 Tariff of Licensed Cabs, Two Francs an Hour
Marius had lost nothing of this entire scene, and yet, in reality,had seen nothing. His eyes had remained fixed on the young girl,his heart had, so to speak, seized her and wholly enveloped her from the moment of her very first step in that garret. During her entire stay there, he had lived that life of ecstasy which suspends material perceptions and precipitates the whole soul on a single point.He contemplated, not that girl, but that light which wore a satin pelisse and a velvet bonnet. The star Sirius might have entered the room, and he would not have been any more dazzled.　
While the young girl was engaged in opening the packn;but, in his contemplation, it is doubtful whether he had heard this.　
As he was on the point of mounting the staircase, he perceived, on the other side of the boulevard, near the deserted wall skirting the Rue De la Barriere-des-Gobelins, Jondrette, wrapped in the "philanthropist's" great-coat, engaged in conversation with one of those men of disquieting aspect who have been dubbed by common consent, prowlers of the barriers; people of equivocal face, of suspicious monologues, who present the air of having evil minds, and who generally sleep in the daytime, which suggests the supposition that they work by night. 　
These two men, standing there motionless and in conversation,in the snow which was falling in whirlwinds, formed a group that a policeman would surely have observed, but which Marius hardly noticed.　
Still, in spite of his />H灌departure, he had but one thought, to follow her,to cling to her trace, not to quit her until he learned where she lived,not to lose her again, at least, after having so miraculously re-discovered her. He leaped down from the commode and seized his hat. As he laid his hand on the lock of the door, and was on the point of opening it, a sudden reflection caused him to pause.The corridor was long, the staircase steep, Jondrette was talkative,M. Leblanc had, no doubt, not yet regained his carriage; if, on turning round in the corridor, or on the staircase, he were to catch sight of him, Marius, in that house, he would, evidently, take the alarm, and find means to escape from him again, and this time it would be final. What was he to do? Should he wait a little? But while he was waiting, the carriage might drive off. Marius was perplexed.At last he accepted the risk and quitted his room.
There was no one in the corridor. He hastened to the stairs. There was no one on the staircase. He descended in all haste,and reached the boulevard in time to see a fiacre turning the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier, on its way back to Paris.　
Marius rushed headlong in that direction. On arriving at the angle of the boulevard, he caught sight of the fiacre again, rapidly descending the Rue Mouffetard; the carriage was already a long way off, and there was no means of overtaking it; what! run after it?  Impossible; and besides, the people in the carriage would assuredly notice an individual running at full speed in pursuit of a fiacre, and the father would recognize him. At that moment, wonderful and unprecedented good luck, Marius perceived an empty cab passing along the boulevard. There was but one thing to be done, to jump into this cab and follow the fiacre. That was sure, efficacious, and free from danger. 　
Marius made the driver a sign to halt, and called to him:--
"By the hour?"　
Marius wore no cravat, he had on his working-coat, which was destitute of buttons, his shirt was torn along one of the plaits on the bosom. 　
The driver halted, winked, and held out his left hand to Marius, rubbing his forefinger gently with his thumb.　
"What is it?" said Marius.　
"Pay in advance," said the coachman.　
Marius recollected that he had but sixteen sous about him.　
"How much?" he demanded.　
"Forty sous."　
"I will pay on my return."　
The driver's only reply was to whistle the air of La Palisse and to whip up his horse.
Marius stared at the retreating cabriolet with a bewildered air. For the lack of four and twenty sous, he was losing his joy,his happiness, his love! He had seen, and he was becoming blind again. He reflected bitterly, and it must be confessed, with profound regret, on the five francs which he had bestowed, that very morning, on that miserable girl. If he had had those five francs, he would have been saved, he would have been born again, he would have emerged from the limbo and darkness, he would have made his escape from isolation and spleen, from his widowed state; he might have re-knotted the black thread of his destiny to that beautiful golden thread, which had just floated before his eyes and had broken at the same instant, once more! He returned to his hovel in despair. 　
He might have told himself that M. Leblanc had promised to return in the evening, and that all he had to do was to set about the matter more skilfully, so that he might follow him on that occasion;but, in his contemplation, it is doubtful whether he had heard this.　
As he was on the point of mounting the staircase, he perceived, on the other side of the boulevard, near the deserted wall skirting the Rue De la Barriere-des-Gobelins, Jondrette, wrapped in the "philanthropist's" great-coat, engaged in conversation with one of those men of disquieting aspect who have been dubbed by common consent, prowlers of the barriers; people of equivocal face, of suspicious monologues, who present the air of having evil minds, and who generally sleep in the daytime, which suggests the supposition that they work by night. 　
These two men, standing there motionless and in conversation,in the snow which was falling in whirlwinds, formed a group that a policeman would surely have observed, but which Marius hardly noticed.　
Still, in spite of his mournful preoccupation, he could not refrain from saying to himself that this prowler of the barriers with whom Jondrette was talking resembled a certain Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, whom Courfeyrac had once pointed out to him as a very dangerous nocturnal roamer. This man's name the reader has learned in the preceding book. This Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, figured later on in many criminal trials, and became a notorious rascal. He was at that time only a famous rascal. To-day he exists in the state of tradition among ruffians and assassins. He was at the head of a school towards the end of the last reign. And in the evening, at nightfall, at the hour when groups form and talk in whispers, he was discussed at La Force in the Fosse-aux-Lions. One might even,in that prison, precisely at the spot where the sewer which served the unprecedented escape, in broad daylight, of thirty prisoners, in 1843, passes under the culvert, read his name, PANCHAUD, audaciously carved by his own hand on the wall of the sewer,during one of his attempts at flight. In 1832, the police already had their eye on him, but he had not as yet made a serious beginning. 
这一切经过的全部细节都没有漏过马吕斯的眼睛，可是实际上他什么也没有看见。他的眼睛完全盯在那年轻姑娘的身上，他的心，从她第一步踏进这破屋子时起，便已经，可以这么说，把他整个抓住并裹住了。她留在那里的那一整段时间里，他过的是那种使感官知觉完全处于停顿状态并使整个灵魂专注在一点上的仰慕生活。他一心景仰着，不是那姑娘，而是那一团有缎斗篷和丝绒帽的光辉。天狼星进了这屋子，也不会那么使他感到耀眼。
当姑娘解开包裹展示了衣服和毛毯后，她和蔼地问母亲的病情，不胜怜惜地问小妹的伤势，他都随时窥察着她的每一个动作，并窃听她说话的声音。他已经认识她的眼睛、她的额头、她的容貌、她的身材、她走路的姿态，他还不认识她说话的声音。一次在卢森堡公园里，他仿佛捉到了她所说的几个字的音，但是他并没有完全听真切。他宁肯减少十年寿命也要听听她的声音，要在自己的灵魂里留下一点点这样的音乐。但是一切都消失在容德雷特一连串讨人厌的胡扯淡和他那象喇叭样的怪叫声中了。这在马吕斯狂喜的心中引起了真正的愤怒。他的眼睛一直盯着她。他不能想象的是，出现在这种丑恶的魔窟里这群邋遢的瘪三当中的竟真会是那个天女似的人儿。他好象在癞蛤蟆群里见到一只蜂鸟。
她走出去时，他唯一的想法是紧紧跟着她，不找到她的住处决不离开她，至少是在这样的一种巧遇之后不能又把她丢了。他从抽斗柜上跳下来，拿起他的帽子。当他的手触着门闩正要出去，这时另一考虑使他停了下来。那条过道很长，楼梯又陡，容德雷特的话又多，白先生一定还没有上车，万一他在过道里，或是楼梯上，或是大门口，回转头来看见他马吕斯在这房子里，他肯定会诧异的，并且会再想办法来避开他，这样就把事又搞糟了。怎么办？等一等吗？但在等的时候车子可能走了。马吕斯一时失了主意。最后，他决计冒一下险，从他屋子里出去了。
过道里已没有人，他冲到楼梯口。楼梯上也没有人。他急忙下去，赶到大路上，正好看见一辆马车转进小银行家街，回巴黎城区去了。
马吕斯朝那方向追去。到了大路转弯的地方，他又看见了那辆马车在穆夫达街上急往下走，马车已经走得很远，无法追上了，怎么办？跟着跑？没用，况且别人从车子里一定会看见有人在后面飞跑追来，那父亲会认出是他在追。正在这时，真是出人意料的大好机会，马吕斯看见一辆空的出租马车在大路上走过。只有一个办法，跳上这辆马车去赶那一辆。这办法是切实可行，没有危险的。
马吕斯做手势让那车夫停下来，喊道：
“照钟点算！”
马吕斯当时没有结领带，身上穿的是那件丢了几个钮扣的旧工作服，衬衫也在胸前一个褶子处撕破了。
车夫停下来，挤着一只眼，把左手伸向马吕斯，对他轻轻搓着大拇指和食指。
“怎么？”马吕斯说。
“先付钱。”那车夫说。
马吕斯这才想起他身上只有十六个苏。
“要多少？”他问。
“四十个苏。”
“我回头再付。”
那车夫用嘴唇吹着《拉·巴利斯》的曲调，作为唯一的回答，并对着他的马甩了一鞭。
马吕斯只得愣头愣脑望着那马车往前走。由于缺少二十四个苏，他丧失了他的欢乐、他的幸福、他的爱！他又落在黑暗中了！他已看见了她，现在又成了瞎子！他万分苦恼地想起，应当说，深深懊悔，早上不该把五法郎送给那穷丫头。假使他有那五个法郎，他便有救了，便能获得重生，脱离迷惘黑暗的境地，脱离孤独、忧郁、单身汉的生活了，他已把他命运的黑线系在那根在他眼前飘了一下的美丽金线上，可又一次断了。他垂头丧气地回到家来。
他原应想到白先生曾约定傍晚再来，这回好好准备跟踪便成了，但是他当时正在凝视，几乎没有听到这话。正要踏上楼梯，他忽然看见容德雷特，身上裹着“慈善家”的外套，在大路的那一边，沿着哥白兰便门街的那堵人迹少到的墙下，和一个那种形迹可疑、可以称为“便门贼”的人谈着话，这是一种面目可疑，语言暧昧，神气险恶的人，他们时常在白天睡觉，因而使人猜想他们在黑夜工作。
那两人站在飞旋的大雪下面，挤作一团在谈话，一动也不动，城区的警察见了肯定会注意，马吕斯对此警惕却不高。
但是，尽管他正想着心里的伤心事，却不能不对自己说，那个和容德雷特谈话的便门贼颇象某个叫邦灼，又叫春天，又叫比格纳耶的人，因为从前有一次，古费拉克曾把这人指给他看过，说他在黑夜里经常出没在这一带，是个相当危险的家伙。我们在前一卷里，已经见过这人的名字。这个又叫做春天或比格纳耶的邦灼，日后犯过好几起刑事案子，因而成了大名鼎鼎的恶棍。这时，他还只是个小有名的恶棍。到今天，他在盗窃犯和杀人犯中已成了一个历史人物。他在前朝末年曾创立一个学派。在拉弗尔斯监狱的狮子沟里，每到傍晚天正要黑下来时，是人们三五成群低声谈话时的题材。这监狱有一条粪便沟，它穿过围墙通到外面，墙头上是供巡逻队使用的路，发生在一八四三年那次空前大越狱案子里的三十名犯人便是从这条粪沟里逃出去的，也正是在这粪沟的石板上方，人们可以看见他的名字：邦灼，那是他在某次企图越狱时大胆刻在围墙上的。在一八三二年，警察已开始注意他，但是当时他还没有正式开业。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 11 Offers of Service from Misery to Wretchedness
Marius ascended the stairs of the hovel with slow steps; at the moment when he was about to re-enter his cell, he caught sight of the elder Jondrette girl following him through the corridor. The very sight of this girl was odious to him; it was she who had his five francs, it was too late to demand them back, the cab was no longer there,the fiacre was far away. Moreover, she would not have given them back.As for questioning her about the residence of the persons who had just been there, that was useless; it was evident that she did not know, since the letter signed Fabantou had been addressed "to the benevolent gentleman of the church ofnot grasp, and as though a prey to vertigo. All that had taken place since the morning,the appearance of the angel, her disappearance, what that creature had just said to him, a gleam of hope floating in an immense despair,-- this was what filled his brain confusedly.　
All at once he was violently aroused from his revery.　
He heard the shrill, hard voice of Jondrette utter these words,which were fraught with a strange interest for him:--　
"I tell you that I am sure of it, and that I recognized him."
Of whom was Jondrette speaking? Whom had he recognized? M. Leblanc? The father of "his Ursule"? What! Did Jondrette know him? Was Marius about to obtain in this abrupt and unexpected fashion all the information without which his life was so dark to him? Was he about to learn at last who it was that he loved, t?郤TIFY">She raised her dull eyes, in which a sort of gleam seemed to flicker vaguely, and said:--
"Monsieur Marius, you look sad. What is the matter with you?"
"With me!" said Marius.
"Yes, you."
"There is nothing the matter with me."
"Yes, there is!"
"No."
"I tell you there is!"
"Let me alone!"
Marius gave the door another push, but she retained her hold on it.
"Stop," said she, "you are in the wrong. Although you are not rich, you were kind this morning. Be so again now. You gave me something to eat, now tell me what ails you. You are grieved, that is plain. I do not want you to be grieved.What can be done for it? Can I be of any service? Employ me.I do not ask for your secrets, you need not tell them to me,but I may be of use, nevertheless. I may be able to help you,since I help my father. When it is necessary to carry letters,to go to houses, to inquire from door to door, to find out an address,to follow any one, I am of service. Well, you may assuredly tell me what is the matter with you, and I will go and speak to the persons;sometimes it is enough if some one speaks to the persons, that suffices to let them understand matters, and everything comes right. Make use of me."
An idea flashed across Marius' mind. What branch does one disdain when one feels that one is falling? He drew near to the Jondrette girl.　
"Listen--" he said to her.　
She interrupted him with a gleam of joy in her eyes.
"Oh yes, do call me thou! I like that better."
"Well," he resumed, "thou hast brought hither that old gentleman and his daughter!"
"Yes."
"Dost thou know their address?"
"No."
"Find it for me."
The Jondrette's dull eyes had grown joyous, and they now became gloomy.
"Is that what you want?" she demanded.
"Yes."
"Do you know them?"
"No."
"That is to say," she resumed quickly, "you do not know her,but you wish to know her."
This them which had turned into her had something indescribably significant and bitter about it.　
"Well, can you do it?" said Marius.　
"You shall have the beautiful lady's address."　
There was still a shade in the words "the beautiful lady" which troubled Marius. He resumed:--
"Never mind, after all, the address of the father and daughter. Their address, indeed!"
She gazed fixedly at him.
"What will you give me?"
"Anything you like."
"Anything I like?"
"Yes."
"You shall have the address."
She dropped her head; then, with a brusque movement, she pulled to the door, which closed behind her.　
Marius found himself alone.
He dropped into a chair, with his head and both elbows on his bed, absorbed in thoughts which he could not grasp, and as though a prey to vertigo. All that had taken place since the morning,the appearance of the angel, her disappearance, what that creature had just said to him, a gleam of hope floating in an immense despair,-- this was what filled his brain confusedly.　
All at once he was violently aroused from his revery.　
He heard the shrill, hard voice of Jondrette utter these words,which were fraught with a strange interest for him:--　
"I tell you that I am sure of it, and that I recognized him."
Of whom was Jondrette speaking? Whom had he recognized? M. Leblanc? The father of "his Ursule"? What! Did Jondrette know him? Was Marius about to obtain in this abrupt and unexpected fashion all the information without which his life was so dark to him? Was he about to learn at last who it was that he loved, who that young girl was? Who her father was? Was the dense shadow which enwrapped them on the point of being dispelled? Was the veil about to be rent? Ah! Heavens!　
He bounded rather than climbed upon his commode, and resumed his post near the little peep-hole in the partition wall.
Again he beheld the interior of Jondrette's hovel.
马吕斯一步一步慢慢地走上了老屋的楼梯，他正要回到他那冷清清的屋子里去时，忽然看见容德雷特大姑娘从过道里跟在他后面走来。他见了那姑娘，不禁心里有气，把他五法郎拿走的正是她，向她讨还吧，已经太迟，那辆出租马车早已不在原处，那辆轿车更是走得很远了，并且她也未必肯还。至于向她打听刚才来的那两个人的住址，也不会有什么用处，首先她自己就不知道，因为签着法邦杜名字的那封信上是写着给“圣雅克·德·奥·巴教堂的行善的先生”的。
马吕斯走进他的屋子，反手把门关上。
门关不上，他回转身，看见有只手把住了那半开着的门。
“什么事？”他问，“是谁呀？”
是那容德雷特姑娘。
“是您？”马吕斯又说，声音几乎是狠巴巴的，“老是您！您要什么？”
她仿佛在想着什么，没有回答。她已不象早晨那种大模大样的样子。她不进门，只站在过道中的黑影里，马吕斯能从半开着的门口望见她。
“怎么了，您怎么不回答？”马吕斯说。“您来干什么？”
她抬起一双阴郁的眼睛望着他，那里似乎隐隐约约也有了一点神采，她对他说：
“马吕斯先生，看您的神气不快乐。您心里有什么事？”
“我？”马吕斯说。
“对，您。”
“我没有什么。”
“一定有！”
“没有。”
“我说您一定有！”
“不要找麻烦！”
马吕斯又要把门推上，她仍把住不让。
“您听我说，”她说，“您不必这样。您虽然没有钱，但是今天早上您做了个好人。现在您再做个好人吧。您已给了我吃的，现在把您的心事告诉我。您有苦恼，看得出来。我不愿意您苦恼。要怎样才能使您开心呢？我能出点力吗？利用我吧。我不想知道您的秘密，您用不着告诉我，但我究竟是有用处的。我既然能帮助我父亲，我也一定能帮助您。假使要送什么信，跑什么人家，挨门挨户去问什么的，打听谁的住址呀，跟踪个什么人呀，我都干得了。对吗？您可以放心把您的事告诉我，我可以去传话。有时要个人传话，只要把话告诉他便够了，事情也就办通了。让我来替您出点力吧。”
马吕斯心里忽然有了个主意。人在感到自己要摔倒时，还能藐视什么样的树枝吗？
他向容德雷特姑娘靠近一步。
“你听我……”他对她说。
她立刻打断了他的话，眼里闪出了快乐的光。
“呵！对呀，您对我说话，称‘你’就得了。我喜欢您这样做！”
“好吧，”他又说，“刚才是你把那老先生和他女儿带来这儿的？”
“是的。”
“你知道他们的住址吗？”
“不知道。”
“你替我找吧。”
容德雷特姑娘的眼睛曾由抑郁转为快乐，这会儿又从快乐转为阴沉。
“您要的就是这个？”她问。
“是的。”
“您认识他们吗？”
“不认识。”
“就是说，”她连忙改口，“您不认识她，但是您想要认识她。”
她把“他们”改为“她”，这里有一种说不出的耐人寻味的苦涩。
“别管，你能办到吗？”
“替您把那美丽的小姐的住址找到吗？”
在“那美丽的小姐”这几个字里又有一股使马吕斯感到不快的味道。他接着说：
“反正都一样！那父亲和女儿的住址，他们的住址，就得了！”
她定定地望着他。
“您给我什么报酬？”
“随你要什么，全可以。”
“随我要什么，全可以？”
“是的。”
“我一定办到。”
她低下了头，继而以急促的动作，突然一下把门带上了。
又剩下马吕斯孤孤单单一个人。
他坐进一张椅子，头和两肘靠在床边，沉陷在理不清的万千思绪里，只感到晕头转向，不能自持。这一天从清早便陆续不断发生的事，天使的忽现忽灭，这姑娘刚才跟他说的话，飘浮在茫茫苦海中的一线微光，一点希望，这一切都零乱杂沓地充塞在他的脑子里。
一下子他又突然从梦幻中警觉过来。
他听到容德雷特响亮生硬的声音在说着这样几句话，使他感到非常奇特，和他大有关系：
“告诉你，我准没有看错，我已认清了，是他。”
容德雷特说的是谁？他认清了谁？白先生？“他的玉秀儿”的父亲吗？怎么！容德雷特早就认识他？马吕斯难道竟能这样突如其来地，出人意料地了解到一切情况，使他不再感到自己的生命凄清黯淡吗？他难道终于能知道他爱的是谁？那姑娘是谁？她父亲是谁？把他们掩蔽起来的那么厚的一层黑影难道已到了消散的时候？幕罩即将撕裂？啊！天呀！
他不是爬上那抽斗柜，而是一纵身便到了柜上，他又守在隔墙上面那个小洞的旁边了。
容德雷特那个洞窝里的情况重新展现在他眼前。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 13 Solus cum Solo, in Loco Remoto, non cogitabuntur orare Pater Noster
Marius, dreamer as he was, was, as we have said, firm and energetic by nature. His habits of solitary meditation, while they had developed in him sympathy and compassion, had, perhaps, diminished the faculty for irritation, but had left intact the power of waxing indignant; he had the kindliness of a brahmin, and the severity of a judge; he took pity upon a toad, but he crushed a viper. Now, it was into a hole of vipers that his glance had just been directed,it was a nest of monsters that he had beneath his eyes.　
"These wretches must be stamped upon," said he.
Not one of the enigmas which he had hoped to see solved had been elucidated; on the contrary, all of them had been rendered more dense, if anything; he knew nothing more about the beautifulmaiden of the Luxembourg and the man whom he called M. Leblanc,except that Jondrette was acquainted with them. Athwart the  mysterious words which had been uttered, the only thing of which he caught a distinct glimpse was the fact that an ambush was in course of preparation, a dark but terrible trap; that both of them were incurring great danger, she probably, her father certainly; that they must be saved; that the hideous plots of the Jondrettes must be thwarted, and the web of these spiders broken. 　
He scanned the female Jondrette for a moment. She had pulled an old sheet-iron stove from a corner, and she was rummaging among the old heap of iron.
He descended from the commode as softly as possible, taking care not to make the least noise. Amid his terror as to what was in preparation,and in the horror with which the Jondrettes had inspired him,he experienced a sort of joy at the idea that it might be granted to him perhaps to render a service to the one whom he loved.　
But how was it to be done? How warn the persons threatened? He did not know their address. They had reappeared for an instant before his eyes, and had then plunged back again into the immense depths of Paris. Should he wait for M. Leblanc at the door that evening at six o'clock, at the moment of his arrival, and warn him of the trap? But Jondrette and his men would see him on the watch, the spot was lonely, they were stronger than he, they would devise means to seize him or to get him away, and the man whom Marius was anxious to save would be lost. One o'clock had just struck,the trap was to be sprung at six. Marius had five hours before him.　
There was but one thing to be done.　
He put on his decent coat, knotted a silk handkerchief round his neck,took his hat, and went out, without making any more noise than if he had been treading on moss with bare feet.
Moreover, the Jondrette woman continued to rummage among her old iron.　
Once outside of the house, he made for the Rue du Petit-Banquier.　
He had almost reached the middle of this street, near a very low wall which a man can easily step over at certain points, and which abuts on a waste space, and was walking slowly, in consequence of his preoccupied condition, and the snow deadened the sound of his steps; all at once he heard voices talking very close by. He turned his head, the street was deserted, there was not a soul in it, it was broad daylight, and yet he distinctly heard voices.
It occurred to him to glance over the wall which he was skirting.
There, in fact, sat two men, flat on the snow, with their backs against the wall, talking together in subdued tones. 　
These two persons were strangers to him; one was a bearded man in a blouse, and the other a long-haired individual in rags. The bearded man had on a fez, the other's head was bare, and the snow had lodged in his hair.
By thrusting his head over the wall, Marius could hear their remarks.
The hairy one jogged the other man's elbow and said:--
"--With the assistance of Patron-Minette, it can't fail."
"Do you think so?" said the bearded man.　
And the long-haired one began again:--　
"It's as good as a warrant for each one, of five hundred balls,and the worst that can happen is five years, six years, ten years at the most!"
The other replied with some hesitation, and shivering beneath his fez:--
"That's a real thing. You can't go against such things."　
"I tell you that the affair can't go wrong," resumed the long-haired man. "Father What's-his-name's team will be already harnessed."
Then they began to discuss a melodrama that they had seen on the preceding evening at the Gaite Theatre.　
Marius went his way.
It seemed to him that the mysterious words of these men,so strangely hidden behind that wall, and crouching in the snow,could not but bear some relation to Jondrette's abominable projects. That must be the affair.　
He directed his course towards the faubourg Saint-Marceau and asked at the first shop he came to where he could find a commissary of police.
He was directed to Rue de Pontoise, No. 14.
Thither Marius betook himself.
As he passed a baker's shop, he bought a two-penny roll, and ate it,foreseeing that he should not dine.
On the way, he rendered justice to Providence. He reflected that had he not given his five francs to the Jondrette girl in the morning,he would have followed M. Leblanc's fiacre, and consequently have remained ignorant of everything, and that there would have been no obstacle to the trap of the Jondrettes and that M. Leblanc would have been lost, and his daughter with him, no doubt.
马吕斯尽管是那么神魂颠倒，但是，我们已经提到，他具有坚定刚强的性格。独自思索的习惯，在他的同情心和怜悯心发展的同时，也许打磨了那种易于激动的性情，但是一点没有影响他见义勇为的气质。他有婆罗门教徒的慈悲和法官的严厉，他不忍伤害一只癞蛤蟆，但能踏死一条毒蛇。而他现在所注视的正是一个毒蛇洞，摆在他眼前的是个魔窟。
“必须踏住这帮无赖。”他心里想。
他希望猜出的种种哑谜一个也没有揭开，正相反，也许每个都变得更加难于看透了。关于卢森堡公园里那个美丽的女孩和他私自称为白先生的那个男子，除了知道容德雷特认识他们外，其他方面的情况却一点也没有增加。通过听到的那些暧昧的话，有一点却揣摸清楚了，那就是一场凶险的暗害阴谋正在准备中，他们两个都面临着巨大的危险，她也许还能幸免，她父亲却一定要遭毒手，必须搭救他们，必须粉碎容德雷特的恶毒诡计，扫掉那些蜘蛛的网。
他对容德雷特大娘望了一阵。她从屋角里拖出一个旧铁皮炉子，又去翻动一堆废铁。
他极其轻缓地从抽斗柜上跳下来，小心谨慎，不弄出一点声音。
在策划中的事给予他的惊恐以及容德雷特两口子在他心里激起的憎恶中，他想到自己也许能有办法为他心爱的人出一把力，不禁感到一种快慰。
但是应当怎么办呢？通知那两个遭暗算的人吗？到什么地方去找他们呢？他不知道他们的住址。她在他眼前重现了片刻，随即又隐没在巴黎的汪洋大海中了。傍晚六点，在门口守候白先生，等他一刻便把阴谋告诉他吗？但是容德雷特和他的那伙人会看出他的窥探意图，那地方荒凉，力量对比悬殊，他们有方法或把他扣住，或把他带到远处去，这样他要救的人也就完了。刚敲过一点，谋害行动要到六点才能实行，马吕斯眼前还有五个钟点。
只有一个办法。
他穿上那身勉强过得去的衣服，颈子上结一方围巾，拿起帽子，好象赤着脚在青苔上走路那样一点声息也没有，溜出去了。
而容德雷特大娘仍在废铁堆里乱翻乱捞。
出了大门，他便走向小银行家街。
在这条街的中段，有一道很矮的墙，墙上有几处是可以一步跨过去的，墙后是一片荒地。他一路心中盘算，从这地方慢慢走过，脚步声消失在积雪里。他忽然听见有人在他耳边细声谈话。他转过头去望，街上一片荒凉，不见有人，又是在大白天，他却明明听见有人在谈话。
他想起要把头伸到身边的墙头上去望望。
果然有两个人，背靠着墙，坐在雪里低声谈话。
那两个人的面孔是他从没见过的。一个生一脸络腮胡子，穿件布衫，一个留一头长发，衣服破烂。生络腮胡子的那个戴一顶希腊式的圆统帽，另一个光着头，雪花落在他的头发里。
马吕斯把脑袋伸在他们的头上面，可以听到他们所说的话。
留长发的那个用肘弯推着另一个说：
“有猫老板，不会出漏子的。”
“你以为？”那胡子说。接着留长发的那个又说：
“每人一张五百大头的票子，就算倒尽了霉吧，五年，六年，十年也就到了顶了。”
那一个伸手到希腊帽子下面去搔头皮，迟疑不决地回答：
“是呀，这东西一点不假。谁也不能说不想。”
“我敢说这次买卖不会出漏子，”留长发的那个又说，“那个老什么头的栏杆车还会套上牲口呢。”
接下去他们谈起前一晚在逸乐戏院看的一出音乐戏剧。
马吕斯继续走他的路。
他感到这两个人鬼鬼祟祟地躲在墙背后，蹲在雪里，说了那些半明不白的话，这也许和容德雷特的阴谋诡计不是没有关系的。“问题”便在这里了。
他向圣马尔索郊区走去，向最先遇到的一家铺子探听什么地方有警察的哨所。
人家告诉他蓬图瓦兹街十四号。
马吕斯向那里走去。
在走过一家面包店时，他买了两个苏的面包，吃了，估计到晚饭是不大靠得住的。
他一面走，一面感谢上苍。他心里想，他早上如果没有把那五法郎送给容德雷特姑娘，他早已去跟踪白先生的那辆马车了，因而什么也不会知道，也就没有什么能制止容德雷特两口子的暗害阴谋，白先生完了，他的女儿也一定跟着他一同完了。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 14 In which a Police Agent bestows Two Fistfuls on a Lawyer
On arriving at No. 14, Rue de Pontoise, he ascended to the first floor and inquired for the commissary of police.　
"The commissary of police is not here," said a clerk; "but there is an inspector who takes his place. Would you like to speak to him? Are you in haste?"
"Yes," said Marius.
The clerk introduced him into the commissary's office. There stood a tall man behind a grating, leaning against a stove, and holding up with both hands the tails of a vast topcoat, with three collars. His face was square, with a thin, firmmouth, thick, gray, and very ferocious whiskers, and a look that was enough to turn your pockets inside out. Of that glance it might have been well said, not that it penetrated, but that it searched.
This man's air was not much less ferocious nor less terrible than Jondrette's; the dog is, at times, no less terrible to meet than the wolf.
"What do you want?" he said to Marius, without adding "monsieur."
"Is this Monsieur le Commissaire de Police?"
"He is absent. I am here in his stead."
"The matter is very private."'
"Then speak."　
"And great haste is required."
"Then speak quick."
This calm, abrupt man was both terrifying and reassuring at one and the same time. He inspired fear and confidence. Marius related the adventure to him: That a person with whom he was not acquainted otherwise than by sight, was to be inveigled into a trap that very evening; that, as he occupied the room adjoining the den, he, Marius Pontmercy, a lawyer, had heard the whole plot through the partition; that the wretch who had planned the trap was a certain Jondrette; that there would be accomplices, probably some prowlers of the barriers, among others a certain Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille; that Jondrette's daughters were to lie in wait; that there was no way of warning the threatened man, since he did not even know his name; and that, finally, all this was to be carried out at six o'clock that evening, at the most deserted point of the Boulevard de l'Hopital, in house No. 50-52. 　
At the sound of this number, the inspector raised his head,and said coldly:--
"So it is in the room at the end of the corridor?"
"Precisely," answered Marius, and he added: "Are you acquainted with that house?"
The inspector remained silent for a moment, then replied, as he warmed the heel of his boot at the door of the stove:--　
"Apparently."
He went on, muttering between his teeth, and not addressing Marius so much as his cravat:--
"Patron-Minette must have had a hand in this."
This word struck Marius.
"Patron-Minette," said he, "I did hear that word pronounced,in fact."
And he repeated to the inspector the dialogue between the long-haired man and the bearded man in the snow behind the wall of the Rue du Petit-Banquier.
The inspector muttered:--
"The long-haired man must be Brujon, and the bearded one Demi-Liard,alias Deux-Milliards."
He had dropped his eyelids again, and became absorbed in thought.
"As for Father What's-his-name, I think I recognize him. Here, I've burned my coat. They always have too much fire in these cursed stoves. Number 50-52. Former property of Gorbeau."
Then he glanced at Marius.
"You saw only that bearded and that long-haired man?"
"And Panchaud."
"You didn't see a little imp of a dandy prowling about the premises?"　
"No."　
"Nor a big lump of matter, resembling an elephant in the Jardin des Plantes?"
"No."
"Nor a scamp with the air of an old red tail?"
"No."
"As for the fourth, no one sees him, not even his adjutants, clerks,and employees. It is not surprising that you did not see him."　
"No. Who are all those persons?" asked Marius.
The inspector answered:--
"Besides, this is not the time for them."
He relapsed into silence, then resumed:--
"50-52. I know that barrack. Impossible to conceal ourselves inside it without the artists seeing us, and then they will get off simply by countermanding the vaudeville. They are so modest!An audience embarrasses them. None of that, none of that. I want to hear them sing and make them dance."　
This monologue concluded, he turned to Marius, and demanded,gazing at him intently the while:--
"Are you afraid?"
"Of what?" said Marius.
"Of these men?"
"No more than yourself!" retorted Marius rudely, who had begun to notice that this police agent had not yet said "monsieur" to him.　
The inspector stared still more intently at Marius, and continued with sententious solemnity:--
"There, you speak like a brave man, and like an honest man. Courage does not fear crime, and honesty does not fear authority."　
Marius interrupted him:--
"That is well, but what do you intend to do?"
The inspector contented himself with the remark:--
"The lodgers have pass-keys with which to get in at night. You must have one."
"Yes," said Marius.
"Have you it about you?"
"Yes."
"Give it to me," said the inspector.
Marius took his key from his waistcoat pocket, handed it to the inspector and added:--
"If you will take my advice, you will come in force."
The inspector cast on Marius such a glance as Voltaire might have bestowed on a provincial academician who had suggested a rhyme to him;with one movement he plunged his hands, which were enormous,into the two immense pockets of his top-coat, and pulled out two small steel pistols, of the sort called "knock-me-downs." Then he presented them to Marius, saying rapidly, in a curt tone:--　
"Take these. Go home. Hide in your chamber, so that you may be supposed to have gone out. They are loaded. Each one carries two balls. You will keep watch; there is a hole in the wall,as you have informed me. These men will come. Leave them to their own devices for a time. When you think matters have reached a crisis, and that it is time to put a stop to them, fire a shot. Not too soon. The rest concerns me. A shot into the ceiling,the air, no matter where. Above all things, not too soon. Wait until they begin to put their project into execution; you are a lawyer;you know the proper point." Marius took the pistols and put them in the side pocket of his coat.　
"That makes a lump that can be seen," said the inspector. "Put them in your trousers pocket."
Marius hid the pistols in his trousers pockets.
"Now," pursued the inspector, "there is not a minute more to be lost by any one. What time is it? Half-past two. Seven o'clock is the hour?"
"Six o'clock," answered Marius.
"I have plenty of time," said the inspector, "but no more than enough. Don't forget anything that I have said to you. Bang. A pistol shot."
"Rest easy," said Marius.　
And as Marius laid his hand on the handle of the door on his way out,the inspector called to him:--
"By the way, if you have occasion for my services between now and then,come or send here. You will ask for Inspector Javert."
到了蓬图瓦兹街十四号，他走上楼，要求见哨所所长。
“所长先生不在，”一个不相干的勤务说，“但是有一个代替他的侦察员。您要和他谈谈吗？事情急吗？”
“急。”马吕斯说。
勤务把他领进所长办公室。一个身材高大的人站在一道栅栏后面，紧靠着一个火炉，两手提着一件宽大的、有三层披肩的加立克大衣的下摆。那人生就一张方脸，嘴唇薄而有力，两丛浓厚的灰色鬓毛，形象极其粗野，目光能把你的衣服口袋翻转。我们不妨说那种目光不能穿透却会搜索。
这人神气的凶恶可怕，比起容德雷特来也差不了多少，有时我们遇见一头恶狗并不比遇见狼更放心。
“您要什么？”他对马吕斯说，并不称一声先生。
“是所长先生吗？”
“他不在。我代替他。”
“我要谈一件很秘密的事。”
“那么谈吧。”
“并且很紧急。”
“那么赶紧谈。”
这人，冷静而突兀，让人见了又害怕，又心安。他使人产生恐惧心和信心。马吕斯把经过告诉他，说一个他只面熟而不相识的人在当天晚上将遭到暗害；他说自己，马吕斯·彭眉胥，律师，住在那兽穴隔壁的屋子里，他隔墙听到了全部阴谋；说主谋害人的恶棍是个叫容德雷特的家伙；说这人还有一伙帮凶，也许是些便门贼，其中有个什么邦灼，又叫春天，又叫比格纳耶的；说容德雷特的两个女儿将担任把风；说他没有办法通知那被暗算的人，因为他连他的姓名也不知道；最后还说这一切都将在当晚六点动手，地点在医院路上最荒凉的地方，五○一五二号房子里。
提到这号数时，侦察员抬起头，冷冷地说：
“那么是在过道底上的那间屋子里吧？”
“正是，”马吕斯说，他又加问一句，“您知道那所房子吗？”
侦察员沉默了一阵，接着，他一面在火炉口上烘他的靴子后跟，一面回答：
“表面的一点。”
他又咬着牙齿，不全是对着马吕斯，主要是对着他的领带，继续说：
“这里多少有点猫老板的手脚。”
这话提醒了马吕斯。
“猫老板，”他说，“对，我听到他们提这个名称。”
于是他把在小银行家街墙背后雪地上一个长头发和一个大胡子的对话告诉了侦察员。
侦察员嘴里嘟囔着：
“那长头发一定是普吕戎，大胡子是半文钱，又叫二十亿。”
他又垂下了眼睑细想。
“至于那个老什么头，我也猜到了几分。瞧，我的大衣烧着了。这些倒霉的火炉里的火老是太旺。五○一五二号。从前是戈尔博的产业。”
接着他望着马吕斯说：
“您只看见那大胡子和那长头发吗？”
“还看见邦灼。”
“您没有看见一个香喷喷的小个子妖精吗？”
“没有。”
“也没有看见一个又高又壮、长得象植物园的大象那样结结实实一大块的人吗？”
“没有。”
“也没有看见一个类似从前红尾那种模样的刁棍？”
“没有。”
“至于第四个，谁也没有见过，连他的那些帮手、同伙和喽罗也没见过。您没发现，那并不奇怪。”
“当然。这是些什么东西，这伙人？”马吕斯问。
侦察员继续说：
“并且这也不是他们的时间。”
他又沉默下来，随后说：
“五○一五二号。我知道那地方。没办法躲在房子里而不惊动那些艺术家。他们随时都可以停止表演。他们是那么谦虚的！见了观众便扭扭捏捏。那样不成，那样不成。我要听他们歌唱，让他们舞蹈。”
这段独白结束以后，他转向马吕斯，定定地望着他说：
“您害怕吗？”
“怕什么？”
“怕这伙人。”
“不会比看见您更害怕些。”马吕斯粗声大气地回答，他开始注意到这探子还没有对他称过一声先生。
侦察员这时更加定定地望着马吕斯，堂而皇之地对他说：“您说话象个有胆量的人，也象个诚实人。勇气不怕罪恶，诚实不怕官家。”
马吕斯打断他的话，说道：
“好吧，但是您打算怎么办？”
侦察员只是这样回答他：
“那房子里的住户都有一把路路通钥匙，晚上回家用的。
您应当也有一把。”
“有。”马吕斯说。
“您带在身上了？”
“在身上。”
“给我。”侦察员说。
马吕斯从背心口袋里掏出他的钥匙，递了给侦察员，说：
“您要是相信我的话，您最好多带几个人去。”
侦察员对马吕斯望了一眼，那神气仿佛是伏尔泰听到一个外省的科学院院士向他提供一个诗韵，他同时把两只粗壮无比的手一齐插进那件加立克大衣的两个宽大无比的口袋里，掏出两管小钢枪，那种叫做“拳头”的手枪，他递给马吕斯，干脆而急促地说：
“拿好这个。回家去。躲在您的屋子里。让别人认为您不在家。枪是上了子弹的。每支里有两粒。您注意看守。那墙上有个洞，您对我说过。那些人来了，让他们多少活动一下。当您认为时机已到，应当及时制止了，便开一枪，不能太早。其余的事，有我。朝空地方开一枪，对天花板，对任何地方，都行。特别留意，不能开得太早。要等到他们已开始行动后，您是律师，一定知道为什么要这样。”
马吕斯接了那两支手枪，塞在他上衣旁边的一个口袋里。
“这样鼓起一大块，别人能看出来，”侦察员说，“还是放在您背心口袋里好。”
马吕斯把两支枪分藏在两个背心口袋里。
“现在，”侦察员接着说，“谁也不能再浪费一分钟。什么时候了？两点半。他们要到七点才动手吧？”
“六点。”马吕斯说。
“我还有时间，”侦察员说，“但只有这一点时间了。您不要忘了我说的话。砰。一枪。”
“放心。”马吕斯回答。
马吕斯正伸手要拉门闩出去，侦察员对他喊道：
“我说，万一您在那以前还需要我，您来或是派人来这里找我就是。您说要找侦察员沙威就行了。”
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 15 Jondrette makes his Purchases
A few moments later, about three o'clock, Courfeyrac chanced to be passing along the Rue Mouffetard in company with Bossuet. The snow had redoubled in violence, and filled the air. Bossuet was just saying to Courfeyrac:--
"One would say, to see all these snow-flakes fall, that there was a plague of white butterflies in heaven." All at once,Bossuet caught sight of Marius coming up the street towards the barrier with a peculiar air.　
"Hold!" said Bossuet. "There's Marius."
"I saw him," said Courfeyrac. "Don't let's speak to him."
"Why?"
"He is busy."
"With what?"
"Don't you see his air?"
"What air?"
"He has the air of a man who is following some one."
"That's true," said Bossuet.
"Just see the eyes he is making!" said Courfeyrac.
"But who the deuce is he following?"
"Some fine, flowery bonneted wench! He's in love."
"But," observed Bossuet, "I don't see any wench nor any flowery bonnet in the street. There's not a woman round."　
Courfeyrac took a survey, and exclaimed:--
"He's following a man!"
A man, in fact, wearing a gray cap, and whose gray beard could be distinguished, although they only saw his back, was walking along about twenty paces in advance of Marius.
This man was dressed in a great-coat which was perfectly new and too large for him, and in a frightful pair of trousers all hanging in rags and black with mud.
Bossuet burst out laughing.
"Who is that man?"
"He?" retorted Courfeyrac, "he's a poet. Poets are very fond of wearing the trousers of dealers in rabbit skins and the overcoats of peers of France."
"Let's see where Marius will go," said Bossuet; "let's see where the man is going, let's follow them, hey?"　
"Bossuet!" exclaimed Courfeyrac, "eagle of Meaux! You are a prodigious brute. Follow a man who is following another man, indeed!" 
They retraced their steps.　
Marius had, in fact, seen Jondrette passing along the Rue Mouffetard, and was spying on his proceedings. 　
Jondrette walked straight ahead, without a suspicion that he was already held by a glance.
He quitted the Rue Mouffetard, and Marius saw him enter one of the most terrible hovels in the Rue Gracieuse; he remained there about a quarter of an hour, then returned to the Rue Mouffetard. He halted at an ironmonger's shop, which then stood at the corner of the Rue Pierre-Lombard, and a few minutes later Marius saw him emerge from the shop, holding in his hand a huge cold chisel with a white wood handle, which he concealed beneath his great-coat. Atthe top of the Rue Petit-Gentilly he turned to the left and proceeded rapidly to the Rue du Petit-Banquier. The day was declining; the snow, which had ceased for a moment, had just begun again. Marius posted himself on the watch at the very corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier, which was deserted, as usual, and did not follow Jondrette into it. It was lucky that he did so, for, on arriving in the vicinity of the wall where Marius had heard the long-haired man and the bearded man conversing, Jondrette turned round, made sure that no one was following him, did not see him, then sprang across the wall and disappeared.
The waste land bordered by this wall communicated with the back yard of an ex-livery stable-keeper of bad repute, who had failed and who still kept a few old single-seated berlins under his sheds.
Marius thought that it would be wise to profit by Jondrette's absence to return home; moreover, it was growing late; every evening, Ma'am Bougon when she set out for her dish-washing in town,had a habit of locking the door, which was always closed at dusk.  Marius had given his key to the inspector of police; it was important,therefore, that he should make haste.
Evening had arrived, night had almost closed in; on the horizon and in the immensity of space, there remained but one spot illuminated by the sun, and that was the moon.
It was rising in a ruddy glow behind the low dome of Salpetriere.
Marius returned to No. 50-52 with great strides. The door was still open when he arrived. He mounted the stairs on tip-toe and glided along the wall of the corridor to his chamber. This corridor, as the reader will remember, was bordered on both sides by attics,all of which were, for the moment, empty and to let. Ma'am Bougon was in the habit of leaving all the doors open. As he passed one of these attics, Marius thought he perceived in the uninhabited cell the motionless heads of four men, vaguely lighted up by a remnant of daylight, falling through a dormer window,Marius made no attempt to see, not wishing to be seen himself. He succeeded in reaching his chamber without being seen and without making any noise. It was high time. A moment later he heard Ma'am Bougon take her departure, locking the door of the house behind her.
过了一会儿，将近三点钟，古费拉克在博须埃陪同下，偶然经过穆夫达街。雪下得更大了，充满了空间。博须埃正在向古费拉克说：
“见了这种成团的雪落下来，就会说天上有成千上万的白蝴蝶。”忽然，博须埃瞧见马吕斯在街心朝着便门向上走去，神气有些古怪。
“嘿！”博须埃大声说，“马吕斯！”
“我早看见了，”古费拉克说，“不用招呼他。”
“为什么？”
“他正忙着。”
“忙什么？”
“你就没看见他那副神气？”
“什么神气？”
“看来他是在跟一个什么人。”
“的确是。”博须埃说。
“你看他那双眼睛。”古费拉克接着说。
“可是他在跟什么鬼呢？”
“一定是个什么美美妹妹花花帽子！他正发情呢。”“可是，”博须埃指出，“这街上我没看见有什么美美，也没有妹妹，也没有花花帽子。一个女人也没有。”
古费拉克仔细望去，喊道：
“他跟一个男人！”
确是一个男人，戴鸭舌帽的，走在马吕斯前面，相隔二十来步，虽然只望见他的背，却能看出他的灰白胡须。
那人穿一件过于宽大的全新大衣和一条破烂不堪、满是黑污泥的长裤。
博须埃放声大笑。
“这是个什么人？”
“这？”古费拉克回答，“是个诗人。诗人们常常爱穿收买兔子皮的小贩的裤子和法兰西世卿的骑马服。”
“我倒要看看马吕斯去什么地方，”博须埃说，“看看那人去什么地方，我们去跟他们，好吗？”
“博须埃！”古费拉克兴奋地说，“莫城的鹰！您真是个空前的捣蛋鬼。去跟一个跟人的人！”
他们返回往前走。
马吕斯确是看见了容德雷特在穆夫达街上走过，便跟在后面侦察他。
容德雷特在前面走，没想到已有只眼睛盯住他了。
他离开了穆夫达街，马吕斯看见他走进格拉西尔斯街上一栋最破烂的房子里，待了一刻钟左右又回到穆夫达街。他走进当年开设在皮埃尔－伦巴第街转角处的一家铁器店，几分钟过后，马吕斯看见他从那铺子里出来，手里拿着一把白木柄的钝口凿，往大衣下面藏。到了珀蒂－让蒂伊街口，他向左拐弯，急匆匆走到小银行家街。天色渐渐黑下来了，停过一会儿的雪又开始下起来。马吕斯隐藏在素来荒凉的小银行家街拐角的地方，没有再跟容德雷特走。他幸亏没有跟，因为容德雷特走近那道矮墙棗刚才马吕斯听见长头发和大胡子说话的地方，忽然回转头来，看看有没有人跟踪，肯定没有人，他才跨过墙头，不见了。
墙背后的那片荒地通向一个最初以出租马车为业的人的后院，那人名声素来很坏，已经破产，不过在他那停车篷里还有几辆破车。
马吕斯想起，趁容德雷特不在家，赶快回去，比较稳妥。况且时间已经不早，每天下午，毕尔贡妈妈照例总在去城里洗碗以前，在将近黄昏时把大门锁上，马吕斯已把他的钥匙给了那侦察员，因此他必须赶快。
夜幕四合，天色几乎完全黑了，在寥廓的天边，只有一点是被太阳照着的，那便是月亮。
月亮的红光从妇女救济院的矮圆顶后面升起来。
马吕斯迈开大步赶回了五○一五二号。他到家时，大门还开着。他踮起脚尖上了楼，再沿着过道的墙溜到自己的房门口。那过道两旁，我们记得，是些破房间，当时全空着待人来租。毕尔贡妈妈经常是让那些房门敞开着的。在走过那些空屋子门口时，马吕斯仿佛看见在其中的一间里有四个人头待着不动，被残余的日光透过天窗照着，隐隐约约有点发白。马吕斯怕引起注意，不便细看。他终于悄悄地回到了自己的屋子里，没有让别人看见。这也正是时候，不大一会儿，他便听见毕尔贡妈妈走了，大门也关上了。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 16 In which will be found the Words to an English Air which was in Fashion in 
Marius seated himself on his bed. It might have been half-past five o'clock. Only half an hour separated him from what was about to happen. He heard the beating of his arteries as one hears the ticking of a watch in the dark. He thought of the double march which was going on at that moment in the dark,--crime advancing on one side, justice coming up on the other. He was not afraid, but he could not think without a shudder of what was about to take place.  As is the case with all those who are suddenly assailed by an unforeseen adventure, the entire day produced upon him the effect of a dream, and in order to persuade himqelt;
The father exclaimed:--
"Go in, nevertheless."
The door opened, and Marius saw the tall Jondrette come in with a candle in her hand. She was as she had been in the morning,only still more repulsive in this light.
She walked straight up to the bed. Marius endured an indescribable moment of anxiety; but near the bed there was a mirror nailed to the wall, and it was thither that she was directing her steps. She raised herself on tiptoe and looked at herself in it. In the neighboring room, the sound of iron articles being moved was audible.
She smoothed her hair with the palm of her hand, and smiled into the mirror, humming with her cracked and sepulchral voice:--
Nos amours ont dure toute une semaine,[28] Mais que du bonheur les instants sont courts!S'ad}QЩ?pushed them under his bed.
Several minutes elapsed. Marius heard the lower door turn on its hinges; a heavy step mounted the staircase, and hastened along the corridor; the latch of the hovel was noisily lifted; it was Jondrette returning.　
Instantly, several voices arose. The whole family was in the garret. Only, it had been silent in the master's absence, like wolf whelps in the absence of the wolf.
"It's I," said he.
"Good evening, daddy," yelped the girls.
"Well?" said the mother.
"All's going first-rate," responded Jondrette, "but my feet are beastly cold. Good! You have dressed up. You have done well! You must inspire confidence."
"All ready to go out."
"Don't forget what I told you. You will do everything sure?"
"Rest easy."
"Because--" said Jondrette. And he left the phrase unfinished.
Marius heard him lay something heavy on the table, probably the chisel which he had purchased.
"By the way," said Jondrette, "have you been eating here?"
"Yes," said the mother. "I got three large potatoes and some salt. I took advantage of the fire to cook them."　
"Good," returned Jondrette. "To-morrow I will take you out to dine with me. We will have a duck and fixings. You shall dine like Charles the Tenth; all is going well!"
Then he added:--
"The mouse-trap is open. The cats are there."
He lowered his voice still further, and said:--
"Put this in the fire."
Marius heard a sound of charcoal being knocked with the tongs or some iron utensil, and Jondrette continued:--　
"Have you greased the hinges of the door so that they will not squeak?"
"Yes," replied the mother.
"What time is it?"
"Nearly six. The half-hour struck from Saint-Medard a while ago."
"The devil!" ejaculated Jondrette; "the children must go and watch. Come you, do you listen here."　
A whispering ensued.
Jondrette's voice became audible again:--
"Has old Bougon left?"
"Yes," said the mother.
"Are you sure that there is no one in our neighbor's room?"
"He has not been in all day, and you know very well that this is his dinner hour."
"You are sure?"
"Sure."　
"All the same," said Jondrette, "there's no harm in going to see whether he is there. Here, my girl, take the candle and go there."　
Marius fell on his hands and knees and crawled silently under his bed.　
Hardly had he concealed himself, when he perceived a light through the crack of his door.
"P'pa," cried a voice, "he is not in here."
He recognized the voice of the eldest daughter.
"Did you go in?" demanded her father.
"No," replied the girl, "but as his key is in the door, he must be out."
The father exclaimed:--
"Go in, nevertheless."
The door opened, and Marius saw the tall Jondrette come in with a candle in her hand. She was as she had been in the morning,only still more repulsive in this light.
She walked straight up to the bed. Marius endured an indescribable moment of anxiety; but near the bed there was a mirror nailed to the wall, and it was thither that she was directing her steps. She raised herself on tiptoe and looked at herself in it. In the neighboring room, the sound of iron articles being moved was audible.
She smoothed her hair with the palm of her hand, and smiled into the mirror, humming with her cracked and sepulchral voice:--
Nos amours ont dure toute une semaine,[28] Mais que du bonheur les instants sont courts!S'adorer huit jours, c' etait bien la peine!Le temps des amours devait durer toujours!Devrait durer toujours! devrait durer toujours!　
[28] Our love has lasted a whole week, but how short are the instants of happiness! To adore each other for eight days was hardly worth the while! The time of love should last forever.
In the meantime, Marius trembled. It seemed impossible to him that she should not hear his breathing.
She stepped to the window and looked out with the half-foolish way she had.
"How ugly Paris is when it has put on a white chemise!" said she.
She returned to the mirror and began again to put on airs before it,scrutinizing herself full-face and three-quarters face in turn.　
"Well!" cried her father, "what are you about there?"
"I am looking under the bed and the furniture," she replied,continuing to arrange her hair; "there's no one here."
"Booby!" yelled her father. "Come here this minute! And don't waste any time about it!"
"Coming! Coming!" said she. "One has no time for anything in this hovel!"
She hummed:--
Vous me quittez pour aller a la gloire;[29] Mon triste coeur suivra partout.　
[29] You leave me to go to glory; my sad heart will follow you everywhere.
She cast a parting glance in the mirror and went out, shutting the door behind her.
A moment more, and Marius heard the sound of the two young girls' bare feet in the corridor, and Jondrette's voice shouting to them:--
"Pay strict heed! One on the side of the barrier, the other at the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier. Don't lose sight for a moment of the door of this house, and the moment you see anything, rush here on the instant! as hard as you can go! You have a key to get in."
The eldest girl grumbled:--
"The idea of standing watch in the snow barefoot!"
"To-morrow you shall have some dainty little green silk boots!" said the father.
They ran down stairs, and a few seconds later the shock of the outer door as it banged to announced that they were outside.
There now remained in the house only Marius, the Jondrettes and probably, also, the mysterious persons of whom Marius had caught a glimpse in the twilight, behind the door of the unused attic.
马吕斯坐在自己的床上。当时大致是五点半钟。离动手的时间只有半个钟头了。他听见自己动脉管跳动的声音，正如人在黑暗中听到表响。他想到这时有两种力量正同时在暗中活跃。罪恶正从一方面前进，法律也正从另一方面到来。他不害怕，但想到即将发生的种种，也不能没有战栗之感。就象那些突然遭到一场惊人风险袭击的人们，这一整天的经过，对他也象是一场恶梦，为了向自己证实完全没有受到梦魇的控制，他随时需要伸手到背心口袋里去接受那两枝钢手枪给他的冷的感觉。
雪已经不下了，月亮穿透浓雾，逐渐明朗，它的清光和积雪的白色反光交相辉映，给那屋子一种平明时分的景色。
容德雷特的穷窟里却有着光。马吕斯望见阵阵红光从墙上的窟窿里象鲜血似的射出来。
从实际观察，那样的光是不大可能由一支蜡烛发出的。况且，在容德雷特家里，没有一个人活动，没有一个人说话，声息全无，那里的寂静是冰冷和深沉的，要是没有这一点火光，马吕斯会以为他是在坟墓的隔壁。
他轻轻地脱下靴子，把它们推到床底下。
几分钟过后，马吕斯听到下面的门在门斗里转动的声音，一阵沉重急促的脚步上了楼梯，穿过过道，隔壁门上的铁闩一声响，门就开了，容德雷特回来了。
立即有好几个人说话的声音。原来全家的人都在那破窝里，不过家长不在时谁也不吭气，正如老狼不在时的小狼群。
“是我。”他说。
“你好，好爸爸！”两个姑娘尖声叫起来。
“怎么说？”那母亲问。
“一切溜溜顺”容德雷特回答，“只是我的脚冷得象冻狗肉一样。好。对的，你换了衣服。你得取得人家的信任，这是完全必要的。”
“我全准备好了，要走就走。”
“你没有忘记我教你的话吧？你全能做到？”
“你放心。”
“可是……”容德雷特说。他没有说完那句话。
马吕斯听见他把一件重东西放在桌上，也许是他买的那把钝口凿。
“啊，你们吃了东西没有？”
“吃了，”那母亲说，“我吃了三个大土豆，加了点盐。我利用这炉火烘熟的。”
“好，”容德雷特说。“明天我领你们一道去吃一顿。有全鸭，还有配菜。你们可以吃得象查理十世那样好。一切顺利！”
继又放低声音加上一句：
“老鼠笼已经打开了。猫儿也全到了。”
他把声音压得更低，说道：
“把这放在火里。”
马吕斯听到一阵火钳或其他铁器和煤块相撞的声音。容德雷特又说：
“你在门斗里涂上了油吧？不能让它出声音。”
“涂过了。”那母亲回答。
“什么时候了？”
“快六点了。圣美达刚敲过半点。”
“见鬼！”容德雷特说。“小的应当去望风了。来，你们两个，听我说。”
接着是一阵喁喁私语的声音。
容德雷特又提高嗓子说：
“毕尔贡妈走了吗？”
“走了。”那母亲说。
“你担保隔壁屋子里没有人吗？”
“他一整天没回来，你也知道现在是他吃晚饭的时候。”
“你拿得稳？”
“拿得稳。”
“没关系！”容德雷特又说，“到他屋子里去看看他是不是在家，总没有坏处。大姑娘，带支蜡烛去瞧瞧。”
马吕斯连忙两手两膝一齐着地，悄悄地爬到床底下去了。
他在床下还没有蜷伏好，便看见从门缝里射来的光。
“爸，”一个人的声音喊着说，“他出去了。”
他听出是那大姑娘的声音。
“你进去看了没有？”她父亲问。
“没有，”姑娘回答，“他的钥匙在门上，那他一定是出去了。”
她父亲喊道：
“还是要进去看看。”
房门开了，马吕斯看见容德雷特大姑娘走进来，手里拿着一支蜡烛。她还是早上那模样，不过在烛光中显得更加可怕。
她直向床边走来，马吕斯一时慌到无可名状，但是在床边墙上，挂了一面镜子，她要去的是这地方。她踮起脚尖，对着镜子顾影自盼。隔壁屋子里传来一阵翻动废铁的声音。
她用手掌抹平自己的头发，一面对着镜子装笑脸，一面用她那破裂阴惨的嗓子轻轻地哼着：
我们的恩爱整整延续了八天，
但是幸福的时刻短得可怜！
相亲相爱八昼夜，快乐无边！
爱的时间，应当永远延绵！
应当永远延绵！应当永远延绵！
可是马吕斯抖得厉害。他感到她不可能不听到他呼吸的声音。
她走到窗口，望着外面，用她所特有的半疯癫的神态大声说话。
“巴黎是真丑，当它穿上白衬衫的时候！”她说。
她又走到镜子跟前，再作种种怪脸，时而正面，时而四分之三的侧面，把自己欣赏个不停。
“怎么了！”她父亲喊，“你在那里干什么？”
“我在看床底下，看家具底下，”她一面理自己的头发，一面回答，“一个人也没有。”
“傻丫头！”她父亲吼了起来，“赶快回来！不要白费时间。”“我就来！我就来！”她说，“在他们这破窑里，老是急急忙忙，啥也干不成。”
她又哼着：
你撇下了我去追求荣誉，
我这碎了的心，将随时随地与你同行。
她对着镜子望了最后一眼，才走出去，随手关上了门。
过一会儿，马吕斯听到两个姑娘赤脚在过道里走路的声音，又听到容德雷特对她们喊：
“要好好留心！一个在便门这边，一个在小银行家街的角上。眼睛一下也不要离开这房子的大门。要是看见一点点什么，便赶快回来！四步当一步跑！你们带一把进大门的钥匙。”
大姑娘嘴里嘟囔着：
“大雪天还得光着脚板去放哨！”
“明天你们就有闪缎靴子穿！”那父亲说。
她们下了楼梯，几秒钟过后，下面的门呯的一声关上了，这说明她们已到了外面。
现在，房子里只剩下马吕斯和容德雷特两口子了，也许还有马吕斯在昏暗中隐隐望见过的、待在一间空屋子门背后的那几个神秘人物。
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 20 The Trap
The door of the garret had just opened abruptly, and allowed a view   of three men clad in blue linen blouses, and masked with masks of black paper. The first was thin, and had a long, iron-tipped cudgel; the second, who was a sort of colossus, carried, by the middle of the handle, with the blade downward, a butcher's pole-axe for slaughtering cattle. The third, a man with thick-set shoulders, not so slender as the first, held in his hand an enormous key stolen from the door of some prison.　
It appeared that the arrival of these men was what Jondrette had been waiting for. A rapid dialogue ensued between him and the man with the cudgel, the thin one.
"Is everything ready?" said Jondrette.
"Yes," replied the thin man.
"Where is Montparnasse?"
"The young principal actor stopped to chat with your girl."
"Which?"
"The eldest."
"Is there a carriage at the door?"
"Yes."
"Is the team harnessed?"
"Yes."
"With two good horses?"
"Excellent."
"Is it waiting where I ordered?"
"Yes."
"Good," said Jondrette.　
M. Leblanc was very pale. He was scrutinizing everything around him in the den, like a man who understands what he has fallen into, and his head, directed in turn toward all the heads which surrounded him, moved on his neck with an astonished and attentive slowness, but there was nothing in his air which resembled fear. He had improvised an intrenchment out of the table; and the man, who but an instant previously, had borne merely the appearance of a kindly old man, had suddenly become a sort of athlete, and placed his robust fist on the back of his chair, with a formidable and surprising gesture. 　
This old man, who was so firm and so brave in the presence of such a danger, seemed to possess one of those natures which are as courageous as they are kind, both easily and simply. The father of a woman whom we love is never a stranger to us. Marius felt proud of that unknown man.　
Three of the men, of whom Jondrette had said: "They are chimney-builders," had armed themselves from the pile of old iron, one with a heavy pair of shears, the second with weighing-tongs, the third with a hammer, and had placed themselves across the entrance without uttering a syllable. The old man had remained on the bed, and had merely opened his eyes. The Jondrette woman had seated herself beside him. 　
Marius decided that in a few seconds more the moment for intervention would arrive, and he raised his right hand towards the ceiling, in the direction of the corridor, in readiness to discharge his pistol.　
Jondrette having terminated his colloquy with the man with the cudgel, turned once more to M. Leblanc, and repeated his question, accompanying it with that low, repressed, and terrible laugh which was peculiar to him:-- 　
"So you do not recognize me?"　
M. Leblanc looked him full in the face, and replied:--
"No."
Then Jondrette advanced to the table. He leaned across the candle, crossing his arms, putting his angular and ferocious jaw close to M. Leblanc's calm face, and advancing as far as possible without forcing M. Leblanc to retreat, and, in this posture of a wild beast who is about to bite, he exclaimed:--
"My name is not Fabantou, my name is not Jondrette, my name is Thenardier. I am the inn-keeper of Montfermeil! Do you understand? Thenardier! Now do you know me?" 　
An almost imperceptible flush crossed M. Leblanc's brow, and he replied with a voice which neither trembled nor rose above its ordinary level, with his accustomed placidity:--
"No more than before."
Marius did not hear this reply. Any one who had seen him at that moment through the darkness would have perceived that he was haggard, stupid, thunder-struck. At the moment when Jondrette said: "My name is Thenardier," Marius had trembled in every limb, and had leaned against the wall, as though he felt the cold of a steel blade through his heart. Then his right arm, all ready to discharge the signal shot, dropped slowly, and at the moment when Jondrette repeated, "Thenardier, do you understand?" Marius's faltering fingers had come near letting the pistol fall. Jondrette, by revealing his identity, had not moved M. Leblanc, but he had quite upset Marius. That name of Thenardier, with which M. Leblanc did not seem to be acquainted, Marius knew well. Let the reader recall what that name meant to him! That name he had worn on his heart, inscribed in his father's testament! He bore it at the bottom of his mind, in the depths of his memory, in that sacred injunction: "A certain Thenardier saved my life.  If my son encounters him, he will do him all the good that lies in his power." That name, it will be remembered, was one of the pieties of his soul; he mingled it with the name of his father in his worship. What! This man was that Thenardier, that inn-keeper of Montfermeil whom he had so long and so vainly sought! He had found him at last, and how? His father's saviour was a ruffian!  That man, to whose service Marius was burning to devote himself, was a monster! That liberator of Colonel Pontmercy was on the point of committing a crime whose scope Marius did not, as yet, clearly comprehend, but which resembled an assassination!  And against whom, great God! what a fatality! What a bitter mockery of fate! His father had commanded him from the depths of his coffin to do all the good in his power to this Thenardier, and for four years Marius had cherished no other thought than to acquit this debt of his father's, and at the momes wrath had fallen into some hole, like the Rhone; then, as though he were concluding aloud the things which he had been saying to himself in a whisper, he smote the table with his fist, and shouted:--　
"And with his goody-goody air!"
And, apostrophizing M. Leblanc:--
"Parbleu! You made game of me in the past! You are the cause of all my misfortunes! For fifteen hundred francs you got a girl whom I had, and who certainly belonged to rich people, and who had already brought in a great deal of money, and from whom I might have extracted enough to live on all my life! A girl who would have made up to me for everything that I lost in that vile cook-shop, where there was nothing but one continual row, and where, like a fool, I ate up my last farthing! Oh! I wish all the wine folks drank in my house had been poison to those who drank it! Wen循ㄠve so long worn on his breast his father's last commands, written in his own hand, only to act in so horribly contrary a sense! But, on the other hand, now look on that trap and not prevent it! Condemn the victim and to spare the assassin! Could one be held to any gratitude towards so miserable a wretch?  All the ideas which Marius had cherished for the last four years were pierced through and through, as it were, by this unforeseen blow. 
He shuddered. Everything depended on him. Unknown to themselves, he held in his hand all those beings who were moving about there before his eyes. If he fired his pistol, M. Leblanc was saved, and Thenardier lost; if he did not fire, M. Leblanc would be sacrificed, and, who knows? Thenardier would escape. Should he dash down the one or allow the other to fall? Remorse awaited him in either case.
What was he to do? What should he choose? Be false to the most imperious souvenirs, to all those solemn vows to himself, to the most sacred duty, to the most venerated text! Should he ignore his father's testament, or allow the perpetration of a crime!  On the one hand, it seemed to him that he heard "his Ursule" supplicating for her father and on the other, the colonel commending Thenardier to his care. He felt that he was going mad. His knees gave way beneath him. And he had not even the time for deliberation, so great was the fury with which the scene before his eyes was hastening to its catastrophe. It was like a whirlwind of which he had thought himself the master, and which was now sweeping him away. He was on the verge of swooning.　
In the meantime, Thenardier, whom we shall henceforth call by no other name, was pacing up and down in front of the table in a sort of frenzy and wild triumph.
He seized the candle in his fist, and set it on the chimney-piece with so violent a bang that the wick came near being extinguished, and the tallow bespattered the wall.
Then he turned to M. Leblanc with a horrible look, and spit out these words:--
"Done for! Smoked brown! Cooked! Spitchcocked!" 　
And again he began to march back and forth, in full eruption.
"Ah!" he cried, "so I've found you again at last, Mister philanthropist!  Mister threadbare millionnaire! Mister giver of dolls! you old ninny! Ah! so you don't recognize me! No, it wasn't you who came to Montfermeil, to my inn, eight years ago, on Christmas eve, 1823!  It wasn't you who carried off that Fantine's child from me! The Lark! It wasn't you who had a yellow great-coat! No! Nor a package of duds in your hand, as you had this morning here!  Say, wife, it seems to be his mania to carry packets of woollen stockings into houses! Old charity monger, get out with you! Are you a hosier, Mister millionnaire? You give away your stock in trade to the poor, holy man! What bosh! merry Andrew! Ah! and you don't recognize me? Well, I recognize you, that I do! I recognized you the very moment you poked your snout in here. Ah! you'll find out presently, that it isn't all roses to thrust yourself in that fashion into people's houses, under the pretext that they are taverns, in wretched clothes, with the air of a poor man, to whom one would give a sou, to deceive persons, to play the generous, to take away their means of livelihood, and to make threats in the woods, and you can't call things quits because afterwards, when people are ruined, you bring a coat that is too large, and two miserable hospital blankets, you old blackguard, you child-stealer!" 　
He paused, and seemed to be talking to himself for a moment.  One would have said that his wrath had fallen into some hole, like the Rhone; then, as though he were concluding aloud the things which he had been saying to himself in a whisper, he smote the table with his fist, and shouted:--　
"And with his goody-goody air!"
And, apostrophizing M. Leblanc:--
"Parbleu! You made game of me in the past! You are the cause of all my misfortunes! For fifteen hundred francs you got a girl whom I had, and who certainly belonged to rich people, and who had already brought in a great deal of money, and from whom I might have extracted enough to live on all my life! A girl who would have made up to me for everything that I lost in that vile cook-shop, where there was nothing but one continual row, and where, like a fool, I ate up my last farthing! Oh! I wish all the wine folks drank in my house had been poison to those who drank it! Well, never mind! Say, now! You must have thought me ridiculous when you went off with the Lark! You had your cudgel in the forest. You were the stronger. Revenge. I'm the one to hold the trumps to-day! You're in a sorry case, my good fellow! Oh, but I can laugh! Really, I laugh! Didn't he fall into the trap! I told him that I was an actor, that my name was Fabantou, that I had played comedy with Mamselle Mars, with Mamselle Muche, that my landlord insisted on being paid tomorrow, the 4th of February, and he didn't even notice that the 8th of January, and not the 4th of February is the time when the quarter runs out! Absurd idiot!  And the four miserable Philippes which he has brought me! Scoundrel! He hadn't the heart even to go as high as a hundred francs! And how he swallowed my platitudes! That did amuse me. I said to myself: `Blockhead! Come, I've got you! I lick your paws this morning,but I'll gnaw your heart this evening!'"　
Thenardier paused. He was out of breath. His little, narrow chest panted like a forge bellows. His eyes were full of the ignoble happiness of a feeble, cruel, and cowardly creature, which finds that it can, at last, harass what it has feared, and insult what it has flattered, the joy of a dwarf who should be able to set his heel on the head of Goliath, the joy of a jackal which is beginning to rend a sick bull, so nearly dead that he can no longer defend himself, but sufficiently alive to suffer still. 　
M. Leblanc did not interrupt him, but said to him when he paused:--
"I do not know what you mean to say. You are mistaken in me. I am a very poor man, and anything but a millionnaire. I do not know you. You are mistaking me for some other person."
"Ah!" roared Thenardier hoarsely, "a pretty lie! You stick to that pleasantry, do you! You're floundering, my old buck! Ah! You don't remember! You don't see who I am?"
"Excuse me, sir," said M. Leblanc with a politeness of accent, which at that moment seemed peculiarly strange and powerful, "I see that you are a villain!"
Who has not remarked the fact that odious creatures possess a susceptibility of their own, that monsters are ticklish! At this word "villain," the female Thenardier sprang from the bed, Thenardier grasped his chair as though he were about to crush it in his hands.  "Don't you stir!" he shouted to his wife; and, turning to M. Leblanc:--　
"Villain! Yes, I know that you call us that, you rich gentlemen!   Stop! it's true that I became bankrupt, that I am in hiding, that I have no bread, that I have not a single sou, that I am a villain! It's three days since I have had anything to eat, so I'm a villain!  Ah! you folks warm your feet, you have Sakoski boots, you have wadded great-coats, like archbishops, you lodge on the first floor in houses that have porters, you eat truffles, you eat asparagus at forty francs the bunch in the month of January, and green peas, you gorge yourselves, and when you want to know whether it is cold, you look in the papers to see what the engineer Chevalier's thermometer says about it. We, it is we who are thermometers. We don't need to go out and look on the quay at the corner of the Tour de l'Horologe, to find out the number of degrees of cold; we feel our blood congealing in our veins, and the ice forming round our hearts, and we say: `There is no God!' And you come to our caverns, yes our caverns, for the purpose of calling us villains!  But we'll devour you! But we'll devour you, poor little things! Just see here, Mister millionnaire: I have been a solid man, I have held a license, I have been an elector, I am a bourgeois, that I am! And it's quite possible that you are not!" 　
Here Thenardier took a step towards the men who stood near the door, and added with a shudder:--
"When I think that he has dared to come here and talk to me like a cobbler!"
Then addressing M. Leblanc with a fresh outburst of frenzy:--
"And listen to this also, Mister philanthropist! I'm not a suspicious character, not a bit of it! I'm not a man whose name nobody knows, and who comes and abducts children from houses!  I'm an old French soldier, I ought to have been decorated! I was at Waterloo, so I was! And in the battle I saved a general called the Comte of I don't know what. He told me his name, but his beastly voice was so weak that I didn't hear. All I caught was Merci [thanks]. I'd rather have had his name than his thanks. That would have helped me to find him again. The picture that you see here, and which was painted by David at Bruqueselles,--do you know what it represents? It represents me. David wished to immortalize that feat of prowess. I have that general on my back, and I am carrying him through the grape-shot. There's the history of it!  That general never did a single thing for me; he was no better than the rest! But none the less, I saved his life at the risk of my own, and I have the certificate of the fact in my pocket! I am a soldier of Waterloo, by all the furies! And now that I have had the goodness to tell you all this, let's have an end of it. I want money, I want a deal of money, I must have an enormous lot of money, or I'll exterminate you, by the thunder of the good God!"
Marius had regained some measure of control over his anguish, and was listening. The last possibility of doubt had just vanished. It certainly was the Thenardier of the will. Marius shuddered at that reproach of ingratitude directed against his father, and which he was on the point of so fatally justifying. His perplexity was redoubled.
Moreover, there was in all these words of Thenardier, in his accent, in his gesture, in his glance which darted flames at every word, there was, in this explosion of an evil nature disclosing everything, in that mixture of braggadocio and abjectness, of pride and pettiness,of rage and folly, in that chaos of real griefs and false sentiments, in that immodesty of a malicious man tasting the voluptuous delights of violence, in that shameless nudity of a repulsive soul, in that conflagration of all sufferings combined with all hatreds, something which was as hideous as evil, and as heart-rending as the truth.
The picture of the master, the painting by David which he had proposed that M. Leblanc should purchase, was nothing else, as the reader has divined, than the sign of his tavern painted, as it will be remembered, by himself, the only relic which he had preserved from his shipwreck at Montfermeil.　
As he had ceased to intercept Marius' visual ray, Marius could examine this thing, and in the daub, he actually did recognize a battle, a background of smoke, and a man carrying another  man.It was the group composed of Pontmercy and Thenardier; the sergeant the rescuer, the colonel rescued. Marius was like a drunken man; this picture restored his father to life in some sort; it was no longer the signboard of the wine-shop at Montfermeil, it was a resurrection;a tomb had yawned, a phantom had risen there. Marius heard his heart beating in his temples, he had the cannon of Waterloo in his ears, his bleeding father, vaguely depicted on that sinister panel terrified him, and it seemed to him that the misshapen spectre was gazing intently at him.　
When Thenardier had recovered his breath, he turned his bloodshot eyes on M. Leblanc, and said to him in a low, curt voice:--　
"What have you to say before we put the handcuffs on you?"
M. Leblanc held his peace.
In the midst of this silence, a cracked voice launched this lugubrious sarcasm from the corridor:--　
"If there's any wood to be split, I'm there!"
It was the man with the axe, who was growing merry.
At the same moment, an enormous, bristling, and clayey face made its appearance at the door, with a hideous laugh which exhibited not teeth, but fangs.
It was the face of the man with the butcher's axe.
"Why have you taken off your mask> 
Thenardier put the handkerchief into his own pocket.
"What! No pocket-book?" he demanded.
"No, nor watch," replied one of the "chimney-builders."
"Never mind," murmured the masked man who carried the big key,in the voice of a ventriloquist, "he's a tough old fellow."　
Thenardier went to the corner near the door, picked up a bundle of ropes and threw them at the men.　
"Tie him to the leg of the bed," said he.
And, catching sight of the old man who had been stretched across the room by the blow from M. Leblanc's fist, and who made no movement, he added:--
"Is Boulatruelle dead?"
"No," replied Bigrenaille, "he's drunk."篜t?He was half out when six robust fists seized him and dragged him back energetically into the hovel. These were the three "chimney-builders," who had flung themselves upon him.  At the same time the Thenardier woman had wound her hands in his hair.
At the trampling which ensued, the other ruffians rushed up from the corridor. The old man on the bed, who seemed under the influence of wine, descended from the pallet and came reeling up,with a stone-breaker's hammer in his hand.
One of the "chimney-builders," whose smirched face was lighted up by the candle, and in whom Marius recognized, in spite of his daubing, Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, lifted above M. Leblanc's head a sort of bludgeon made of two balls of lead, at the two ends of a bar of iron. 　
Marius could not resist this sight. "My father," he thought, "forgive me!"
And his finger sought the trigger of his pistol.
The shot was on the point of being discharged when Thenardier'svoice shouted:--
"Don't harm him!"
This desperate attempt of the victim, far from exasperating Thenardier,had calmed him. There existed in him two men, the ferocious man and the adroit man. Up to that moment, in the excess of his triumph in the presence of the prey which had been brought down, and which did not stir, the ferocious man had prevailed; when the victim struggled and tried to resist, the adroit man reappeared and took the upper hand.　
"Don't hurt him!" he repeated, and without suspecting it, his first success was to arrest the pistol in the act of being discharged, and to paralyze Marius, in whose opinion the urgency of the case disappeared, and who, in the face of this new phase, saw no inconvenience in waiting a while longer. 
Who knows whether some chance would not arise which would deliver him from the horrible alternative of allowing Ursule's father to perish, or of destroying the colonel's saviour?
A herculean struggle had begun. With one blow full in the chest, M. Leblanc had sent the old man tumbling, rolling in the middle of the room, then with two backward sweeps of his hand he had overthrown two more assailants, and he held one under each of his knees; the wretches were rattling in the throat beneath this pressure as under a granite millstone; but the other four had seized the formidable old man by both arms and the back of his neck, and were holding him doubled up over the two "chimney-builders" on the floor.
Thus, the master of some and mastered by the rest, crushing those beneath him and stifling under those on top of him, endeavoring in vain to shake off all the efforts which were heaped upon him, M. Leblanc disappeared under the horrible group of ruffians like the wild boar beneath a howling pile of dogs and hounds. 　
They succeeded in overthrowing him upon the bed nearest the window,and there they held him in awe. The Thenardier woman had not released her clutch on his hair.
"Don't you mix yourself up in this affair," said Thenardier. "You'll tear your shawl."
The Thenardier obeyed, as the female wolf obeys the male wolf,with a growl.
"Now," said Thenardier, "search him, you other fellows!" 
M. Leblanc seemed to have renounced the idea of resistance.
They searched him.
He had nothing on his person except a leather purse containing six francs, and his handkerchief.　
Thenardier put the handkerchief into his own pocket.
"What! No pocket-book?" he demanded.
"No, nor watch," replied one of the "chimney-builders."
"Never mind," murmured the masked man who carried the big key,in the voice of a ventriloquist, "he's a tough old fellow."　
Thenardier went to the corner near the door, picked up a bundle of ropes and threw them at the men.　
"Tie him to the leg of the bed," said he.
And, catching sight of the old man who had been stretched across the room by the blow from M. Leblanc's fist, and who made no movement, he added:--
"Is Boulatruelle dead?"
"No," replied Bigrenaille, "he's drunk."
"Sweep him into a corner," said Thenardier.
Two of the "chimney-builders" pushed the drunken man into the corner near the heap of old iron with their feet.　
"Babet," said Thenardier in a low tone to the man with the cudgel, "why did you bring so many; they were not needed."
"What can you do?" replied the man with the cudgel, "they all wanted to be in it. This is a bad season. There's no business going on." 　
The pallet on which M. Leblanc had been thrown was a sort of hospital bed, elevated on four coarse wooden legs, roughly hewn.　
M. Leblanc let them take their own course.
The ruffians bound him securely, in an upright attitude, with his feet on the ground at the head of the bed, the end which was most remote from the window, and nearest to the fireplace.
When the last knot had been tied, Thenardier took a chair and seated himself almost facing M. Leblanc.　
Thenardier no longer looked like himself; in the course of a few moments his face had passed from unbridled violence to tranquil and cunning sweetness.
Marius found it difficult to recognize in that polished smile of a man in official life the almost bestial mouth which had been foaming but a moment before; he gazed with amazement on that fantastic and alarming metamorphosis, and he felt as a man might feel who should behold a tiger converted into a lawyer.
"Monsieur--" said Thenardier.
And dismissing with a gesture the ruffians who still kept their hands on M. Leblanc:--
"Stand off a little, and let me have a talk with the gentleman." 　
All retired towards the door.　
He went on:--
"Monsieur, you did wrong to try to jump out of the window.   You might have broken your leg. Now, if you will permit me, we will converse quietly. In the first place, I must communicate to you an observation which I have made which is, that you have not uttered the faintest cry."
Thenardier was right, this detail was correct, although it had escaped Marius in his agitation. M. Leblanc had barely pronounced a few words, without raising his voice, and even during his struggle with the six ruffians near the window he had preserved the most profound and singular silence.
Thenardier continued:--
"Mon Dieu! You might have shouted `stop thief' a bit, and I should not have thought it improper. `Murder!' That, too, is said occasionally, and, so far as I am concerned, I should not have taken it in bad part. It is very natural that you should make a little row when you find yourself with persons who don't inspire you with sufficient confidence. You might have done that, and no one would have troubled you on that account. You would not even have been gagged. And I will tell you why. This room is very private. That's its only recommendation, but it has that in its favor. You might fire off a mortar and it would produce about as much noise at the nearest police station as the snores of a drunken man. Here a cannon would make a boum, and the thunder would make a pouf.It's a handy lodging. But, in short, you did not shout, and it is better so. I present you my compliments, and I will tell you the conclusion that I draw from that fact: My dear sir, when a man shouts, who comes? The police. And after the police? Justice. Well! You have not made an outcry; that is because you don't care to have the police and the courts come in any more than we do. It is because,--I have long suspected it,--you have some interest in hiding something. On our side we have the same interest.  So we can come to an understanding."
As he spoke thus, it seemed as though Thenardier, who kept his eyes fixed on M. Leblanc, were trying to plunge the sharp points which darted from the pupils into the very conscience of his prisoner. Moreover, his language, which was stamped with a sort of moderated,subdued insolence and crafty insolence, was reserved and almost choice,and in that rascal, who had been nothing but a robber a short time previously, one now felt "the man who had studied for the priesthood."
The silence preserved by the prisoner, that precaution which had been carried to the point of forgetting all anxiety for his own life, that resistance opposed to the first impulse of nature,which is to utter a cry, all this, it must be confessed,now that his attention had been called to it, troubled Marius,and affected him with painful astonishment.
Thenardier's well-grounded observation still further obscured for Marius the dense mystery which enveloped that grave and singular person on whom Courfeyrac had bestowed the sobriquet of Monsieur Leblanc.
But whoever he was, bound with ropes, surrounded with executioners, half plunged, so to speak, in a grave which was closing in upon him to the extent of a degree with every moment that passed, in the presence of Thenardier's wrath, as in the presence of his sweetness, this man remained impassive; and Marius could not refrain from admiring at such a moment the superbly melancholy visage.　
Here, evidently, was a soul which was inaccessible to terror, and which did not know the meaning of despair. Here was one of those men who command amazement in desperate circumstances. Extreme as was the crisis, inevitable as was the catastrophe,there was nothing here of the agony of the drowning man, who opens his horror-filled eyes under the water.
Thenardier rose in an unpretending manner, went to the fireplace, shoved aside the screen, which he leaned against the neighboring pallet, and thus unmasked the brazier full of glowing coals, in which the prisoner could plainly see the chisel white-hot and spotted here and there with tiny scarlet stars. 　
Then Thenardier returned to his seat beside M. Leblanc. 　
"I continue," said he. "We can come to an understanding.   Let us arrange this matter in an amicable way. I was wrong to lose my temper just now, I don't know what I was thinking of, I went a great deal too far, I said extravagant things. For example,because you are a millionnaire, I told you that I exacted money,a lot of money, a deal of money. That would not be reasonable.Mon Dieu, in spite of your riches, you have expenses of your own--who has not? I don't want to ruin you, I am not a greedy fellow,after all. I am not one of those people who, because they have the advantage of the position, profit by the fact to make themselves ridiculous. Why, I'm taking things into consideration and making a sacrifice on my side. I only want two hundred thousand francs."
M. Leblanc uttered not a word.
Thenardier went on:--
"You see that I put not a little water in my wine; I'm very moderate.  I don't know the state of your fortune, but I do know that you don't stick at money, and a benevolent man like yourself can certainly give two hundred thousand francs to the father of a family who is out of luck. Certainly, you are reasonable, too; you haven't imagined that I should take all the trouble I have to-day and organized this affair this evening, which has been labor well bestowed, in the opinion of these gentlemen, merely to wind up by asking you for enough to go and drink red wine at fifteen sous and eat veal at Desnoyer's. Two hundred thousand francs--it's surely worth all that. This trifle once out of your pocket, I guarantee you that that's the end of the matter, and that you have no further demands to fear. You will say to me: `But I haven't two hundred thousand francs about me.' Oh! I'm not extortionate. I don't demand that.  I only ask one thing of you. Have the goodness to write what I am about to dictate to you."
Here Thenardier paused; then he added, emphasizing his words,and casting a smile in the direction of the brazier:--　
"I warn you that I shall not admit that you don't know how to write."
A grand inquisitor might have envied that smile.
Thenardier pushed the table close to M. Leblanc, and took an inkstand, a pen, and a sheet of paper from the drawer which he left half open, and in which gleamed the long blade of the knife.　
He placed the sheet of paper before M. Leblanc.
"Write," said he.
The prisoner spoke at last.
"How do you expect me to write? I am bound."
"That's true, excuse me!" ejaculated Thenardier, "you are quite right."
And turning to Bigrenaille:--
"Untie the gentleman's right arm."
Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, executed Thenardier's order.
When the prisoner's right arm was free, Thenardier dipped the pen in the ink and presented it to him.　
"Understand thoroughly, sir, that you are in our power, at our discretion, that no human power can get you out of this, and that we shall be really grieved if we are forced to proceed to disagreeable extremities. I know neither your name, nor your address, but I warn you, that you will remain bound until the person charged with carrying the letter which you are about to write shall have returned. Now, be so good as to write."　
"What?" demanded the prisoner.
"I will dictate."
M. Leblanc took the pen.
Thenardier began to dictate:--
"My daughter--"
The prisoner shuddered, and raised his eyes to Thenardier.
"Put down `My dear daughter'--" said Thenardier.
M. Leblanc obeyed.
Thenardier continued:--
"Come instantly--"
He paused:--
"You address her as thou, do you not?"
"Who?" asked M. Leblanc.
"Parbleu!" cried Thenardier, "the little one, the Lark."
M. Leblanc replied without the slightest apparent emotion:--
"I do not know what you mean."
"Go on, nevertheless," ejaculated Thenardier, and he continued to dictate:--
"Come immediately, I am in absolute need of thee. The person who will deliver this note to thee is instructed to conduct thee to me.I am waiting for thee. Come with confidence."
M. Leblanc had written the whole of this.
Thenardier resumed:--
"Ah! erase `come with confidence'; that might lead her to suppose that everything was not as it should be, and that distrust is possible."
M. Leblanc erased the three words.
"Now," pursued Thenardier, "sign it. What's your name?"
The prisoner laid down the pen and demanded:--
"For whom is this letter?"
"You know well," retorted Thenardier, "for the little one I just told you so."
It was evident that Thenardier avoided naming the young girl  in question. He said "the Lark," he said "the little one," but he did not pronounce her name--the precaution of a clever man guarding his secret from his accomplices. To mention the name was to deliver the whole "affair" into their hands, and to tell them more about it than there was any need of their knowing.
He went on:-- 
"Sign. What is your name?"
"Urbain Fabre," said the prisoner.
Thenardier, with the movement of a cat, dashed his hand into his pocket and drew out the handkerchief which had been seized on M. Leblanc. He looked for the mark on it, and held it close to the candle.
"U. F. That's it. Urbain Fabre. Well, sign it U. F."
The prisoner signed.
"As two hands are required to fold the letter, give it to me, I will fold it."
That done, Thenardier resumed:--
"Address it, `Mademoiselle Fabre,' at your house. I know that you live a long distance from here, near Saint-Jacquesdu-Haut-Pas, because you go to mass there every day, but I don't know in what street. I see that you understand your situation. As you have not lied about your name, you will not lie about your address. Write it yourself." 　
The prisoner paused thoughtfully for a moment, then he took the pen and wrote:--
"Mademoiselle Fabre, at M. Urbain Fabre's, Rue Saint-Dominique-D'Enfer, No. 17."
Thenardier seized the letter with a sort of feverish convulsion.
"Wife!" he cried.
The Thenardier woman hastened to him.
"Here's the letter. You know what you have to do. There is a carriage at the door. Set out at once, and return ditto."
And addressing the man with the meat-axe:--
"Since you have taken off your nose-screen, accompany the mistress. You will get up behind the fiacre. You know where you left the team?"
"Yes," said the man.
And depositing his axe in a corner, he followed Madame Thenardier.
As they set off, Thenardier thrust his head through the half-open door, and shouted into the corridor:--　
"Above all things, don't lose the letter! remember that you carry two hundred thousand francs with you!"
The Thenardier's hoarse voice replied:--
"Be easy. I have it in my bosom."
A minute had not elapsed, when the sound of the cracking of a whip was heard, which rapidly retreated and died away.
"Good!" growled Thenardier. "They're going at a fine pace.  At such a gallop, the bourgeoise will be back inside three-quarters of an hour."
He drew a chair close to the fireplace, folding his arms, and presenting his muddy boots to the brazier.　
"My feet are cold!" said he.
Only five ruffians now remained in the den with Thenardier and the prisoner.
These men, through the black masks or paste which covered their faces, and made of them, at fear's pleasure, charcoal-burners, negroes, or demons, had a stupid and gloomy air, and it could be felt that they perpetrated a crime like a bit of work, tranquilly, without either wrath or mercy, witess, be out of reach with the young girl, and Marius reflected on Thenardier's words, of which he perceived the bloody significance: "If you have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the Lark."
Now, it was not alone by the colonel's testament, it was by his own love, it was by the peril of the one he loved, that he felt himself restrained.
This frightful situation, which had already lasted above half an hour, was changing its aspect every moment.　
Marius had sufficient strength of mind to review in succession all the most heart-breaking conjectures, seeking hope and finding none. 　
Who was this "little one" whom Thenardier had called the Lark?  Was she his "Ursule"? The prisoner had not seemed to be affected by that word, "the Lark," and had replied in the most natural manner in the world: "I do not know what you mean." On the other hand, the two letters U. F. were explained; they meant Urbain Fabre; and Ursule was no longer named Ursule. This was what Marius perceived most clearly of all.
A sort of horrible fascination held him nailed to his post, from which he was observing and commanding this whole scene. There he stood, almost incapable of movement or reflection, as though annihilated by the abominable things viewed at such close quarters.  He waited, in the hope of some incident, no matter of what nature, since he could not collect his thoughts and did not know upon what course to decide.
"In any case," he said, "if she is the Lark, I shall see her, for the Thenardier woman is to bring her hither. That will be the end, and then I will give my life and my blood if necessary,but I will deliver her! Nothing shall stop me."
Nearly half an hour passed in this manner. Thenardier seemed to be absorbed in gloomy reflections, the prisoner did not stir. Still, Marius fancied that at intervals, and for the last few moments, he had heard a faint, dull noise in the direction of the prisoner.
All at once, Thenardier addressed the prisoner:
"By the way, Monsieur Fabre, I might as well say it to you at once."
These few words appeared to be the beginning of an explanation.   Marius strained his ears.
"My wife will be back shortly, don't get impatient. I think that the Lark really is your daughter, and it seems to me quite natural that you should keep her. Only, listen to me a bit. My wife will go and hunt her up with your letter. I told my wife to dress herself in the way she did, so that your young lady might make no difficulty about following her. They will both enter the carriage with my comrade behind. Somewhere, outside the barrier, there is a trap harnessed to two very good horses. Your young lady will be taken to it. She will alight from the fiacre. My comrade will enter the other vehicle with her, and my wife will come back here to tell us:  `It's done.' As for the young lady, no harm will be done to her; the trap will conduct her to a place where she will be quiet, and just as soon as you have handed over to me those little two hundred thousand francs, she will be returned to you. If you have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the Lark, that's all."
The prisoner uttered not a syllable. After a pause, Thenardier continued:--
"It's very simple, as you see. There'll be no harm done unless you wish that there should be harm done. I'm telling you how things stand. I warn you so that you may be prepared."
He paused: the prisoner did not break the silence, and Thenardier resumed:--
"As soon as my wife returns and says to me: `The Lark is on the way,' we will release you, and you will be free to go and sleep at home. You see that our intentions are not evil."
Terrible images passed through Marius' mind. What! That young girl whom they were abducting was not to be brought back? One of those monsters was to bear her off into the darkness?  Whither? And what if it were she!　
It was clear that it was she. Marius felt his heart stop beating.
What was he to do? Discharge the pistol? Place all those scoundrels in the hands of justice? But the horrible man with the meat-axe would, none the less, be out of reach with the young girl, and Marius reflected on Thenardier's words, of which he perceived the bloody significance: "If you have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the Lark."
Now, it was not alone by the colonel's testament, it was by his own love, it was by the peril of the one he loved, that he felt himself restrained.
This frightful situation, which had already lasted above half an hour, was changing its aspect every moment.　
Marius had sufficient strength of mind to review in succession all the most heart-breaking conjectures, seeking hope and finding none. 　
The tumult of his thoughts contrasted with the funereal silence of the den.
In the midst of this silence, the door at the bottom of the staircase was heard to open and shut again.　
The prisoner made a movement in his bonds.
"Here's the bourgeoise," said Thenardier.
He had hardly uttered the words, when the Thenardier woman did in fact rush hastily into the room, red, panting, breathless, with flaming eyes, and cried, as she smote her huge hands on her thighs simultaneously:--　
"False address!"
The ruffian who had gone with her made his appearance behind her and picked up his axe again.
She resumed:--
"Nobody there! Rue Saint-Dominique, No. 17, no Monsieur Urbain Fabre!  They know not what it means!"　
She paused, choking, then went on:--
"Monsieur Thenardier! That old fellow has duped you! You are too good, you see! If it had been me, I'd have chopped the beast in four quarters to begin with! And if he had acted ugly, I'd have boiled him alive! He would have been obliged to speak, and say where the girl is, and where he keeps his shiners! That's the way I should have managed matters! People are perfectly right when they say that men are a deal stupider than women! Nobody at No. 17.  It's nothing but a big carriage gate! No Monsieur Fabre in the Rue Saint-Dominique! And after all that racing and fee to the coachman and all! I spoke to both the porter and the portress, a fine, stout woman, and they know nothing about him!" 　
Marius breathed freely once more.　
She, Ursule or the Lark, he no longer knew what to call her, was safe.
While his exasperated wife vociferated, Thenardier had seated himself on the table.
For several minutes he uttered not a word, but swung his right foot, which hung down, and stared at the brazier with an air of savage revery.　
Finally, he said to the prisoner, with a slow and singularly ferocious tone:
"A false address? What did you expect to gain by that?"
"To gain time!" cried the prisoner in a thundering voice,and at the same instant he shook off his bonds; they were cut. The prisoner was only attached to the bed now by one leg.
Before the seven men had time to collect their senses and dash forward, he had bent down into the fireplace, had stretched out his hand to the brazier, and had then straightened himself up again, and now Thenardier, the female Thenardier, and the ruffians, huddled in amazement at the extremity of the hovel, stared at him in stupefaction, as almost free and in a formidable attitude, he brandished above his head the red-hot chisel, which emitted a threatening glow.
The judicial examination to which the ambush in the Gorbeau house eventually gave rise, established the fact that a large sou piece, cut and worked in a peculiar fashion, was found in the garret, when the police made their descent on it. This sou piece was one of those marvels of industry, which are engendered by the patience of the galleys in the shadows and for the shadows, marvels which are nothing else than instruments of escape.  These hideous and delicate products of wonderful art are to jewellers' work what the metaphors of slang are to poetry. There are Benvenuto Cellinis in the galleys, just as there are Villons in language.  The unhappy wretch who aspires to deliverance finds means sometimes without tools, sometimes with a common wooden-handled knife, to saw a sou into two thin plates, to hollow out these plates without affecting the coinage stamp, and to make a furrow on the edge of the sou in such a manner that the plates will adhere again. This can be screwed together and unscrewed at will; it is a box.   In this box he hides a watch-spring, and this watch-spring, properly handled, cuts good-sized chains and bars of iron. The unfortunate convict is supposed to possess merely a sou; not at all,he possesses liberty. It was a large sou of this sort which, during the subsequent search of the police, was found under the bed near the window. They also found a tiny saw of blue steel which would fit the sou.
It is probable that the prisoner had this sou piece on his person at the moment when the ruffians searched him, that he contrived to conceal it in his hand, and that afterward, having his right hand free, he unscrewed it, and used it as a saw to cut the cords which fastened him, which would explain the faint noise and almost imperceptible movements which Marius had observed. 　
As he had not been able to bend down, for fear of betraying himself, he had not cut the bonds of his left leg.　
The ruffians had recovered from their first surprise. 　
"Be easy," said Bigrenaille to Thenardier. "He still holds by one leg, and he can't get away. I'll answer for that. I tied that paw for him."
In the meanwhile, the prisoner had begun to speak:--
"You are wretches, but my life is not worth the trouble of defending it. When you think that you can make me speak, that you can make me write what I do not choose to write, that you can make me say what I do not choose to say--"　
He stripped up his left sleeve, and added:--
"See here."　
At the same moment he extended his arm, and laid the glowing chisel which he held in his left hand by its wooden handle on his bare flesh.　
The crackling of the burning flesh became audible, and the odor peculiar to chambers of torture filled the hovel.　
Marius reeled in utter horror, the very ruffians shuddered, hardly a muscle of the old man's face contracted, and while the red-hot iron sank into the smoking wound, impassive and almost august, he fixed on Thenardier his beautiful glance, in which there was no hatred, and where suffering vanished in serene majesty. 　
With grand and lofty natures, the revolts of the flesh and the senses when subjected to physical suffering cause the soul to spring forth, and make it appear on the brow, just as rebellions among the soldiery force the captain to show himself.
"Wretches!" said he, "have no more fear of me than I have for you!"
And, tearing the chisel from the wound, he hurled it through the window, which had been left open; the horrible, glowing tool disappeared  into the night, whirling as it flew, and fell far away on the snow.　
The prisoner resumed:--
"Do what you please with me." He was disarmed.
"Seize him!" said Thenardier.
Two of the ruffians laid their hands on his shoulder, and the masked man with the ventriloquist's voice took up his station in front of him, ready to smash his skull at the slightest movement.　
At the same time, Marius heard below him, at the base of the partition, but so near that he could not see who was speaking, this colloquy conducted in a low tone:--
"There is only one thing left to do."
"Cut his throat."
"That's it."
It was the husband and wife taking counsel together.
Thenardier walked slowly towards the table, opened the drawer, and took out the knife. Marius fretted with the handle of his pistol. Unprecedented perplexity! For the last hour he had had two voices in his conscience, the one enjoining him to respect his father's testament, the other crying to him to rescue the prisoner. These two voices continued uninterruptedly that struggle which tormented him to agony. Up to that moment he had cherished a vague hope that he should find some means of reconciling these two duties, but nothing within the limits of possibility had presented itself.
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3猃I篺lash, crossed Marius' mind; this was the expedient of which he was in search, the solution of that frightful problem which was torturing him, of sparing the assassin and saving the victim.
He knelt down on his commode, stretched out his arm, seized the sheet of paper, softly detached a bit of plaster from the wall, wrapped the paper round it, and tossed the whole through the crevice into the middle of the den.
It was high time. Thenardier had conquered his last fears or his last scruples, and was advancing on the prisoner.　
"Something is falling!" cried the Thenardier woman.
"What is it?" asked her husband.
The woman darted forward and picked up the bit of plaster.  She handed it to her husband.
"Where did this come from?" demanded Thenardier.
"Pardie!" ejaculated his wife, "where do you suppose it came from?  Through the window, of course."　
"I saw it pass," said Bigrenaille.
Thenardier rapidly unfolded the paper and held it close to the candle.
"It's in Eponine's handwriting. The devil!"
He made a sign to his wife, who hastily drew near, and showed her the line written on the sheet of paper, then he added in a subdued voice:--
"Quick! The ladder! Let's leave the bacon in the mousetrap and decamp!"
"Without cutting that man's throat?" asked, the Thenardier woman.
"We haven't the time."
"Through what?" resumed Bigrenaille.
"Through the window," replied Thenardier. "Since Ponine has thrown the stone through the window, it indicates that the house is not watched on that side."
The mask with the ventriloquist's voice deposited his huge key on the floor, raised both arms in the air, and opened and clenched his fists, three times rapidly without uttering a word.
This was the signal like the signal for clearing the decks for action on board ship.
The ruffians who were holding the prisoner released him; in the twinkling of an eye the rope ladder was unrolled outside the window, and solidly fastened to the sill by the two iron hooks.
The prisoner paid no attention to what was going on around him.   He seemed to be dreaming or praying.
As soon as the ladder was arranged, Thenardier cried:
"Come! the bourgeoise first!"
And he rushed headlong to the window.
But just as he was about to throw his leg over, Bigrenaille seized him roughly by the collar.
"Not much, come now, you old dog, after us!"
"After us!" yelled the ruffians.
"You are children," said Thenardier, "we are losing time.   
The police are on our heels."　
"Well, said the ruffians, "let's draw lots to see who shall go down first."
Thenardier exclaimed:--
"Are you mad! Are you crazy! What a pack of boobies! You want to waste time, do you? Draw lots, do you? By a wet finger, by a short straw! With written names! Thrown into a hat!--"
"Would you like my hat?" cried a voice on the threshold.
All wheeled round. It was Javert.
He had his hat in his hand, and was holding it out to them with  a smile.
穷窟的门突然开了，出现三个男子，身上穿着蓝布衫，脸上戴着黑纸面具。第一个是个瘦子，拿着一根裹了铁的粗木棒。第二个是一种彪形大汉，倒提着一把宰牛的板斧，手捏在斧柄的中段。第三个，肩膀宽阔，不象第一个那么瘦，不象第二个那么壮，把一把从监狱门上偷来的奇大的钥匙紧捏在拳头里。
容德雷特等待的大概就是这几个人的到来。他急忙和那拿粗木棒的瘦子问答了几句话。
“全准备好了？”容德雷特问。
“全准备好了。”那瘦子回答。
“巴纳斯山呢？”
“小伙子在和你的闺女谈话。”
“哪一个？”
“老大。”
“马车在下面了？”
“在下面了。”
“那栏杆车也套上了牲口？”
“套好了。”
“是两匹好马吧？”
“最好的两匹。”
“在我指定的地方等着吗？”
“是的。”
“好。”容德雷特说。
白先生脸色苍白。他好象已意识到自己的处境，切实注意着那屋子里在他四周的一切，他的头在颈子上慢慢转动，以谨慎惊讶的神情，注视着那些围绕他的每一个脑袋，但是绝没有一点畏怯的样子。他把那张桌子当作自己的临时防御工事，这人，刚才还只是个平易近人的好老头，却一下子变成了一个赳赳武夫，把两只粗壮的拳头放在他那椅背头上，形态威猛惊人。
这老者，在这样一种危险关头，还那么坚定，那么勇敢，想必是出于那种因心善而胆益壮，临危坦然无所惧的性格。我们绝不会把衷心爱慕的女子的父亲当作路人。马吕斯觉得自己在为这个相见不相识的人感到骄傲。
那三个光着胳膊、被容德雷特称为“通烟囱的”的人，从那废铁堆里，一个拣起了一把剪铁皮用的大剪刀，一个拣了一根平头短撬棍，另一个拣了个铁锤，全一声不响地拦在房门口。老的那个仍旧待在床上，只睁了一下眼睛。容德雷特大娘坐在他旁边。
马吕斯认为只差几秒钟便是应当行动的时候了，他举起右手，朝过道的一面，斜指着天花板，准备随时开枪。
容德雷特和拿粗木棒的人密谈过后，又转向白先生，带着他特有的那种低沉、含蓄、可怕的笑声，再次提出他的问题：
“难道你不认得我吗？”
白先生直对着他的脸回答：
“不认得。”
于是容德雷特一步跨到桌子边。身躯向前凑到蜡烛的上面，叉着手臂，把他那骨角外凸、凶形恶状的下巴伸向白先生的脸，尽量逼近，正象一头张牙待咬的猛兽，白先生却泰然自若，纹丝不退。他在这种姿势中大声吼道：
“我并不叫法邦杜，也不叫容德雷特，我叫德纳第！我就是孟费郿的那个客店老板！你听清楚了吧？德纳第！你现在认得我了吧？”
白先生的额上起了一阵不显著的红潮，他以一贯的镇静态度，声音既不高，也不抖，回答说：
“我还是不认得。”
马吕斯没有听到这回答。谁要是在这时在黑影中看见了他，就能见到他是多么惶惑、呆傻、惊慌。当容德雷特说着“我叫德纳第”时，马吕斯的四肢一下全抖了起来，他连忙靠在墙上，仿佛感到有一把利剑冷冰冰地刺穿了他的心。接着，他的右臂，原要开枪告警的，也慢慢垂了下来，当容德雷特重复着说“你听清楚了吧？德纳第！”时，他那五个瘫软了的手指几乎让手枪落了下来。容德雷特在揭露自己时，没有惊扰白先生，却把马吕斯搞得六神无主。德纳第这名字，白先生似乎不知道，马吕斯却知道。让我们回忆一下，这名字对他意味着什么！这名字，是他铭篆在心的，是写了在他父亲的遗嘱上的！这名字，是印在他思想的深处，记忆的深处，载在那神圣的遗训中的：“一个叫德纳第的人救了我的命。我儿遇见他，望尽力报答他。”这名字，我们记得，是他灵魂所倾倒的对象之一，是和他父亲的名字并列在一起来崇拜的。怎么！在眼前的便是德纳第，在眼前的便是他这么多年来寻求不着的那位孟费郿的客店老板！他到底遇见他了，可真是无奇不有！他父亲的救命恩人竟会是一个匪徒！他，马吕斯，一心希望舍命报答的这个人竟会是一个魔怪！搭救彭眉胥上校的那位义士竟在干着犯罪的勾当，马吕斯虽然还闹不清楚他打算干的究竟是什么，但却已具有谋财害命的迹象了！况且是谁的命呵，伟大的上帝！这遭遇太险恶了！命运也未免太作弄人了！他父亲从棺材中命令他尽力报答德纳第，四年来，马吕斯唯一的思想便是要为他父亲了清这笔债，可是，正当他要用法律的力量逮捕一个行凶匪徒的时候，命运却向他吼道：“这是德纳第！”在壮烈的滑铁卢战场上他父亲的生命，被人从弹雨中救出来，他正可以对这人偿愿报恩了，却又报以断头台！他私自许下的心愿是，一旦找到了这位德纳第，他一定要在相见时拜倒在他的膝前，现在他果然找到了，但又把他交给刽子手！他父亲对他说：“救德纳第！”而他以消灭德纳第的行动来回答自己所爱慕的这一神圣的声音！他父亲把冒着生命危险把他从死亡中拯救出来的这个人托付给他马吕斯，现在却要他父亲从坟墓中望着这人在他儿子的告发下被押到圣雅克广场上去受极刑！多少年来，他一直把他父亲亲笔写下的最后愿望牢记在心，却又背弃遗训，反其道而行之，这将是多么荒唐可笑！但是，在另一方面，眼见这场谋害而不加以制止！怎么！坐视受害人受害并听凭杀人犯杀人！对这样一个恶棍，难道能因私恩而缩手？马吕斯四年来所有的种种思想全被这一意外搅乱了。他浑身战栗。一切都取决于他。他一手掌握着这些在他眼下纷纷扰扰的人，虽然他们全不知道。假使他开枪，白先生能得救，德纳第却完了；假使他不开枪，白先生便遭殃，并且，谁知道？德纳第逃了。镇压这一个，或是让那一个去牺牲！他都问心有愧。怎么办？怎么选择？背弃自己素来引以自豪的种种回忆，背弃自己在心灵深处私自许下的种种诺言，背弃最神圣的天职，最庄严的遗言！背弃他父亲的遗嘱，要不就纵容罪行，让它成功！他仿佛一方面听见“他的玉秀儿”在为她的父亲向他央求，一方面又听见那上校在叫他照顾德纳第。他觉得自己疯了。他的两个膝头只往下沉。他甚至没有充分时间来仔细思考，因为他眼前的事态正在疯狂地向前演变。那好象是一阵狂澜，他自以为居于操纵着它的地位，其实已处于被动。他几乎昏了过去。
德纳第棗我们以后不再用旁的名字称呼他了棗这时却在桌子前面踱来踱去，既茫然不知如何是好，又得意到发狂。
他一把抓起烛台，砰的一下把它放在壁炉上，他用力是那么猛，使烛芯几乎熄灭，烛油也飞溅到了墙上。
接着，他转向白先生，龇牙咧嘴地狂叫着：
“火烧的！烟熏的！千刀万剐的！抽筋去骨的！”
跟着他又来回走动起来，暴跳如雷地吼道：
“啊！我到底找着你了，慈善家先生，穿破烂的百万富翁！送泥娃娃的大好佬！装蒜的傻老头！啊！你不认得我！当然不会认得我！八年前，一八二三年的圣诞前夕来到孟费郿，到我那客店里来的不是你！从我家里把芳汀的孩子百灵鸟拐走的不是你！穿一件黄大氅的不是你！不是！手里还提一大包破衣烂衫，就和今早来到我这里一样！喂，我的妻！这个老施主，他走人家，手里不拿几包毛线袜，好象就不过意似的！百万富翁先生，敢情你是衣帽店老板！你专爱把你店里的底货拿来送给穷人，你这圣人！你的把戏算耍得好！啊！你不认得我？可我，我认得你！你这牛头一钻进这地方，我便立刻把你认出来了。啊！你现在总学到了乖了吧，象那样随随便便跑到别人家里去，借口是住客店，穿上旧衣服，装穷酸相，一个苏也肯要的样子，欺瞒人家，摆阔气，骗取人家的摇钱树，还要在树林里进行威吓，不许人家带回去，等到人家穷下来了，便送上一件大得不成样子的外套和两条医院用的蹩脚毯子，老光棍，拐带孩子的老贼，你现在总学到乖了吧，你的这一套不一定耍得成！”
他停下了。好象是在对自己说着什么。他的那股厉气平息下去了，有如大河的巨浪泻进了落水洞，随后，好象是要大声结束他刚才低声开始的那段对自己说的话，他一拳捶在桌上吼道：
“还带着他那种老好人的样子！”
他又指着白先生说：
“说正经的！你当初开过我的玩笑。你是我的一切苦难的根子！你花一千五百法郎把我的一个姑娘带走了，这姑娘肯定是什么有钱人家的，她已替我赚过许多钱，我本应好好靠她过一辈子的！在我那倒霉的客马店里，别人吃喝玩乐，可我，象个傻子，把我的一切家当全赔进去了，我原要从那姑娘身上全部捞回来的！呵！我恨不得那些人在我店里喝下去的酒全都是毒药！这些都不用提了！你说说！你把那百灵鸟带走的时候，你一定觉得我是个傻瓜蛋吧！在那树林里，你捏着一根哭丧棍！你比我狠。一报还一报。今日却是我捏着王牌了！你玩完了，我的好老头！啊呀，我要笑个痛快。说真话，我要笑个痛快！这下子他可落在圈套里了！我对他说，我当过戏剧演员，我叫法邦杜，我和马尔斯小姐、缪什小姐演过喜剧，明天，二月四号，我的房东要收房租，可他一点也没看出来，限期是二月八号，并不是二月四号！傻透了的蠢材！他还带来这四个可怜巴巴的菲力浦①！坏种！他连一百法郎也舍不得凑足！再说，我的那些恭维话说得他心里好舒服哟！真有意思。我心里在想：‘冤桶！这下子，我逮住你了！今天早晨我舔了你的爪子，今天晚上，我可要啃你的心了！’” 
①菲力浦，就是值二十法郎的路易。
德纳第停了下来。他的气喘不过来了。他那狭窄的胸膛，象个熔炉上的风箱，不断起伏。他的眼睛充满了那种下贱的喜色，也就是一个无能、不义、凶残成性的人在有机会践踏和侮辱他所畏惧过、谄媚过的对象时具有的那种喜色，一个能把脚跟踩在巨人头上的侏儒的欢乐，一只豺狗在开始撕裂一头病到已不能自卫、却还有知觉感受痛苦的雄牛时的欢乐。
白先生不曾打断过他的话，只是在他住嘴时，才向他说：
“我不知道您要说的是什么。您弄错了。我是一个很穷的人，远不是个百万富翁。我不认得您。您把我当作另一个人了。”
“啊！”德纳
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 21 One should always begin by arresting the Victims
At nightfall, Javert had posted his men and had gone into ambush himself between the trees of the Rue de la Barrieredes-Gobelins which faced the Gorbeau house, on the other side of the boulevard. He had begun operations by opening "his pockets," and dropping into it the two young girls who were charged with keeping a watch on the approaches to the den. But he had only "caged" Azelma. As for Eponine, she was not at her post, she had disappeared,and he had not been able to seize her. Then Javert had made a point and had bent his ear to waiting for the signal agreed upon.The comings and goings of the fiacres had greatly agitated him. At last, he had grown impatient, and, sure that there was a nest there,sure of being in "luck," having recognized many of the ruffians who had entered, he had finally decided to go upstairs without waiting for the pistol-shot.
It will be remembered that he had Marius' pass-key.
He had arrived just in the nick of time.
The terrified ruffians flung themselves on the arms which they had abandoned in all the corners at the moment of flight. In less than a second, these seven men, horrible to behold, had grouped themselves in an attitude of defence, one with his meat-axe, another with his key, another with his bludgeon, the rest with shears, pincers, and hammers. Thenardier had his knife in his fist. The Thenardier woman snatched up an enormous paving-stone which lay in the angle of the window and served her daughters as an ottoman.　
Javert put on his hat again, and advanced a couple of paces into the room, with arms folded, his cane under one arm, his sword in its sheath.
"Halt there," said he. "You shall not go out by the window, you shall go through the door. It's less unhealthy. There are seven of you, there are fifteen of us. Don't let's fall to collaring each other like men of Auvergne."
Bigrenaille drew out a pistol which he had kept concealed under his blouse, and put it in Thenardier's hand, whispering in the latter's ear:--　
"It's Javert. I don't dare fire at that man. Do you dare?"
"Parbleu!" replied Thenardier.
"Well, then, fire."
Thenardier took the pistol and aimed at Javert.
Javert, who was only three paces from him, stared intently at him and contented himself with saying:--
"Come now, don't fire. You'll miss fire."
Thenardier pulled the trigger. The pistol missed fire.
"Didn't I tell you so!" ejaculated Javert.
Bigrenaille flung his bludgeon at Javert's feet.
"You're the emperor of the fiends! I surrender."
"And you?" Javert asked the rest of the ruffians.
They replied:--
"So do we."
Javert began again calmly:--
"That's right, that's good, I said so, you are nice fellows.
"I only ask one thing," said Bigrenaille, "and that is, that I may not be denied tobacco while I am in confinement."　
"Granted," said Javert. 　
And turning round and calling behind him:-- 　
"Come in now!"　
A squad of policemen, sword in hand, and agents armed with bludgeons and cudgels, rushed in at Javert's summons. They pinioned the ruffians. 　
This throng of men, sparely lighted by the single candle, filled the den with shadows.
"Handcuff them all!" shouted Javert. 　
"Come on!" cried a voice which was not the voice of a man, but of which no one would ever have said: "It is a woman's voice." 　
The Thenardier woman had entrenched herself in one of the angles of the window, and it was she who had just given vent to this roar.
The policemen and agents recoiled.　
She had thrown off her shawl. but retained her bonnet; her husband, who was crouching behind her, was almost hidden under the discarded shawl, and she was shielding him with her body, as she elevated the paving-stone above her head with the gesture of a giantess on the point of hurling a rock.　
"Beware!" she shouted.
All crowded back towards the corridor. A broad open space was cleared in the middle of the garret.
The Thenardier woman cast a glance at the ruffians who had allowed themselves to be pinioned, and muttered in hoarse and guttural accents:--　
"The cowards!"
Javert smiled, and advanced across the open space which the Thenardier was devouring with her eyes.
"Don't come near me," she cried, "or I'll crush you."
"What a grenadier!" ejaculated Javert; "you've got a beard like a man, mother, but I have claws like a woman."　
And he continued to advance.
The Thenardier, dishevelled and terrible, set her feet far apart, threw herself backwards, and hurled the paving-stone at Javert's head. Javert ducked, the stone passed over him, struck the wall behind,knocked off a huge piece of plastering, and, rebounding from angle to angle across the hovel, now luckily almost empty, rested at Javert's feet.
At the same moment, Javert reached the Thenardier couple.  One of his big hands descended on the woman's shoulder; the other on the husband's head.
"The handcuffs!" he shouted.
The policemen trooped in in force, and in a few seconds Javert's order had been executed.
The Thenardier female, overwhelmed, stared at her pinioned hands, and at those of her husband, who had dropped to the floor, and exclaimed, weeping:--
"My daughters!"
"They are in the jug," said Javert.
In the meanwhile, the agents had caught sight of the drunken man asleep behind the door, and were shaking him:--　
He awoke, stammering:--
"Is it all over, Jondrette?"
"Yes," replied Javert.
The six pinioned ruffians were standing, and still preserved their spectral mien; all three besmeared with black, all three masked. 　
"Keep on your masks," said Javert.　
And passing them in review with a glance of a Frederick II.  at a Potsdam parade, he said to the three "chimney-builders":--　
"Good day, Bigrenaille! good day, Brujon! good day, Deuxmilliards!"
Then turning to the three masked men, he said to the man with the meat-axe:--
"Good day, Gueulemer!"
And to the man with the cudgel:--
"Good day, Babet!"
And to the ventriloquist:--
"Your health, Claquesous."
At that moment, he caught sight of the ruffians' prisoner. who, ever since the entrance of the police, had not uttered a word, and had held his head down.
"Untie the gentleman!" said Javert, "and let no one go out!" 　
That said, he seated himself with sovereign dignity before the table, where the candle and the writing-materials still remained, drew a stamped paper from his pocket, and began to prepare his report. 
When he had written the first lines, which are formulas that never vary, he raised his eyes:--
"Let the gentleman whom these gentlemen bound step forward."　
The policemen glanced round them.
"Well," said Javert, "where is he?"　
The prisoner of the ruffians, M. Leblanc, M. Urbain Fabre,the father of Ursule or the Lark, had disappeared.
The door was guarded, but the window was not. As soon as he had found himself released from his bonds, and while Javert was drawing up his report, he had taken advantage of confusion, the crowd, the darkness, and of a moment when the general attention was diverted from him, to dash out of the window. 　
An agent sprang to the opening and looked out. He saw no one outside. 　
The rope ladder was still shaking.　
"The devil!" ejaculated Javert between his teeth, "he must have been the most valuable of the lot."　
傍晚，沙威便已把人手布置好了，他自己躲在戈尔博老屋门前大路对面的那条哥白兰便门街的树后面。他一上来便“敞开了口袋”，要把那两个在穷窟附近把风的姑娘装进去。但他只“筐”住了阿兹玛。至于爱潘妮，她不在她的岗位上，她开了小差，因此他没有能逮住她。沙威随即埋伏下来，竖着耳朵等候那约定的信号。那辆马车的忽来忽往早已使他心烦意乱。到后来，他耐不住了，并且，看准了那里面有一个“窠”，看准了那里面有一笔“好买卖”，也认清了走进去的某些匪徒的面孔，他决定不再等待枪声，径直上楼去了。
我们记得他拿着马吕斯的那把路路通钥匙。
他到得正是时候。
那些吓慌了的匪徒全又把先头准备逃跑时扔在屋角里的凶器捡起来。不到一秒钟，七个人都龇牙咧嘴地相互靠在一起，摆出了抗拒的阵势，一个拿着他的棍棒，一个拿着他的钥匙，一个拿着他的板斧，其余的拿着凿子、钳子和锤子，德纳第捏着他的尖刀。德纳第大娘从窗旁的屋角里拿起她女儿平日当凳子坐的一块奇大的石磴抱在手里。
沙威戴上帽子，朝屋里走了两步，叉着胳膊，腋下夹根棍子，剑在鞘中。
“不许动！”他说。“你们不用打窗口出去，从房门走。这样安全些。你们是七个，我们是十五个。你们不用拼老命，大家客客气气才好。”
比格纳耶从布衫下抽出一支手枪，放在德纳第手里，对着他的耳朵说：
“他是沙威。我不敢对他开枪。你敢吗，你？”
“有什么不敢！”德纳第回答。
“那么，你开。”
德纳第接过手枪，指着沙威。
沙威离他才三步，定定地望着他，没有把他放在眼里，只说：
“还是不开枪的好，我说！你瞄不准的。”
德纳第扳动枪机。没有射中。
“我早已说过了！”沙威说。
比格纳耶把手里的大头棒丢在沙威的脚前。
“您是魔鬼的皇帝！我投降。”
“你们呢？”沙威问其余的匪徒。
他们回答说：
“我们也投降。”
沙威冷静地说：
“对了，这样才好，我早说过，大家应当客客气气。”
“我只要求一件事，”比格纳耶接着说，“在牢里，一定要给我烟抽。”
“一定做到。”沙威回答。
他回过头来向后面喊道：
“现在你们进来。”
一个排的持剑的宪兵和拿着大头捧、短棍的警察，听到沙威喊，一齐涌进来了。他们把那些匪徒全绑了起来。这一大群人，在那微弱的烛光照映下，把那兽穴黑压压地挤得水泄不通。
“把他们全铐起来！”沙威喊着说。
“你们敢动我！”有个人吼着说，那声音不象是男人的，但谁也不能说是女人的声音。
德纳第大娘守在靠窗口的一个屋角里，刚才的吼声正是她发出的。
宪兵和警察都往后退。
她已丢掉了围巾，却还戴着帽子，她的丈夫，蹲在她后面，几乎被那掉下来的围巾盖住了，她用自己的身体遮着他，两手把石磴举过头顶，狠巴巴象个准备抛掷岩石的女山魈。
“小心！”她吼道。
人人都向过道里退去。破屋子的中间顿时空了一大片。
德纳第大娘向束手就缚的匪徒们望了一眼，用她那沙哑的嗓子咒骂道：
“全是胆小鬼。”
沙威笑眯眯地走到那空处，德纳第大娘睁圆双眼盯着他。
“不要过来，滚开些，”她喊道，“要不我就砸扁你。”
“好一个榴弹兵！”沙威说，“老妈妈！你有男人的胡子，我可有女人的爪子。”
他继续朝前走。
蓬头散发、杀气腾腾的德纳第大娘叉开两腿，身体向后仰，使出全身力气把石磴对准沙威的脑袋抛去。沙威一弯腰，石磴打他头顶上过去了，碰在对面墙上，砸下了一大块石灰，继又弹回来，从一个屋角滚到另一屋角，幸而屋里几乎全是空的，最后在沙威的脚跟前不动了。
这时沙威已走到德纳第夫妇面前。他那双宽大的手，一只抓住了妇人的肩膀，一只贴在她丈夫的头皮上。
“手铐拿来。”他喊着说。
那些警探又涌进来　几秒钟过后，沙威的命令便执行好了。
德纳第大娘完全泄了气，望着自己和她丈夫的手全被铐住了，便倒在地上，嚎啕大哭，嘴里喊着：
“我的闺女！”
“都已看管好了。”沙威说。
这时警察去料理睡在门背后的那个醉汉，使劲摇他。他醒来了，迷迷糊糊地问道：
“完事了吧，容德雷特？”
“完了。”沙威回答说。
接着，他以弗雷德里克二世在波茨坦检阅部队的神气，挨个儿对那三个“通烟囱的”说：
“您好，比格纳耶。您好，普吕戎。您好，二十亿。”
继又转向那三个面罩，对拿板斧的人说：
“您好，海嘴。”
对拿粗木棒的人说：
“您好，巴伯。”
又对着用肚子说话的人：
“敬礼，铁牙。”
这时，他发现了被匪徒俘虏的人，自从警察进来以后，还没有说过一句话，他老低着头。
“替这位先生解开绳子！”沙威说，“谁也不许出去。”
说过后，他大模大样地坐在桌子跟前，桌上还摆着烛台和写字用具，他从衣袋里抽出一张公文纸，开始写他的报告。
当他写完最初几行套语以后，他抬起眼睛说：
“把刚才被这些先生们捆住的那位先生带上来。”
警察们朝四面望。
“怎么了，”沙威问道，“他在哪儿？”
匪徒们的俘虏，白先生，玉尔邦·法白尔先生，玉秀儿或百灵鸟的父亲，不见了。
门是有人守着的，窗子却没人守着。他看见自己已经松了绑，当沙威正在写报告时，他便利用大家还在哄乱，喧哗，你推我挤，烛光昏暗，人们的注意力都不在他身上的一刹那间，跳出窗口了。
一个警察跑到窗口去望。外面也不见人。
那软梯却还在颤动。
“见鬼！”沙威咬牙切齿地说，“也许这正是最肥的一个！”
Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 22 The Little One who was crying in Volume Two
On the day following that on which these events took place in the house on the Boulevard de l'Hopital, a child, who seemed to be coming from the direction of the bridge of Austerlitz, was ascending the side-alley on the right in the direction of the Barriere de Fontainebleau.　
Night had fully come.
This lad was pale, thin, clad in rags, with linen trousers in the month of February, and was singing at the top of his voice.
At the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier, a bent old woman was rummaging in a heap of refuse by the light of a street lantern; the child jostled her as he passed, then recoiled, exclaiming:--
"Hello! And I took it for an enormous, enormous dog!"
He pronounced the word enormous the second time with a jeering swell of the voice which might be tolerably well represented by capitals: "an enormous, ENORMOUS dog."
The old woman straightened herself up in a fury. 　
"Nasty brat!" she grumbled. "If I hadn't been bending over, I know well where I would have planted my foot on you."　
The boy was already far away. 　
"Kisss! kisss!" he cried. "After that, I don't think I was mistaken!" 　
The old woman, choking with indignation, now rose completely upright,and the red gleam of the lantern fully lighted up her livid face,all hollowed into angles and wrinkles, with crow's-feet meeting the corners of her mouth.
Her body was lost in the darkness, and only her head was visible.   One would have pronounced her a mask of Decrepitude carved out by a light from the night.
The boy surveyed her.
"Madame," said he, "does not possess that style of beauty which pleases me."
He then pursued his road, and resumed his song:--
"Le roi Coupdesabot S'en allait a la chasse,A la chasse aux corbeaux--"
At the end of these three lines he paused. He had arrived in front of No. 50-52, and finding the door fastened, he began to assault it with resounding and heroic kicks, which betrayed rather the man's shoes that he was wearing than the child's feet which he owned. 　
In the meanwhile, the very old woman whom he had encountered at the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier hastened up behind him, uttering clamorous cries and indulging in lavish and exaggerated gestures. 　
"What's this? What's this? Lord God! He's battering the door down!   He's knocking the house down."　
The kicks continued.
The old woman strained her lungs.
"Is that the way buildings are treated nowadays?"
All at once she paused.
She had recognized the gamin.
"What! so it's that imp!"
"Why, it's the old lady," said the lad. "Good day, Bougonmuche.  I have come to see my ancestors."　
The old woman retorted with a composite grimace, and a wonderful improvisation of hatred taking advantage of feebleness and ugliness,which was, unfortunately, wasted in the dark:--
"There's no one here."
"Bah!" retorted the boy, "where's my father?"
"At La Force."
"Come, now! And my mother?"
"At Saint-Lazare."
"Well! And my sisters?"
"At the Madelonettes."
The lad scratched his head behind his ear, stared at Ma'am Bougon,and said:--
"Ah!"
Then he executed a pirouette on his heel; a moment later, the old woman, who had remained on the door-step, heard him singing in his clear,young voice, as he plunged under the black elm-trees, in the wintry wind:--　
"Le roi Coupdesabot[31]S'en allait a la chasse, A la chasse aux corbeaux,Monte sur deux echasses.Quand on passait dessous,On lui payait deux sous."
[31] King Bootkick went a-hunting after crows, mounted on two stilts. When one passed beneath them, one paid him two sous.　
[The end of Volume III. "Marius"]
①本书法文版初版时共分十册。此处所说的第三册，即指汉译本第二部第三卷第一章《孟费郿的用水问题》的最后一段。
在医院路那所房子里发生这些事的次日，有一个男孩，仿佛来自奥斯特里茨桥的那面，顺着大路右边的平行小道走向枫丹白露便门。当时天已全黑。这孩子，脸色苍白，一身瘦骨，穿着撕条挂缕的衣服，二月里还穿一条布裤，却声嘶力竭地唱着歌。
在小银行家街的转角处，一个老婆子正弯着腰在回光灯下掏垃圾堆，孩子走过时，撞了她一下，随即后退，一面喊道：
“哟！我还以为是只非常大的，非常大的狗呢！”
他的第二个“非常大的”是用那种恶意的刻薄声调说出来的，只有用大号字才稍稍可以把那味道表达出来：是个非常大的，非常大的狗呢！
老婆子伸直了腰，怒容满面。
“戴铁枷的小鬼！”她嘟囔着，“要是我没有弯着腰，让你瞧瞧我脚尖会踢在你的什么地方！”
那孩子早已走远了。
“我的乖！我的乖！”他说，“看来也许我并没有搞错。”
老婆子恨得喉咙也梗塞了，完全挺直了腰板，路灯的带红色的光照在她那土灰色的脸上，显出满脸的骨头影子和皱纹，眼角上的鹅掌纹一条条直绕到嘴角。她身体隐在黑影中，只现出一个头，好象是黑夜中被一道微光切削下来的一个耄龄老妇人的脸壳子。那孩子向她仔细望去，说道：
“在下没福气消受这样美丽的娘子。”
他仍旧赶他的路，放开嗓子唱着：
大王“踢木鞋”
出门去打猎，
出门打老鸦……
唱了这三句，他便停下来了。他已到了五○一五二号门前，发现那门是关着的，便用脚去踢，踢得又响又猛，那股劲儿来自他脚上穿的那双大人鞋，并非完全由于他的小人脚。
这时，他在小银行家街转角处遇见的那个老妇人跟在他后面赶来了，嘴里不断叫嚷，手也乱挥乱舞。
“什么事？什么事？上帝救世主！门要被踢穿了！房子要被捅垮了！”
孩子照旧踢门。
“难道今天人们是这样照料房子的吗！”
她忽然停下来，认出了那孩子。
“怎么！原来是这个魔鬼！”
“哟，原来是姥姥，”孩子说，“您好，毕尔贡妈。我来看我的祖先。”
老妇人作了个表情复杂的鬼脸，那是厌恶、衰龄和丑态的巧妙结合，只可惜在黑暗中没人看见。她回答说：
“家里一个人也没有，小牛魔王！”
“去他的！”孩子接着说，“我父亲在哪儿？”
“在拉弗尔斯。”
“哟！我妈呢？”
“在圣辣匝禄。”
“好吧！我的两个姐呢？”
“在玛德栾内特。”①那孩子抓抓自己的耳朵背后，望着毕尔贡妈说：
“啊！” 
①以上三处都是监狱的名称。　　
接着他旋起脚跟，来了个向后转，过一会儿，老妇人站在门外的台阶上，还听见他清脆年轻的嗓子在唱歌，一直唱到在寒风中瑟缩的那些榆树下面去了：
大王“踢木鞋”
出门去打猎，
出门打老鸦，
踩在高跷上。
谁打他的下面过，
还得给他两文钱。
Part 4 Book 1 Chapter 1 Well Cut
1831 and 1832, the two years which are immediately connected with the Revolution of July, form one of the most peculiar and striking moments of history. These two years rise like two mountains midway between those which precede and those which follow them. They have a revolutionary grandeur. Precipices are to be distinguished there. The social masses, the very assizes of civilization, the solid group of superposed and adhering interests, the century-old profiles of the ancient French formation, appear and disappear in them every instant, athwart the storm clouds of systems, of passions, and of theories. These appearances and disappearances have been designated as movement and resistance. At intervals, truth, that daylight of the human soul, can be descried shining there.
This remarkable epoch is decidedly circumscribed and is beginning to be sufficiently distant from us to allow of our grasping the principal lines even at the present day.
We shall make the attempt.
The Restoration had been one of those intermediate phases, hard to define, in which there is fatigue, buzzing, murmurs, sleep, tumult, and which are nothing else than the arrival of a great nation at a halting-place.
These epochs are peculiar and mislead the politicians who desire to convert them to profit. In the beginning, the nation asks nothing but repose; it thirsts for but one thing, peace; it has but one ambition to be small. Which is the translation of remaining tranquil. Of great events, great hazards, great adventures, great men, thank God, we have seen enough, we have them heaped higher than our heads. We would exchange Caesar for Prusias, and Napoleon for the King of Yvetot. "What a good little king was he!" We have marched since daybreak, we have reached the evening of a long and toilsome day; we have made our first change with Mirabeau,the second with Robespierre, the third with Bonaparte; we are worn out. Each one demands a bed.
Devotion which is weary, heroism which has grown old, ambitions which are sated, fortunes which are made, seek, demand, implore, solicit, what? A shelter. They have it. They take possession of peace, of tranquillity, of leisure; behold, they are content. But, at the same time certain facts arise, compel recognition, and knock at the door in their turn. These facts are the products of revolutions and wars, they are, they exist, they have the right to install themselves in society, and they do install themselves therein; and most of the time, facts are the stewards of the household and fouriers[32] who do nothing but prepare lodgings for principles
[32] In olden times, fouriers were the officials who preceded the Court and allotted the lodgings.
This, then, is what appears to philosophical politicians:--
At the same time that weary men demand repose, accomplished facts demand guarantees. Guarantees are the same to facts that repose is to men.
This is what England demanded of the Stuarts after the Protector; this is what France demanded of the Bourbons after the Empire.
These guarantees are a necessity of the times. They must be accorded. Princes "grant" them, but in reality, it is the force of things which gives them. A profound truth, and one useful to know, which the Stuarts did not suspect in 1662 and which the Bourbons did not even obtain a glimpse of in 1814.
The predestined family, which returned to France when Napoleon fell, had the fatal simplicity to believe that it was itself which bestowed, and that what it had bestowed it could take back again; that the House of Bourbon possessed the right divine, that France possessed nothing, and that the political right conceded in the charter of Louis XVIII was merely a branch of the right divine, was detached by the Houseof Bourbon and graciously given to the people until such day as it should please the King to reassume it. Still, the House of Bourbon should have felt, from the displeasure created by the gift, that it did not come from it.
This house was churlish to the nineteenth century. It put on an ill-tempered look at every development of the nation. To make use of a trivial word, that is to say, of a popular and a true word, it looked glum. The people saw this.
It thought it possessed strength because the Empire had been carried away before it like a theatrical stage-setting. It did not perceive that it had, itself, been brought in in the same fashion. It did not perceive that it also lay in that hand which had removed Napoleon. 
It thought that it had roots, because it was the past. It was mistaken; it formed a part of the past, but the whole past was France. The roots of French society were not fixed in the Bourbons, but in the nations. These obscure and lively roots constituted, not the right of a family, but the history of a people. They were everywhere, except under the throne.
The House of Bourbon was to France the illustrious and bleeding knot in her history, but was no longer the principal element of her destiny, and the necessary base of her politics. She could get along without the Bourbons; she had done without them for two and twenty years; there had been a break of continuity; they did not suspect the fact. And how should they have suspected it, they who fancied that Louis XVII. Reigned on the 9th of Thermidor, and that Louis XVIII. Was reigning at the battle of Marengo? Never, since the origin of history, had princes been so blind in the presence of facts and the portion of divine authority which facts contain and promulgate. Never had that pretension here below which is called the right of kings denied to such a point the right from on high.
A capital error which led this family to lay its hand once more on the guarantees "granted" in 1814, on the concessions, as it termed them. Sad. A sad thing! What it termed its concessions were our conquests; what it termed our encroachments were our rights. 
When the hour seemed to it to have come, the Restoration, supposing itself victorious over Bonaparte and well-rooted in the country, that is to say, believing itself to be strong and deep, abruptly decided on its plan of action, and risked its stroke. One morning it drew itself up before the face of France, and, elevating its voice, it contested the collective title and the individual right of the nation to sovereignty, of the citizen to liberty. In other words, it denied to the nation that which made it a nation, and to the citizen that which made him a citizen.
This is the foundation of those famous acts which are called the ordinances of July. The Restoration fell.
It fell justly. But, we admit, it had not been absolutely hostile to all forms of progress. Great things had been accomplished, with it alongside. Under the Restoration, the nation had grown accustomed to calm discussion,which had been lacking under the Republic, and to grandeur in peace,which had been wanting under the Empire. France free and strong had offered an encouraging spectacle to the other peoples of Europe. The Revolution had had the word under Robespierre; the cannon had had the word under Bonaparte; it was under Louis XVIII. And Charles X. that it was the turn of intelligence to have the word. The wind ceased, the torch was lighted once more. On the lofty heights, the pure light of mind could be seen flickering. A magnificent, useful, and charming spectacle. For a space of fifteen years, those great principles which are so old for the thinker, so new for the statesman, could be seen at work in perfect peace, on the public square; equality before the law, liberty of conscience, liberty of speech, liberty of the press, the accessibility of all aptitudes to all functions. Thus it proceeded until 1830. The Bourbons were an instrument of civilization which broke in the hands of Providence.
The fall of the Bourbons was full of grandeur, not on their side, but on the side of the nation. They quitted the throne with gravity, but without authority; their descent into the night was not one of those solemn disappearances which leave a sombre emotion in history; it was neither the spectral calm of Charles I., nor the eagle scream of Napoleon. They departed, that is all. They laid down the crown, and retained no aureole. They were worthy, but they were not august. They lacked, in a certain measure, the majesty of their misfortune. Charles X. during the voyage from Cherbourg, causing a round table to be cut over into a square table, appeared to be more anxious about imperilled etiquette than about the crumbling monarchy. This diminution saddened devoted men who loved their persons, and serious men who honored their race. The populace was admirable. The nation, attacked one morning with weapons, by a sort of royal insurrection, felt itself in the possession of so much force that it did not go into a rage. It defended itself, restrained itself, restored things to their places, the government to law, the Bourbons to exile, alas! And then halted! It took the old king Charles X. from beneath that dais which had sheltered Louis XIV. And set him gently on the ground. It touched the royal personages only with sadness and precaution. It was not one man, it was not a few men, it was France, France entire, France victorious and intoxicated with her victory, who seemed to be coming to herself, and who put into practice, before the eyes of the whole world, these grave words of Guillaume du Vair after the day of the Barricades:--
"It is easy for those who are accustomed to skim the favors of the great, and to spring, like a bird from bough to bough, from an afflicted fortune to a flourishing one, to show themselves harsh towards their Prince in his adversity; but as for me, the fortune of my Kings and especially of my afflicted Kings, will always be venerable to me." The Bourbons carried away with them respect, but not regret. As we have just stated, their misfortune was greater than they were. They faded out in the horizon.
The Revolution of July instantly had friends and enemies throughout the entire world. The first rushed toward her with joy and enthusiasm, the others turned away, each according to his nature. At the first blush, the princes of Europe, the owls of this dawn, shut their eyes, wounded and stupefied, and only opened them to threaten. A fright which can be comprehended, a wrath which can be pardoned.This strange revolution had hardly produced a shock; it had not even paid to vanquished royalty the honor of treating it as an enemy, and of shedding its blood. In the eyes of despotic governments, who are always interested in having liberty calumniate itself, the Revolution of July committed the fault of being formidable and of remaining gentle. Nothing, however, was attempted or plotted against it. The most discontented, the most irritated, the most trembling, saluted it; whatever our egotism and our rancor may be, a mysterious respect springs from events in which we are sensible of the collaboration of some one who is working above man. 
The Revolution of July is the triumph of right overthrowing the fact. A thing which is full of splendor. 
Right overthrowing the fact. Hence the brilliancy of the Revolution of 1830, hence, also, its mildness. Right triumphant has no need of being violent. 
Right is the just and the true.
The property of right is to remain eternally beautiful and pure. The fact, even when most necessary to all appearances, even when most thoroughly accepted by contemporaries, if it exist only as a fact, and if it contain only too little of right, or none at all, is infallibly destined to become, in the course of time, deformed, impure, perhaps, even monstrous. If one desires to learn at one blow, to what degree of hideousness the fact can attain, viewed at the distance of centuries, let him look at Machiavelli. Machiavelli is not an evil genius, nor a demon, nor a miserable and cowardly writer; he is nothing but the fact. And he is not only the Italian fact; he is the European fact, the fact of the sixteenth century. He seems hideous, and so he is, in the presence of the moral idea of the nineteenth.
This conflict of right and fact has been going on ever since the origin of society. To terminate this duel, to amalgamate the pure idea with the humane reality, to cause right to penetrate pacifically into the fact and the fact into right, that is the task of sages.
一八三一和一八三二，紧接着七月革命的这两年，是历史上的一个最特殊和最惊人的时期。这两年，象两个山头似的出现在这以前的几年和这以后的几年之间。它们具有革命的伟大意义。人们在这期间能看到许多危崖陡壁。在这期间，各种社会的群众，文明的基础，种种因上下关连和互相依附的利益而形成的坚强组合，法兰西古旧社会的苍老面貌，都随时忽现忽隐在多种制度、狂热和理论的风云激荡中。这种显现和隐灭曾被称为抵抗和运动。人们在其中能望见真理棗人类灵魂的光棗放射光芒。
这个令人瞩目的时期相当短暂，已开始离我们相当远了，趁早回顾一下，却还能抓住它的主要线索。
让我们来试试。
王朝复辟是那种难于下定义的中间局面里的一种；这里有疲乏、窃窃的议论、悄悄的耳语、沉睡、喧扰，这些都只说明一个伟大的民族刚赶完了一段路程。那样的时代是奇特的，常使那些想从中牟利的政治家们发生错觉。起初，国人只要求休息！人们只有一种渴望：和平，也只有一个野心：蜷缩起来。换句话说，便是要过安静日子。大事业，大机会，大风险，大人物，谢天谢地，全都见够了，再也接受不下去了。人们宁肯为了普吕西亚斯①而舍弃恺撒，宁肯为伊弗佗王②而舍弃拿破仑。 
①普吕西亚斯（Prusias），指比西尼亚的普吕西亚斯二世，他将汉尼拔出卖给罗马人。
②伊弗佗王（roidGYvetoFt），法国贝朗瑞民歌叠句中的人物。
“那是一个多么好的小国王！”人们从天明走起，辛辛苦苦，长途跋涉了一整天，直走到天黑；跟着米拉波赶了第一程，跟着罗伯斯庇尔赶了第二程，跟着波拿巴赶了第三程；大家全精疲力竭了。人人都希望有一张床。
疲敝的忠诚，衰退了的英雄主义，满足了的野心，既得的利益，都在寻找、索取、恳请、央求什么呢？一个安乐窝。安乐窝，它们到手了。它们获得了安宁、平静、闲逸，心满意足了。可是与此同时，某些既成事实又冒出了头，要求人们承认，并敲着它们旁边的门。这些事实是从革命和战争中产生的，是活生生存在着的，它们理应定居于社会，并且已定居在社会中了，而这些事实又通常是为种种主义准备住处的军需官和勤务兵。
因而在政治哲学家们面前出现了这样的情况：
在疲乏了的人们要求休息的同时，既成事实也要求保证。
保证对于事实，正如休息对于人，是同一回事。
英国在护国公以后向斯图亚特家族提出的要求是这个；
法国在帝国以后向波旁家族提出的要求也是这个。保证是时代的需要。是非给不可的。亲王们“赐予”保证，而实际给保证的却是事实自身的力量。这是一条值得认识的深刻的真理，斯图亚特家族在一六六二年对此不曾怀疑，波旁家族在一八一四年却瞅也不屑瞅一眼。
随着拿破仑垮台而回到法国的那个事先选定了的家族，头脑简单到不可救药，它认为一切都是由它给的，给过以后，并且可以由它收回；它还认为波旁家族享有神权，而法兰西则毫无所享，在路易十八的宪章中让予的政治权利只不过是这神权上的一根枝桠，由波旁家族采摘下来，堂而皇之地赐给人民，直到有朝一日国王高兴时，便可随时收回。其实，波旁家族作此恩赐，并非出于心甘情愿，它早就应当意识到并没有什么东西是由它恩赐的。
它满腔戾气地觑着十九世纪。人民每次欢欣鼓舞，它便怒形于色。我们采用一个不中听的词儿，就是说一个通俗而真实的词儿：它老在咬牙切齿，人民早已看见了。
它自以为强大，因为帝国在它眼前象戏台上的一幕场景似的被搬走了。它却没有意识到自己也正是那样搬来的。它没有看出它是被捏在搬走拿破仑的那同一只手里。
它自以为有根，因为它是过去。它想错了；它是过去的一部分，而整个的过去是法兰西。法国社会的根绝不是生在波旁家族里，而是生在人民中。构成这些深入土中生气勃勃的根须的，绝不是一个什么家族的权利，而是一个民族的历史。它们伸到四处，王位底下却没有。
波旁家族，对法兰西来说，是它历史上一个显眼和流血的节疤，但已不是它的命运的主要成分和它的政治的必要基础；人们完全可以把波旁家族丢开，确也把它丢开过二十二年，照样有办法继续生存下去，而他们竟没有见到这一点。他们这伙在热月九日还认为路易十七是统治者，在马伦哥胜利之日也还认为路易十八是统治者的人，又怎能见到这一点呢？有史以来，从未有过象这些亲王们那样无视于从实际事物中孕育出来的这部分神权。人们称为王权的这种人间妄念也从没有把上界的权否认到如此程度。
绝大的谬见导使这家族收回了它在一八一四年所“赐予”的保证，也就是它所谓的那些让步。可叹得很！它所谓的它的让步，正是我们的斗争果实；它所谓的我们的蹂躏，正是我们的权利。
复辟王朝自以为战胜了波拿巴，已在国内扎稳了根，就是说，自以为力量强大和根基深厚，一旦认为时机到了，便突然作出决定，不惜孤注一掷。一个早晨，它在法兰西面前站起来，并且大声否认了集体权利和个人权利棗人民的主权和公民的自由。换句话说，它否认了人民之所以为人民之本和公民之所以为公民之本。
这里就是所谓七月敕令的那些著名法案的实质。
复辟王朝垮了。
它垮得合理。可是，应当指出，它并没有绝对敌视进步的一切形式。许多大事完成时它是在场的。
在复辟王朝统治下，人民已习惯于平静气氛中的讨论，这是共和时期所不曾有过的；已习惯于和平中的强大，这是帝国时期所不曾有过的。自由、强大的法兰西对欧洲其他各国来说，成了起鼓舞作用的舞台。革命在罗伯斯庇尔时期发了言，大炮在波拿巴时期发了言，轮到才智发言，那只是在路易十八和查理十世的统治之下。风停息了，火炬又燃了起来。人们望见在宁静的顶峰上闪颤着思想的纯洁光辉。灿烂、有益和动人的景象。在这十五年中，在和平环境和完全公开的场合，人们见到这样的一些伟大原理，在思想家眼里已非常陈旧而在政治家的认识上却还是崭新的原理：为法律地位平等、信仰自由、言论自由、出版自由、量才授职的甄拔制度而进行工作。这种情况一直延续到一八三○年。波旁家族是被粉碎在天命手中的一种文明工具。
波旁家族的下台是充满了伟大气势的，这不是就他们那方面来说，而是就人民方面来说。他们大模大样地，但不是威风凛凛地，离开了宝座。他们这种进黑洞似的下台并不是能使后代黯然怀念的那种大张旗鼓的退出；这不是查理一世那种鬼魂似的沉静，也不是拿破仑那种雄鹰似的长啸。他们离去了，如是而已。他们放下了冠冕，却没有保留光轮。他们有了面子，却丢了威仪。他们在一定程度上缺少那种正视灾难的尊严气派。查理十世在去瑟堡的途中，叫人把一张圆桌改成方的，他对这种危难中的仪式比那崩溃中的君权更关心。这种琐碎的作风叫忠于王室的人和热爱种族的严肃的人都灰心失望。至于人民，却是可敬佩的。全国人民在一个早上遭到了一种王家叛变的武装进攻，却感到自己的力量异常强大，因而不曾动怒。人民进行了自卫，克制着自己，恢复了秩序，把政府纳入了法律的轨道，流放了波旁家族，可惜！便止步不前了。他们把老王查理十世从那覆护过路易十四的帏盖下取出来，轻轻地放在地上。他们怀着凄切和审慎的心情去接触那些王族中人的身体。不是一个，也不是几个，而是法兰西，整个法兰西，胜利而且被胜利冲昏了头脑的法兰西，它仿佛想起了并在全世界人的眼前实行了纪尧姆·德·维尔在巷战①那天以后所说的严肃的话：“对那些平时习惯于博取君王们的欢心，并象一只从一根树枝跳到另一树枝的小鸟那样，对从危难中的荣誉跳到昌盛中的荣誉的人们来说，要表示自己大胆，敢于反对反抗中的君王，那是容易做到的；可是对我来说，我的君王们的荣誉始终是应当尊敬的，尤其是那些处于患难中的君王。” 
①巷战，指一五八八年五月十二日在巴黎爆发的社会下层群众起义。次年，波旁家族的亨利四世继承了王位。纪尧姆·德·维尔（Guillaume　du　Vair）是当时的一个政治活动家。
波旁家族带去了尊敬的心，却没有带走惋惜的心。正如我们刚才所说的，他们的不幸大于他们自己。他们消失在地平线上了。
七月革命在全世界范围内立即有了朋友和敌人。有些人欢欣鼓舞地奔向这次革命，另一些人背对着它，各人性格不同。欧洲的君王们，起初都象旭日前的猫头鹰，闭上了眼睛，伤心，失措，直到要进行威胁的时候，才又睁开了眼睛。他们的恐惧是可以理解的，他们的愤慨是可以原谅的。这次奇特的革命几乎没有发生震动，它对被击败的王室，甚至连把它当作敌人来对待并流它的血的光荣也没有给。专制政府总喜欢看见自由发生内讧，在那些专制政府的眼里，这次七月革命不应当进行得那么威猛有力而又流于温和。没有出现任何反对这次革命的阴谋诡计。最不满意、最愤慨、最惊悸的人都向它表示了敬意。不管我们的私心和宿怨是多么重，从种种事态中却出现了一种神秘的敬意，人们从这里感到一种高出于人力之上的力量在进行合作。
七月革命是人权粉碎事实的胜利。这是一种光辉灿烂的东西。
人权粉碎事实。一八三○年革命的光芒是从这里来的，它的温和也是从这里来的。胜利的人权丝毫不需要使用暴力。
人权，便是正义和真理。
人权的特性便是永远保持美好和纯洁。事实上，即使在表面上是最需要的，即使是当代的人所最赞同的，如果它只作为事实存在下去，如果它包含的人权过少或根本不包含人权，通过时间的演进，必将无可避免地变成畸形的、败坏的、甚至荒谬的。如果我们要立即证实事实可以达到怎样的丑恶程度，我们只须上溯几百年，看一看马基雅弗利①。马基雅弗利绝不是个凶神，也不是个魔鬼，也不是个无耻的烂污作家，他只是事实罢了。并且这不只是意大利的事实，也是欧洲的事实，十六世纪的事实。他仿佛恶劣不堪，从十九世纪的道德观念来看，确也如此。 
①马基雅弗利（Machiavelli，1469?527），意大利政治家，曾写过一本《君主论》，主张王侯们在处理政事时不要受通常道德的约束。
这种人权和事实的斗争，从有社会以来是一直在不断进行着的。结束决斗，让纯洁的思想和人类的实际相结合，用和平的方法使人权渗入事实，事实也渗入人权，这便是哲人的工作。
Part 4 Book 1 Chapter 2 Badly Sewed
But the task of sages is one thing, the task of clever men is another. The Revolution of 1830 came to a sudden halt.
As soon as a revolution has made the coast, the skilful make haste to prepare the shipwreck.
The skilful in our century have conferred on themselves the title of Statesmen; so that this word, statesmen, has ended by becoming somewhat of a slang word. It must be borne in mind, in fact, that wherever there is nothing but skill, there is necessarily pettiness. To say "the skilful" amounts to saying "the mediocre." 
In the same way, to say "statesmen" is sometimes equivalent to saying "traitors." If, then, we are to believe the skilful, revolutions like the Revolution of July are severed arteries; a prompt ligature is indispensable. The right, too grandly proclaimed, is shaken. Also, right once firmly fixed, the state must be strengthened. Liberty once assured, attention must be directed to power. 
Here the sages are not, as yet, separated from the skilful, but they begin to be distrustful. Power, very good. But, in the first place, what is power? In the second, whence comes it? The skilful do not seem to hear the murmured objection, and they continue their manoeuvres.
According to the politicians, who are ingenious in putting the mask of necessity on profitable fictions, the first requirement of a people after a revolution, when this people forms part of a monarchical continent, is to procure for itself a dynasty. In this way, say they, peace, that is to say, time to dress our wounds, and to repair the house, can be had after a revolution. The dynasty conceals the scaffolding and covers the ambulance. Now, it is not always easy to procure a dynasty.
If it is absolutely necessary, the first man of genius or even the first man of fortune who comes to hand suffices for the manufacturing of a king. You have, in the first case, Napoleon; in the second, Iturbide. 
But the first family that comes to hand does not suffice to make a dynasty. There is necessarily required a certain modicum of antiquity in a race, and the wrinkle of the centuries cannot be improvised. 
If we place ourselves at the point of view of the "statesmen," after making all allowances, of course, after a revolution, what are the qualities of the king which result from it? He may be and it is useful for him to be a revolutionary; that is to say, a participant in his own person in that revolution, that he should have lent a hand to it, that he should have either compromised or distinguished himself therein, that he should have touched the axe or wielded the sword in it. 
What are the qualities of a dynasty? It should be national; that is to say, revolutionary at a distance, not through acts committed, but by reason of ideas accepted. It should be composed of past and be historic; be composed of future and be sympathetic. 
All this explains why the early revolutions contented themselves with finding a man, Cromwell or Napoleon; and why the second absolutely insisted on finding a family, the House of Brunswick or the House of Orleans. 
Royal houses resemble those Indian fig-trees, each branch of which, bending over to the earth, takes root and becomes a fig-tree itself. Each branch may become a dynasty. On the sole condition that it shall bend down to the people.
Such is the theory of the skilful.
Here, then, lies the great art: to make a little render to success the sound of a catastrophe in order that those who profit by it may tremble from it also, to season with fear every step that is taken, to augment the curve of the transition to the point of retarding progress, to dull that aurora, to denounce and retrench the harshness of enthusiasm, to cut all angles and nails, to wad triumph, to muffle up right, to envelop the giant-people in flannel, and to put it to bed very speedily, to impose a diet on that excess of health, to put Hercules on the treatment of a convalescent, to dilute the event with the expedient, to offer to spirits thirsting for the ideal that nectar thinned out with a potion, to take one's precautions against too much success, to garnish the revolution with a shade.
1830 practised this theory, already applied to England by 1688. 
1830 is a revolution arrested midway. Half of progress, quasi-right. Now, logic knows not the "almost," absolutely as the sun knows not the candle.
Who arrests revolutions half-way? The bourgeoisie?
Why?
Because the bourgeoisie is interest which has reached satisfaction. Yesterday it was appetite, to-day it is plenitude, to-morrow it will be satiety.
The phenomenon of 1814 after Napoleon was reproduced in 1830 after Charles X.
The attempt has been made, and wrongly, to make a class of the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie is simply the contented portion of the people.The bourgeois is the man who now has time to sit down. A chair is not a caste. 
But through a desire to sit down too soon, one may arrest the very march of the human race. This has often been the fault of the bourgeoisie. 
One is not a class because one has committed a fault. Selfishness is not one of the divisions of the social order. Moreover, we must be just to selfishness. The state to which that part of the nation which is called the bourgeoisie aspired after the shock of 1830 was not the inertia which is complicated with indifference and laziness, and which contains a little shame; it was not the slumber which presupposes a momentary forgetfulness accessible to dreams; it was the halt.
The halt is a word formed of a singular double and almost contradictory sense: a troop on the march,that is to say, movement; a stand, that is to say, repose. 
The halt is the restoration of forces; it is repose armed and on the alert; it is the accomplished fact which posts sentinels and holds itself on its guard.
The halt presupposes the combat of yesterday and the combat of to-morrow.
It is the partition between 1830 and 1848. 
What we here call combat may also be designated as progress.
The bourgeoisie then, as well as the statesmen, required a man who should express this word Halt. An Although-Because. A composite individuality, signifying revolution and signifying stability, in other terms, strengthening the present by the evident compatibility of the past with the future. 
This man was "already found." His name was Louis Philippe d'Orleans. 
The 221 made Louis Philippe King. Lafayette undertook the coronation.
He called it the best of republics. The town-hall of Paris took the place of the Cathedral of Rheims. 
This substitution of a half-throne for a whole throne was "the work of 1830."
When the skilful had finished, the immense vice of their solution became apparent. All this had been accomplished outside the bounds of absolute right. Absolute right cried: "I protest!" then, terrible to say, it retired into the darkness.
但是哲人的工作是一回事，机灵人的工作是另一回事。
一八三○年的革命很快就止步不前了。
革命一旦搁浅，机灵人立即破坏这搁浅的船。
机灵人，在我们这个世纪里，都自加封号，自命为政治家；因而政治家这个词儿到后来多少有点行话的味道。我们确实不应当忘记，凡是有机智的地方，就必然有小家气。所谓机灵人，也就是庸俗人。
同样，所谓政治家，有时也就等于说：民贼。
按照那些机灵人的说法，革命，象七月革命那样的革命，是动脉管破裂，应当赶快把它缝起来。人权，如果要求过高，便会发生动荡。因此，人权一经认可以后，就应巩固政府。自由有了保障以后，就应想到政权。
到这里，哲人还不至于和机灵人分离，但是已经开始有了戒心。政权，好吧。但是，首先得搞清楚，什么是政权？其次，政权是从什么地方来的？
机灵人似乎听不见这种窃窃私议的反对意见，仍旧继续他们的勾当。
根据那些善于伪称于己有利的意图为实际需要的聪明政治家的说法，革命后的人民最迫切需求的，就一个君主国的人民来说，便是找一个王室的后裔。这样，他们认为，便能在革命以后享有和平，就是说，享有医治创伤和修补房屋的时间。旧王朝可以遮掩脚手架和伤兵医疗站。
但是要找到一个王室的后裔不总是那么容易的。
严格地说，任何一个有才能的人，或者，甚至任何一个有钱的人都够格当国王。波拿巴是前一种例子，伊土比德①是后一种例子。 
①伊土比德（Iturbide），墨西哥将军，一八二一年称帝，一八二四年被处决。
可是并非任何一个家族都可以拿来当作一个王族的世系。还得多少有点古老的根源才行，几个世纪的皱纹并不是一下子就可以形成的。
假使我们站在那些“政治家”的观点去看棗当然，我们要保留自己的全部意见棗，在革命以后，从革命中产生出来的国王应当具备哪些优越条件呢？他可以是并且最好是革命的，就是说，亲自参加过这次革命的，在那里面插过手的，不问他是否败坏或建立了声望，不问他使过的是斧子还是剑。
一个王裔应当具备哪些优越条件呢？他应当是民族主义的，就是说，不即不离的革命者，这不是从他具体的行动看，而是从他所接受的思想看。他应和已往的历史有渊源，又能对未来起作用，并且还是富于同情心的。
这一切便说明了为什么早期的革命能满足于选择一个人，克伦威尔或拿破仑；而后来的革命却非选择一个家族不可，不伦瑞克家族或奥尔良家族。
这些王室颇象印度的一种无花果树，这种树的枝条能垂向地面，并在土里生根，成为另一棵无花果树。每一根树枝都能建成一个王朝。唯一的条件是向人民低下头来。
这便是那些机灵人的理论。
因而出现了这样的伟大艺术：使胜利多少响起一点灾难的声音，以使利用胜利的人同时也为胜利发抖，每前进一步便散布一点恐怖气氛，拉长过渡工作中的弯路以使进步迟缓下来，冲淡初现的曙光，指控和遏制热情的谋划，削平尖角和利爪，用棉花捂住欢呼胜利的嘴，给人权穿上龙钟肥厚的衣服，把魁伟高大的人民裹在法兰绒里，叫他们赶快去睡觉，强迫过分健康的人忌口，教铁汉子接受初愈病人的饮食，挖空心思去做分化瓦解的工作，请那些害远大理想病的人喝些掺了甘草水的蜜酒，采取种种措施来防止过大的成功，替革命加上一个遮光罩。
一八三○年便采用了这种一六八八年①在英国已使用过的理论。 
①一六八八年奥伦治家族取代斯图亚特家族登上英国王位。
一八三○是一次在半山腰里停了下来的革命。半吊子进步，表面的人权。逻辑可不懂得什么叫做差不离，绝对象太阳不承认蜡烛那样。
是谁使历次革命停留在半山腰呢？资产阶级。
为什么？
因为资产阶级代表满足了的利益。昨天是饿，今天是饱，明天将是胀。
出现在一八一四年拿破仑下台以后的情况又出现在一八三○年查理十世之后。
人们错误地把资产阶级当作一个阶级。资产阶级只不过是人民中得到满足的那一部分人。资产阶级中的人是那种现在有时间坐下来的人。一张椅子并不是一个社会等级。
但是，由于过早地要求坐下，人们甚至要停止人类前进的步伐。这向来是资产阶级犯下的错误。
人并不因为犯一次错误而成为一个阶级。利己主义不是社会组织的一部分。
并且，说话应当公正，即使对利己主义，也应当如此；在一八三○年的震动以后，人民中间所谓资产阶级那一部分人所指望的并不是由淡漠和懒惰所构成并含着一点羞愧心情的那种无所作为的局面，也不是那种类似沉沉入梦暂忘一切的睡眠，而是立定。
立定，这个词儿，含有一种奇特的并且几乎是矛盾的双重意义：对行进中的部队来说是前进，对进驻来说是休整。
立定，是力量的休整，是拿着武器的警觉的休息，是布置哨兵进行防卫的既成事实。立定，意味着昨天的战斗和明天的战斗。
这是一八三○和一八四八的中间站。
我们在这儿所说的战斗也可以称为进步。
因此，无论对资产阶级或对政治家们来说，都必须有一个人出来发布这个命令：立定。一个“虽然·因为”。一个既表示革命又表示稳定，换言之，一个能以其调和过去和未来的显明力量来巩固现在的两面人。
这个人是“现成摆着的”。他叫路易－菲力浦·德·奥尔良。
二二一人便把路易－菲力浦捧上了王位。拉斐德主持了加冕典礼。他称他为“最好的共和国”。巴黎市政厅代替了兰斯的天主堂。①这样以半王位代替全王位便是“一八三○年的成绩”。 
①法国革命前国王在兰斯的教堂里举行加冕礼。
那些机灵人的大功告成以后，他们的灵药的大毛病便出现了。这一切都是在无视于绝对人权的情况下进行的。绝对人权喊了一声：“我抗议！”紧跟着，一种可怕的现象，它又回到黑暗中去了。
Part 4 Book 1 Chapter 3 Louis Philippe
Revolutions have a terrible arm and a happy hand, they strike firmly and choose well. Even incomplete, even debased and abused and reduced to the state of a junior revolution like the Revolution of 1830, they nearly always retain sufficient providential lucidity to prevent them from falling amiss. Their eclipse is never an abdication. 
Nevertheless, let us not boast too loudly; revolutions also may be deceived, and grave errors have been seen. 
Let us return to 1830. 1830, in its deviation, had good luck. In the establishment which entitled itself order after the revolution had been cut short, the King amounted to more than royalty. Louis Philippe was a rare man.
The son of a father to whom history will accord certain attenuating circumstances, but also as worthy of esteem as that father had been of blame; possessing all private virtues and many public virtues; careful of his health, of his fortune, of his person, of his affairs, knowing the value of a minute and not always the value of a year; sober, serene, peaceable, patient; a good man and a good prince; sleeping with his wife, and having in his palace lackeys charged with the duty of showing the conjugal bed to the bourgeois, an ostentation of the regular sleeping-apartment which had become useful after the former illegitimate displays of the elder branch; knowing all the languages of Europe, and, what is more rare, all the languages of all interests, and speaking them; an admirable representative of the "middle class," but outstripping it, and in every way greater than it; possessing excellent sense, while appreciating the blood from which he had sprung, counting most of all on his intrinsic worth, and, on the question of his race, very particular, declaring himself Orleans and not Bourbon; thoroughly the first Prince of the Blood Royal while he was still only a Serene Highness, but a frank bourgeois from the day he became king; diffuse in public, concise in private; reputed, but not proved to be a miser; at bottom, one of those economists who are readily prodigal at their own fancy or duty; lettered, but not very sensitive to letters; a gentleman, but not a chevalier; simple, calm, and strong; adored by his family and his household; a fascinating talker, an undeceived statesman, inwardly cold, dominated by immediate interest, always governing at the shortest range, incapable of rancor and of gratitude, making use without mercy of superiority on mediocrity, clever in getting parliamentary majorities to put in the wrong those mysterious unanimities which mutter dully under thrones; unreserved, sometimes imprudent in his lack of reserve, but with marvellous address in that imprudence; fertile in expedients, in countenances, in masks; making France fear Europe and Europe France! Incontestably fond of his country, but preferring his family; assuming more domination than authority and more authority than dignity, a disposition which has this unfortunate property, that as it turns everything to success, it admits of ruse and does not absolutely repudiate baseness, but which has this valuable side, that it preserves politics from violent shocks, the state from fractures, and society from catastrophes; minute, correct, vigilant, attentive, sagacious, indefatigable; contradicting himself at times and giving himself the lie; bold against Austria at Ancona, obstinate against England in Spain, bombarding Antwerp, and paying off Pritchard; singing the Marseillaise with conviction, inaccessible to despondency, to lassitude, to the taste for the beautiful and the ideal, to daring generosity, to Utopia, to chimeras, to wrath, to vanity, to fear; possessing all the forms of personal intrepidity; a general at Valmy; a soldier at Jemappes; attacked eight times by regicides and always smiling. brave as a grenadier, courageous as a thinker; uneasy only in the face of the chances of a European shaking up, and unfitted for great political adventures; always ready to risk his life, never his work; disguising his will in influence, in order that he might be obeyed as an intelligence rather than as a king; endowed with observation and not with divination; not very attentive to minds, but knowing men, that is to say requiring to see in order to judge; prompt and penetrating good sense, practical wisdom, easy speech, prodigious memory; drawing incessantly on this memory, his only point of resemblance with Caesar, Alexander, and Napoleon; knowing deeds, facts, details, dates, proper names, ignorant of tendencies, passions, the diverse geniuses of the crowd, the interior aspirations, the hidden and obscure uprisings of souls, in a word, all that can be designated as the invisible currents of consciences; accepted by the surface, but little in accord with France lower down; extricating himself by dint of tact; governing too much and not enough; his own first minister; excellent at creating out of the pettiness of realities an obstacle to the immensity of ideas; mingling a genuine creative faculty of civilization, of order and organization, an indescribable spirit of proceedings and chicanery, the founder and lawyer of a dynasty; having something of Charlemagne and something of an attorney; in short,a lofty and original figure, a prince who understood how to create authority in spite of the uneasiness of France, and power in spite of the jealousy of Europe. Louis Philippe will be classed among the eminent men of his century, and would be ranked among the most illustrious governors of history had he loved glory but a little, and if he had had the sentiment of what is great to the same degree as the feeling for what is useful.
Louis Philippe had been handsome, and in his old age he remained graceful; not always approved by the nation, he always was so by the masses; he pleased. He had that gift of charming. He lacked majesty; he wore no crown, although a king, and no white hair, although an old man; his manners belonged to the old regime and his habits to the new; a mixture of the noble and the bourgeois which suited 1830; Louis Philippe was transition reigning; he had preserved the ancient pronunciation and the ancient orthography which he placed at the service of opinions modern; he loved Poland and Hungary, but he wrote les Polonois, and he pronounced les Hongrais. He wore the uniform of the national guard, like Charles X., and the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, like Napoleon. 
He went a little to chapel, not at all to the chase, never to the opera. Incorruptible by sacristans, by whippers-in, by ballet-dancers; this made a part of his bourgeois popularity. He had no heart. He went out with his umbrella under his arm, and this umbrella long formed a part of his aureole. He was a bit of a mason, a bit of a gardener, something of a doctor; he bled a postilion who had tumbled from his horse; Louis Philippe no more went about without his lancet, than did Henri IV. without his poniard. The Royalists jeered at this ridiculous king, the first who had ever shed blood with the object of healing.
For the grievances against Louis Philippe, there is one deduction to be made; there is that which accuses royalty, that which accuses the reign, that which accuses the King; three columns which all give different totals. Democratic right confiscated, progress becomes a matter of secondary interest, the protests of the street violently repressed, military execution of insurrections, the rising passed over by arms, the Rue Transnonain, the counsels of war, the absorption of the real country by the legal country, on half shares with three hundred thousand privileged persons,-- these are the deeds of royalty; Belgium refused, Algeria too harshly conquered, and, as in the case of India by the English, with more barbarism than civilization, the breach of faith, to Abd-el-Kader, Blaye, Deutz bought, Pritchard paid,--these are the doings of the reign; the policy which was more domestic than national was the doing of the King.
As will be seen, the proper deduction having been made, the King's charge is decreased. 
This is his great fault; he was modest in the name of France. 
Whence arises this fault? 
We will state it.
Louis Philippe was rather too much of a paternal king; that incubation of a family with the object of founding a dynasty is afraid of everything and does not like to be disturbed; hence excessive timidity, which is displeasing to the people, who have the 14th of July in their civil and Austerlitz in their military tradition. 
Moreover, if we deduct the public duties which require to be fulfilled first of all, that deep tenderness of Louis Philippe towards his family was deserved by the family. That domestic group was worthy of admiration. Virtues there dwelt side by side with talents. One of Louis Philippe's daughters, Marie d'Orleans, placed the name of her race among artists, as Charles d'Orleans had placed it among poets. She made of her soul a marble which she named Jeanne d'Arc. Two of Louis Philippe's daughters elicited from Metternich this eulogium: "They are young people such as are rarely seen, and princes such as are never seen."
This, without any dissimulation, and also without any exaggeration, is the truth about Louis Philippe.
To be Prince Equality, to bear in his own person the contradiction of the Restoration and the Revolution, to have that disquieting side of the revolutionary which becomes reassuring in governing power, therein lay the fortune of Louis Philippe in 1830; never was there a more complete adaptation of a man to an event; the one entered into the other, and the incarnation took place. Louis Philippe is 1830 made man. Moreover, he had in his favor that great recommendation to the throne, exile. He had been proscribed, a wanderer, poor. He had lived by his own labor. In Switzerland, this heir to the richest princely domains in France had sold an old horse in order to obtain bread. At Reichenau, he gave lessons in mathematics, while his sister Adelaide did wool work and sewed. These souvenirs connected with a king rendered the bourgeoisie enthusiastic. He had, with his own hands, demolished the iron cage of Mont-Saint-Michel, built by Louis XI, and used by Louis XV. He was the companion of Dumouriez, he was the friend of Lafayette; he had belonged to the Jacobins' club; Mirabeau had slapped him on the shoulder; Danton had said to him: "Young man!" At the age of four and twenty, in '93, being then M. de Chartres, he had witnessed, from the depth of a box, the trial of Louis XVI., so well named that poor tyrant. The blind clairvoyance of the Revolution, breaking royalty in the King and the King with royalty, did so almost without noticing the man in the fierce crushing of the idea, the vast storm of the Assembly-Tribunal, the public wrath interrogating, Capet not knowing what to reply, the alarming, stupefied vacillation by that royal head beneath that sombre breath, the relative innocence of all in that catastrophe, of those who condemned as well as of the man condemned,--he had looked on those things, he had contemplated that giddiness; he had seen the centuries appear before the bar of the Assembly-Convention; he had beheld, behind Louis XVI., that unfortunate passer-by who was made responsible, the terrible culprit, the monarchy, rise through the shadows; and there had lingered in his soul the respectful fear of these immense justices of the populace, which are almost as impersonal as the justice of God.
The trace left in him by the Revolution was prodigious. Its memory was like a living imprint of those great years, minute by minute. One day, in the presence of a witness whom we are not permitted to doubt, he rectified from memory the whole of the letter A in the alphabetical list of the Constituent Assembly.
Louis Philippe was a king of the broad daylight. While he reigned the press was free, the tribune was free, conscience and speech were free. The laws of September are open to sight. Although fully aware of the gnawing power of light on privileges, he left his throne exposed to the light. History will do justice to him for this loyalty. 
Louis Philippe, like all historical men who have passed from the scene, is to-day put on his trial by the human conscience. His case is, as yet, only in the lower court.
The hour when history speaks with its free and venerable accent, has not yet sounded for him; the moment has not come to pronounce a definite judgment on this king; the austere and illustrious historian Louis Blanc has himself recently softened his first verdict; Louis Philippe was elected by those two almosts which are called the 221 and 1830, that is to say, by a half-Parliament, and a half-revolution; and in any case, from the superior point of view where philosophy must place itself, we cannot judge him here, as the reader has seen above, except with certain reservations in the name of the absolute democratic principle; in the eyes of the absolute, outside these two rights, the right of man in the first place, the right of the people in the second, all is usurpation; but what we can say, even at the present day, that after making these reserves is, that to sum up the whole, and in whatever manner he is considered, Louis Philippe, taken in himself, and from the point of view of human goodness, will remain, to use the antique language of ancient history, one of the best princes who ever sat on a throne.
What is there against him? That throne. Take away Louis Philippe the king, there remains the man. And the man is good. He is good at times even to the point of being admirable. Often, in the midst of his gravest souvenirs, after a day of conflict with the whole diplomacy of the continent, he returned at night to his apartments, and there, exhausted with fatigue, overwhelmed with sleep, what did he do? He took a death sentence and passed the night in revising a criminal suit, considering it something to hold his own against Europe, but that it was a still greater matter to rescue a man from the executioner. He obstinately maintained his opinion against his keeper of the seals; he disputed the ground with the guillotine foot by foot against the crown attorneys, those chatterers of the law, as he called them. Sometimes the pile of sentences covered his table; he examined them all; it was anguish to him to abandon these miserable, condemned heads. One day, he said to the same witness to whom we have recently referred: "I won seven last night." During the early years of his reign, the death penalty was as good as abolished, and the erection of a scaffold was a violence committed against the King. The Greve having disappeared with the elder branch, a bourgeois place of execution was instituted under the name of the Barriere-Saint-Jacques; "practical men" felt the necessity of a quasi-legitimate guillotine; and this was one of the victories of Casimir Perier, who represented the narrow sides of the bourgeoisie, over Louis Philippe, who represented its liberal sides. Louis Philippe annotated Beccaria with his own hand. After the Fieschi machine, he exclaimed: "What a pity that I was not wounded! Then I might have pardoned!" On another occasion, alluding to the resistance offered by his ministry, he wrote in connection with a political criminal, who is one of the most generous figures of our day: "His pardon is granted; it only remains for me to obtain it." Louis Philippe was as gentle as Louis IX. And as kindly as Henri IV. 
Now, to our mind, in history, where kindness is the rarest of pearls, the man who is kindly almost takes precedence of the man who is great. Louis Philippe having been severely judged by some, harshly, perhaps, by others, it is quite natural that a man, himself a phantom at the present day, who knew that king, should come and testify in his favor before history; this deposition, whatever else it may be, is evidently and above all things, entirely disinterested; an epitaph penned by a dead man is sincere; one shade may console another shade; the sharing of the same shadows confers the right to praise it; it is not greatly to be feared that it will ever be said of two tombs in exile: "This one flattered the other."
革命有猛烈的臂膀和灵巧的手，打得坚定，选得好。即使不彻底，甚至蜕化了，变了种，并且降到了雏形革命的地位，例如一八三○年的革命，革命也几乎必定能保住足够的天赋的明智，不至于走投无路。革命的挫折从来不会是失败。
但我们也不能过于夸大，革命也一样能犯错误，并且有过严重的错误。
我们还是来谈谈一八三○。一八三○在它的歧路上是幸运的。在那次突然中止的革命以后建立的所谓秩序的措施中，国王应当优于王权。路易－菲力浦是个难得的人。
他的父亲在历史上固然只能得到一个低微的地位，但他本人是值得敬重的，正如他父亲值得受谴责。他有全部私德和好几种公德。他关心自己的健康、自己的前程、自己的安全、自己的事业。他认识一分钟的价值，却不一定认识一年的价值。节俭，宁静，温良，能干，好好先生和好好亲王。和妻子同宿，在他的王宫里有仆从负责引导绅商们去参观他们夫妇的卧榻（在当年嫡系专爱夸耀淫风以后，这种展示严肃家规的作法是有好处的）。他能懂并且能说欧洲的任何种语言，尤其难得的是能懂能说代表各种利益的语言。他是“中等阶级”的可钦佩的代言人，但又超出了它，并且，从所有各方面看，都比它更伟大。他尽管尊重自己的血统，但又聪敏过人，特别重视自身的真实价值，尤其是在宗枝问题上，他宣称自己属于奥尔良系，不属于波旁系；当他还只是个至宁极静亲王殿下的时候，他俨然以直系亲王自居，一旦成了国王陛下，却又是个诚实的平民。在大众面前，不拘形迹，与友朋相处，平易近人；有吝啬的名声，但未经证实；其实，他原不难为自己的豪兴或职责而从事挥霍，但他能勤俭持家。有文学修养，但不大关心文采；为人倜傥而不风流，朴素安详而又坚强。受到家人和族人的爱戴，谈吐娓娓动听，是一个知过能改、内心冷淡、服从目前利益、事必躬亲、不知报怨也不知报德、善于无情地利用庸材来削弱雄才，利用议会中的多数来挫败那些在王权下面隐隐责难的一致意见。爱说真心话，真心话有时说得不谨慎，不谨慎处又有非凡的高明处。善于随机应变，富于面部表情，长于装模作样。常用欧洲来恫吓法国，又常用法国来恫吓欧洲。不容置辩地爱他的祖国，但更爱他的家庭。视治理重于权力，视权力重于尊严，这种性格，在事事求成方面，有它的短处，它允许耍花招，并不绝对排斥卑劣手段，但也有它的长处，它挽救了政治上的激烈冲突，国家的分裂和社会的灾难。精细，正确，警惕，关心，机敏，不辞疲劳；有时自相矛盾，继又自我纠正。在安科纳大胆地反抗奥地利，在西班牙顽强地反抗英国，炮轰安特卫普，赔偿卜利查①。满怀信心地歌唱《马赛曲》，不知道有颓丧疲劳，对美和理想的爱好，大无畏的豪气，乌托邦，幻想，愤怒，虚荣心，恐惧，具有个人奋战的各种形式。瓦尔米的将军，热马普的士兵，八次险遭暗杀，仍一贯笑容满面，和榴弹兵一样勇敢，和思想家一样坚强。只在欧洲动荡的机会面前担忧，不可能在政治上冒大风险，随时准备牺牲生命，从不放松自己的事业，用影响来掩盖自己的意图，使人们把他当作一个英才而不是当作一个国王来服从，长于观察而不善于揣度，不甚重视人的才智，但有知人之明，就是说，不以耳代目。明快锐利的感觉，重视实利的智力，辩才无碍，强记过人；不断地借用这种记忆，这是他唯一象恺撒、亚历山大和拿破仑的地方。知道实况、细节、日期、具体的名字；不知趋势、热情、群众的天才、内心的呼吁、灵魂的隐秘动乱，简言之，一切人可以称为良知良能的那一切无形活动。为上层所接受，但和法兰西的下层不甚融洽，通权达变，管理过多，统治不足，自己当自己的内阁大臣，极善于用一点小小事物来阻挡思想的洪流，在教化、整顿和组织等方面的真正创造力中，夹杂着一种说不出的讲究程序、斤斤计较的精神状态。一个王朝的创始人和享有人，有些地方象查理大帝，有些地方又象个书吏，总之，是个超卓不凡的形象，是个能在法国群情惶惑的情况下建立政权并在欧洲心怀嫉妒的情况下巩固势力的亲王。路易－菲力浦将被列于他这一世纪中杰出人物之列，并且，假使他稍稍爱慕荣誉，假使他对伟大事物的感情能和他对实用事物的感情达到同样的高度，他还可以跻身于历史上赫赫有名的统治者之列。 
①卜利查（George　Pritchard，1796?883），英国传教士，毁坏他在塔希提岛的财产是引起一八四三年英法冲突的导火线。
路易－菲力浦生得俊美，老了以后，仍然有风采；不一定受到全国人的赞许，却得到了一般老百姓的好感；他能讨人喜欢。他有这么一种天赋：魅力。他缺少威仪，虽是国王，却不戴王冕，虽是老人，却没有白发。他的态度是旧时代的，习惯却是新时代的，是贵族和资产阶级的混合体，正适合一八三○的要求。路易－菲力浦代表王权占统治地位的过渡时期，他保持古代的语音和写法，用来为新思想服务，他爱波兰和匈牙利，但却常写成Polonois，说成hongrais。①他象查理十世那样，穿一身国民自卫军的制服，象拿破仑那样，佩一条荣誉勋章的勋标。 
①正确的拼法应为polonais（波兰人）和hongrois（匈牙利人）。
他很少去礼拜堂，从不去打猎，绝不去歌剧院。不受教士、养狗官和舞女的腐蚀，这和他在资产阶级中的声望是有关系的。他没有侍臣。他出门时，胳膊下常夹着一把雨伞，这雨伞一直是他头顶上的光轮。他懂一点泥瓦工手艺，也懂一点园艺，也懂一点医道，他曾为一个从马背上摔下来的车夫放血，路易－菲力浦身上老揣着一把手术刀，正如亨利三世老揣着一把匕首一样。保王派常嘲笑这可笑的国王，笑他是第一个用放血来治病的国王。
在历史对路易－菲力浦的指责方面，有一个减法要做。有对王权的控诉，有对王政的控诉，也有对国王的控诉，三笔账，每一笔的总数都不同。民主权利被废除，进步成了第二位利益，市民的抗议被暴力平息，起义被武装镇压，骚乱被刺刀戳通，特兰斯诺南街①，军事委员会，真正的国家被合法的国家所合并，和三十万特权人物对半分账的政策是王权的业绩；比利时被拒绝，阿尔及利亚被征服得过分猛烈，并且，正如英国对待印度那样，野蛮手段多于文明方法，对阿布德－艾尔－喀德②的背信，白莱伊、德茨被收买，卜利查受赔偿，这些是王政的业绩；家庭重于国家的政策，这是国王的业绩。 
①一八三四年四月十四日，政府军曾在巴黎特兰斯诺南街大肆屠杀起义人民。
②阿布德－艾尔－喀德（Abd　el　kader，1808?883），一八三二年至一八四七年阿尔及利亚人民反对法国侵略者的民族解放斗争的领袖。
可以看到，账目清理以后，国王的负担便轻了。
他的大缺点是：在代表法国时，他过于谦逊了。
这缺点是从什么地方来的呢？
我们来谈谈。
路易－菲力浦，作为一个国王，他太过于以父职为重；人们希望能把一个家庭孵化为一个朝代，而他处处害怕，不敢有所作为；从而产生了过度的畏怯，使这具有七月十四日民权传统和奥斯特里茨军事传统的民族厌烦。
此外，如果我们把那些应当最先履行的公职放下不谈，路易－菲力浦对他家庭的那种深切关怀是和他那一家人相称的。那一家人，德才兼备，值得敬佩。路易－菲力浦的一个女儿，玛丽·德·奥尔良，把她的族名送进了艺苑，正如查理·德·奥尔良把它送上了诗坛。她感情充沛地塑造过一尊名为《贞德》的石像。路易－菲力浦的两个儿子曾从梅特涅的嘴里得到这样一句带盅惑性的恭维话：“这是两个不多见的青年，也是两个没见到过的王子。”
这便是路易－菲力浦不减一分也不增一分的真情实况。
蓄意要作一个平等亲王，本身具有王朝复辟和革命之间的矛盾，有在政权上安定人心的那种令人担心的革命趋向，这些便是路易－菲力浦在一八三○的幸运；人和时势之间从来不曾有过比这更圆满的配合；各得其所，而且具体体现。这就是路易－菲力浦在一八三○的运气。此外，他还有这样一个登上王位的大好条件：流亡。他曾被放逐，四处奔波，穷苦。他曾靠自己的劳力过活。在瑞士，这个法国最富饶的亲王采地的承袭者曾卖掉一匹老马来填饱肚子。他曾在赖兴诺为人补习数学，他的妹子阿黛拉伊德从事刺绣和缝纫。一个国王的这些往事是资产阶级中人所津津乐道的。他曾亲手拆毁圣米歇尔山上最后的那个铁笼子，那是路易十一所建立，并曾被路易十五使用过的。他是杜木里埃①的袍泽故旧，拉斐德的朋友，他参加过雅各宾俱乐部，米拉波拍过他的肩膀，丹东曾称呼他为年轻人！九三年时，他二十四岁，还是德·沙特尔先生②，他曾坐在国民公会的一间黑暗的小隔厢底里，目击对那个被人非常恰当地称为“可怜的暴君”的路易十六的判决。革命的昏昧的灼见，处理君主以粉碎君权，凭借君权以粉碎君主，在思想的粗暴压力下几乎没有注意那个人，审判大会上的那种漫天风暴，纷纷质问的群众愤怒，卡佩③不知怎样回答，国王的脑袋在阴风中岌岌可危的那种触目惊心的景象，所有的人，判决者和被判决者，在这悲剧中的相对清白，这些事物，他都见过，这些惊险场面，他都注视过；他看见了若干个世纪在国民公会的公案前受审；他看见了屹立在路易十六棗这个应负责的倒霉蛋棗背后黑影中的那个骇人的被告：君主制；他在他的灵魂里一直保存着对那种几乎和天谴一样无私而又大刀阔斧的民意裁决的敬畏心情。 
①杜木里埃（Dumouriez，1739?823），法国将军和十八世纪末资产阶级革命时期的政治活动家，吉伦特党人，一七九二至一七九三年为北部革命军队指挥官，一七九三年三月背叛法兰西共和国。
②路易－菲力浦原是德·沙特尔公爵。
③卡佩（Capet），找路易十六。因波旁王朝是瓦罗亚王朝（1328?589）的支系，而瓦罗亚王朝又是卡佩王朝（987?328）的旁系。国民公会称路易十六为“路易·卡佩”，意在强调封建君主制的政体是世代相传的，并着重指出互有血统关系的诸王朝是反人民的共犯。
革命在他心里留下的痕迹是不可想象的。他的回忆仿佛是那些伟大岁月一分钟接一分钟的生动图片。一天，他曾面对一个我们无法怀疑的目击者，把制宪议会那份按字母次序排列的名单中的A字部分，单凭记忆，就全部加以改正。
路易－菲力浦是一个朗如晴天的国王。在他统治期间，出版是自由的，开会是自由的，信仰和言论也都是自由的。九月的法律是疏略的。他虽然懂得阳光对特权的侵蚀作用，但仍把他的王位敞在阳光下。历史对这种赤诚，将来自有公论。
路易－菲力浦，和其他一切下了台的历史人物一样，今天正受着人类良心的审判。他的案子，还只是在初步审查期间。
历史爽朗直率发言的时刻，对他来说，还没有到来；现在还不到对这国王下定论的时候；严正而名噪一时的历史学家路易·勃朗最近便已减缓了自己最初的判词；路易－菲力浦是由两个半吊子，所谓二二一和一八三○选出来的，就是说，是由半个议会和半截革命选出来的；并且，无论如何，从哲学所应有的高度来看，我们只能在以绝对民主为原则作出的某些保留情况下来评论他，正如读者已在前面大致见到过的那样；在绝对原则的眼睛里，凡是处于这两种权利棗首先是人权，其次是民权棗之外的，全是篡夺；但是，在作了这些保留后我们现在可以说的是：“总而言之，无论人们对他如何评价，就路易－菲力浦本人并从他本性善良这一点来说，我们可以引用古代史中的一句老话，说他仍将被认为是历代最好的君王之一。”
他有什么是应当反对的呢？无非是那个王位。从路易－菲力浦身上去掉国王的身份，便剩下了那个人。那个人却是好的。他有时甚至好到令人钦佩。常常，在最严重的忧患中，和大陆上所有外交进行了一整天的斗争之后，天黑了，他才回到他的寓所，精疲力竭，睡意很浓，这时，他干什么呢？他拿起一沓卷宗，披阅一桩刑事案件，直到深夜，认为这也是和欧洲较量有关的事，但是更重要的是和刽子手争夺一条人命。他常和司法大臣强辩力争，和检察长争断头台前的一寸土，他常称他们为“罗嗦法学家”。有时，他的桌上满是成堆的案卷，他一定要一一研究，对于他，放弃那些凄惨的犯人头是件痛心的事。一天，他曾对我们在前面提到过的那同一个目击者说：“今天晚上，我赢得了七个脑袋。”在他当政的最初几年中，死刑几乎被废除了，重建的断头台是对这位国王的一种暴力。格雷沃刑场已随嫡系消逝了’继又出现了一个资产阶级的格雷沃刑场，被命名为圣雅克便门刑场；“追求实际利益的人”感到需要一个大致合法的断头台，这是代表资产阶级里狭隘思想的那部分人的卡齐米尔·佩里埃①对代表自由主义派的路易－菲力浦的胜利之一。路易－菲力浦曾亲手注释贝卡里亚的著作。在菲埃斯基②的炸弹被破获以后，他喊着说：“真不幸，我没有受伤！否则我便可以赦免了。”另一次，我们这时代最高尚的人之一被判为政治犯，他在处理这案件时，联想到内阁方面的阻力，曾作出这样的批示：“同意赦免，仍待我去争取。”路易－菲力浦和路易九世一样温和，也和亨利四世一样善良。
因此，对我们来说，善良既是历史中稀有的珍珠，善良的人便几乎优于伟大的人。
路易－菲力浦受到某些人严峻的评论，也许还受到另一些人粗鲁的评论，一个曾熟悉这位国王、今日已成游魂的人③，来到历史面前为他作证，那也是极自然的；这种证词，不管怎样，首先，明明白白，是不含私意的；一个死人写出的墓志铭总是真诚的，一个亡魂可以安慰另一个亡魂，同在冥府里的人有赞扬的权利，不用害怕人们指着海外的两堆黄土说：“这堆土向那堆土献媚。” 
①卡齐米尔·佩里埃（CasimirPérier），路易－菲力浦的内政大臣，大银行家。
②菲埃斯基（Fieschi），科西嘉人，一八三五年企图暗杀路易－菲力浦，未成被处死。
③指作者自己。作者写本书时正流亡国外，其时路易－菲力浦在英国死去已十年。
Part 4 Book 1 Chapter 4 Cracks beneath the Foundation
At the moment when the drama which we are narrating is on the point of penetrating into the depths of one of the tragic clouds which envelop the beginning of Louis Philippe's reign, it was necessary that there should be no equivoque, and it became requisite that this book should offer some explanation with regard to this king.
Louis Philippe had entered into possession of his royal authority without violence, without any direct action on his part, by virtue of a revolutionary change, evidently quite distinct from the real aim of the Revolution, but in which he, the Duc d'Orleans, exercised no personal initiative. He had been born a Prince, and he believed himself to have been elected King. He had not served this mandate on himself; he had not taken it; it had been offered to him, and he had accepted it; convinced, wrongly, to be sure, but convinced nevertheless, that the offer was in accordance with right and that the acceptance of it was in accordance with duty. Hence his possession was in good faith. Now, we say it in good conscience, Louis Philippe being in possession in perfect good faith, and the democracy being in good faith in its attack, the amount of terror discharged by the social conflicts weighs neither on the King nor on the democracy. A clash of principles resembles a clash of elements. The ocean defends the water, the hurricane defends the air, the King defends Royalty, the democracy defends the people; the relative, which is the monarchy, resists the absolute, which is the republic; society bleeds in this conflict, but that which constitutes its suffering to-day will constitute its safety later on; and, in any case, those who combat are not to be blamed; one of the two parties is evidently mistaken; the right is not, like the Colossus of Rhodes, on two shores at once, with one foot on the republic, and one in Royalty; it is indivisible, and all on one side; but those who are in error are so sincerely; a blind man is no more a criminal than a Vendean is a ruffian. Let us, then, impute to the fatality of things alone these formidable collisions. Whatever the nature of these tempests may be, human irresponsibility is mingled with them. 
Let us complete this exposition.
The government of 1840 led a hard life immediately. Born yesterday, it was obliged to fight to-day. 
Hardly installed, it was already everywhere conscious of vague movements of traction on the apparatus of July so recently laid, and so lacking in solidity.
Resistance was born on the morrow; perhaps even, it was born on the preceding evening. From month to month the hostility increased, and from being concealed it became patent. 
The Revolution of July, which gained but little acceptance outside of France by kings, had been diversely interpreted in France, as we have said.
God delivers over to men his visible will in events, an obscure text written in a mysterious tongue. Men immediately make translations of it; translations hasty, incorrect, full of errors, of gaps, and of nonsense. Very few minds comprehend the divine language. The most sagacious, the calmest, the most profound, decipher slowly, and when they arrive with their text, the task has long been completed; there are already twenty translations on the public place. From each remaining springs a party, and from each misinterpretation a faction; and each party thinks that it alone has the true text, and each faction thinks that it possesses the light.
Power itself is often a faction.
There are, in revolutions, swimmers who go against the current; they are the old parties. 
For the old parties who clung to heredity by the grace of God, think that revolutions, having sprung from the right to revolt, one has the right to revolt against them. Error. For in these revolutions, the one who revolts is not the people; it is the king. Revolution is precisely the contrary of revolt. Every revolution, being a normal outcome, contains within itself its legitimacy, which false revolutionists sometimes dishonor, but which remains even when soiled, which survives even when stained with blood. 
Revolutions spring not from an accident, but from necessity. A revolution is a return from the fictitious to the real. It is because it must be that it is.
None the less did the old legitimist parties assail the Revolution of 1830 with all the vehemence which arises from false reasoning. Errors make excellent projectiles. They strike it cleverly in its vulnerable spot, in default of a cuirass, in its lack of logic; they attacked this revolution in its royalty. They shouted to it: "Revolution, why this king?" Factions are blind men who aim correctly.
This cry was uttered equally by the republicans. But coming from them, this cry was logical. What was blindness in the legitimists was clearness of vision in the democrats. 1830 had bankrupted the people. The enraged democracy reproached it with this.
Between the attack of the past and the attack of the future, the establishment of July struggled. It represented the minute at loggerheads on the one hand with the monarchical centuries, on the other hand with eternal right.
In addition, and beside all this, as it was no longer revolution and had become a monarchy, 1830 was obliged to take precedence of all Europe. To keep the peace, was an increase of complication. A harmony established contrary to sense is often more onerous than a war. From this secret conflict, always muzzled, but always growling, was born armed peace, that ruinous expedient of civilization which in the harness of the European cabinets is suspicious in itself. The Royalty of July reared up, in spite of the fact that it caught it in the harness of European cabinets. Metternich would gladly have put it in kicking-straps. Pushed on in France by progress, it pushed on the monarchies, those loiterers in Europe. After having been towed, it undertook to tow.
Meanwhile, within her, pauperism, the proletariat, salary, education, penal servitude, prostitution, the fate of the woman, wealth, misery, production, consumption, division, exchange, coin, credit, the rights of capital, the rights of labor, --all these questions were multiplied above society, a terrible slope.
Outside of political parties properly so called, another movement became manifest. Philosophical fermentation replied to democratic fermentation. The elect felt troubled as well as the masses; in another manner, but quite as much.
Thinkers meditated, while the soil, that is to say, the people, traversed by revolutionary currents, trembled under them with indescribably vague epileptic shocks. These dreamers, some isolated, others united in families and almost in communion, turned over 
social questions in a pacific but profound manner; impassive miners, who tranquilly pushed their galleries into the depths of a volcano, hardly disturbed by the dull commotion and the furnaces of which they caught glimpses.
This tranquillity was not the least beautiful spectacle of this agitated epoch.
These men left to political parties the question of rights, they occupied themselves with the question of happiness.
The well-being of man, that was what they wanted to extract from society.
They raised material questions, questions of agriculture, of industry, of commerce, almost to the dignity of a religion. In civilization, such as it has formed itself, a little by the command of God, a great deal by the agency of man, interests combine, unite, and amalgamate in a manner to form a veritable hard rock, in accordance with a dynamic law, patiently studied by economists, those geologists of politics.These men who grouped themselves under different appellations, but who may all be designated by the generic title of socialists, endeavored to pierce that rock and to cause it to spout forth the living waters of human felicity.
From the question of the scaffold to the question of war, their works embraced everything. To the rights of man, as proclaimed by the French Revolution, they added the rights of woman and the rights of the child. 
The reader will not be surprised if, for various reasons, we do not here treat in a thorough manner, from the theoretical point of view, the questions raised by socialism. We confine ourselves to indicating them.
All the problems that the socialists proposed to themselves, cosmogonic visions, revery and mysticism being cast aside, can be reduced to two principal problems.
First problem: To produce wealth.
Second problem: To share it.
The first problem contains the question of work.
The second contains the question of salary.
In the first problem the employment of forces is in question.
In the second, the distribution of enjoyment.
From the proper employment of forces results public power.
From a good distribution of enjoyments results individual happiness.
By a good distribution, not an equal but an equitable distribution must be understood.
From these two things combined, the public power without, individual happiness within, results social prosperity. 
Social prosperity means the man happy, the citizen free, the nation great. 
England solves the first of these two problems. She creates wealth admirably, she divides it badly. This solution which is complete on one side only leads her fatally to two extremes: monstrous opulence, monstrous wretchedness. All enjoyments for some, all privations for the rest, that is to say, for the people; privilege, exception, monopoly, feudalism, born from toil itself. A false and dangerous situation, which sates public power or private misery, which sets the roots of the State in the sufferings of the individual. A badly constituted grandeur in which are combined all the material elements and into which no moral element enters.
Communism and agrarian law think that they solve the second problem. They are mistaken. Their division kills production. Equal partition abolishes emulation; and consequently labor. It is a partition made by the butcher, which kills that which it divides. It is therefore impossible to pause over these pretended solutions. Slaying wealth is not the same thing as dividing it.
The two problems require to be solved together, to be well solved. The two problems must be combined and made but one.
Solve only the first of the two problems; you will be Venice, you will be England. You will have, like Venice, an artificial power, or, like England, a material power; you will be the wicked rich man. You will die by an act of violence, as Venice died, or by bankruptcy, as England will fall. And the world will allow to die and fall all that is merely selfishness, all that does not represent for the human race either a virtue or an idea. 
It is well understood here, that by the words Venice, England, we designate not the peoples, but social structures; the oligarchies superposed on nations, and not the nations themselves. The nations always have our respect and our sympathy. Venice, as a people, will live again; England, the aristocracy, will fall, but England, the nation, is immortal. That said, we continue. 
Solve the two problems, encourage the wealthy, and protect the poor, suppress misery, put an end to the unjust farming out of the feeble by the strong, put a bridle on the iniquitous jealousy of the man who is making his way against the man who has reached the goal, adjust, mathematically and fraternally, salary to labor, mingle gratuitous and compulsory education with the growth of childhood, and make of science the base of manliness, develop minds while keeping arms busy, be at one and the same time a powerful people and a family of happy men, render property democratic, not by abolishing it, but by making it universal, so that every citizen, without exception, may be a proprietor, an easier matter than is generally supposed; in two words, learn how to produce wealth and how to distribute it, and you will have at once moral and material greatness; and you will be worthy to call yourself France. 
This is what socialism said outside and above a few sects which have gone astray; that is what it sought in facts, that is what it sketched out in minds.
Efforts worthy of admiration! Sacred attempts! 
These doctrines, these theories, these resistances, the unforeseen necessity for the statesman to take philosophers into account, confused evidences of which we catch a glimpse, a new system of politics to be created, which shall be in accord with the old world without too much disaccord with the new revolutionary ideal, a situation in which it became necessary to use Lafayette to defend Polignac, the intuition of progress transparent beneath the revolt, the chambers and streets, the competitions to be brought into equilibrium around him, his faith in the Revolution, perhaps an eventual indefinable resignation born of the vague acceptance of a superior definitive right, his desire to remain of his race, his domestic spirit, his sincere respect for the people, his own honesty, preoccupied Louis Philippe almost painfully, and there were moments when strong and courageous as he was, he was overwhelmed by the difficulties of being a king. 
He felt under his feet a formidable disaggregation, which was not, nevertheless, a reduction to dust, France being more France than ever. 
Piles of shadows covered the horizon. A strange shade, gradually drawing nearer, extended little by little over men, over things, over ideas; a shade which came from wraths and systems. Everything which had been hastily stifled was moving and fermenting. At times the conscience of the honest man resumed its breathing, so great was the discomfort of that air in which sophisms were intermingled with truths. Spirits trembled in the social anxiety like leaves at the approach of a storm. The electric tension was such that at certain instants, the first comer, a stranger, brought light. Then the twilight obscurity closed in again. At intervals, deep and dull mutterings allowed a judgment to be formed as to the quantity of thunder contained by the cloud. 
Twenty months had barely elapsed since the Revolution of July, the year 1832 had opened with an aspect of something impending and threatening.
The distress of the people, the laborers without bread, the last Prince de Conde engulfed in the shadows, Brussels expelling the Nassaus as Paris did the Bourbons, Belgium offering herself to a French Prince and giving herself to an English Prince, the Russian hatred of Nicolas, behind us the demons of the South, Ferdinand in Spain, Miguel in Portugal, the earth quaking in Italy, Metternich extending his hand over Bologna, France treating Austria sharply at Ancona, at the North no one knew what sinister sound of the hammer nailing up Poland in her coffin, irritated glances watching France narrowly all over Europe, England, a suspected ally, ready to give a push to that which was tottering and to hurl herself on that which should fall, the peerage sheltering itself behind Beccaria to refuse four heads to the law, the fleurs -de -lys erased from the King's carriage, the cross torn from Notre Dame, Lafayette lessened, Laffitte ruined, Benjamin Constant dead in indigence, Casimir Perier dead in the exhaustion of his power; political and social malady breaking out simultaneously in the two capitals of the kingdom, the one in the city of thought, the other in the city of toil; at Paris civil war, at Lyons servile war; in the two cities, the same glare of the furnace; a crater-like crimson on the brow of the people; the South rendered fanatic, the West troubled, the Duchesse de Berry in la Vendee, plots, conspiracies, risings, cholera, added the sombre roar of tumult of events to the sombre roar of ideas.
在路易－菲力浦当国的初期，天空已多次被惨淡的乌云所笼罩，我们叙述的故事即将进入当时的一阵乌云的深处，本书对这位国王，必须有所阐述，不能模棱两可。
路易－菲力浦掌握王权，并非通过他本人的直接行动，也没使用暴力，而是由于革命性质的一种转变，这和那次革命的真正目的显然相去甚远，但是，作为奥尔良公爵的他，在其中绝无主动的努力。他生来就是亲王，并自信是被选为国王的。他绝没有为自己加上这一称号，他一点没有争取，别人把这称号送来给他，他加以接受罢了；他深信，当然错了，但他深信授予是基于人权，接受是基于义务。因此，他的享国是善意的。我们也真心诚意地说，路易－菲力浦享国是出于善意，民主主义的进攻也是出于善意，种种社会斗争所引起的那一点恐怖，既不能归咎于国王，也不能归咎于民主主义。主义之间的冲突有如物质间的冲突。海洋护卫水，狂风护卫空气，国王护卫王权，民主主义护卫人民；相对抗拒绝对，就是说，君主制抗拒共和制；社会常在这种冲突中流血，但是它今天所受的痛苦将在日后成为它的幸福；并且，不管怎样，那些进行斗争的人在此地是丝毫没有什么可责备的；两派中的一派显然是错了，人权并不象罗得岛的巨像①那样，同时脚跨两岸，一只脚踏在共和方面，一只脚踏在君权方面；它是分不开的，只能站在一边；但是错了的人是错得光明的，盲人并不是罪人，正如旺代人不是土匪。我们只能把这些猛烈的冲突归咎于事物的必然性。不问这些风暴的性质如何，其中人负不了责任。 
①公元前二八○年在希腊罗得岛上建成的一座太阳神青铜塑像，高三十二米，耸立在该岛港口，胯下能容巨舶通过。公元前二二四年在一次大地震中被毁。
让我们来完成这一叙述。
一八三○年的政府立即面对困难的生活。它昨天刚生下来，今日便得战斗。
七月的国家机器还刚刚搭起，装配得还很不牢固，便已感到处处暗藏着拖后腿的力量。
阻力在第二天便出现了，也许在前一天便已存在。
对抗势力一月一月壮大起来，并且暗斗变成了明争。
七月革命，我们已经说过，在法国国外并没受到君王们的欢迎，在国内又遇到了各种不同的解释。
上帝把它明显的意图通过种种事件揭示给人们，那原是一种晦涩难解的天书。人们拿来立即加以解释，解释得草率不正确，充满了错误、漏洞和反义。很少人能理解神的语言。最聪明、最冷静、最深刻的人慢慢加以分析，可是，当他们把译文拿出来时，事情早已定局了，公共的广场上早已有了二十种译本。每一种译本产生一个党，每一个反义产生一个派，并且每一个党都自以为掌握了唯一正确的译文，每一个派也自以为光明在自己的一边。
当权者本身往往自成一派。
革命中常有逆流游泳的人，这些人都属于旧党派。
旧党派自以为秉承上帝的恩宠，拥有继承权，他们认为革命是由反抗的权利产生出来的，他们便也有反抗革命的权利。错了。因为，在革命中反抗的不是人民，而是国王。革命恰恰是反抗的反面。任何革命都是一种正常的事业，它本身具有它的合法性，有时会被假革命者所玷污，但是，尽管被玷污，它仍然要坚持下去，尽管满身血迹，也一样要生存下去。革命不是由偶然事件产生的，而是由需要产生的。革命是去伪存真。它是因为不得不发生而发生的。
旧正统主义派也凭着谬误的理解所产生的全部戾气对一八三○年革命大肆攻击。谬见常是极好的炮弹。它能巧妙地打中那次革命的要害，打中它的铁甲的弱点，打中它缺少逻辑的地方，正统主义派抓住了王权问题来攻击那次革命。他们吼道：“革命，为什么要这国王？”瞎子也真能瞄准。这种吼声，也是共和派常常发出的。但是，出自他们，这吼声便合逻辑。这话出自正统主义派的口是瞎说，出自民主主义派的口却是灼见。一八三○曾使人民破产。愤激的民主主义要向它问罪。
七月政权在来自过去和来自未来的两面夹击中挣扎。它代表若干世纪的君主政体和永恒的人权之间的那一刹那。
此外，在对外方面，一八三○既已不是革命，并且变成了君主制，它便非跟着欧洲走不可。要保住和平，问题便更加复杂。违反潮流，倒转去寻求和洽，往往比进行战争更为棘手。从这种经常忍气而不尽吞声的暗斗中产生了武装和平棗一种连文明自身也信不过的殃民办法。七月王朝无可奈何地象一匹烈马在欧洲各国内阁所驾御的辕轭间腾起前蹄打蹦儿。梅特涅一心要勒紧缰绳。七月王朝在法国受着进步力量的推动，又在欧洲推动那些君主国，那伙行走缓慢的动物。它被拖，也拖人。
同时，在国内，社会上存在着一大堆问题：贫穷、无产阶级、工资、教育、刑罚、卖淫、妇女的命运、财富、饥寒、生产、消费、分配、交换、币制、信贷、资本的权利、劳工的权利等，情势岌岌可危。
在真正的政党以外，还出现另一种动态。和民主主义的酝酿相呼应的还有哲学方面的酝酿。优秀人物和一般群众都感到困惑，情况各不同，但同在困惑中。
有些思想家在思考，然而土壤，就是说，人民大众，受到了革命潮流的冲击，却在他们下面，被一种无以名之的癫痫震荡着。这些思想家，有的单干，有的汇合成派，并且几乎结为团体，把各种社会问题冷静而深入地揭示出来；这些坚忍的无动于衷的地下工人把他们的坑道静静地挖向火山的深处，几乎不为潜在的震动和隐约可辨的烈焰所动摇。
那种平静并非是那动荡时代最不美的景象。
那些人把各种权利问题留给政党，他们一心致力于幸福问题。
人的福利，这才是他们要从社会中提炼出来的东西。
他们把物质问题，农业、工业、商业等问题提到了几乎和宗教同样高贵的地位。文明的构成，成于上帝的少，成于人类的多，在其中，各种利益都以某一种动力的规律彼此结合、汇集、搀和，从而构成一种真正坚硬的岩石，这已由那些经济学家棗政治上的地质学家棗耐心研究过的。
他们试图凿穿这岩石，使人类无上幸福的源泉从那里源源喷出，这些人，各自聚集在不同的名称下面，但一律可用社会主义者这个属名来称呼他们。
他们的工程包括一切，从断头台问题直到战争问题都被包括在内。在法兰西革命所宣告的人权之外，他们还加上了妇女的权利和儿童的权利。
这点是不足为奇的，由于种种原因，我们不能在这里就社会主义所提出的各种问题一一从理论上作出详尽的论述，我们只打算略提一下。
社会主义者所要解决的全部问题，如果把那些有关宇宙形成学说的幻象、梦想和神秘主义都撇开不谈，可以概括为两个主要问题：
第一个问题：
生产财富。
第二个问题：
分配财富。
第一个问题包括劳动问题。
第二个包括工资问题。
第一个问题涉及劳力的使用。
第二个涉及享受的配给。
从劳力的合理使用产生大众的权力。
从享受的合理配给产生个人的幸福。
所谓合理的配给，并非平均的配给，而是公平的配给。最首要的平等是公正。
把外面的大众权力和里面的个人幸福这两个东西合在一起，便产生了社会的繁荣。
社会的繁荣是指幸福的人、自由的公民、强大的国家。
英国解决了这两个问题中的第一个。它出色地创造了财富！但分配失当。这种只完成一个方面的解决办法必然把它引向这样两个极端：丑恶不堪的豪华和丑恶不堪的穷苦。全部享受归于几个人，全部贫乏归于其余的人，就是说，归于人民；特权、例外、垄断、封建制都从劳动中产生。把大众的权力建立在私人的穷苦上面，国家的强盛扎根于个人的痛苦中，这是一种虚假的、危险的形势。这是一种组织得不好的强盛，这里面只有全部物质因素，毫无精神因素。
共产主义和土地法以为能解决第二个问题。他们搞错了。他们的分配扼杀生产。平均的授予取消竞争。从而也取消劳动。这是那种先宰后分的屠夫式的分配方法。因此，不可能停留在这种自以为是的办法上。扼杀财富并不是分配财富。
这两个问题必须一同解决，才能解决得当。两个问题必须并为一个来加以解决。
只解决这两个问题中的第一个吧，你将成为威尼斯，你将成为英格兰。你将和威尼斯一样只有一种虚假的强盛，或是象英格兰那样，只有一种物质上的强盛，你将成为一个恶霸。你将在暴力前灭亡，象威尼斯的末日那样，或是在破产中灭亡，象英格兰的将来那样。并且世界将让你死亡，让你倒下，因为凡是专门利己，凡是不能为人类代表一种美德或一种思想的事物，世界总是让它们倒下去，死去的。
当然，我们在这里提到了威尼斯和英格兰，我们所指的不是那些民族，而是那些社会结构，指高踞在那些民族上面的寡头政治，不是那些民族本身。对于那些民族，我们始终是尊敬、同情的。威尼斯的民族必将再生，英格兰的贵族必将倾覆，英格兰的民族却是不朽的。这话说了以后，我们继续谈下去。解决那两个问题，鼓励富人，保护穷人，消灭贫困，制止强者对弱者所施的不合理的剥削，煞住走在路上的人对已达目的的人所怀的不公道的嫉妒，精确地并兄弟般地调整对劳动的报酬，结合儿童的成长施行免费的义务教育，并使科学成为成年人的生活基础，在利用体力的同时发展人们的智力，让我们成为一个强国的人民，同时也成为一个幸福家庭的成员，实行财产民主化，不是废除财产，而是普及财产，使每个公民，毫无例外，都成为有产者，这并不象人们所想象的那么困难，总而言之，要知道生产财富和分配财富，这样，你便能既有物质上的强大，也有精神上的强大，这样，你才有资格自称为法兰西。
这便是不同于某些迷失了方向的宗派并高出于它们之上的社会主义所说的，这便是它在实际事物中所探索的，这便是它在理想中所设计的。
可贵的毅力！神圣的意图！
这些学说，这些理论，这些阻力，国务活动家必须和哲学家们一同正视的那种出人意料的需要，一些零乱而隐约可见的论据，一种有待于创始、既能调和旧社会而又不过分违反革命理想的新政策，一种不得不利用拉斐德来保护波林尼雅克①的形势，对从暴动中明显反映出来的进步力量的预感，议会和街道，发生在他左右的那些有待平衡的竞争，他对革命的信念，也许是模糊地接受了一种从正式而崇高的权利里产生的临时退让心情，他重视自己血统的意志，他的家庭观念，他对人民的真诚尊重，他自己的忠厚，这一切，常使路易－菲力浦心神不定，几乎感到痛苦，并且，有时，尽管他是那么坚强、勇敢，也使他在当国王的困难前感到灰心丧气。
他觉得在他脚下有种可怕的分裂活动，但又不是土崩瓦解，因为法兰西比以往任何时候都更加法兰西了。
阴霾遮住天边。一团奇特的黑影越移越近，在人、物、思想的上空慢慢散开，是种种仇恨和种种派系的黑影。被突然堵住了的一切又在移动酝酿了。有时，这忠厚人的良心不能不在那种夹杂诡辩和真理的令人极不舒畅的空气里倒抽一口气。人们的心情如同风暴将临时的树叶，在烦惑的社会中发抖。电压是那么强，以致常有一个来历不明的陌生人在某种时刻突然闪过。接着又是一片黑暗昏黄。间或有几声闷雷在远处隐隐轰鸣，使人们意识到云中蕴蓄着的电量。
七月革命发生后还不到二十个月，一八三二年便在紧急危殆的气氛中开始了。人民的疾苦，没有面包的劳动人民，最后一个孔代亲王的横死②，仿效驱逐波旁家族的巴黎而驱逐纳索家族的布鲁塞尔，自愿归附一个法兰西亲王而终被交给一个英格兰亲王的比利时，尼古拉的俄罗斯仇恨，站在我们背后的两个南方魔鬼西班牙的斐迪南和葡萄牙的米格尔，意大利的地震，把手伸向博洛尼亚的梅特涅，在安科纳以强硬手段对付奥地利的法兰西，从北方传来把波兰钉进棺材的那阵无限悲凉的锤子声音，整个欧洲瞪眼望着法国的那种愤激目光，随时准备趁火打劫、落井下石的不可靠的盟国英格兰，躲在贝卡里亚背后拒绝向法律交出四颗人头的贵族院，从国王车子上刮掉的百合花，从圣母院拔去的十字架，物化了的拉斐德，破产了的拉菲特，死于贫困的班加曼·贡斯当，死于力竭的卡齐米尔·佩里埃，在这王国的两个都市中棗一个思想的城市，一个劳动的城市棗同时发生的政治病和社会病，巴黎的民权战争，里昂的奴役战争，两个城市中的同一种烈焰，出现在人民额头上的那种类似火山爆发的紫光，狂烈的南方，动荡的西方，待在旺代的德·贝里公爵夫人，阴谋，颠覆活动，暴乱，霍乱，这些都在种种思潮的纷争之上增添了种种事变的纷起。 
①在法国一八三○年革命中，拉斐德是自由保王派，波林尼雅克是被推翻的查理十世王朝的内阁大臣。
②孔代（Condé），波旁家族的一个支系，一八三○年孔代亲王被人吊死在野外，未破案。 
Part 4 Book 1 Chapter 5 Facts whence History springs and which History ignores
Towards the end of April, everything had become aggravated. The fermentation entered the boiling state. Ever since 1830,petty partial revolts had been going on here and there,which were quickly suppressed, but ever bursting forth afresh,the sign of a vast underlying conflagration. Something terrible was in preparation. Glimpses could be caught of the features still indistinct and imperfectly lighted, of a possible revolution. France kept an eye on Paris; Paris kept an eye on the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
The Faubourg Saint-Antoine, which was in a dull glow, was beginning its ebullition.
The wine-shops of the Rue de Charonne were, although the union of the two epithets seems singular when applied to wine-shops, grave and stormy.
The government was there purely and simply called in question. There people publicly discussed the question of fighting or of keeping quiet. There were back shops where workingmen were made to swear that they would hasten into the street at the first cry of alarm, and "that they would fight without counting the number of the enemy." This engagement once entered into, a man seated in the corner of the wine-shop "assumed a sonorous tone," and said, "You understand! You have sworn!"
Sometimes they went up stairs, to a private room on the first floor,and there scenes that were almost masonic were enacted. They made the initiated take oaths to render service to himself as well as to the fathers of families. That was the formula.
In the tap-rooms, "subversive" pamphlets were read. They treated the government with contempt, says a secret report of that time.
Words like the following could be heard there: --
"I don't know the names of the leaders. We folks shall not know the day until two hours beforehand." One workman said: "There are three hundred of us, let each contribute ten sous, that will make one hundred and fifty francs with which to procure powder and shot."
Another said: "I don't ask for six months, I don't ask for even two. In less than a fortnight we shall be parallel with the government. With twenty-five thousand men we can face them." Another said: "I don't sleep at night, because I make cartridges all night." From time to time, men "of bourgeois appearance, and in good coats" came and "caused embarrassment," and with the air of "command," shook hands with the most important, and then went away. They never stayed more than ten minutes. Significant remarks were exchanged in a low tone: "The plot is ripe, the matter is arranged." "It was murmured by all who were there," to borrow the very expression of one of those who were present. The exaltation was such that one day, a workingman exclaimed, efore the whole wine-shop: "We have no arms!" One of his comrades replied: "The soldiers have!" thus parodying without being aware of the fact, Bonaparte's proclamation to the army in Italy: "When they had anything of a more secret nature on hand," adds one report, "they did not communicate it to each other." It is not easy to understand what they could conceal after what they said.
These reunions were sometimes periodical. At certain ones of them, there were never more than eight or ten persons present, and they were always the same. In others, any one entered who wished, and the room was so full that they were forced to stand. Some went thither through enthusiasm and passion; others because it was on their way to their work. As during the Revolution, there were patriotic women in some of these wine-shops who embraced new -comers.
Other expressive facts came to light.
A man would enter a shop, drink, and go his way with the remark: "Wine-merchant, the revolution will pay what is due to you."
Revolutionary agents were appointed in a wine-shop facing the Rue de Charonne. The balloting was carried on in their caps. 
Workingmen met at the house of a fencing-master who gave lessons in the Rue de Cotte. There there was a trophy of arms formed of wooden broadswords, canes, clubs, and foils. One day, the buttons were removed from the foils. 
A workman said: "There are twenty-five of us, but they don't count on me, because I am looked upon as a machine." Later on, that machine became Quenisset.
The indefinite things which were brewing gradually acquired a strange and indescribable notoriety. A woman sweeping off her doorsteps said to another woman: "For a long time, there has been a strong force busy making cartridges." In the open street, proclamation could be seen addressed to the National Guard in the departments. One of these proclamations was signed: Burtot, wine-merchant. 
One day a man with his beard worn like a collar and with an Italian accent mounted a stone post at the door of a liquor-seller in the Marche Lenoir, and read aloud a singular document, which seemed to emanate from an occult power. Groups formed around him, and applauded.
The passages which touched the crowd most deeply were collected and noted down. "--Our doctrines are trammelled, our proclamations torn, our bill-stickers are spied upon and thrown into prison."--"The breakdown which has recently taken place in cottons has converted to us many mediums."--"The future of nations is being worked out in our obscure ranks."--" Here are the fixed terms: action or reaction, revolution or counter-revolution. For, at our epoch, we no longer believe either in inertia or in immobility. For the people against the people, that is the question. There is no other."--"On the day when we cease to suit you, break us, but up to that day, help us to march on." All this in broad daylight.
Other deeds, more audacious still, were suspicious in the eyes of the people by reason of their very audacity. On the 4th of April, 1832, a passer-by mounted the post on the corner which forms the angle of the Rue Sainte-Marguerite and shouted: "I am a Babouvist!" But beneath Babeuf, the people scented Gisquet.
Among other things, this man said: --
"Down with property! The opposition of the left is cowardly and treacherous. When it wants to be on the right side, it preaches revolution, it is democratic in order to escape being beaten, and royalist so that it may not have to fight. The republicans are beasts with feathers. Distrust the republicans, citizens of the laboring classes."
"Silence, citizen spy!" cried an artisan.
This shout put an end to the discourse.
Mysterious incidents occurred.
At nightfall, a workingman encountered near the canal a "very well dressed man," who said to him: "Whither are you bound, citizen?" "Sir," replied the workingman, "I have not the honor of your acquaintance." "I know you very well, however." And the man added: "Don't be alarmed, I am an agent of the committee. You are suspected of not being quite faithful. You know that if you reveal anything, there is an eye fixed on you." Then he shook hands with the workingman and went away, saying: "We shall meet again soon." 
The police, who were on the alert, collected singular dialogues, not only in the wine-shops, but in the street.
"Get yourself received very soon," said a weaver to a cabinet-maker.
"Why?"
"There is going to be a shot to fire."
Two ragged pedestrians exchanged these remarkable replies, fraught with evident Jacquerie:-- 
"Who governs us?"
"M. Philippe."
"No, it is the bourgeoisie."
The reader is mistaken if he thinks that we take the word Jacquerie in a bad sense. The Jacques were the poor.
On another occasion two men were heard to say to each other as they passed by: "We have a good plan of attack." 
Only the following was caught of a private conversation between four men who were crouching in a ditch of the circle of the Barriere du Trone:--
"Everything possible will be done to prevent his walking about Paris any more."
Who was the he? Menacing obscurity.
"The principal leaders," as they said in the faubourg, held themselves apart. It was supposed that they met for consultation in a wine-shop near the point Saint-Eustache. A certain Aug--, chief of the Society aid for tailors, Rue Mondetour, had the reputation of serving as intermediary central between the leaders and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
Nevertheless, there was always a great deal of mystery about these leaders, and no certain fact can invalidate the singular arrogance of this reply made later on by a man accused before the Court of Peers:--
"Who was your leader?"
"I knew of none and I recognized none."
There was nothing but words, transparent but vague; sometimes idle reports, rumors, hearsay. Other indications cropped up.
A carpenter, occupied in nailing boards to a fence around the ground on which a house was in process of construction, in the Rue de Reuilly found on that plot the torn fragment of a letter on which were still legible the following lines:--
The committee must take measures to prevent recruiting in the sections for the different societies.
And, as a postscript:--
We have learned that there are guns in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonniere, No. 5 [bis], to the number of five or six thousand, in the house of a gunsmith in that court. The section owns no arms.
What excited the carpenter and caused him to show this thing to his neighbors was the fact, that a few paces further on he picked up another paper, torn like the first, and still more significant, of which we reproduce a facsimile, because of the historical interest attaching to these strange documents:--
+------------------------------------------------------------+ | Q | C | D | E | Learn this list by heart. After so doing | | | | | | you will tear it up. The men admitted | | | | | | will do the same when you have transmitted | | | | | | their orders to them. | | | | | | Health and Fraternity, | | | | | | u og a fe L. | +------------------------------------------------------------+
It was only later on that the persons who were in the secret of this find at the time, learned the significance of those four capital letters: quinturions, centurions, decurions, eclaireurs [scouts], and the sense of the letters: u og a fe, which was a date, and meant April 15th, 1832. Under each capital letter were inscribed names followed by very characteristic notes. Thus: Q. Bannerel. 8 guns, 83 cartridges. A safe man.--C. Boubiere. 1 pistol, 40 cartridges.--D. Rollet. 1 foil, 1 pistol, 1 pound of powder.-- E. Tessier. 1 sword, 1 cartridge-box. Exact.--Terreur. 8 guns. Brave, etc.
Finally, this carpenter found, still in the same enclosure, a third paper on which was written in pencil, but very legibly, this sort of enigmatical list:--
Unite: Blanchard: Arbre-Sec. 6. Barra. Soize. Salle-au-Comte. Kosciusko. Aubry the Butcher? J. J. R. Caius Gracchus. Right of revision. Dufond. Four. Fall of the Girondists. Derbac. Maubuee. Washington. Pinson. 1 pistol, 86 cartridges. Marseillaise. Sovereignty of the people. Michel. Quincampoix. Sword. Hoche. Marceau. Plato. Arbre-Sec. Warsaw. Tilly, crier of the Populaire. 
The honest bourgeois into whose hands this list fell knew its significance. It appears that this list was the complete nomenclature of the sections of the fourth arondissement of the Society of the Rights of Man, with the names and dwellings of the chiefs of sections. To-day, when all these facts which were obscure are nothing more than history, we may publish them. It should be added, that the foundation of the Society of the Rights of Man seems to have been posterior to the date when this paper was found. Perhaps this was only a rough draft. 
Still, according to all the remarks and the words, according to written notes, material facts begin to make their appearance. 
In the Rue Popincourt, in the house of a dealer in bric-abrac, there were seized seven sheets of gray paper, all folded alike lengthwise and in four; these sheets enclosed twenty-six squares of this same gray paper folded in the form of a cartridge, and a card, on which was written the following: --
Saltpetre . . . . . . . . . . . 12 ounces. Sulphur . . . . . . . . . . . 2 ounces. Charcoal . . . . . . . . . . . 2 ounces and a half. Water . . . . . . . . . . . 2 ounces.
The report of the seizure stated that the drawer exhaled a strong smell of powder.
A mason returning from his day's work, left behind him a little package on a bench near the bridge of Austerlitz. This package was taken to the police station. It was opened, and in it were found two printed dialogues, signed Lahautiere, a song entitled: "Workmen, band together," and a tin box full of cartridges.
One artisan drinking with a comrade made the latter feel him to see how warm he was; the other man felt a pistol under his waistcoat. 
In a ditch on the boulevard, between Pere-Lachaise and the Barriere du Trone, at the most deserted spot, some children, while playing, discovered beneath a mass of shavings and refuse bits of wood, a bag containing a bullet-mould, a wooden punch for the preparation of cartridges, a wooden bowl, in which there were grains of hunting-powder, and a little cast-iron pot whose interior presented evident traces of melted lead. 
Police agents, making their way suddenly and unexpectedly at five o'clock in the morning, into the dwelling of a certain Pardon, who was afterwards a member of the Barricade-Merry section and got himself killed in the insurrection of April, 1834, found him standing near his bed, and holding in his hand some cartridges which he was in the act of preparing.
Towards the hour when workingmen repose, two men were seen to meet between the Barriere Picpus and the Barriere Charenton in a little lane between two walls, near a wine-shop, in front of which there was a "Jeu de Siam."[33] One drew a pistol from beneath his blouse and handed it to the other. As he was handing it to him, he noticed that the perspiration of his chest had made the powder damp. He primed the pistol and added more powder to what was already in the pan. Then the two men parted. 
[33] A game of ninepins, in which one side of the ball is smaller than the other, so that it does not roll straight, but describes a curve on the ground.
A certain Gallais, afterwards killed in the Rue Beaubourg in the affair of April, boasted of having in his house seven hundred cartridges and twenty-four flints.
The government one day received a warning that arms and two hundred thousand cartridges had just been distributed in the faubourg. On the following week thirty thousand cartridges were distributed. The remarkable point about it was, that the police were not able to seize a single one. 
An intercepted letter read: "The day is not far distant when, within four hours by the clock, eighty thousand patriots will be under arms."
All this fermentation was public, one might almost say tranquil.The approaching insurrection was preparing its storm calmly in the face of the government.No singularity was lacking to this still subterranean crisis, which was already perceptible. The bourgeois talked peaceably to the working-classes of what was in preparation. They said: "How is the rising coming along?" in the same tone in which they would have said: "How is your wife?" 
A furniture-dealer, of the Rue Moreau, inquired: "Well, when are you going to make the attack?"
Another shop-keeper said:--
"The attack will be made soon."
"I know it. A month ago, there were fifteen thousand of you, now there are twenty-five thousand." He offered his gun, and a neighbor offered a small pistol which he was willing to sell for seven francs.
Moreover, the revolutionary fever was growing. Not a point in Paris nor in France was exempt from it. The artery was beating everywhere. Like those membranes which arise from certain inflammations and form in the human body, the network of secret societies began to spread all over the country. From the associations of the Friends of the People, which was at the same time public and secret, sprang the Society of the Rights of Man, which also dated from one of the orders of the day: Pluviose, Year 40 of the republican era, which was destined to survive even the mandate of the Court of Assizes which pronounced its dissolution, and which did not hesitate to bestow on its sections significant names like the following:-- 
Pikes. Tocsin. Signal cannon. Phrygian cap. January 21. The beggars. The vagabonds. Forward march. Robespierre. Level. Ca Ira. 
The Society of the Rights of Man engendered the Society of Action. These were impatient individuals who broke away and hastened ahead. Other associations sought to recruit themselves from the great mother societies. The members of sections complained that they were torn asunder. Thus, the Gallic Society, and the committee of organization of the Municipalities. Thus the associations for the liberty of the press, for individual liberty, for the instruction of the people against indirect taxes. Then the Society of Equal Workingmen which was divided into three fractions, the levellers, the communists, the reformers. Then the Army of the Bastilles, a sort of cohort organized on a military footing, four men commanded by a corporal, ten by a sergeant, twenty by a sub-lieutenant, forty by a lieutenant; there were never more than five men who knew each other. Creation where precaution is combined with audacity and which seemed stamped with the genius of Venice. 
The central committee, which was at the head, had two arms, the Society of Action, and the Army of the Bastilles. 
A legitimist association, the Chevaliers of Fidelity, stirred about among these the republican affiliations. It was denounced and repudiated there.
The Parisian societies had ramifications in the principal cities, Lyons, Nantes, Lille, Marseilles, and each had its Society of the Rights of Man, the Charbonniere, and The Free Men. All had a revolutionary society which was called the Cougourde. We have already mentioned this word. 
In Paris, the Faubourg Saint-Marceau kept up an equal buzzing with the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and the schools were no less moved than the faubourgs. A cafe in the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe and the wine-shop of the Seven Billiards, Rue des Mathurins-Saint-Jacques, served as rallying points for the students. The Society of the Friends of the A B C affiliated to the Mutualists of Angers, and to the Cougourde of Aix, met, as we have seen, in the Cafe Musain. These same young men assembled also, as we have stated already, in a restaurant wine-shop of the Rue Mondetour which was called Corinthe. These meetings were secret. Others were as public as possible, and the reader can judge of their boldness from these fragments of an interrogatory undergone in one of the ulterior prosecutions: "Where was this meeting held?" "In the Rue de la Paix." "At whose house?" "In the street." "What sections were there?" "Only one." "Which?" "The Manuel section." "Who was its leader?" "I." "You are too young to have decided alone upon the bold course of attacking the government. Where did your instructions come from?" "From the central committee."
The army was mined at the same time as the population, as was proved subsequently by the operations of Beford, Luneville, and Epinard. They counted on the fifty-second regiment, on the fifth, on the eighth, on the thirty-seventh, and on the twentieth light cavalry. In Burgundy and in the southern towns they planted the liberty tree; that is to say, a pole surmounted by a red cap.
Such was the situation.
The Faubourg Saint-Antoine, more than any other group of the population, as we stated in the beginning, accentuated this situation and made it felt. That was the sore point. This old faubourg, peopled like an ant-hill, laborious, courageous, and angry as a hive of bees, was quivering with expectation and with the desire for a tumult. Everything was in a state of agitation there, without any interruption, however, of the regular work. It is impossible to convey an idea of this lively yet sombre physiognomy. In this faubourg exists poignant distress hidden under attic roofs; there also exist rare and ardent minds. It is particularly in the matter of distress and intelligence that it is dangerous to have extremes meet.
The Faubourg Saint-Antoine had also other causes to tremble; for it received the counter-shock of commercial crises, of failures, strikes, slack seasons, all inherent to great political disturbances. In times of revolution misery is both cause and effect. The blow which it deals rebounds upon it. This population full of proud virtue, capable to the highest degree of latent heat, always ready to fly to arms, prompt to explode, irritated, deep, undermined, seemed to be only awaiting the fall of a spark. Whenever certain sparks float on the horizon chased by the wind of events, it is impossible not to think of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and of the formidable chance which has placed at the very gates of Paris that powder-house of suffering and ideas. 
The wine-shops of the Faubourg Antoine, which have been more than once drawn in the sketches which the reader has just perused, possess historical notoriety. In troublous times people grow intoxicated there more on words than on wine. A sort of prophetic spirit and an afflatus of the future circulates there, swelling hearts and enlarging souls. The cabarets of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine resemble those taverns of Mont Aventine erected on the cave of the Sibyl and communicating with the profound and sacred breath; taverns where the tables were almost tripods, and where was drunk what Ennius calls the sibylline wine.
The Faubourg Saint-Antoine is a reservoir of people. Revolutionary agitations create fissures there, through which trickles the popular sovereignty. This sovereignty may do evil; it can be mistaken like any other; but, even when led astray, it remains great. We may say of it as of the blind cyclops, Ingens. 
In '93, according as the idea which was floating about was good or evil, according as it was the day of fanaticism or of enthusiasm, there leaped forth from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine now savage legions, now heroic bands.
Savage. Let us explain this word. When these bristling men, who in the early days of the revolutionary chaos, tattered, howling, wild, with uplifted bludgeon, pike on high, hurled themselves upon ancient Paris in an uproar, what did they want? They wanted an end to oppression, an end to tyranny, an end to the sword, work for men, instruction for the child, social sweetness for the woman, liberty, equality, fraternity, bread for all, the idea for all, the Edenizing of the world. Progress; and that holy, sweet, and good thing, progress, they claimed in terrible wise, driven to extremities as they were, half naked, club in fist, a roar in their mouths. They were savages, yes; but the savages of civilization. 
They proclaimed right furiously; they were desirous, if only with fear and trembling, to force the human race to paradise. They seemed barbarians, and they were saviours. They demanded light with the mask of night. 
Facing these men, who were ferocious, we admit, and terrifying, but ferocious and terrifying for good ends, there are other men, smiling, embroidered, gilded, beribboned, starred, in silk stockings, in white plumes, in yellow gloves, in varnished shoes, who, with their elbows on a velvet table, beside a marble chimney-piece, insist gently on demeanor and the preservation of the past, of the Middle Ages, of divine right, of fanaticism, of innocence, of slavery, of the death penalty, of war, glorifying in low tones and with politeness, the sword, the stake, and the scaffold. For our part, if we were forced to make a choice between the barbarians of civilization and the civilized men of barbarism, we should choose the barbarians. 
But, thank Heaven, still another choice is possible. No perpendicular fall is necessary, in front any more than in the rear. 
Neither despotism nor terrorism. We desire progress with a gentle slope. 
God takes care of that. God's whole policy consists in rendering slopes less steep.
将近四月底时，一切情况都严重起来了。酝酿成了沸腾。从一八三○年起，这里那里都有过一些局部的小骚动，立即遭到了扑灭，但是随扑随起，这是地下暗流进行大汇合的信号。大动乱有一触即发之势。一种可能的革命已露出若隐若现的迹象。法国望着巴黎，巴黎望着圣安东尼郊区。
圣安东尼郊区，暗中早已火热，即将进入沸腾。
夏罗纳街上的那些饮料店是严肃而汹涌澎湃的，虽然把这两组形容词连在一起来谈那些店是显得有些特别的。
在那些地方，人们根本或干脆不把政府放在眼里。人们在那里公开讨论“是打还是呆着不动的问题”。在那些店的一些后间里，有人在听取一些工人宣誓：“一听到告警的呼声，便立即跑到街上，并且不问敌人多少，立即投入战斗。”宣誓以后，一个坐在那店角落里的人便“敞着嗓门”说：“你同意啦！你宣誓啦！”有时，那人还走到一层楼上的一间关上了门的屋子里，并在那里举行一种类似秘密组织所惯用的仪式。那人教初入组织的人作出诺言：“为他服务，如同对家长那样。”那是一种公式。
在那些矮厅里，有人在阅读“颠覆性”的小册子。“他们冒犯政府”，当时一个秘密报告这样说。
在那些地方，人们常听到这样一些话：“我不知道首领们的姓名。我们，要到最后的两个钟头才能知道日期。”一个工人在说：“我们一共三百人，每人十个苏吧，就会有一百五十法郎，可以用来制造枪弹和火药。”另一个工人说：“我不指望六个月，也不指望两个月。不到两星期我们便要和政府面对面了。有了两万五千人，便可以交一下手。”另一个说：“我从不睡，因为我整夜做子弹。”有些“资产阶级模样的穿着漂亮衣服”的人不时走来“耍派头”，“指手画脚”和那些“重要角色”握握手，便走了。他们停留的时间从来不超过十分钟。人们低声谈着一些有深意的话：“布置已经完成，事情已经到了头了。”一个当时在场的人的原话：“所有在场的人都嗡嗡地那样说。”群情是那样激奋，以致有一天，一个工人对着满店的人嚷道：“我们没有武器！”他的一个同志回答说：“大兵们有！”这样便无意中引用了波拿巴的《告意大利大军书》。有一个情报还说：“更重要的秘密，他们不在那些地方传达。”旁人不大明了他们在说了他们所说的那些话以后还瞒着些什么。
那些会有时是定期举行的。在某些会里，从来不超过八个或十个人，并且老是原来那几个。另外一些会，任人随意参加，会场便拥挤到有些人非立着不可。到会的人，有的是出于激情和狂热，有的是因为“那是找工作的路子”。和革命时期一样，在那些饮料店里也有一些爱国的妇女，她们拥抱那些新到会的人。
还出现了另外一些有意义的事。
有一个人走进一家饮料店，喝过以后，走出店门说道：“酒老板，欠账，革命会照付的。”
人们常在夏罗纳街对面、一个饮料店老板的家里选派革命工作人员。选票是投在鸭舌帽里的。
有些工人在柯特街一个收学生的剑术教师家里聚会。他家里陈列了各种武器：木剑、棍、棒、花剑。一天，他们把那些花剑头上的套子全去掉了。有个工人说：“我们是二十五个人，但是他们不把我算在内，因为他们把我看作一个饭桶。”这饭桶便是日后的凯尼赛①。 
①凯尼赛（Quénisset），巴黎圣安东尼郊区的工人，一八四一年九月十三日谋刺奥马尔公爵及奥尔良公爵，未遂。
预先思考过的种种琐事也渐渐传开了。一个扫着大门台阶的妇人曾对另一个妇人说：“大家早已在拼命赶做枪弹了。”人们也对着街上的人群宣读一些对各省县国民自卫军发出的宣言。有一份宣言的签字人是“酒商，布尔托”。
一天，在勒努瓦市场的一个酒铺门前，有个生着络腮胡子、带意大利口音的人立在一块墙角石上，高声朗读一篇仿佛是由一个秘密权力组织发出的文告。一群群的人向他的四周聚拢来，并对他鼓掌。那些最使听众激动的片段曾被搜集记录下来：“……我们的学说被禁止了，我们的宣言被撕毁了，我们的宣传员受到了暗中侦察并被囚禁起来了……”“……最近棉纱市场的混乱现象替我们说服了许多中间派……”“……人民的将来要由我们这个惨淡的行列来经营……”“……摆着的问题就是这样：动还是反动，革命还是反革命。因为，在我们这时代，人们已不承认有什么无为状态或不动状态。为人民还是反人民，问题就在这里。再没有旁的。”“……等到有一天，你们感到我们不再适合你们的要求了，粉碎我们就是，但是在那以前，请协助我们前进。”这一切都是公开说的。
另外一些更大胆的事，正因为它们大胆，引起了人民的怀疑。一八三二年四月四日，一个走在街上的人跳上一块圣玛格丽特街转角处的墙角石并且喊道：“我是巴贝夫主义者！”但是，人民在他那巴贝夫的下面嗅到了吉斯凯的臭味①。 
①吉斯凯（Gisquet），七月王朝时期大金融家，一八三一年曾任警署署长。
那个人还说了许多话，其中有这么一段：
“打倒私有财产！左派的反对是无耻的，口是心非的。当他们要显示自己正确的时候，他们便宣传革命。可是，为了不失败，他们又自称是民主派，为了不战斗，他们又自称是保王派。共和主义者是一些生着羽毛的动物。你们得对共和主义者提高警惕，劳动的公民们。”
“闭嘴，当暗探的公民！”一个工人这样喊。
这一声喊便堵住了那篇演说。
还发生过一些费解的事。
天快黑时，一个工人在运河附近遇见一个“穿得漂漂亮亮的人”对他说：“你去什么地方，公民？”那工人回答说：“我没有认识您的荣幸。”“我却认识你，我。”那人接着还说：“你不用怕。我是委员会的工作人员。他们怀疑你不怎么可靠。你知道，要是你走漏消急，人家的眼睛便盯在你身上。”接着，他和那工人握了一下手，临走时还说：“我们不久再见。”
不止是在那些饮料店里，在街上，伸着耳朵的警察们也听到一些奇怪的对话：“赶快申请参加。”一个纺织工人对一个细木工说。
“为什么？”
“不久就要开火了。”
两个衣服破烂的人在街上一面走，一面说出了这么几句耐人寻味、富有明显的扎克雷①味道的话：
“谁统治我们？”
“菲力浦先生。”
“不对，是资产阶级。” 
①扎克雷（Jacquerie），指一二五八年法国的农民起义。
谁要是认为我们在这里提到“扎克雷味道”含有恶意，那他便误会了。扎克雷，指的是穷人。而挨饿的人都有权利。另一次，有两个人走过，其中的一个对另一个说：“我们有了一个好的进攻计划。”
四个人蹲在宝座便门圆路边的土坑里谈心，旁人只听到这么一句话：
“我们应当尽可能让他不再在巴黎蹓跶。”
谁呀，“他”？吓坏人的闷葫芦。
那些“主要头儿”棗这是郊区的人常用的称号棗不露面。人们认为他们常在圣厄斯塔什突角附近的一家饮料店里开讨论会。一个叫奥古什么的人，蒙德都街缝衣业互助社的首领，被认为是那些头儿和圣安东尼郊区之间的主要联络人。但是头儿们的情况始终没有暴露出来，也没有任何一点具体事实能回击一个被告日后在贵族院作出的那句怪傲慢的答词：
“您的首领是什么人？”
“我一个也不知道，一个也不认得。”
这也只不过是一些隐隐闪闪的片言只语，有时，也只是一些道听途说而已。另外还有一些偶然出现的迹象。
一个木工在勒伊街一处房屋建筑工地周围的栅栏上钉木板时，在工地上拾到一封被撕破的信的一个片段，从那上面还可以看出这样几行字：
“……委员会应立即采取措施，为防止各种不同的社团在各组征调人员……”
另有附言：
“据我们了解，在郊区鱼市街附五号，一个武器商人家的院子里有五千或六千支步枪。本组毫无武器。”
使那木工惊奇并把这东西递给他的伙伴们看的是，在相隔几步的地方，他又拾到另外一张纸，同样是撕破了的，但更有意义，这种奇特的材料具有历史价值，因此我们照原样把它抄录下来：
QCDE　　请将本表内容背熟记牢。随后加
以撕毁。已被接纳人员，在接受了你
们所传达的指示以后，也应同样办理。
敬礼和博爱。
uoga
1
fe　L。
当日发现这张表格并为之保密的那几个人直到日后才知道那四个大写字母的含义：Quinturions（五人队长），CenturiAons（百人队长），Décurions（十人队长），Eclaireurs（先锋队），uoga
1
fe这几个字母代表一个日期：一八三二年四月十五日。在每个大写字母下面，登记着姓名和一些极特殊的情况。例如：Q．巴纳雷尔，步枪8支，枪弹83粒，人可靠。C．布比埃尔，手枪1支，枪弹40粒。D．罗莱，花剑1柄，手枪1支，火药1斤。E．德西埃，马刀1把，枪弹匣1个，准时。德赫尔，步枪8支，勇敢。等等。
木工在同一处工地上，还找到第三张纸，纸上用铅笔很清楚地写了这么一个费解的单子：
团结。布朗夏尔。枯树。6。
巴拉。索阿兹。伯爵厅。
柯丘斯科。奥白利屠夫？
J．J．R．
凯尤斯·格拉古。
审核权。迪丰。富尔。
吉伦特派垮台。德尔巴克。莫布埃。
华盛顿。班松。手枪1，弹86。
《马赛曲》。
人民主权。米歇尔。坎康布瓦。马刀。
奥什。
马尔索。柏拉图。枯树。
华沙。蒂伊，《人民报》叫卖。
那个保存这张单子的诚实的市民知道它的含义。据说这单子上是人权社第四区各组组长的姓名住址的全部登记。所有这些被埋没了的事到今天已成历史，我们不妨把它公开出来。还应当补充一点，人权社的成立似乎是在发现这张单子的日期以后。这也许只是一个初步名单。
可是，在那些片言只语和道听途说以后，在那些纸上的一鳞半爪以后，又有一些具体事实开始冒出头来。
波邦古街，在一个旧货商人的铺子里，人们从一张抽斗柜的一个抽斗里搜出了七张一式一样从长里一折四的灰色纸，这几张纸下面还有二十六张用同样的灰色纸裁成的四方块，并且卷成了枪弹筒的形状，另外还有一张硬纸片，上面写着：
硝　　　　　　十二英两
硫磺　　　　　二英两
炭　　　　　　二英两半
水　　　　　　二英两
搜查报告还证明抽斗里有强烈的火药味。
一个收工回家的泥瓦工人把他的一个小包忘了，丢在奥斯特里茨桥旁的一条长凳上。这小包被人送到警察哨所。打开来看，包里有两份问答体的印刷品，作者叫拉奥杰尔，还有一首题名为《工人们，团结起来》的歌，和一个盛满了枪弹的白铁盒子。
一个工人在和一个同伴喝酒时，要那同伴摸摸他多么热，那同伴发现他的褂子下有一支手枪。
一群孩子在拉雪兹神甫公墓和宝座便门之间、那段行人最少的公路旁的坑里游戏，他们从一堆刨花和垃圾下找出了一个布口袋，袋里盛着一个做枪弹的模子，一根做枪弹筒的木棍，一个还剩有一些猎枪火药的瓢和一个生铁锅，锅里留有明显的熔铅痕迹。
几个警务人员在早晨五点钟突然冲进一个叫帕尔东的人的家里，发现他正立在床边，手里拿着几个枪弹筒在做。这人便是日后参加美里街垒的一员，一八三四年四月起义时牺牲了的。
快到工人们休息时，有人看见两个人在比克布斯便门和夏朗东便门之间，在两堵墙间的一条巡逻小道旁的一家大门前、有一套暹罗游戏的饮料店附近碰头。一个从工作服下取出一支手枪，把它交给另一个。正要给他时，他发现胸口上的汗水把火药浸潮了一点。他重新上那支手枪，在药池里原有的火药上添上一些火药。随后，那两个人便分头走开了。
一个名叫加雷、日后四月事件发生那天在博布尔街被杀的人，常夸口说在他家里有七百发子弹和二十四颗火石。
政府在某天得到通知说最近有人向郊区散发了一些武器和二十万发枪弹。一星期过后，又散发了枪弹三万发。值得注意的是，警察一点也没有破获。一封被截留的信里说：“八万爱国志士在四个钟头以内一齐拿起武器的日子已经不远了。”
所有这些酝酿活动全是公开的，几乎可以说是安然无事的。即将发作的暴动从容不迫地在政府面前准备它的风雷。这种仍在暗中进行、但已隐约可见的危机可说是无奇不有。资产阶级泰然自若地和工人们谈论着正在准备中的事。人们问道：“暴动进行得怎么样了？”问这话的语气正如问：“您的女人身体健康吧？”
莫罗街的一个木器商人问道：“你们几时进攻呀？”
另一个店铺老板说：
“马上就要进攻了。我知道。一个月以前，你们是一万五千人，现在你们有两万五千人了。”他献出了他的步枪，一个邻居还愿意出让一支小手枪，讨价七法郎。
总之，革命的热潮正在高涨。无论是在巴黎或法国，没有一处能例外。动脉处处在跳动。正如某些炎症所引起、在人体内形成的那种薄膜那样，秘密组织的网已开始在全国四散蔓延。从那既公开又秘密的人民之友社，产生了人权社，这人权社曾在它的一份议事日程上写上这样的日期：“共和纪元四十年雨月”，虽经重罪裁判所宣判勒令解散，它仍继续活动，并用这样一些有意义的名称为它的小组命名：
长矛。
警钟。
警炮。
自由帽。
一月二十一。①
穷棒子。
流浪汉。
前进。
罗伯斯庇尔。
水平仪。
《会好的呵》。 
①一七九三年一月二十一日，法王路易十六被处死刑。
人权社又产生了行动社。这是一些分化出来向前跑的急躁分子。另外还有一些社在设法从那些大的母社中征集社员。组员们都因为此拉彼扯而感到为难。例如高卢社和地方组织委员会。又如出版自由会、个人自由会、人民教育会、反对间接税会。还有工人平等社，曾分为三派，平等派、共产派、改革派。还有巴士底军，一种按军队编制组合的队伍，四个人由下士率领，十个人由中士率领，二十人由少尉率领，四十人由中尉率领，从来没有五个以上互相认识的人。一种小心与大胆相结合的创造，似乎具有威尼斯式的天才。为首的中央委员会有两条手臂：行动社和巴士底军。一个正统主义的组织叫忠贞骑士社，在这些共和主义的组织中蠕蠕钻动。结果它被人揭发，并被排斥。
巴黎的这些会社在一些主要城市里都建立了分社。里昂、南特、里尔和马赛都有它们的人权社、烧炭党、自由人社。艾克斯有一个革命的组织叫苦古尔德社。我们已经提到过。
在巴黎，圣马尔索郊区比圣安东尼郊区安静不了多少，学校也并不比郊区平静多少。圣亚森特街的一家咖啡馆和圣雅克马蒂兰街的七球台咖啡馆是大学生们的联络站。跟昂热的互助社以及艾克斯的苦古尔德社结盟的ABC的朋友们社，我们已经见过，常在缪尚咖啡馆里聚会。这一伙年轻人，我们以前曾提到过，也常出现在蒙德都街附近一家酒店兼饭馆的称作科林斯的店里。这些聚会是秘密的。另一些会却尽量公开，我们可以从日后审讯时的这段口供看出他们的大胆：“会议是在什么地方举行的？”“和平街。”“谁的家里？”“街上。”“到了哪几个组？”“只到一个组。”“哪一个？”“手工组。”“谁是头儿？”
“我。”“你太年轻了，不见得能单独一人担负起这个攻击政府的重大任务吧。你接受什么地方的指示？”“中央委员会。”
日后从贝尔福、吕内维尔、埃皮纳勒等地发生的运动来判断，军队和民众一样，也同时有所准备。人们所指望的是第五十二联队、第五、第八、第三十七、第二十轻骑队。在勃艮第和南方的一些城市里，种植了自由树，也就是说，一根顶着一顶红帽子的旗杆。
当时的局势便是这样。
圣安东尼郊区，我们在开始时便已提到，比任何其他地区的民众使这种局势变得更敏锐更紧张。这里是症结所在。
这个古老的郊区，拥挤得象个蚂蚁窝，勤劳、勇敢和愤怒得象一窝蜂，在等待和期望剧变的心情中骚动。一切都在纷攘中，但并不因此而中止工作。这种振奋而阴郁的面貌是无法加以说明的。在这郊区里，无数顶楼的瓦顶下掩盖着种种惨痛的苦难，同时也有不少火热的和稀有的聪明才智。正是由于苦难和聪明才智这两个极端碰在一起，情况尤为危殆。
圣安东尼郊区还有其他一些震颤的原因；因为它经常受到和重大政治动荡连结在一起的商业危机、倒闭、罢工、失业的灾殃。在革命时期，穷苦同时是原因也是后果。它的打击常回到它自身。这些民众，有着高傲的品德，充满了最高的潜在热力，随时准备拿起武器，一触即发，郁怒，深沉，跃跃欲试，所等待的仿佛只是一粒火星的坠落。每当星星之火被事变的风吹逐着，飘在天边时，人们便不能不想到圣安东尼郊区，也不能不想到这个由苦难和思潮所构成的火药库，可怕的机缘把它安置在巴黎的大门口。
圣安东尼郊区的那些饮料店，我们在前面的速写里已经多次描绘过，在历史上是有名的。在动荡的岁月里，人们在那些地方所痛饮的，不仅仅是酒，更多的是语言。一种预感的精神和未来的气息在那里奔流，鼓动着人们的心并壮大着人们的意志。圣安东尼郊区的饮料店有如阿梵丹山上那些建造在巫女洞口暗通神意的酒家，一种人们凭着类似香炉的座头酌饮着厄尼乌斯①所谓巫女酒的酒家。 
①厄尼乌斯（Ennius），公元前二世纪的拉丁诗人。
圣安皂尼郊区是人民的水库。革命的冲力造成水库的裂口，人民的主权便沿着裂口流出。这种主权可能有害，它和任何其他主权一样，难免发生错误，但是，尽管迷失方向，它仍是伟大的。我们不妨说它象瞎眼巨人库克罗普斯的吼叫声。
在九三年，根据当时流传着的思想是好还是坏，根据那天是狂热的日子还是奋激的日子，从圣安东尼郊区出发的，时而是野蛮的军团，时而是英雄的队伍。
野蛮。让我们来把这词说明一下。这些毛发直竖的人们，在破天荒第一次爆发的革命的混乱中，衣服破烂，吼声震天，横眉怒目地抡着铁锤，高举长矛，一齐向丧魂落魄的老巴黎涌上去，他们要的是什么呢？他们要的是压迫的终止，暴政的终止，刑戮的终止，成人有工作，儿童有教育，妇女有社会的温暖，要自由，要平等，要博爱，人人有面包，人人有思想，世界乐园化，进步；他们要的便是这神圣、美好、温和的东西：进步；他们走投无路，控制不了自己，这才大发雷霆，袒胸攘臂，抓起棍棒，大吼大叫地来争取。这是一些野蛮人，是的，但是是文明的野蛮人。
他们以无比愤怒的心情宣布人权，即使要经过战栗和惊骇，他们也要强迫人类登上天堂。他们貌似蛮族，却都是救世主。他们蒙着黑夜的面罩要求光明。
这些人很粗野，我们承认，而且狞恶，但他们是为了为善而粗野狞恶的。在这些人之外另有一种人，满脸笑容，周身锦绣，金饰，彩绶，宝光，丝袜，白羽毛，黄手套，漆皮鞋，肘弯支在云石壁炉旁的丝绒桌子上，慢条斯理地坚持要维护和保持过去、中世纪、神权、信仰狂、愚昧、奴役、死刑、战争，细声细气彬彬有礼地颂扬大刀、火刑和断头台。至于我们，假如一定要我们在那些文明的野蛮人和野蛮的文明人之间有所选择的话，我们宁肯选择那些野蛮人。
但是，谢谢皇天，另一种选择也是可能的。无论朝前和朝后，陡直的下坠总是不必要的。既不要专制主义，也不要恐怖主义。我们要的是舒徐上升的进步。
上帝照顾。务使坡度舒徐，这便是上帝的全部政策。
Part 4 Book 1 Chapter 6 Enjolras and his Lieutenants
It was about this epoch that Enjolras, in view of a possible catastrophe, instituted a kind of mysterious census.
All were present at a secret meeting at the Cafe Musain.
Enjolras said, mixing his words with a few half-enigmatical but significant metaphors:--"It is proper that we should know where we stand and on whom we may count. If combatants are required, they must be provided. It can do no harm to have something with which to strike. Passers-by always have more chance of being gored when there are bulls on the road than when there are none. Let us, therefore, reckon a little on the herd. How many of us are there? There is no question of postponing this task until to-morrow. Revolutionists should always be hurried; progress has no time to lose. Let us mistrust the unexpected. Let us not be caught unprepared. We must go over all the seams that we have made and see whether they hold fast. This business ought to be concluded to-day. Courfeyrac, you will see the polytechnic students. It is their day to go out. To-day is Wednesday. Feuilly, you will see those of the Glaciere, will you not? Combeferre has promised me to go to Picpus. There is a perfect swarm and an excellent one there. Bahorel will visit the Estrapade. Prouvaire, the masons are growing lukewarm; you will bring us news from the lodge of the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honore. Joly will go to Dupuytren's clinical lecture, and feel the pulse of the medical school. Bossuet will take a little turn in the court and talk with the young law licentiates. I will take charge of the Cougourde myself."
"That arranges everything," said Courfeyrac.
"No."
"What else is there?"
"A very important thing."
"What is that?" asked Courfeyrac.
"The Barriere du Maine," replied Enjolras.
Enjolras remained for a moment as though absorbed in reflection, then he resumed:--
"At the Barriere du Maine there are marble-workers, painters, and journeymen in the studios of sculptors. They are an enthusiastic family, but liable to cool off. I don't know what has been the matter with them for some time past. They are thinking of something else. They are becoming extinguished. They pass their time playing dominoes. There is urgent need that some one should go and talk with them a little, but with firmness. They meet at Richefeu's. They are to be found there between twelve and one o'clock. Those ashes must be fanned into a glow. For that errand I had counted on that abstracted Marius, who is a good fellow on the whole, but he no longer comes to us. I need some one for the Barriere du Maine. I have no one." 
"What about me?" said Grantaire. "Here am I." 
"You?"
"I."
"You indoctrinate republicans! You warm up hearts that have grown cold in the name of principle!" 
"Why not?"
"Are you good for anything?"
"I have a vague ambition in that direction," said Grantaire.
"You do not believe in everything."
"I believe in you."
"Grantaire will you do me a service?"
"Anything. I'll black your boots."
"Well, don't meddle with our affairs. Sleep yourself sober from your absinthe."
"You are an ingrate, Enjolras."
"You the man to go to the Barriere du Maine! You capable of it!"
"I am capable of descending the Rue de Gres, of crossing the Place Saint-Michel, of sloping through the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, of taking the Rue de Vaugirard, of passing the Carmelites, of turning into the Rue d'Assas, of reaching the Rue du Cherche-Midi, of leaving behind me the Conseil de Guerre, of pacing the Rue des Vielles Tuileries, of striding across the boulevard, of following the Chaussee du Maine, of passing the barrier, and entering Richefeu's. I am capable of that. My shoes are capable of that."
"Do you know anything of those comrades who meet at Richefeu's?"
"Not much. We only address each other as thou."
"What will you say to them?"
"I will speak to them of Robespierre, pardi! Of Danton. Of principles."
"You?"
"I. But I don't receive justice. When I set about it, I am terrible. I have read Prudhomme, I know the Social Contract, I know my constitution of the year Two by heart. `The liberty of one citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins. Do you take me for a brute? I have an old bank-bill of the Republic in my drawer. The Rights of Man, the sovereignty of the people, sapristi! I am even a bit of a Hebertist. I can talk the most superb twaddle for six hours by the clock, watch in hand." 
"Be serious," said Enjolras.
"I am wild," replied Grantaire.
Enjolras meditated for a few moments, and made the gesture of a man who has taken a resolution.
"Grantaire," he said gravely, "I consent to try you. You shall go to the Barriere du Maine."
Grantaire lived in furnished lodgings very near the Cafe Musain. He went out, and five minutes later he returned. He had gone home to put on a Robespierre waistcoat.
"Red," said he as he entered, and he looked intently at Enjolras. Then, with the palm of his energetic hand, he laid the two scarlet points of the waistcoat across his breast.
And stepping up to Enjolras, he whispered in his ear:--
"Be easy."
He jammed his hat on resolutely and departed.
A quarter of an hour later, the back room of the Cafe Musain was deserted. All the friends of the A B C were gone, each in his own direction, each to his own task. Enjolras, who had reserved the Cougourde of Aix for himself, was the last to leave.
Those members of the Cougourde of Aix who were in Paris then met on the plain of Issy, in one of the abandoned quarries which are so numerous in that side of Paris.
As Enjolras walked towards this place, he passed the whole situation in review in his own mind. The gravity of events was self-evident. When facts, the premonitory symptoms of latent social malady, move heavily, the slightest complication stops and entangles them. A phenomenon whence arises ruin and new births. Enjolras descried a luminous uplifting beneath the gloomy skirts of the future. Who knows? Perhaps the moment was at hand. The people were again taking possession of right, and what a fine spectacle! The revolution was again majestically taking possession of France and saying to the world: "The sequel to-morrow!" Enjolras was content. The furnace was being heated. He had at that moment a powder train of friends scattered all over Paris. He composed, in his own mind, with Combeferre's philosophical and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly's cosmopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac's dash, Bahorel's smile, Jean Prouvaire's melancholy, Joly's science, Bossuet's sarcasms, a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once. All hands to work. Surely, the result would answer to the effort. This was well.This made him think of Grantaire.
"Hold," said he to himself, "the Barriere du Maine will not take me far out of my way. What if I were to go on as far as Richefeu's? Let us have a look at what Grantaire is about, and see how he is getting on."
One o'clock was striking from the Vaugirard steeple when Enjolras reached the Richefeu smoking-room.
He pushed open the door, entered, folded his arms, letting the door fall to and strike his shoulders, and gazed at that room filled with tables, men, and smoke.
A voice broke forth from the mist of smoke, interrupted by another voice. It was Grantaire holding a dialogue with an adversary. 
Grantaire was sitting opposite another figure, at a marble Saint-Anne table, strewn with grains of bran and dotted with dominos. He was hammering the table with his fist, and this is what Enjolras heard:--
"Double-six."
"Fours."
"The pig! I have no more."
"You are dead. A two."
"Six."
"Three."
"One."
"It's my move."
"Four points."
"Not much."
"It's your turn."
"I have made an enormous mistake."
"You are doing well."
"Fifteen."
"Seven more."
"That makes me twenty-two." [Thoughtfully, "Twenty-two!"]
"You weren't expecting that double-six. If I had placed it at the beginning, the whole play would have been changed."
"A two again."
"One."
"One! Well, five."
"I haven't any."
"It was your play, I believe?"
"Yes."
"Blank."
"What luck he has! Ah! You are lucky! [Long revery.] Two."
"One."
"Neither five nor one. That's bad for you."
"Domino."
"Plague take it!"
就在这个时期，安灼拉感到事变可能发生，便暗中着手清理队伍。
大家全在缪尚咖啡馆里举行秘密会议。
安灼拉正以某种闪烁然而说明问题的语言在说着话：
“应当明确一下目前的情况，有些什么人是可靠的。假如需要战士，便应动员起来。准备好打击力量。这并没有什么不好。过路的人，在路上有牛时，要比在路上没牛时有更多的机会碰上牛角。因此，让我们来数数这牛群。我们这里有多少人？这工作不能留到明天去做。干革命的人随时都应抓紧时间。进步不容许延误时机。我们应当提防意外。不要措手不及。现在便应检查一下，我们所做的缝缀工作是否有脱线的地方。这件事今天便应摸清底。古费拉克，你去看看综合工科学校的那些同学。这是他们休假的日子。今天星期三。弗以伊，我说，你去看看冰窖的那些人。公白飞已同意去比克布斯。那儿有一股极好的力量，巴阿雷将去访问吊刑台。勃鲁维尔，那些泥瓦工人有些冷下来了，你到圣奥诺雷－格勒内尔街的会址里去替我们探听一下消息。若李，你到杜普伊特朗医院去了解一下医学院的动态。博须埃到法院去走一趟，和那些见习生谈谈。我，负责苦古尔德。”
“全布置好了。”古费拉克说。
“没有。”
“还有什么事？”
“一件极重要的事。”
“什么事？”公白飞问。
“梅恩便门。”安灼拉回答说。
安灼拉聚精会神凝想了一阵，又说道：
“在梅恩便门，有些云石制造工人、画家、雕刻工场的粗坯工人。那是一伙劲头很大的自己人，但是有点忽冷忽热。我不知道他们最近出了什么事。他们想到旁的事上去了。他们泄了气。有空便打骨牌。应当赶快去和他们谈谈，并且扎扎实实地谈谈。他们聚会的地方在利什弗店里。从中午到一点，可以在那里遇见他们。这一炉快灭的火非打气不可了。我原想把这事交给马吕斯去办，这人心乱，但还是个好人，可惜他不再来这儿了。我非得有个人去梅恩便门不可。可我没有人了。”
“还有我呢？”格朗泰尔说，“我不是在这儿吗？”
“你？”
“我。”
“你，去教育共和党人！你，用主义去鼓动冷却了的心！”
“为什么不？”
“你也能做点象样的事吗？”
“我的确马马虎虎有这么一点雄心。”格朗泰尔说。
“你一点信仰也没有。”
“我信仰你。”
“格朗泰尔，你肯替我帮个忙吗？”
“帮任何忙都可以。替你擦皮鞋都成。”
“那么，请你不要过问我们的事。去喝你的苦艾酒吧。”
“你太不识好歹了，安灼拉。”
“你会是去梅恩便门的人！你会有这能耐！”
“我有能耐走下格雷街，穿过圣米歇尔广场，打亲王先生街斜插过去，进入伏吉拉尔街，走过加尔默罗修院，转到阿萨斯街，到达寻午街，把军事委员会甩在我后面，跨过老瓦厂街，踏上大路，沿着梅恩大道走去，越过便门，并走进利什弗店里去。我有能耐干这些。我的鞋便有这能耐。”
“你也稍稍认识利什弗店里的那些同志吗？”
“不多。我们谈话都是‘你’来‘你’去的罢了。”
“你打算和他们谈些什么呢？”
“谈罗伯斯庇尔呗，这还用问！谈丹东。谈主义。”
“你！”
“我。你们对我太不公道了。我上了劲以后，可一点也不含糊。我念过普律多姆①的著作。我知道《民约》②。我能背我的《二年宪法》。‘公民的自由终止于另一公民自由的开始。’难道你以为我是个傻瓜蛋？我抽屉里还有一张旧指券③呢。人的权利，人民的主权，活见鬼！我甚至有点阿贝尔④主义的倾向。我还可以一连六个钟点，手里拿着表，天花乱坠地大谈一通。” 
①普律多姆（Prudhomme），领导当时巴黎革命活动的一个新闻记者。
②《民约》（leContratsocial），卢梭的著作。
③指券（assignat），一七八九年至一七九七年在法国流通的一种有国家财产作担保的证券，后当通货使用。
④阿贝尔（Hébert，1799?887），法国的法学家和保守派国家活动家，奥尔良党人，议会议员（1834?848）。一八四一年起是王家法庭的首席检查官，曾任司法大臣。一八四九年为立法议会议员。
“放严肃点。”安灼拉说。
“我原是一本正经的。”格朗泰尔回答说。
安灼拉思考了几秒钟，作出了一个下决心的人的姿势。
“格朗泰尔，”他沉重地说，“我同意让你去试试。你去梅恩便门就是。”
格朗泰尔原住在贴近缪尚咖啡馆的一间带家具出租的屋子里。他走出去，五分钟过后，又回来了。他回家去跑了一趟，穿上了一件罗伯斯庇尔式的背心。
“红的。”他走进来，眼睛盯着安灼拉说。
他接着便一巴掌狠狠地打在他自己的胸脯上，按着那件背心通红的两只尖角。
他又走上去，凑在安灼拉的耳边说：
“你放心。”
他拿起他的帽子，猛按在头上，走了。
一刻钟过后，缪尚咖啡馆的那间后厅已经走空。ABC的朋友们社的成员全都各走一方，去干自己的工作了。负责苦古尔德社的安灼拉最后走。
艾克斯的苦古尔德社的成员当时有一部分来到了巴黎，他们常在伊西平原上一处废弃了的采石场开会，在巴黎这一面，这种废弃了的采石场原是很多的。
安灼拉一面朝这聚会的地方走去，同时也全面思考着当时的情势。事态的严重是明显的。事态有如某些潜伏期中的社会病所呈现的症状，当它笨重地向前移动时，稍微出点岔子便能阻止它的进展，打乱它的步伐。这便是崩溃和再生由此产生的一种现象。安灼拉展望前途，在未来昏暗的下摆下面，隐隐望见了一种恍惚有光的晃荡。谁知道？也许时机临近了。人民再度掌握大权，何等美好的景象！革命再度庄严地占有法兰西，并且对世界说：“下文且听明天分解！”安灼拉心中感到满意。炉子正在热起来。这时，安灼拉那一小撮火药似的朋友正分赴巴黎各处。他有公白飞的透辟的哲学辩才，弗以伊的世界主义的热忱，古费拉克的劲头，巴阿雷的笑，让·勃鲁维尔的郁闷，若李的见识，博须埃的喜笑怒骂，这一切，在他脑子里形成一种从四面八方同时引起大火的电花。人人都在做工作。效果一定会随毅力而来。前途乐观。这又使他想起了格朗泰尔。他想道：“等一等，梅恩便门离我要走的路不远。我何不到利什弗店里去转一趟呢？正好去看看格朗泰尔在干什么，看他的事情办到什么程度了。”
安灼拉到达利什弗店时，伏吉拉尔的钟搂正敲一点。他推开门，走进去，交叉起两条胳膊，让那两扇门折回来抵在他的肩头上，望着那间满是桌子、人和烟雾的厅堂。
从烟雾里传出一个人大声说话的声音，被另一个声音所打断。格朗泰尔正在和他的一个对手你一言我一语。
格朗泰尔和另一张脸对坐在一张圣安娜云石桌子的两旁，桌上撒满了麸皮屑和骨牌，他正用拳头敲那云石桌面，下面便是安灼拉所听到的对话：
“双六。”
“四点。”
“猪！我没有了。”
“你死了。两点。”
“六点。”
“三点。”
“老幺。”
“归我出牌。”
“四点。”
“不好办。”
“你出。”
“我大错特错。”
“你出得好。”
“十五点。”
“再加七点。”
“这样我便是二十二点了。（若有所思。）二十二！”
“你没有料到这张双六吧。我一上来先出了张双六，局面便大不相同。”
“还是两点。”
“老幺。”
“老幺！好吧，五点。”
“我没有了。”
“刚才是你出牌的吧，对吗？”
“对。”
“白板。”
“他运气多好！啊！你真走运！（出了好一会神。）两点。”
“老幺。”
“没有五点，也没有老幺。该你倒霉。”
“清了。”
“狗东西！”
Part 4 Book 2 Chapter 2 Embryonic Formation of Crimes in the Incubation of Prisons
Javert's triumph in the Gorbeau hovel seemed complete, but had not been so.
In the first place, and this constituted the principal anxiety, Javert had not taken the prisoner prisoner. The assassinated man who flees is more suspicious than the assassin, and it is probable that this personage, who had been so precious a capture for the ruffians, would be no less fine a prize for the authorities.
And then, Montparnasse had escaped Javert.
Another opportunity of laying hands on that "devil's dandy" must be waited for. Montparnasse had, in fact, encountered Eponine as she stood on the watch under the trees of the boulevard, and had led her off, preferring to play Nemorin with the daughter rather than Schinderhannes with the father. It was well that he did so. He was free. As for Eponine, Javert had caused her to be seized; a mediocre consolation. Eponine had joined Azelma at Les Madelonettes.
And finally, on the way from the Gorbeau house to La Force, one of the principal prisoners, Claquesous, had been lost. It was not known how this had been effected, the police agents and the sergeants "could not understand it at all." He had converted himself into vapor, he had slipped through the handcuffs, he had trickled through the crevices of the carriage, the fiacre was cracked, and he had fled; all that they were able to say was, that on arriving at the prison, there was no Claquesous. Either the fairies or the police had had a hand in it. Had Claquesous melted into the shadows like a snow-flake in water? Had there been unavowed connivance of the police agents? Did this man belong to the double enigma of order and disorder? Was he concentric with infraction and repression? Had this sphinx his fore paws in crime and his hind paws in authority? Javert did not accept such comminations, and would have bristled up against such compromises; but his squad included other inspectors besides himself, who were more initiated than he, perhaps, although they were his subordinates in the secrets of the Prefecture, and Claquesous had been such a villain that he might make a very good agent. It is an excellent thing for ruffianism and an admirable thing for the police to be on such intimate juggling terms with the night. These double-edged rascals do exist. However that may be, Claquesous had gone astray and was not found again. Javert appeared to be more irritated than amazed at this.
As for Marius, "that booby of a lawyer," who had probably become frightened, and whose name Javert had forgotten, Javert attached very little importance to him. Moreover, a lawyer can be hunted up at any time. But was he a lawyer after all?
The investigation had begun.
The magistrate had thought it advisable not to put one of these men of the band of Patron Minette in close confinement, in the hope that he would chatter. This man was Brujon, the long-haired man of the Rue du Petit-Banquier. He had been let loose in the Charlemagne courtyard, and the eyes of the watchers were fixed on him.
This name of Brujon is one of the souvenirs of La Force. In that hideous courtyard, called the court of the Batiment-Neuf (New Building), which the administration called the court Saint-Bernard, and which the robbers called the Fosseaux-Lions (The Lion's Ditch),on that wall covered with scales and leprosy, which rose on the left to a level with the roofs, near an old door of rusty iron which led to the ancient chapel of the ducal residence of La Force, then turned in a dormitory for ruffians, there could still be seen, twelve years ago, a sort of fortress roughly carved in the stone with a nail, and beneath it this signature:--
BRUJON, 1811.
The Brujon of 1811 was the father of the Brujon of 1832.
The latter, of whom the reader caught but a glimpse at the Gorbeau house, was a very cunning and very adroit young spark, with a bewildered and plaintive air. It was in consequence of this laintive air that the magistrate had released him, thinking him more useful in the Charlemagne yard than in close confinement.
Robbers do not interrupt their profession because they are in the hands of justice. They do not let themselves be put out by such a trifle as that. To be in prison for one crime is no reason for not beginning on another crime. They are artists, who have one picture in the salon, and who toil, none the less, on a new work in their studios.
Brujon seemed to be stupefied by prison. He could sometimes be seen standing by the hour together in front of the sutler's window in the Charlemagne yard, staring like an idiot at the sordid list of prices which began with: garlic, 62 centimes, and ended with: cigar, 5 centimes. Or he passed his time in trembling, chattering his teeth, saying that he had a fever, and inquiring whether one of the eight and twenty beds in the fever ward was vacant.
All at once, towards the end of February, 1832, it was discovered that Brujon, that somnolent fellow, had had three different commissions executed by the errand-men of the establishment, not under his own name, but in the name of three of his comrades; and they had cost him in all fifty sous, an exorbitant outlay which attracted the attention of the prison corporal. 
Inquiries were instituted, and on consulting the tariff of commissions posted in the convict's parlor, it was learned that the fifty sous could be analyzed as follows: three commissions; one to the Pantheon, ten sous; one to Val-de-Grace, fifteen sous; and one to the Barriere de Grenelle, twenty-five sous. This last was the dearest of the whole tariff. Now, at the Pantheon, at the Val-de-Grace, and at the Barriere de Grenelle were situated the domiciles of the three very redoubtable prowlers of the barriers, Kruideniers, alias Bizarre, Glorieux, an ex-convict, and Barre-Carosse, upon whom the attention of the police was directed by this incident. It was thought that these men were members of Patron Minette; two of those leaders, Babet and Gueulemer, had been captured. It was supposed that the messages, which had been addressed, not to houses, but to people who were waiting for them in the street, must have contained information with regard to some crime that had been plotted. They were in possession of other indications; they laid hand on the three prowlers, and supposed that they had circumvented some one or other of Brujon's machinations.
About a week after these measures had been taken, one night, as the superintendent of the watch, who had been inspecting the lower dormitory in the Batiment-Neuf, was about to drop his chestnut in the box--this was the means adopted to make sure that the watchmen performed their duties punctually; every hour a chestnut must be dropped into all the boxes nailed to the doors of the dormitories-- a watchman looked through the peep-hole of the dormitory and beheld Brujon sitting on his bed and writing something by the light of the hall-lamp. The guardian entered, Brujon was put in a solitary cell for a month, but they were not able to seize what he had written. The police learned nothing further about it.
What is certain is, that on the following morning, a "postilion" was flung from the Charlemagne yard into the Lions' Ditch, over the five-story building which separated the two court-yards. 
What prisoners call a "postilion" is a pallet of bread artistically moulded, which is sent into Ireland, that is to say, over the roofs of a prison, from one courtyard to another. Etymology: over England; from one land to another; into Ireland. This little pellet falls in the yard. The man who picks it up opens it and finds in it a note addressed to some prisoner in that yard. If it is a prisoner who finds the treasure, he forwards the note to its destination; if it is a keeper, or one of the prisoners secretly sold who are called sheep in prisons and foxes in the galleys, the note is taken to the office and handed over to the police.
On this occasion, the postilion reached its address, although the person to whom it was addressed was, at that moment, in solitary confinement. This person was no other than Babet, one of the four heads of Patron Minette.
The postilion contained a roll of paper on which only these two lines were written:--
"Babet. There is an affair in the Rue Plumet. A gate on a garden."
This is what Brujon had written the night before.
In spite of male and female searchers, Babet managed to pass the note on from La Force to the Salpetriere, to a "good friend" whom he had and who was shut up there. This woman in turn transmitted the note to another woman of her acquaintance, a certain Magnon, who was strongly suspected by the police, though not yet arrested. This Magnon, whose name the reader has already seen, had relations with the Thenardier, which will be described in detail later on, and she could, by going to see Eponine, serve as a bridge between the Salpetriere and Les Madelonettes.
It happened, that at precisely that moment, as proofs were wanting in the investigation directed against Thenardier in the matter of his daughters, Eponine and Azelma were released. When Eponine came out, Magnon, who was watching the gate of the Madelonettes, handed her Brujon's note to Babet, charging her to look into the matter.
Eponine went to the Rue Plumet, recognized the gate and the garden, observed the house, spied, lurked, and, a few days later, brought to Magnon, who delivers in the Rue Clocheperce, a biscuit, which Magnon transmitted to Babet's mistress in the Salpetriere. A biscuit, in the shady symbolism of prisons, signifies: Nothing to be done.
So that in less than a week from that time, as Brujon and Babet met in the circle of La Force, the one on his way to the examination, the other on his way from it:--
"Well?" asked Brujon, "the Rue P.?"
"Biscuit," replied Babet. Thus did the foetus of crime engendered by Brujon in La Force miscarry. 
This miscarriage had its consequences, however, which were perfectly distinct from Brujon's programme. The reader will see what they were.
Often when we think we are knotting one thread, we are tying quite another.
沙威在戈尔博老屋中的胜利看来好象是很全面的，其实不然。
首先，也是他的主要忧虑，当时沙威并没使那俘虏成为俘虏。那个逃走了的受害人比那些谋害人更可疑，这个人，匪徒对他既然那么重视，对官方来说，也应当同样是一种奇货吧。
其次，巴纳斯山也从沙威手中漏网。
他得另候机会来收拾这个“香喷喷的妖精”。当时爱潘妮在路边大树底下把风，巴纳斯山遇见了她，便把她带走了，他宁愿去和姑娘调情，不愿跟老头儿找油水。幸亏这样，他仍能逍遥自在。至于爱潘妮，沙威派人把她“钉”住了，这可算不了什么慰藉。爱潘妮和阿兹玛一道，都进了玛德栾内特监狱。
最后，在从戈尔博老屋押往拉弗尔斯监狱的路上，那些主要罪犯中的一个，铁牙，不见了。谁都不知道是怎么回事，警察和卫队们都“莫名其妙”，他化成了一股烟，他从手铐里滑脱了，他从车子的缝里流掉了，马车开裂了，他溜了，大家都不知道该怎么解释，只知道到监狱时，铁牙丢了。那里面有仙人的手法或是警察的手法。铁牙能象一朵雪花融在水里那样融化在黑夜里吗？这里有没有警察方面的默契呢？这人是不是一个在混乱和秩序两方面都有关连的哑谜呢？难道他是犯法和执法的共同中心吗？这个斯芬克司是不是两只前爪踩在罪恶里，两只后爪踩在法律里呢？沙威一点也不接受这种混淆视听的说法，如果他知道有这种两面手法，他浑身的毛都会倒竖起来，在他的队伍里也还有其他一些侦察人员，虽然是他的下属，但警务方面的种种秘密却比他知道得多些，铁牙正是那样一个能成为一个相当好的警察的暴徒。在偷天换日的伎俩方面能和黑暗势力建立起如此密切的关系，这对盗窃来说，是上好的，对警务来说也是极可贵的。这种双刃歹徒是有的。不管怎样，铁牙渺无影踪了。沙威对这件事，躁急甚于惊讶。
至于马吕斯，“这个怕事的傻小子律师”，沙威却不大在乎，连他的名字也忘了。并且，一个律师算什么，律师是随时都能找到的。不过，这玩意儿真就是个律师吗？
审讯开了个头。
裁判官觉得在猫老板匪帮那一伙中间，有一个人可以不坐牢，这样做有好处，希望能从他那里听到一点口风。这人便是普吕戎，小银行家街上的那个长头发。他们把他放在查理大帝院里，狱监们都睁着眼睛注视他。
普吕戎这个名字，在拉弗尔斯监狱里是大伙儿记得的。监狱里有一座丑恶不堪的所谓新大楼院子，行政上称这为圣贝尔纳院，罪犯们却称为狮子沟，这院子有一道锈了的旧铁门，通向原拉弗尔斯公爵府的礼拜堂，后来这里改作囚犯的宿舍。在这门的左边附近，有一堵高齐屋顶、布满了鳞片和扁平苔藓的条石墙，在那墙上，十二年前，还能见到一种堡垒样的图形，是用钉子在石头上胡乱刻画出来的，下方签了这样的字：
普吕戎，一八一一。
这个一八一一年的普吕戎是一八三二年的普吕戎的父亲。
这小普吕戎，我们在戈尔博老屋谋害案里只随便望过一眼，那是个非常狡猾、非常能干、外表憨气十足、愁眉苦脸的健壮小伙子。正因为这股憨气，裁判官才放了他，认为把他放在查理大帝院里比关在隔离牢房里会得用些。
囚犯们并不因为受到法律的管制便互不往来。他们不至于为这点小事而缩手缩脚。因犯罪而坐监并不妨碍再犯他罪。艺术家已有了一幅油画陈列在展览馆里，他照样可以在他的工作室里另创一幅新作。
普吕戎好象已被监牢关傻了。人们有时看见他在查理大帝院里，一连几个钟头呆立在小卖部的窗子附近，象个白痴似的老望着那块肮脏的价目表，从最初的“大蒜，六十二生丁”起直念到最末的“雪茄，五生丁”。要不，他就不停地发抖，磕牙，说他在发烧，并问那病房里那二十八张床可有一张空的。
忽然，在一八三二年二月的下半月里，人们一下子发现普吕戎这瞌睡虫，通过狱里的几个杂工，不是用他自己的名义，而是用他三个伙伴的名义，办了三件不同的事，总共花了他五十个苏，这是一笔很不寻常的费用，引起了监狱警务班长的注意。
经过调查，并参照张贴在犯人会客室里那张办事计费表加以研究之后，终于知道了那五十个苏是这样分配的：三件事，一件是在先贤祠办的，十个苏；一件是在军医学院办的，十五个苏；一件在格勒内尔便门办的，二十五个苏。最末这一笔是计费表上最高的数字。同时，先贤祠、军医学院和格勒内尔又正是三个相当凶恶的便门贼所住的地方，一个叫克吕伊丹涅，又叫皮查罗，一个叫光荣，是个被释放了的苦役犯，一个叫拦车汉子，这次的事又把警察的眼睛引向了他们。普吕戎送出去的那些信不是按地址送达，而是交给一些在街上等候的人，因而警察猜测那里面一定有些为非作歹的秘密通知。加上其他一些蛛丝马迹，他们便把这三个人抓了起来，以为普吕戎的任何密谋都已被挫败。
大致在采取这些措施以后一星期光景，有个晚上，一个巡夜的狱监，在巡查新大楼下层的宿舍并正要把他的栗子丢进栗子箱时棗这是当时用来保证狱监们严格执行任务的方法，钉在每个宿舍门口的那些箱子里，每一小时都应有一个栗子落进去棗那狱监从宿舍的侦察孔里望见普吕戎正曲腿弯腰地坐在床上，借着墙上的蜡烛光在写什么。守卫跑进去，把普吕戎送到黑牢房里关了一个月，但是没有找到他写的东西。
警察便没有能掌握其他情况。
有一件事却是肯定无疑的：第二天，一个“邮车夫”从查理大帝院里被丢向天空，越过那座六层大楼，落在大楼另一面的狮子沟里了。
囚犯们所说的“邮车夫”，是一个用艺术手法团起来，送到“爱尔兰”去的面包团子；所谓送到爱尔兰，便是越过牢房的房顶，从一个院子抛到另一个院子。（词源学：越过英格兰，从一个陆地到另一个陆地，爱尔兰。）总之，面包团落到了那个院子里。拾起面包团的人，把它剖开，便能在里面找到一张写给那院子里某个囚犯的字条；发现这字条的，如果是个囚犯，便把它转到指定地点；如果是个守卫，或是一个被暗中收买了的囚犯，也就是监狱里所说的绵羊和苦役牢里所说的狐狸，那字条便会被送到管理处，转给警察。
这一次，那邮车夫达到了目的地，尽管收件人当时正在“隔离”期间。那收件人正是巴伯，猫老板的四巨头之一。
那邮车夫裹着一条卷好的纸，上面只有两行字：
“巴伯，卜吕梅街有笔生意好做。一道对着花园的铁栏门。”
这便是普吕戎在那天晚上写的东西。
尽管有层层的男搜查人员和女搜查人员，巴伯终于想到办法把那字条从拉弗尔斯监狱送到他的一个被关在妇女救济院的“相好”手里。这姑娘又把那字条转到一个她认识的叫作马侬的女人那里，后者已受到警察的密切注意，但还未被捕。关于这个马侬，读者已经见过她的名字，我们以后还会谈到她和德纳第一家人的关系，她通过爱潘妮，能在妇女接济院和玛德栾内特监狱之间起桥梁作用。
正在这时，在指控德纳第的案子里，由于有关他的两个女儿的部分缺乏证据，爱潘妮和阿兹玛都被释放了。
爱潘妮出狱时，马侬在玛德栾内特的大门外偷偷候着她，把普吕戎写给巴伯的那张字条给了她，派她去把这件事“弄清楚”。
爱潘妮去卜吕梅街，认清了那铁栏门和花园，细看了那栋房子，窥伺了几天，然后到钟锥街马侬家里，给了她一块饼干，马侬又把这饼干送到妇女救济院巴伯的相好手里。一块饼干，对监狱中的象征主义暗号来说，便是“没有办法”。因此，不到一星期，巴伯和普吕戎，一个正去“受教导”，一个正受了教导回来，两个人在巡逻道上碰了面。普吕戎问：“怎样了，卜街？”巴伯回答：“饼干。”
普吕戎在拉弗尔斯监狱里制造的罪胎就这样流产了。
这次堕胎还有下文，不过和普吕戎的计划完全不相干。我们将来再谈。
我们常常会在想接这一根线的时候，接上了另一根线。
Part 4 Book 2 Chapter 3 Apparition to Father Mabeuf
Marius no longer went to see any one, but he sometimes encountered Father Mabeuf by chance. 
While Marius was slowly descending those melancholy steps which may be called the cellar stairs, and which lead to places without light, where the happy can be heard walking overhead, M. Mabeuf was descending on his side.
The Flora of Cauteretz no longer sold at all. The experiments on indigo had not been successful in the little garden of Austerlitz, which had a bad exposure. M. Mabeuf could cultivate there only a few plants which love shade and dampness. Nevertheless, he did not become discouraged. He had obtained a corner in the Jardin des Plantes, with a good exposure, to make his trials with indigo "at his own expense." For this purpose he had pawned his copperplates of the Flora. He had reduced his breakfast to two eggs, and he left one of these for his old servant, to whom he had paid no wages for the last fifteen months. And often his breakfast was his only meal. He no longer smiled with his infantile smile, he had grown morose and no longer received visitors. Marius did well not to dream of going thither. Sometimes, at the hour when M. Mabeuf was on his way to the Jardin des Plantes, the old man and the young man passed each other on the Boulevard de l'Hopital. They did not speak, and only exchanged a melancholy sign of the head. A heart-breaking thing it is that there comes a moment when misery looses bonds! Two men who have been friends become two chance passers-by.
Royal the bookseller was dead. M. Mabeuf no longer knew his books, his garden, or his indigo: these were the three forms which happiness, pleasure, and hope had assumed for him. This sufficed him for his living. He said to himself: "When I shall have made my balls of blueing, I shall be rich, I will withdraw my copperplates from the pawn-shop, I will put my Flora in vogue again with trickery, plenty of money and advertisements in the newspapers and I will buy, I know well where, a copy of Pierre de Medine's Art de Naviguer, with wood-cuts, edition of 1655." In the meantime, he toiled all day over his plot of indigo, and at night he returned home to water his garden, and to read his books. At that epoch, M. Mabeuf was nearly eighty years of age.
One evening he had a singular apparition.
He had returned home while it was still broad daylight. Mother Plutarque, whose health was declining, was ill and in bed. He had dined on a bone, on which a little meat lingered, and a bit of bread that he had found on the kitchen table, and had seated himself on an overturned stone post, which took the place of a bench in his garden.
Near this bench there rose, after the fashion in orchard-gardens, a sort of large chest, of beams and planks, much dilapidated, a rabbit-hutch on the ground floor, a fruit-closet on the first. There was nothing in the hutch, but there were a few apples in the fruit-closet,--the remains of the winter's provision. 
M. Mabeuf had set himself to turning over and reading, with the aid of his glasses, two books of which he was passionately fond and in which, a serious thing at his age, he was interested. His natural timidity rendered him accessible to the acceptance of superstitions in a certain degree. The first of these books was the famous treatise of President Delancre, De l'inconstance des Demons; the other was a quarto by Mutor de la Rubaudiere, Sur les Diables de Vauvert et les Gobelins de la Bievre. This last-mentioned old volume interested him all the more, because his garden had been one of the spots haunted by goblins in former times. The twilight had begun to whiten what was on high and to blacken all below. As he read, over the top of the book which he held in his hand, Father Mabeuf was surveying his plants, and among others a magnificent rhododendron which was one of his consolations; four days of heat, wind, and sun without a drop of rain, had passed; the stalks were bending, the buds drooping, the leaves falling; all this needed water, the rhododendron was particularly sad. Father Mabeuf was one of those persons for whom plants have souls. The old man had toiled all day over his indigo plot, he was worn out with fatigue, but he rose, laid his books on the bench, and walked, all bent over and with tottering footsteps, to the well, but when he had grasped the chain, he could not even draw it sufficiently to unhook it. Then he turned round and cast a glance of anguish toward heaven which was becoming studded with stars. 
The evening had that serenity which overwhelms the troubles of man beneath an indescribably mournful and eternal joy. The night promised to be as arid as the day had been."Stars everywhere!" thought the old man; "not the tiniest cloud! Not a drop of water!"
And his head, which had been upraised for a moment, fell back upon his breast.
He raised it again, and once more looked at the sky, murmuring:--
"A tear of dew! A little pity!"
He tried again to unhook the chain of the well, and could not.
At that moment, he heard a voice saying:--
"Father Mabeuf, would you like to have me water your garden for you?"
At the same time, a noise as of a wild animal passing became audible in the hedge, and he beheld emerging from the shrubbery a sort of tall, slender girl, who drew herself up in front of him and stared boldly at him. She had less the air of a human being than of a form which had just blossomed forth from the twilight.
Before Father Mabeuf, who was easily terrified, and who was, as we have said, quick to take alarm, was able to reply by a single syllable, this being, whose movements had a sort of odd abruptness in the darkness, had unhooked the chain, plunged in and withdrawn the bucket, and filled the watering-pot, and the goodman beheld this apparition, which had bare feet and a tattered petticoat, running about among the flower-beds distributing life around her. The sound of the watering-pot on the leaves filled Father Mabeuf's soul with ecstasy.It seemed to him that the rhododendron was happy now.
The first bucketful emptied, the girl drew a second, then a third. She watered the whole garden.
There was something about her, as she thus ran about among paths, where her outline appeared perfectly black, waving her angular arms, and with her fichu all in rags, that resembled a bat. 
When she had finished, Father Mabeuf approached her with tears in his eyes, and laid his hand on her brow.
"God will bless you," said he, "you are an angel since you take care of the flowers."
"No," she replied. "I am the devil, but that's all the same to me."
The old man exclaimed, without either waiting for or hearing her response:--
"What a pity that I am so unhappy and so poor, and that I can   do nothing for you!"
"You can do something," said she.
"What?"
"Tell me where M. Marius lives."
The old man did not understand. "What Monsieur Marius?"
He raised his glassy eyes and seemed to be seeking something that had vanished.
"A young man who used to come here."
In the meantime, M. Mabeuf had searched his memory.
"Ah! yes--" he exclaimed. "I know what you mean. Wait! Monsieur Marius--the Baron Marius Pontmercy, parbleu! He lives, -- 
or rather, he no longer lives,--ah well, I don't know." 
As he spoke, he had bent over to train a branch of rhododendron, and he continued:--
"Hold, I know now. He very often passes along the boulevard, and goes in the direction of the Glaciere, Rue Croulebarbe. The meadow of the Lark. Go there. It is not hard to meet him."
When M. Mabeuf straightened himself up, there was no longer any one there; the girl had disappeared.
He was decidedly terrified.
"Really," he thought, "if my garden had not been watered, I should think that she was a spirit." 
An hour later, when he was in bed, it came back to him, nd as he fell asleep, at that confused moment when thought, like that fabulous bird which changes itself into a fish in order to cross the sea, little by little assumes the form of a dream in order to traverse slumber, he said to himself in a bewildered way: -- 
"In sooth, that greatly resembles what Rubaudiere narrates of the goblins. Could it have been a goblin?"
马吕斯已不再访问任何人，不过他有时会遇见马白夫公公。
这时，马吕斯正沿着一种阴暗凄凉的梯级慢慢往下走。我们不妨称之为地窨子阶梯的这种梯级，把人们带到那些不见天日、只听到幸福的人群在自己头上走动的地方，当马吕斯这样慢慢往下走时，马白夫先生也同时在他那面往下走。
《柯特雷茨附近的植物图说》已绝对销不出去了。靛青的试种，由于奥斯特里茨的那个小园子里阳光不足，也毫无成绩。马白夫先生在那里只能种些性喜阴湿的稀有植物。但他并不灰心。他在植物园里获得一角光照通风都好的地，用来“自费”试种靛青。为了做这试验，他把《植物图说》的铜版全押在当铺里。他把每天的早餐缩减到两个鸡蛋，其中一个留给他那年老的女仆，他已十五个月没有付给她工资了。他的早餐经常是一天中唯一的一餐。他失去了那种稚气十足的笑声，他变得阴沉了，也不再接待朋友。好在马吕斯也不想去看他。有时，马白夫先生去植物园，老人和那青年会在医院路上迎面走过。他们彼此并不交谈，只愁眉苦眼地相互点个头罢了。伤心啊，贫苦竟能使人忘旧！往日是朋友，于今成路人。
书店老板鲁瓦约尔已经死了。现在马白夫先生认识的仅只是他自己的书籍、他的园子和他的靛青，这是他的幸福、兴趣和希望所呈现的三个形象。这已够他过活了。他常对自己说：“到我把那蓝色团子做成的时候，我便有钱了，我要把我的那些铜版从当铺里赎回来，我要大吹大擂地把我那本《植物图说》推销一番，敲起大鼓，报纸上登上广告，我就可以去买一本皮埃尔·德·梅丁的《航海艺术》了。我知道什么地方能买到，一五五九年版带木刻插图的。”目前，他天天去培植他那方靛青地，晚上回家浇他的园子，读他的书。马白夫先生这时已年近八十了。
一天傍晚，他遇到一件怪事。
那天，大白天他便回了家。体力日渐衰退的普卢塔克妈妈正病倒在床上。晚餐时，他啃了一根还剩有一点点肉的骨头，又吃了一片从厨房桌上找到的面包，出去坐在一条横倒的界石上面，这是他在花园里用来当长凳的。
在这条长凳近旁，按照老式果园的布局，竖着一个高大的圆顶柜，它的木条、木板都已很不完整，下层是兔子窝，上层是果子架。兔子窝里没有兔子，果子架上却还有几个苹果。这是剩余的过冬食物。
马白夫先生戴着眼镜，手里捧着两本心爱的书在翻翻念念，这两本书不但是他心爱的，对他那样年纪的人来说，更严重的是那两本书常使他心神不安。他那怯懦的生性原已使他在某种程度上接受了一些迷信思想。那两本书之一是德朗克尔院长的有名著作，《魔鬼的多变》，另一本是米托尔·德·拉鲁博提埃尔的四开本，《关于沃维尔的鬼怪和皮埃弗的精灵》。他的园子在从前正是精灵不时出没的地方，因而那后一本书更使他感到兴趣。暮色的残晖正开始把上面的东西变白，下面的东西变黑。马白夫公公一面阅读，一面从他手里的书本上望着他的那些花木，其中给他最大安慰的是一株绚烂夺目的山踯躅，四天的干旱日子刚过去，热风，烈日，不见一滴雨，枝头下垂了，花骨朵儿蔫了，叶子落了，一切都需要灌溉，那棵山踯躅尤其显得憔悴多愁。和某些人一样，马白夫公公也认为植物是有灵魂的。老人在他那块靛青地里工作了一整天，已精疲力竭了，可他仍站起来，把他的两本书放在条凳上，弯着腰，摇摇晃晃，一直走到井边，但他抓住铁链想把它提起一点，以便从钉子上取下来也做不到了。他只好转回来，凄凄惨惨，抬头望着星光闪烁的天空。
暮色有那么一种静穆的气象，它能把人的苦痛压倒在一种无以名之的凄凉和永恒的喜悦下。这一夜，看来又将和白天一样干燥。
“处处是星！”那老人想道，“一丝云彩也不见！没有一滴水！”
他的头，抬起了一会儿，又落在了胸前。
他继又把头抬起，望着天空嘟囔：
“下点露水吧！怜惜怜惜众生吧！”
他又试了一次，要把井上的铁链取下来，但是他气力不济。
正在这时，他听见一个人的声音说道：
“马白夫公公，要我来替您浇园子吗？”
同时，篱笆中发出一种声响，仿佛有什么野兽穿过似的，他看见从杂草丛里走出一个瘦长的大姑娘，站在他跟前，大胆地望着他。这东西，与其说象个人，倒不如说是刚从暮色中显现出来的一种形象。
马白夫公公原很容易受惊，并且，我们说过，很容易害怕的，他一个字还没有来得及回答，那个神出鬼没的生灵已在黑暗中取下铁链，把吊桶垂下去，随即又提起来，灌满了浇水壶，老人这才看见那影子是赤着脚的，穿一条破烂裙子，在花畦中来回奔跑，把生命洒向她的四周。从莲蓬头里喷出来的水洒在叶子上，使马白夫公公心里充满了快乐。他仿佛觉得现在那棵山踯躅感到幸福了。
第一桶完了，那姑娘又汲取第二桶，继又第三桶。她把整个园子全浇遍了。
她那浑身全黑的轮廓在小道上这样走来走去，两条骨瘦如柴的长胳臂上飘着一块丝丝缕缕的破烂披肩，望上去，真说不出有那么一股蝙蝠味儿。
当她浇完了水，马白夫公公含着满眶眼泪走上前去，把手放在她的额头上说：
“天主保佑您。您是一个天使，您能这样爱惜花儿。”
“不，”她回答说，“我是鬼，做鬼，我并不在乎。”
那老人原就没有等她答话，也没听见她的回答，便又大声说：
“可惜我太不成了，太穷了，对您一点也不能有所帮助！”
“您能帮助我。”她说。
“怎样呢？”
“把马吕斯先生的住址告诉我。”
老人一点也不懂。
“哪个马吕斯先生？”
他翻起一双白蒙蒙的眼睛，仿佛在搜索什么消失了的往事。
“一个年轻人，早些日子常到这儿来的。”
马白夫先生这才回忆起来。
“啊！对……”他大声说，“我懂了您的意思。等等！马吕斯先生……男爵马吕斯·彭眉胥，可不是！他住在……他已不住在……真糟，我不知道。”
他一面说，一面弯下腰去理那山踯躅的枝子，接着又说道：
“有了，我现在想起来了。他经常走过那条大路，朝着冰窖那面走去。落须街。百灵场。您到那一带去找。不难遇见他。”
等马白夫先生直起身子，什么人也没有了，那姑娘不见了。
他确有点儿害怕。
“说真话，”他想，“要是我这园子没有浇过水，我真会当是遇见鬼了呢。”
一个钟头过后，他躺在床上，这念头又回到他的脑子里，他就要入睡了，也就是思想象寓言中所说的、为过海而变成鱼的鸟似的，渐渐化为梦境，进入模糊的睡乡，这时，在朦胧中他对自己说：
“确实，这很象拉鲁博提埃尔谈到的那种精灵。真是个精灵吗？”
Part 4 Book 2 Chapter 4 An Apparition to Marius
Some days after this visit of a "spirit" to Farmer Mabeuf, one morning,-- it was on a Monday, the day when Marius borrowed the hundred-sou piece from Courfeyrac for Thenardier--Marius had put this coin in his pocket, and before carrying it to the clerk's office, he had gone "to take a little stroll," in the hope that this would make him work on his return. It was always thus, however. As soon as he rose, he seated himself before a book and a sheet of paper in order to scribble some translation; his task at that epoch consisted in turning into French a celebrated quarrel between Germans, the Gans and Savigny controversy; he took Savigny, he took Gans, read four lines, tried to write one, could not, saw a star between him and his paper, and rose from his chair, saying: "I shall go out. That will put me in spirits." 
And off he went to the Lark's meadow.
There he beheld more than ever the star, and less than ever Savigny and Gans.
He returned home, tried to take up his work again, and did not succeed; there was no means of re-knotting a single one of the threads which were broken in his brain; then he said to himself: "I will not go out to-morrow. It prevents my working." And he went out every day. 
He lived in the Lark's meadow more than in Courfeyrac's lodgings. That was his real address: Boulevard de la Sante, at the seventh tree from the Rue Croulebarbe.
That morning he had quitted the seventh tree and had seated himself on the parapet of the River des Gobelins. A cheerful sunlight penetrated the freshly unfolded and luminous leaves.
He was dreaming of "Her." And his meditation turning to a reproach,fell back upon himself; he reflected dolefully on his idleness, his paralysis of soul, which was gaining on him, and of that night which was growing more dense every moment before him, to such a point that he no longer even saw the sun.
Nevertheless, athwart this painful extrication of indistinct ideas which was not even a monologue, so feeble had action become in him, and he had no longer the force to care to despair, athwart this melancholy absorption, sensations from without did reach him. He heard behind him, beneath him, on both banks of the river, the laundresses of the Gobelins beating their linen, and above his head, the birds chattering and singing in the elm-trees. On the one hand, the sound of liberty, the careless happiness of the leisure which has wings; on the other, the sound of toil. What caused him to meditate deeply, and almost reflect, were two cheerful sounds.
All at once, in the midst of his dejected ecstasy, he heard a familiar voice saying:--
"Come! Here he is!"
He raised his eyes, and recognized that wretched child who had come to him one morning, the elder of the Thenardier daughters, Eponine; he knew her name now. Strange to say, she had grown poorer and prettier, two steps which it had not seemed within her power to take. She had accomplished a double progress, towards the light and towards distress. She was barefooted and in rags, as on the day when she had so resolutely entered his chamber, only her rags were two months older now, the holes were larger, the tatters more sordid. It was the same harsh voice, the same brow dimmed and wrinkled with tan, the same free, wild, and vacillating glance.She had besides, more than formerly, in her face that indescribably terrified and lamentable something which sojourn in a prison adds to wretchedness.
She had bits of straw and hay in her hair, not like Ophelia through having gone mad from the contagion of Hamlet's madness, but because she had slept in the loft of some stable.
And in spite of it all, she was beautiful. What a star art thou, O youth!
In the meantime, she had halted in front of Marius with a trace of joy in her livid countenance, and something which resembled a smile. 
She stood for several moments as though incapable of speech.
"So I have met you at last!" she said at length. "Father Mabeuf was right, it was on this boulevard! How I have hunted for you! If you only knew! Do you know? I have been in the jug. A fortnight! They let me out! seeing that there was nothing against me, and that, moreover, I had not reached years of discretion. I lack two months of it. Oh! how I have hunted for you! These six weeks! So you don't live down there any more?"
"No," said Marius.
"Ah! I understand. Because of that affair. Those take-downs are disagreeable. You cleared out. Come now! Why do you wear old hats like this! A young man like you ought to have fine clothes. Do you know, Monsieur Marius, Father Mabeuf calls you Baron Marius, I don't know what.It isn't true that you are a baron? Barons are old fellows, they go to the Luxembourg, in front of the chateau,where there is the most sun, and they read the Quotidienne for a sou. I once carried a letter to a baron of that sort. He was over a hundred years old. Say, where do you live now?"
Marius made no reply.
"Ah!" she went on, "you have a hole in your shirt. I must sew it up for you."
She resumed with an expression which gradually clouded over:--
"You don't seem glad to see me."
Marius held his peace; she remained silent for a moment, then exclaimed:--
"But if I choose, nevertheless, I could force you to look glad!"
"What?" demanded Marius. "What do you mean?"
"Ah! you used to call me thou," she retorted.
"Well, then, what dost thou mean?"
She bit her lips; she seemed to hesitate, as though a prey to some sort of inward conflict. At last she appeared to come to a decision.
"So much the worse, I don't care. You have a melancholy air, I want you to be pleased. Only promise me that you will smile. I want to see you smile and hear you say:`Ah, well, that's good.' Poor Mr. Marius! you know? You promised me that you would give me anything I like--" 
"Yes! Only speak!"
She looked Marius full in the eye, and said:--
"I have the address."
Marius turned pale. All the blood flowed back to his heart.
"What address?"
"The address that you asked me to get!"
She added, as though with an effort:--
"The address--you know very well!"
"Yes!" stammered Marius.
"Of that young lady."
This word uttered, she sighed deeply.
Marius sprang from the parapet on which he had been sitting and seized her hand distractedly.
"Oh! Well! lead me thither! Tell me! Ask of me anything you wish! Where is it?"
"Come with me," she responded. "I don't know the street or number very well; it is in quite the other direction from here, but I know the house well, I will take you to it." 
She withdrew her hand and went on, in a tone which could have rent the heart of an observer, but which did not even graze Marius in his intoxicated and ecstatic state:--
"Oh! how glad you are!"
A cloud swept across Marius' brow. He seized Eponine by the arm:--
"Swear one thing to me!"
"Swear!" said she, "what does that mean? Come! You want me to swear?"
And she laughed.
"Your father! promise me, Eponine! Swear to me that you will not give this address to your father!"
She turned to him with a stupefied air.
"Eponine! How do you know that my name is Eponine?"
"Promise what I tell you!"
But she did not seem to hear him.
"That's nice! You have called me Eponine!"
Marius grasped both her arms at once.
"But answer me, in the name of Heaven! pay attention to what I am saying to you, swear to me that you will not tell your father this address that you know!"
"My father!" said she. "Ah yes, my father! Be at ease. He's in close confinement. Besides, what do I care for my father!"
"But you do not promise me!" exclaimed Marius.
"Let go of me!" she said, bursting into a laugh, "how you do shake me! Yes! Yes! I promise that! I swear that to you! What is that to me? I will not tell my father the address. There! Is that right? Is that it?"
"Nor to any one?" said Marius.
"Nor to any one."
"Now," resumed Marius, "take me there."
"Immediately?"
"Immediately."
"Come along. Ah! how pleased he is!" said she.
After a few steps she halted.
"You are following me too closely, Monsieur Marius. Let me go on ahead, and follow me so, without seeming to do it. A nice young man like you must not be seen with a woman like me." 
No tongue can express all that lay in that word, woman, thus pronounced by that child.
She proceeded a dozen paces and then halted once more; Marius joined her. She addressed him sideways, and without turning towards him:--
"By the way, you know that you promised me something?"
Marius fumbled in his pocket. All that he owned in the world was the five francs intended for Thenardier the father. He took them and laid them in Eponine's hand.
She opened her fingers and let the coin fall to the ground, and gazed at him with a gloomy air.
"I don't want your money," said she.
在“鬼”访问马白夫公公的几天以后，一个早晨棗是个星期一，马吕斯为德纳第向古费拉克借五个法郎的那天棗，马吕斯把那值五法郎的钱放进衣袋，决定在送交管理处以前，先去“蹓跶一会儿”，希望能在回家后好好工作。他经常是这样的。一起床，便坐在一本书和一张纸跟前，胡乱涂上几句译文。他这时的工作是把两个德国人的一场著名争吵，甘斯和萨维尼的不同论点译成法文，他看看萨维尼，他看看甘斯，读上四行，试着写一行，不成，他老看见在那张纸和他自己之间有颗星，于是他离座站起来说道：“我出去走走。回头能就顺利工作了。”
他去了百灵场。
到了那里，他比任何时候都更加只见那颗星，也比任何时候都更加见不到萨维尼和甘斯了。
他回到家里，想再把工作捡起来，但是一点也办不到，即使是断在他脑子里线索里的一根，也没法连起来，于是他说：“我明天再也不出去了。那会妨碍我工作。”可是他没有一天不出门。
他的住处，与其说是古费拉克的家，倒不如说是百灵场。他的真正的住址是这样的：健康街，落须街口过去第七棵树。
那天早晨，他离开了第七棵树，走去坐在哥白兰河边的石栏上。一道欢快的阳光正穿过那些通明透亮的新发的树叶。他在想念“她”。他的想念继又转为对自己的责备，他痛苦地想到自己已被懒惰棗灵魂麻痹症所控制，想到自己的前途越来越黑暗，甚至连太阳也看不见了。
这时他心里有着这种连自言自语也算不上的模糊想法，由于他的内心活动已极微弱，便连自怨自艾的力量也失去了，在这种百感交集的迷惘中，他感受了外界的种种活动，他听到在他后面，他的下面，哥白兰河两岸传来了洗衣妇的捣衣声，他又听到鸟雀在他上面的榆树枝头嘤鸣啼唱。一方面是自由、自得其乐和长了翅膀的悠闲的声音，另一方面是劳动的声音。这一切引起了他的无穷感慨，几乎使他陷入深思，这是两种快乐的声音。
他正这样一筹莫展在出神时，突然听到一个人的声音在说：“嘿！他在这儿。”
他抬起眼睛，认出了那人便是有天早上来到他屋里的那个穷娃子，德纳第的大姑娘，爱潘妮，他现在已知道她的名字了。说也奇怪，她显得更穷，却也漂亮些了，这好象是她绝对不能同时迈出的两步。但她确已朝着光明和苦难两个方面完成了这一双重的进步。她赤着一双脚，穿一身破烂衣服，仍是那天那么坚定地走进他屋子时的那模样，不过她的破衣又多拖了两个月，洞更大了，烂布片也更脏了。仍是那种嘶哑的嗓子，仍是那个因风吹日晒而发黑起皱的额头，仍是那种放肆、散乱、浮动的目光。而她新近经历过的牢狱生活，又在她那蒙垢受苦的面貌上添上一种说不上的叫人见了心惊胆寒的东西。
她头发里有些麦秆皮和草屑，但不象那个受了哈姆莱特疯病感染而癫狂的奥菲利娅，而是因为她曾在某个马厩的草堆上睡过觉。
尽管这样，她仍是美丽的。呵！青春，你真是颗灿烂的明星。
这时，她走到马吕斯跟前停下来，枯黄的脸上略带一点喜色，并稍露一点笑容。
她好一阵子说不出话来。
“我到底把您找着了！”她终于这样说，“马白夫公公说对了，是在这条大路上！我把您好找哟！要是您知道就好了！您知道了吧？我在黑屋子里关了十五天！他们又把我放了！看见我身上啥也找不出来，况且我还不到受管制的年龄！还差两个月。呵！我把您好找哟！已经找了六个星期。您已不住在那边了吗？”
“不住那边了。”马吕斯说。
“是呀，我懂。就为了那件事。是叫人难受，那种抢人的事。您就搬走了。怎么了！您为什么要戴一顶这么旧的帽子？象您这样一个青年，应当穿上漂亮衣服才对。您知道吗，马吕斯先生？马白夫公公管您叫男爵马吕斯还有什么的。您不会是什么男爵吧。男爵，那都是些老家伙，他们逛卢森堡公园，全待在大楼前面，太阳最好的地方，还看一个苏一张的《每日新闻》。有一次，我送一封信给一个男爵，他便是这样的。他已一百多岁了。您说，您现在住在什么地方？”
马吕斯不回答。
“啊！”她接着说，“您的衬衣上有个洞。我得来替您补好。”
她又带着渐渐沉郁下来的神情往下说：
“您的样子好象见了我不高兴似的。”
马吕斯不出声，她也静了一会儿，继又大声喊道：
“可是只要我愿意，我就一定能使您高兴！”
“什么？”马吕斯问，“您这话什么意思？”
“啊！您对我一向是说‘你’的！”她接着说。
“好吧，你这话什么意思？”
她咬着自己的嘴唇，似乎拿不定主意，内心在作斗争。最后，她好象下定了决心。
“没有关系，怎么都可以。您老是这样愁眉苦脸，我要您高兴。不过您得答应我，您一定要笑。我要看见您笑，并且听您说：‘好呀！好极了。’可怜的马吕斯先生！您知道！您从前许过我，无论我要什么，您都情愿给我……”
“对，你说吧！”
她瞪眼望着马吕斯，向他说：
“我已找到那个住址。”
马吕斯面无人色。他的全部血液都回到了心里。
“什么住址？”
“您要我找的那个住址！”
她又好象费尽无穷气力似的加上一句：
“就是那个……住址。您明白吗？”
“我明白！”马吕斯结结巴巴地说。
“那个小姐的！”
说完这几个字，她深深叹了一口气。
马吕斯从他坐着的石栏上跳了下来，狠狠捏住她的手：
“呵！太好了！快领我去！告诉我！随你向我要什么！在什么地方？”
“您跟我来，”她回答，“是什么街，几号，我都不清楚，那完全是另一个地方，不靠这边，但是我认得那栋房子，我领您去。”
她抽回了她的手，以一种能使旁观者听了感到苦恼，却又绝没有影响到如醉如痴的马吕斯的语气接着说：
“呵！瞧您有多么高兴！”
一阵阴影浮过马吕斯的额头。他抓住爱潘妮的手臂。
“你得向我发个誓！”
“发誓？”她说，“那是什么意思？奇怪！您要我发誓？”
她笑了出来。
“你的父亲！答应我，爱潘妮！我要你发誓你不把那住址告诉你父亲！”
她转过去对着他，带着惊讶的神气说：
“爱潘妮！您怎么会知道我叫爱潘妮？”
“答应我对你提出的要求！”
她好象没有听见他说话似的：
“这多有意思！您叫了我一声爱潘妮！”
马吕斯同时抓住她的两条胳膊：
“你回我的话呀，看老天面上！注意听我向你说的话，发誓你不把你知道的那个住址告诉你父亲！”
“我的父亲吗？”她说。“啊，不错，我的父亲！您放心吧。他在牢里。并且，我父亲关我什么事！”
“但是你没有回答我的话！”马吕斯大声说。
“不要这样抓住我！”她一面狂笑一面说，“您这样推我干什么！好吧！好吧！我答应你！我发誓！这有什么关系？我不把那住址告诉我父亲。就这样！这样行吗？这样成吗？”
“也不告诉旁人？”马吕斯说。
“也不告诉旁人。”
“现在，”马吕斯又说，“你领我去。”
“马上就去？”
“马上就去。”
“来吧。呵！他多么高兴呵！”她说。
走上几步，她又停下来：
“您跟得我太近了，马吕斯先生。让我走在前面，您就这样跟着我走，不要让别人看出来。别人不应当看见象您这样一个体面的年轻人跟着我这样一个女人。”
任何语言都无法表达从这孩子嘴里说出的“女人”这两个字的含义。
她走上十来步，又停下来，马吕斯跟上去。她偏过头去和他谈话，脸并不转向他：
“我说，您知道您从前曾许过我什么吗？”
马吕斯掏着自己身上的口袋。他在这世上仅有的财富便是那准备给德纳第的五法郎。他掏了出来，放在爱潘妮手里。
她张开手指，让钱落在地上，愁眉不展地望着他：
“我不要您的钱。”她说。
Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 1 The House with a Secret
About the middle of the last century, a chief justice in the Parliament of Paris having a mistress and concealing the fact, for at that period the grand seignors displayed their mistresses, and the bourgeois concealed them, had "a little house" built in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, in the deserted Rue Blomet, which is now called Rue Plumet, not far from the spot which was then designated as Combat des Animaux.
This house was composed of a single-storied pavilion; two rooms on the ground floor, two chambers on the first floor, a kitchen down stairs, a boudoir up stairs, an attic under the roof, the whole preceded by a garden with a large gate opening on the street. This garden was about an acre and a half in extent. This was all that could be seen by passers-by; but behind the pavilion there was a narrow courtyard, and at the end of the courtyard a low building consisting of two rooms and a cellar, a sort of preparation destined to conceal a child and nurse in case of need. This building communicated in the rear by a masked door which opened by a secret spring, with a long, narrow, paved winding corridor, open to the sky, hemmed in with two lofty walls, which, hidden with wonderful art, and lost as it were between garden enclosures and cultivated land, all of whose angles and detours it followed, ended in another door, also with a secret lock which opened a quarter of a league away, almost in another quarter, at the solitary extremity of the Rue du Babylone.
Through this the chief justice entered, so that even those who were spying on him and following him would merely have observed that the justice betook himself every day in a mysterious way somewhere, and would never have suspected that to go to the Rue de Babylone was to go to the Rue Blomet. Thanks to clever purchasers of land, the magistrate had been able to make a secret, sewer-like passage on his own property, and consequently, without interference. Later on, he had sold in little parcels, for gardens and market gardens, the lots of ground adjoining the corridor, and the proprietors of these lots on both sides thought they had a party wall before their eyes, and did not even suspect the long, paved ribbon winding between two walls amid their flower-beds and their orchards. Only the birds beheld this curiosity. It is probable that the linnets and tomtits of the last century gossiped a great deal about the chief justice.
The pavilion, built of stone in the taste of Mansard, wainscoted and furnished in the Watteau style, rocaille on the inside, old-fashioned on the outside, walled in with a triple hedge of flowers, had something discreet, coquettish, and solemn about it, as befits a caprice of love and magistracy.
This house and corridor, which have now disappeared, were in existence fifteen years ago. In '93 a coppersmith had purchased the house with the idea of demolishing it, but had not been able to pay the price; the nation made him bankrupt. So that it was the house which demolished the coppersmith. After that, the house remained uninhabited, and fell slowly to ruin, as does every dwelling to which the presence of man does not communicate life. It had remained fitted with its old furniture, was always for sale or to let, and the ten or a dozen people who passed through the Rue Plumet were warned of the fact by a yellow and illegible bit of writing which had hung on the garden wall since 1819.
Towards the end of the Restoration, these same passers-by might have noticed that the bill had disappeared, and even that the shutters on the first floor were open. The house was occupied, in fact. The windows had short curtains, a sign that there was a woman about.
In the month of October, 1829, a man of a certain age had presented himself and had hired the house just as it stood, including, of course, the back building and the lane which ended in the Rue de Babylone. He had had the secret openings of the two doors to this passage repaired. The house, as we have just mentioned, was still very nearly furnished with the justice's old fitting; the new tenant had ordered some repairs, had added what was lacking here and there, had replaced the paving-stones in the yard, bricks in the floors, steps in the stairs, missing bits in the inlaid floors and the glass in the lattice windows, and had finally installed himself there with a young girl and an elderly maid-servant, without commotion, rather like a person who is slipping in than like a man who is entering his own house. The neighbors did not gossip about him,for the reason that there were no neighbors.
This unobtrusive tenant was Jean Valjean, the young girl was Cosette. The servant was a woman named Toussaint, whom Jean Valjean had saved from the hospital and from wretchedness, and who was elderly, a stammerer, and from the provinces, three qualities which had decided Jean Valjean to take her with him. He had hired the house under the name of M. Fauchelevent, independent gentleman.In all that has been related heretofore, the reader has, doubtless, been no less prompt than Thenardier to recognize Jean Valjean.
Why had Jean Valjean quitted the convent of the Petit-Picpus? What had happened?
Nothing had happened.
It will be remembered that Jean Valjean was happy in the convent, so happy that his conscience finally took the alarm. He saw Cosette every day, he felt paternity spring up and develop within him more and more, he brooded over the soul of that child, he said to himself that she was his, that nothing could take her from him, that this would last indefinitely, that she would certainly become a nun, being thereto gently incited every day, that thus the convent was henceforth the universe for her as it was for him, that he should grow old there, and that she would grow up there, that she would grow old there, and that he should die there; that, in short, delightful hope, no separation was possible. On reflecting upon this, he fell into perplexity. He interrogated himself. He asked himself if all that happiness were really his, if it were not composed of the happiness of another, of the happiness of that child which he, an old man, was confiscating and stealing; if that were not theft? He said to himself, that this child had a right to know life before renouncing it, that to deprive her in advance, and in some sort without consulting her, of all joys, under the pretext of saving her from all trials, to take advantage of her ignorance of her isolation, in order to make an artificial vocation germinate in her, was to rob a human creature of its nature and to lie to God. And who knows if, when she came to be aware of all this some day, and found herself a nun to her sorrow, Cosette would not come to hate him? A last, almost selfish thought, and less heroic than the rest, but which was intolerable to him. He resolved to quit the convent. 
He resolved on this; he recognized with anguish, the fact that it was necessary. As for objections, there were none. Five years' sojourn between these four walls and of disappearance had necessarily destroyed or dispersed the elements of fear. He could return tranquilly among men. He had grown old, and all had undergone a change. Who would recognize him now? And then, to face the worst, there was danger only for himself,and he had no right to condemn Cosette to the cloister for the reason that he had been condemned to the galleys. Besides, what is danger in comparison with the right? Finally, nothing prevented his being prudent and taking his precautions.
As for Cosette's education, it was almost finished and complete.
His determination once taken, he awaited an opportunity. It was not long in presenting itself. Old Fauchelevent died.
Jean Valjean demanded an audience with the revered prioress and told her that, having come into a little inheritance at the death of his brother, which permitted him henceforth to live without working, he should leave the service of the convent and take his daughter with him; but that, as it was not just that Cosette, since she had not taken the vows, should have received her education gratuitously, he humbly begged the Reverend Prioress to see fit that he should offer to the community, as indemnity, for the five years which Cosette had spent there, the sum of five thousand francs.
It was thus that Jean Valjean quitted the convent of the Perpetual Adoration.
On leaving the convent, he took in his own arms the little valise the key to which he still wore on his person, and would permit no porter to touch it. This puzzled Cosette, because of the odor of embalming which proceeded from it. 
Let us state at once, that this trunk never quitted him more. He always had it in his chamber. It was the first and only thing sometimes, that he carried off in his moving when he moved about. Cosette laughed at it, and called this valise his inseparable, saying: "I am jealous of it."
Nevertheless, Jean Valjean did not reappear in the open air without profound anxiety.
He discovered the house in the Rue Plumet, and hid himself from sight there. Henceforth he was in the possession of the name: -- Ultime Fauchelevent.
At the same time he hired two other apartments in Paris, in order that he might attract less attention than if he were to remain always in the same quarter, and so that he could, at need, take himself off at the slightest disquietude which should assail him, and in short, so that he might not again be caught unprovided as on the night when he had so miraculously escaped from Javert. These two apartments were very pitiable, poor in appearance, and in two quarters which were far remote from each other, the one in the Rue de l'Ouest, the other in the Rue de l'Homme Arme.
He went from time to time, now to the Rue de l'Homme Arme, now to the Rue de l'Ouest, to pass a month or six weeks, without taking Toussaint. He had himself served by the porters,and gave himself out as a gentleman from the suburbs, living on his funds, and having a little temporary resting-place in town. This lofty virtue had three domiciles in Paris for the sake of escaping from the police.
在前一世纪①的中叶，巴黎法院的一位乳钵②院长私下养着一个情妇，因为当时大贵族们显示他们的情妇，而资产阶级却要把她们藏起来。他在圣日耳曼郊区，荒僻的卜洛梅街棗就是今天的卜吕梅街棗所谓“斗兽场”的地方，起建了一所“小房子”。 
①指十八世纪。
②乳钵是古代法国高级官员所戴的一种礼帽的名称，上宽下窄，圆筒无边，形如倒立的乳钵。
这房子是一座上下两层的楼房，下面两间大厅，上面两间正房，另外，下面有间厨房，上面有间起坐间，屋顶下面有间阁楼，整栋房子面对一个花园，临街一道铁栏门。那园子大约占地一公顷，这便是过路的人所能望见的一切了。可是在楼房后面，还有一个小院子，院子底里，又有两间带地窖的平房，这是个在必要时可以藏一个孩子和一个乳母的地方。平房后面有扇伪装了的暗门，通向一条长而窄的小巷：下面铺了石板，上面露天，弯弯曲曲，夹在两道高墙的中间；这小巷经过极巧妙的设计，顺着墙外两旁一些园子和菜地的藩篱，转弯抹角，向前延伸，一路都有掩蔽，从外面看去，绝无痕迹可寻，就这样直通半个四分之一法里以外的另一扇暗门，开门出去，便是巴比伦街上行人绝少的一端，那已几乎属于另一市区了。
院长先生便经常打这道门进去，即使有人察觉他每天都鬼鬼祟祟地去到一个什么地方，要跟踪侦察，也决想不到去巴比伦街便是去卜洛梅街。这个才智过人的官员，通过巧妙的土地收购，便能无拘无束地在私有的土地上修造起这条通道。过后，他又把巷子两旁的土地，分段分块，零零碎碎地卖了出去，而买了这些地的业主们，分在巷子两旁，总以为竖在他们眼前的是一道公用的单墙，决想不到还存在那么一长条石板路蜿蜒伸展在他们的菜畦和果园中的夹墙里。只有飞鸟才能望见这一奇景。上一世纪的黄鸟和兰花雀一定叽叽喳喳谈了不少关于这位院长先生的事。
那栋楼房是照芒萨尔①的格调用条石砌成的，并按照华托的格调嵌镶了壁饰，陈设了家具，里面是自然景色，外面是古老形式，总的一共植了三道花篱，显得既雅致，又俏丽，又庄严，这对男女私情和达官豪兴的一时发泄来说，都是恰当的。
这房子和小巷，今天都已不在了，十五年前却还存在。九三年，有个锅炉厂的厂主买了这所房子，准备拆毁，但因付不出房价，国家便宣告他破产。因此，反而是房子拆毁了厂主。从这以后，那房子便空着没人住，也就和所有一切得不到人间温暖的住宅一样，逐渐颓废了。它仍旧陈设着那一套老家具，随时准备出卖或出租，每年在卜吕梅街走过的那十个或十二个人，自从一八一○年以来，都看见一块字迹模糊的黄广告牌挂在花园外面的铁栏门上。 
①芒萨尔（Mansard，1646?708），法国建筑师。　
到了王朝复辟的末年，从前的那几个过路人忽然发现广告牌不见了，甚至楼上的板窗也开了。那房子确已有人住进去。窗子上都挂了小窗帘，说明那里有个女人。
一八二九年十月，有个年岁相当大的男人出面把那房子原封不动地，当然包括后院的平房和通向巴比伦街的小巷在内，一总租了下来。他又雇人把那巷子两头的两扇暗门修理好。陈设在房子里的，我们刚才已经说过，大致仍是那院长的一些旧家具，这位新房客稍加修葺了一下，各处添补了一些缺少的东西，院子里铺了石板，屋子里铺了方砖，修理了楼梯上的踏级、地板上的木条、窗上的玻璃，这才带着一个年轻姑娘和一个老女仆悄悄地搬来住下，好象是溜着进去的，说不上迁入新居。邻居们也绝没有议论什么，原因是那地方没有邻居。
这个无声无息的房客便是冉阿让，年轻姑娘便是珂赛特。那女仆是个老姑娘，名叫杜桑，是冉阿让从医院和穷苦中救出来的，她年老，外省人，口吃，有这三个优点，冉阿让才决定把她带在身边。他以割风先生之名，固定年息领取者的身分，把这房子租下来的。有了以上种种叙述，关于冉阿让，读者想必知道得比德纳第要更早一点。
冉阿让为什么要离开小比克布斯修院呢？出了什么事？
什么事也没有出。
我们记得，冉阿让在修院里是幸福的，甚至幸福到了心里不安的程度。他能每天和珂赛特见面，他感到自己的心里产生了父爱，并且日益发展，他以整个灵魂护卫着这孩子，他常对自己说：“她是属于他的，任何东西都不能从他那里把她夺去，生活将这样无尽期地过下去，在这里她处在日常的启诱下，一定会成为修女，因此这修院从今以后就是他和她的宇宙了，他将在这地方衰老，她将在这地方成长，她将在这地方衰老，他将在这地方死去，总之，美妙的希望，任何分离都是不可能的。”他在细想这些事时，感到自己坠在困惑中了。他反躬自问。他问自己这幸福是否完全是他的，这里面是否也搀有被他这样一个老人所侵占诱带得来的这个孩子的幸福，这究竟是不是一种盗窃行为？他常对自己说：“这孩子在放弃人生以前，有认识人生的权利，如果在取得她的同意以前，便借口要为她挡开一切不幸而断绝她的一切欢乐，利用她的蒙昧无知和无亲无故而人为地强要她发出一种遁世的誓愿，那将是违反自然，戕贼人心，也是向上帝撒谎。”并且谁能断言，将来有朝一日，珂赛特懂得了这一切，悔当修女，她不会转过来恨他吗？最后这一念，几乎是自私的，不如其他思想那样光明磊落，但这一念使他不能忍受。他便决计离开那修院。
他决定这样做，他苦闷地意识到他非这样做不可。至于阻力，却没有。他在那四堵墙里，销声匿迹，住了五年，这已够清除或驱散那些可虑的因素了。他已能安安稳稳地回到人群中去。他也老了，全都变了。现在谁还能认出他来呢？何况，即使从最坏的情况设想，有危险的也只可能是他本人，总不能因自己曾被判处坐苦役牢，便可用这作理由，认为有权利判处珂赛特去进修院。并且，危险在责任面前又算得了什么？总之，并没有什么妨碍他谨慎行事，处处小心。
至于珂赛特的教育，它已经告一段落，大致完成。
决心下了以后，他便等待机会。机会不久便出现了。老割风死了。
冉阿让请求院长接见，对她说由于哥哥去世，他得到一笔小小的遗产，从今以后，他不工作也能过活了，他打算辞掉修院里的职务，并把他的女儿带走，但是珂赛特受到教养照顾，却一直没有发愿，如果不偿付费用，那是不合理的。他小心翼翼地请求院长允许他向修院捐献五千法郎，作为珂赛特五年留院的费用。
冉阿让便这样离开了那永敬会修院。
他离开修院的时候，亲自把那小提箱夹在腋下，不让任何办事人替他代拿，钥匙他也是一直揣在身上的。这提箱老发出一股香料味，常使珂赛特困惑不解。
我们现在便说清楚，这只箱子，从此以后，不会再离开他了。他总是把它放在自己的屋子里。在他每次搬家时，也总是他要携带的第一件东西，有时并且是唯一的东西。珂赛特常为这事笑话他，称这箱子为“难分难舍的朋友”，又说：“我要吃醋啦。”
冉阿让回到了自由的空气里，其实他心里仍怀着深重的忧虑。
他发现卜吕梅街的那所房子，便蜷伏在那里。从此他成了于尔迪姆·割风这名字的占有人。
他在巴黎还同时租了另外两个住处，免得别人注意他老待在一个市区里，在感到危险初露苗头时，他也可以有个迁移的地方，不至再象上次险遭沙威毒手的那个晚上，自己走投无路。那两个住处是两套相当简陋、外貌寒碜的公寓房子，分在两个相隔很远的市区，一处在西街，另一处在武人街。
他常带着珂赛特，时而在武人街，时而在西街，住上一个月或六个星期，让杜桑留在家里。住公寓时，他让门房替他料理杂务，只说自己是郊区的一个有固定年息的人，在城里要有个歇脚点。这年高德劭的人在巴黎有三处寓所，为的是躲避警察。
Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 2 Jean Valjean as a National Guard
However, properly speaking, he lived in the Rue Plumet, and he had arranged his existence there in the following fashion: --
Cosette and the servant occupied the pavilion; she had the big sleeping-room with the painted pier-glasses, the boudoir with the gilded fillets, the justice's drawing-room furnished with tapestries and vast arm-chairs; she had the garden. Jean Valjean had a canopied bed of antique damask in three colors and a beautiful Persian rug purchased in the Rue du Figuier-Saint-Paul at Mother Gaucher's, put into Cosette's chamber, and, in order to redeem the severity of these magnificent old things, he had amalgamated with this bric-a-brac all the gay and graceful little pieces of furniture suitable to young girls, an etagere, a bookcase filled with gilt-edged books, an inkstand, a blotting-book, paper, a work-table incrusted with mother of pearl, a silver-gilt dressing-case, a toilet service in Japanese porcelain. Long damask curtains with a red foundation and three colors, like those on the bed, hung at the windows of the first floor. On the ground floor, the curtains were of tapestry. All winter long, Cosette's little house was heated from top to bottom. Jean Valjean inhabited the sort of porter's lodge which was situated at the end of the back courtyard, with a mattress on a folding-bed, a white wood table, two straw chairs, an earthenware water-jug, a few old volumes on a shelf, his beloved valise in one corner, and never any fire. He dined with Cosette, and he had a loaf of black bread on the table for his own use.
When Toussaint came, he had said to her: "It is the young lady who is the mistress of this house."--"And you, monsieur?" Toussaint replied in amazement.--"I am a much better thing than the master, I am the father." 
Cosette had been taught housekeeping in the convent, and she regulated their expenditure, which was very modest. Every day, Jean Valjean put his arm through Cosette's and took her for a walk. He led her to the Luxembourg, to the least frequented walk,and every Sunday he took her to mass at Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, because that was a long way off. As it was a very poor quarter, he bestowed alms largely there, and the poor people surrounded him in church, which had drawn down upon him Thenardier's epistle: "To the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas." He was fond of taking Cosette to visit the poor and the sick. No stranger ever entered the house in the Rue Plumet. Toussaint brought their provisions, and Jean Valjean went himself for water to a fountain near by on the boulevard. Their wood and wine were put into a half-subterranean hollow lined with rock-work which lay near the Rue de Babylone and which had formerly served the chief-justice as a grotto; for at the epoch of follies and "Little Houses" no love was without a grotto.
In the door opening on the Rue de Babylone, there was a box destined for the reception of letters and papers; only, as the three inhabitants of the pavilion in the Rue Plumet received neither papers nor letters, the entire usefulness of that box, formerly the go-between of a love affair, and the confidant of a love-lorn lawyer, was now limited to the tax-collector's notices, and the summons of the guard. For M. Fauchelevent, independent gentleman, belonged to the national guard; he had not been able to escape through the fine meshes of the census of 1831. The municipal information collected at that time had even reached the convent of the Petit-Picpus, a sort of impenetrable and holy cloud, whence Jean Valjean had emerged in venerable guise, and, consequently, worthy of mounting guard in the eyes of the townhall. 
Three or four times a year, Jean Valjean donned his uniform and mounted guard; he did this willingly, however; it was a correct disguise which mixed him with every one, and yet left him solitary. Jean Valjean had just attained his sixtieth birthday, the age of legal exemption; but he did not appear to be over fifty; moreover, he had no desire to escape his sergeant-major nor to quibble with Comte de Lobau; he possessed no civil status, he was concealing his name, he was concealing his identity,so he concealed his age, he concealed everything; and, as we have just said, he willingly did his duty as a national guard; the sum of his ambition lay in resembling any other man who paid his taxes. This man had for his ideal, within, the angel, without, the bourgeois.
Let us note one detail, however; when Jean Valjean went out with Cosette, he dressed as the reader has already seen, and had the air of a retired officer. When he went out alone, which was generally at night, he was always dressed in a workingman's trousers and blouse, and wore a cap which concealed his face. Was this precaution or humility? Both. Cosette was accustomed to the enigmatical side of her destiny, and hardly noticed her father's peculiarities. As for Toussaint, she venerated Jean Valjean, and thought everything he did right. 
One day, her butcher, who had caught a glimpse of Jean Valjean, said to her: "That's a queer fish." She replied: "He's a saint." Neither Jean Valjean nor Cosette nor Toussaint ever entered or emerged except by the door on the Rue de Babylone. Unless seen through the garden gate it would have been difficult to guess that they lived in the Rue Plumet. That gate was always closed. Jean Valjean had left the garden uncultivated, in order not to attract attention. 
In this, possibly, he made a mistake.
其实，严格说来，他是住在卜吕梅街的，他把他的生活作了如下的安排：
珂赛特带着女仆住楼房，她有那间墙壁刷过漆的大卧房，那间装了金漆直线浮雕的起坐间，当年院长用的那间有地毯、壁衣和大圈椅的客厅，她还有那个花园。冉阿让在珂赛特的卧房里放了一张带一顶古式三色花缎帐幔的床和一条从圣保罗无花果树街戈什妈妈铺子里买来的古老而华丽的波斯地毯，并且，为了冲淡这些精美的古老陈设所引起的严肃气氛，在那些古物之外，他又配置了一整套适合少女的灵巧雅致的小用具：多宝槅、书柜和金边书籍、文具、吸墨纸、嵌螺钿的工作台、银质镀金的针线盒、日本瓷梳妆用具。楼上窗子上，挂的是和帐幔一致的三色深红花缎长窗帘，底层屋子里是毛织窗帘。整个冬季，珂赛特的房子里从上到下都是生了火的。他呢，住在后院的那种下房里，帆布榻上放一条草褥、一张白木桌、两张麦秸椅、一个陶瓷水罐，一块木板上放着几本旧书，他那宝贝提箱放在屋角里，从来不生火。他和珂赛特同桌进餐，桌上有一块为他准备的陈面包。杜桑进家时他对她说：“我们家里的主人是小姐。”杜桑感到有些诧异，她反问道：“那么，您呢，先棗生？”“我嘛，我比主人高多了，我是父亲。”
珂赛特在修院里学会了管理家务，现在的家用，为数不多，全归她调度。冉阿让每天都挽着珂赛特的臂膀，带她去散步。他领她到卢森堡公园里那条游人最少的小路上去走走，每星期日去做弥撒，老是在圣雅克·德·奥·巴教堂，因为那地方相当远。这是个很穷的地段，他在那里常常布施，在教堂里，他的四周总围满了穷人，因此德纳第在信里称他为“圣雅克·德·奥·巴教堂的行善的先生”。他喜欢带珂赛特去访贫问苦。卜吕梅街的那所房子从没有陌生人进去过。杜桑采购食物，冉阿让亲自到门外附近大路边的一个水龙头上去取水。木柴和酒，放在巴比伦街那扇门内附近的一个不怎么深的地窨子里，地窨子的壁上，铺了一层鹅卵石和贝壳之类的东西，是当年院长先生当作石窟用的，因为在外室和小房子盛行一时的那些年代里，没有石窟是不能想象爱情的。
在巴比伦街的那独扇的大门上，有个扑满式的箱子，是用来放信件和报刊的，不过住在卜吕梅街楼房里的这三位房客，从没有收到过报纸，也没有收到过信，这个曾为人传达风情并听取过脂粉贵人倾诉衷肠的箱子，到现在，它的唯一作用已只限于收受税吏的收款单和自卫军的通知了。因为，割风先生，固定年息领取者，参加了国民自卫军；他没能漏过一八三一年那次人口调查的密网。当时市府的调查一直追溯到小比克布斯修院，在那里遇到了无法穿透的神圣云雾，冉阿让既是从那面出来的，并经区政府证明为人正派，当然也就够得上参加兵役。
冉阿让每年总有三次或四次，穿上军服去站岗，而且他很乐意，因为，对他来说，这是一种正当的障眼法，既能和大家混在一起，又能单独值勤。冉阿让刚满六十岁，合法的免役年龄，但是他那模样还只象个五十以下的人，他完全没有意思要逃避他的连长，也不想去和罗博伯爵①抬杠，他没有公民地位，他隐瞒自己的姓名，他隐瞒自己的身份，他隐瞒自己的年龄，他隐瞒一切，但是，我们刚才已经说过，这是个意志坚定的国民自卫军。能和所有的人一样交付他的税款，这便是他的整个人生志趣。这个理想人物，在内心，是天使，在外表，是资产阶级。 
①罗博（Lobau，1770?838），想是当时国民自卫军的长官。
然而有个细节我们得留意一下。冉阿让带着珂赛特一道出门时，他的衣着，正如我们所看到的，相当象一个退役军官。当他独自出门时，并且那总是在天黑以后，便经常穿一身工人的短上衣和长裤，戴一顶鸭舌帽，把脸遮起来。这是出于谨慎还是出于谦卑呢？两样都是。珂赛特已习惯于自己的离奇费解的命运，几乎没有注意她父亲的独特之处。至于杜桑，她对冉阿让是极其敬服的，觉得他的一举一动都无可非议。一天，那个经常卖肉给她的屠夫望见了冉阿让，对她说：“这是个古怪的家伙。”她回答说：“这是个圣人。”
冉阿让、珂赛特和杜桑从来都只从巴比伦街上的那扇门进出。如果不是他们偶然也在花园铁栏门内露露面，别人便难于猜想他们住在卜吕梅街。那道铁栏门是从来不开的。冉阿让也不修整那园子，免得惹人注意。
在这一点上他也许错了。
Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 3 Foliis ac Frondibus
The garden thus left to itself for more than half a century had become extraordinary and charming. The passers-by of forty years ago halted to gaze at it, without a suspicion of the secrets which it hid in its fresh and verdant depths. More than one dreamer of that epoch often allowed his thoughts and his eyes to penetrate indiscreetly between the bars of that ancient, padlocked gate, twisted, tottering, fastened to two green and moss-covered pillars, and oddly crowned with a pediment of undecipherable arabesque.
There was a stone bench in one corner, one or two mouldy statues, several lattices which had lost their nails with time, were rotting on the wall, and there were no walks nor turf; but there was enough grass everywhere. Gardening had taken its departure,and nature had returned. Weeds abounded, which was a great piece of luck for a poor corner of land. The festival of gilliflowers was something splendid. Nothing in this garden obstructed the sacred effort of things towards life; venerable growth reigned there among them. The trees had bent over towards the nettles, the plant had sprung upward, the branch had inclined, that which crawls on the earth had gone in search of that which expands in the air, that which floats on the wind had bent over towards that which trails in the moss; trunks, boughs, leaves, fibres, clusters, tendrils, shoots, spines, thorns, had mingled, crossed, married, confounded themselves in each other; vegetation in a deep and close embrace, had celebrated and accomplished there, under the well-pleased eye of the Creator, in that enclosure three hundred feet square, the holy mystery of fraternity, symbol of the human fraternity. This garden was no longer a garden, it was a colossal thicket, that is to say, something as impenetrable as a forest, as peopled as a city, quivering like a nest, sombre like a cathedral, fragrant like a bouquet, solitary as a tomb, living as a throng. 
In Floreal[34] this enormous thicket, free behind its gate and within its four walls, entered upon the secret labor of germination, quivered in the rising sun, almost like an animal which drinks in the breaths of cosmic love, and which feels the sap of April rising and boiling in its veins, and shakes to the wind its enormous wonderful green locks, sprinkled on the damp earth, on the defaced statues, on the crumbling steps of the pavilion, and even on the pavement of the deserted street, flowers like stars,dew like pearls, fecundity, beauty, life, joy, perfumes. At midday, a thousand white butterflies took refuge there, and it was a divine spectacle to see that living summer snow whirling about there in flakes amid the shade. There, in those gay shadows of verdure, a throng of innocent voices spoke sweetly to the soul, and what the twittering forgot to say the humming completed. In the evening, a dreamy vapor exhaled from the garden and enveloped it; a shroud of mist, a calm and celestial sadness covered it; the intoxicating perfume of the honeysuckles and convolvulus poured out from every part of it, like an exquisite and subtle poison; the last appeals of the woodpeckers and the wagtails were audible as they dozed among the branches; one felt the sacred intimacy of the birds and the trees; by day the wings rejoice the leaves, by night the leaves protect the wings.
[34] From April 19 to May 20.
In winter the thicket was black, dripping, bristling, shivering, and allowed some glimpse of the house. Instead of flowers on the branches 
and dew in the flowers, the long silvery tracks of the snails were visible on the cold, thick carpet of yellow leaves; but in any fashion, under any aspect, at all seasons, spring, winter, summer, autumn, this tiny enclosure breathed forth melancholy, contemplation, solitude, liberty, the absence of man, the presence of God; and the rusty old gate had the air of saying: "This garden belongs to me."
It was of no avail that the pavements of Paris were there on every side, the classic and splendid hotels of the Rue de Varennes a couple of paces away, the dome of the Invalides close at hand, the Chamber of Deputies not far off; the carriages of the Rue de Bourgogne and of the Rue Saint-Dominique rumbled luxuriously, in vain, in the vicinity, in vain did the yellow, brown, white, and red omnibuses cross each other's course at the neighboring cross-roads; the Rue Plumet was the desert; and the death of the former proprietors, the revolution which had passed over it, the crumbling away of ancient fortunes, absence, forgetfulness, forty years of abandonment and widowhood, had sufficed to restore to this privileged spot ferns, mulleins, hemlock, yarrow, tall weeds, great crimped plants, with large leaves of pale green cloth, lizards, beetles, uneasy and rapid insects; to cause to spring forth from the depths of the earth and to reappear between those four walls a certain indescribable and savage grandeur; and for nature, which disconcerts the petty arrangements of man, and which sheds herself always thoroughly where she diffuses herself at all, in the ant as well as in the eagle, to blossom out in a petty little Parisian garden with as much rude force and majesty as in a virgin forest of the New World. 
Nothing is small, in fact; any one who is subject to the profound and penetrating influence of nature knows this. Although no absolute satisfaction is given to philosophy, either to circumscribe the cause or to limit the effect, the contemplator falls into those unfathomable ecstasies caused by these decompositions of force terminating in unity. Everything toils at everything. 
Algebra is applied to the clouds; the radiation of the star profits the rose; no thinker would venture to affirm that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who, then, can calculate the course of a molecule? How do we know that the creation of worlds is not determined by the fall of grains of sand? Who knows the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely little, the reverberations of causes in the precipices of being, and the avalanches of creation? The tiniest worm is of importance; the great is little, the little is great; everything is balanced in necessity; alarming vision for the mind. There are marvellous relations between beings and things; in that inexhaustible whole, from the sun to the grub, nothing despises the other; all have need of each other. The light does not bear away terrestrial perfumes into the azure depths, without knowing what it is doing; the night distributes stellar essences to the sleeping flowers. All birds that fly have round their leg the thread of the infinite. Germination is complicated with the bursting forth of a meteor and with the peck of a swallow cracking its egg, and it places on one level the birth of an earthworm and the advent of Socrates. Where the telescope ends, the microscope begins. Which of the two possesses the larger field of vision? Choose. A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars. The same promiscuousness, and yet more unprecedented, exists between the things of the intelligence and the facts of substance. Elements and principles mingle, combine, wed, multiply with each other, to such a point that the material and the moral world are brought eventually to the same clearness. The phenomenon is perpetually returning upon itself. In the vast cosmic exchanges the universal life goes and comes in unknown quantities, rolling entirely in the invisible mystery of effluvia, employing everything, not losing a single dream, not a single slumber, sowing an animalcule here, crumbling to bits a planet there, oscillating and winding, making of light a force and of thought an element, disseminated and invisible, dissolving all, except that geometrical point, the I; bringing everything back to the soul-atom; expanding everything in God, entangling all activity, from summit to base, in the obscurity of a dizzy mechanism, attaching the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth, subordinating, who knows? Were it only by the identity of the law, the evolution of the comet in the firmament to the whirling of the infusoria in the drop of water. A machine made of mind. Enormous gearing, the prime motor of which is the gnat, and whose final wheel is the zodiac.
这个被弃置了半个世纪无人过问的园子是别具一番气象，令人神往的。四十年前，从这街上走过的人常会久久伫立瞻望，却谁也没有意识到隐藏在那深密葱翠的枝叶后面的秘密。一道加了扣锁的弯曲晃动的古式铁栏门，竖在两根绿霉侵渍的柱子中间，顶上有一道盘绕着离奇不可解的阿拉伯式花饰的横楣，当年不止一个好作遐想的人曾让自己的目光和思想从那些栏杆缝里穿过去。
在一个角落里有一条石凳，两个或三个生了青苔的雕像，几处贴墙的葡萄架，钉子已被时间拔落，在墙上腐烂；此外，既无路径可寻，也没有浅草地，处处是茅根。园艺已成过去，大自然又回来了。杂草丛生，在一角荒地上争荣斗胜。桂竹香的盛会在这里是美不胜收的。这园子里，绝没有什么阻扰着万物奔向生命的神圣意愿，万物在此欣欣向荣，如在家园。树梢低向青藤，青藤攀援树梢，藤蔓往上援，枝条向下垂，在地上爬的找到了那些在空中开放的，迎风招展的屈就那些在苔藓中匍匐的，主干，旁枝，叶片，纤维，花簇，卷须，嫩梢，棘刺，全都搀和、交绕、纠缠、错杂在一起了。这儿，在造物主的满意的目光下，在这三百尺见方的园地里，紧密深挚拥抱着的植物已在庆贺并完成了它们的神秘的友爱棗人类友爱的象征。这花园已不是花园，而是一片广大的榛莽地，就是说，一种象森林那样幽深，象城市那样热闹，象鸟巢那样颤动，象天主堂那样阴暗，象花束那样芬芳，象坟墓那样孤寂，象人群那样活跃的地方。
到了花开的季节，这一大片树丛草莽，在那铁栏门后四道墙中随意寻欢，暗自进行着普遍的繁殖，并且，几乎象一头从曙光中嗅到了漫山遍野求偶气息的野兽，感到暮春三月的热流在血管里急走沸腾，猛然惊起，迎风抖动头上披纷茂密的绿发，向着湿润的地面、剥蚀的雕像、楼前的破落台阶直到荒凉的街心石，遍撒着繁星似的花朵、珍珠似的露水、丰盛、美丽、生命、欢乐、芬芳。在中午，千百只白蝴蝶躲在那里，一团团有生命的六月雪在万绿丛中轻飞乱舞，望去真是一片只应天上有的景色。在那里，在那些爽心悦目、绿叶浅阴的地方，有无数天真的声音在轻轻叙诉衷肠，嘤嘤鸟语忘了说的，嗡嗡虫声在追补。傍晚时从园里升起一层梦幻似的雾气，把它笼罩起来，把它覆盖在一条烟霭织成的殓巾、一种缥缈安静的伤感下，金银花和牵牛花那使人欲醉的香味，象一种醇美沁人心脾的毒气，从园里的每一个角落里散发出来，你能听到鹪鹩和鹡鴒在枝叶下沉沉入睡前发出的最后呼唤，你能感到鸟雀和树木之间的坚贞友情，白天，鸟翅取悦树叶，黑夜，树叶护卫鸟翅。入冬以后，丛莽成了黑的，潮的，枯枝散乱，临风抖动，那栋房子便也隐约可见。人们所望见的已不是枝上的花朵和花上的露水，而是蜒蚰在那冷而厚的地毯似的层层黄叶上留下的宛延曲折的银丝带，但是，无论如何，从各个方面看，在每个季节，不论春冬夏秋，这个小小的园林，总有着一种惆怅、怨慕、幽独、悠闲、人踪绝而上帝存的味儿，那道锈了的老铁栏门仿佛是在说：“这园子是我的。”
巴黎的铺石路白白在那一带围绕，华伦街上的那些典雅富丽的府第相隔才两步路，残废军人院的圆顶近在咫尺，众议院也不远，勃艮第街上和圣多米尼克街上的那些软兜轿车白白地在那一带炫耀豪华，驶来驶去，黄色的、褐色的、白色的、红色的公共马车也都白白地在那附近的十字路口交织奔驰，卜吕梅街却但是冷清清的；旧时财主们的死亡，一次已成过去的革命，古代豪门望族的崩溃、迁徒、遗忘，四十年的抛弃和寡居，已足使这个享受过特权的地段重新生满了羊齿、锦葵、霸王鞭、蓍草、长茅草，还有那种叶子宽大、颜色灰绿、斑驳的高大植物，蜥蜴、蜣螂、种种仓皇急窜的昆虫，使那种无可言喻的蛮荒粗野的壮观从土壤深处滋长起来，再次展现在那四道围墙里，使自然界棗阻扰着人类渺小心机的、随时随地在蚂蚁身上或雄鹰身上都肆意孳息的自然界，在巴黎的一个陋劣的小小园子里，如同在新大陆的处女林中那样，既犷悍又庄严地炫耀着自己。
确也没有什么是小的，任何一个能向自然界深入观察的人都知道这一点。虽然哲学在确定原因和指明后果两个方面都同样不能得到绝对圆满的解答，但穷究事理的人总不免因自然界里种种力量都由分化复归于一的现象而陷入无止境的冥想中。一切都在为一个整体进行工作。
代数可运用于云层，日光旋惠于玫瑰，任何思想家都不敢说山楂的香气于星群无涉。谁又能计算一个分子的历程呢？我们又怎能知道星球不是由砂粒的陨坠所形成的呢？谁又能认识无限大和无限小的相互交错、原始事物在实际事物深渊中的轰鸣和宇宙形成中的坍塌现象呢？一条蛆也不容忽视，小就是大，大就是小，在需求中，一切都处于平衡状态，想象中的骇人幻象。物与物之间，存在着无从估计的联系，在这个取之不竭的整体中，从太阳到蚜虫，谁也不能藐视谁，彼此都互相依存，光不会无缘无故把地上的香气带上晴空，黑夜把天体的精华散给睡眠中的花儿。任何飞鸟的爪子都被无极的丝缕所牵。万物的化育是复杂的，有风云雷电诸天象，有破壳而出的乳燕，一条蚯蚓的出生和苏格拉底的来临同属于化育之列。在望远镜无能为力的地方显微镜开始起作用。究竟哪一种镜子的视野更为广阔呢？你去选择吧。一粒霉菌是一簇美不胜收的花朵，一撮星云是无数天体的蚁聚。思想领域和物质范畴中的种种事物也同样是错综复杂的，并且实有过之而无不及。种种元素和始因彼此互相混合、搀和、交汇、增益，以使物质世界和精神世界达到同样的光辉。现象永远隐藏着自身的真相。在宇宙广袤无边的运动中，无量数的空间活动交相往来，把一切都卷进那神秘无形的散漫中，并也利用一切，即使是任何一次睡眠中的任何一场梦也不放弃，在这儿播下一个微生物，在那里撒上一个星球，摇摆，蛇行，把一点光化为力量，把一念变成原质，散布八方而浑然一体，分解一切，而我，几何学上的这一点，独成例外；把一切都引回到原子棗灵魂，使一切都在上帝的心中放出异彩；把一切活动，从最高的到最低的，交织在一种惊心动魄的机械的黑暗中，把一只昆虫的飞行系在地球的运转上，把彗星在天空的移动附属于棗谁知道？哪怕只是由于规律的同一性棗纤毛虫在一滴水中的环行。精神构成的机体。一套无比巨大的联动齿轮，它最初的动力量小蝇，最末的轮子是黄道。
Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 4 Change of Gate
It seemed that this garden, created in olden days to conceal wanton mysteries, had been transformed and become fitted to shelter chaste mysteries. There were no longer either arbors, or bowling greens, or tunnels, or grottos; there was a magnificent, dishevelled obscurity falling like a veil over all. Paphos had been made over into Eden. It is impossible to say what element of repentance had rendered this retreat wholesome. This flower-girl now offered her blossom to the soul. This coquettish garden, formerly decidedly compromised, had returned to virginity and modesty. A justice assisted by a gardener, a goodman who thought that he was a continuation of Lamoignon, and another goodman who thought that he was a continuation of Lenotre, had turned it about, cut, ruffled, decked, moulded it to gallantry; nature had taken possession of it once more, had filled it with shade, and had arranged it for love.
There was, also, in this solitude, a heart which was quite ready. Love had only to show himself; he had here a temple composed of verdure, grass, moss, the sight of birds, tender shadows, agitated branches, and a soul made of sweetness, of faith, of candor, of hope, of aspiration, and of illusion.
Cosette had left the convent when she was still almost a child; she was a little more than fourteen, and she was at the "ungrateful age"; we have already said, that with the exception of her eyes, she was homely rather than pretty; she had no ungraceful feature, but she was awkward, thin, timid and bold at once, a grown-up little girl, in short.
Her education was finished, that is to say, she has been taught religion, and even and above all, devotion; then "history," that is to say the thing that bears that name in convents, geography, grammar, the participles, the kings of France, a little music, a little drawing, etc.; but in all other respects she was utterly ignorant, which is a great charm and a great peril. The soul of a young girl should not be left in the dark; later on, mirages that are too abrupt and too lively are formed there, as in a dark chamber. She should be gently and discreetly enlightened, rather with the reflection of realities than with their harsh and direct light. A useful and graciously austere half-light which dissipates puerile fears and obviates falls. There is nothing but the maternal instinct, that admirable intuition composed of the memories of the virgin and the experience of the woman, which knows how this half-light is to be created and of what it should consist.
Nothing supplies the place of this instinct. All the nuns in the world are not worth as much as one mother in the formation of a young girl's soul.
Cosette had had no mother. She had only had many mothers, in the plural.
As for Jean Valjean, he was, indeed, all tenderness, all solicitude; but he was only an old man and he knew nothing at all.
Now, in this work of education, in this grave matter of preparing a woman for life, what science is required to combat that vast ignorance which is called innocence!
Nothing prepares a young girl for passions like the convent. The convent turns the thoughts in the direction of the unknown. The heart, thus thrown back upon itself, works downward within itself,since it cannot overflow, and grows deep, since it cannot expand. Hence visions, suppositions, conjectures, outlines of romances, a desire for adventures, fantastic constructions, edifices built wholly in the inner obscurity of the mind, sombre and secret abodes where the passions immediately find a lodgement as soon as the open gate permits them to enter. The convent is a compression which, in order to triumph over the human heart, should last during the whole life.
On quitting the convent, Cosette could have found nothing more sweet and more dangerous than the house in the Rue Plumet. It was the continuation of solitude with the beginning of liberty; a garden that was closed, but a nature that was acrid, rich, voluptuous,and fragrant; the same dreams as in the convent, but with glimpses of young men; a grating, but one that opened on the street.
Still, when she arrived there, we repeat, she was only a child. Jean Valjean gave this neglected garden over to her. "Do what you like with it," he said to her. This amused Cosette; she turned over all the clumps and all the stones, she hunted for "beasts"; she played in it, while awaiting the time when she would dream in it; she loved this garden for the insects that she found beneath her feet amid the grass, while awaiting the day when she would love it for the stars that she would see through the boughs above her head.
And then, she loved her father, that is to say, Jean Valjean, with all her soul, with an innocent filial passion which made the goodman a beloved and charming companion to her. It will be remembered that M. Madeleine had been in the habit of reading a great deal. Jean Valjean had continued this practice; he had come to converse well; he possessed the secret riches and the eloquence of a true and humble mind which has spontaneously cultivated itself. He retained just enough sharpness to season his kindness; his mind was rough and his heart was soft. During their conversations in the Luxembourg, he gave her explanations of everything, drawing on what he had read, and also on what he had suffered. As she listened to him, Cosette's eyes wandered vaguely about.
This simple man sufficed for Cosette's thought, the same as the wild garden sufficed for her eyes. When she had had a good chase after the butterflies, she came panting up to him and said: "Ah! How I have run!" He kissed her brow.
Cosette adored the goodman. She was always at his heels. Where Jean Valjean was, there happiness was.Jean Valjean lived neither in the pavilion nor the garden; she took greater pleasure in the paved back courtyard, than in the enclosure filled with flowers, and in his little lodge furnished with straw-seated chairs than in the great drawing-room hung with tapestry, against which stood tufted easy-chairs. Jean Valjean sometimes said to her, smiling at his happiness in being importuned: "Do go to your own quarters! Leave me alone a little!"
She gave him those charming and tender scoldings which are so graceful when they come from a daughter to her father. 
"Father, I am very cold in your rooms; why don't you have a carpet here and a stove?"
"Dear child, there are so many people who are better than I and who have not even a roof over their heads."
"Then why is there a fire in my rooms, and everything that is needed?"
"Because you are a woman and a child."
"Bah! must men be cold and feel uncomfortable?"
"Certain men."
"That is good, I shall come here so often that you will be obliged to have a fire."
And again she said to him:--
"Father, why do you eat horrible bread like that?"
"Because, my daughter."
"Well, if you eat it, I will eat it too."
Then, in order to prevent Cosette eating black bread, Jean Valjean ate white bread.
Cosette had but a confused recollection of her childhood. She prayed morning and evening for her mother whom she had never known. The Thenardiers had remained with her as two hideous figures in a dream. She remembered that she had gone "one day, at night," to fetch water in a forest. She thought that it had been very far from Paris. It seemed to her that she had begun to live in an abyss, and that it was Jean Valjean who had rescued her from it. Her childhood produced upon her the effect of a time when there had been nothing around her but millepeds, spiders, and serpents. When she meditated in the evening, before falling asleep, as she had not a very clear idea that she was Jean Valjean's daughter, and that he was her father, she fancied that the soul of her mother had passed into that good man and had come to dwell near her.
When he was seated, she leaned her cheek against his white hair, and dropped a silent tear, saying to herself: "Perhaps this man is my mother."
Cosette, although this is a strange statement to make, in the profound ignorance of a girl brought up in a convent,-- maternity being also absolutely unintelligible to virginity,-- had ended by fancying that she had had as little mother as possible. She did not even know her mother's name. Whenever she asked Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean remained silent. If she repeated her question, he responded with a smile. Once she insisted; the smile ended in a tear.
This silence on the part of Jean Valjean covered Fantine with darkness.
Was it prudence? Was it respect? Was it a fear that he should deliver this name to the hazards of another memory than his own? 
So long as Cosette had been small, Jean Valjean had been willing to talk to her of her mother; when she became a young girl, it was impossible for him to do so. It seemed to him that he no longer dared. Was it because of Cosette? Was it because of Fantine? He felt a certain religious horror at letting that shadow enter Cosette's thought; and of placing a third in their destiny. The more sacred this shade was to him, the more did it seem that it was to be feared. He thought of Fantine, and felt himself overwhelmed with silence.
Through the darkness, he vaguely perceived something which appeared to have its finger on its lips. Had all the modesty which had been in Fantine, and which had violently quitted her during her lifetime, returned to rest upon her after her death, to watch in indignation over the peace of that dead woman, and in its shyness, to keep her in her grave? Was Jean Valjean unconsciously submitting to the pressure? We who believe in death, are not among the number who will reject this mysterious explanation.
Hence the impossibility of uttering, even for Cosette, that name of Fantine.
One day Cosette said to him:--
"Father, I saw my mother in a dream last night. She had two big wings. My mother must have been almost a saint during her life."
"Through martyrdom," replied Jean Valjean.
However, Jean Valjean was happy.
When Cosette went out with him, she leaned on his arm, proud and happy, in the plenitude of her heart. Jean Valjean felt his heart melt within him with delight, at all these sparks of a tenderness so exclusive, so wholly satisfied with himself alone. The poor man trembled, inundated with angelic joy; he declared to himself ecstatically that this would last all their lives; he told himself that he really had not suffered sufficiently to merit so radiant a bliss, and he thanked God, in the depths of his soul, for having permitted him to be loved thus, he, a wretch, by that innocent being.
 
这园子，当初曾被用来掩盖邪恶的秘密，后来似乎已变得适合于庇护纯洁的秘密了。那里已没有了摇篮、浅草地、花棚、石窟，而只是一片郁郁葱葱、了无修饰、处处笼罩在绿荫中的胜地了。帕福斯①已恢复了伊甸园的原来面目。不知道是一种什么悔恨心情圣化了这块清静土。这个献花女现在只向灵魂献出她的花朵了。这个俏丽的园子，从前曾严重地被玷污，如今又回到幽娴贞静的处女状态。一个主席在一个园丁的帮助下，一个自以为是拉莫瓦尼翁②的后继者的某甲和一个自以为是勒诺特尔③的后继者的某乙，把它拿来扭，剪，揉，修饰，打扮，以图博取美人的欢心，大自然却把它收回，使它变得葱茏幽静，适合于正常的爱。 
①帕福斯（Paphos），塞浦路斯岛上一城市，以城里的维纳斯女神庙著名。
②拉莫瓦尼翁（ChrétienAFrancoisdeLamoignon，1644?709），巴黎法院第一任院长之子，布瓦洛曾称赞过他的别墅。
③勒诺特尔（LeNoFtre，1613?700），法国园林设计家。　
在这荒园里，也有了一颗早已准备好了的心。爱随时都可以出现，它在这里已有了一座由青林、绿草、苔藓、鸟雀的叹息、柔和的阴影、摇曳的树枝所构成的寺庙和一个由柔情、信念、诚意、希望、志愿和幻想所构成的灵魂。
珂赛特离开修院时，几乎还是个孩子，她才十四岁零一点，并且是在那种“不讨好”的年纪里，我们说过，她除了一双眼睛以外，不但不标致，而且还有点丑，不过也没有什么不顺眼的地方，只显得有些笨拙、瘦弱、既不大方，同时又莽撞，总之，是个大孩子的模样。
她的教育已经结束，就是说，她上宗教课，甚至，尤其是，也学会了祈祷，还有“历史”，也就是修院中人这样称呼的那种东西：地理、语法、分词、法国的历代国王、一点音乐、画一个鼻子，等等，此外什么也不懂，这是种惹人爱的地方，但也是一种危险。一个小姑娘的心灵不能让它蒙昧无知，否则日后她心灵里会出现过分突然、过分强烈的影象，正如照相机的暗室那样。它应当慢慢地、适度地逐渐接触光明，应当先接触实际事物的反映，而不是那种直接、生硬的光线。半明的光，严肃而温和的光，对解除幼稚的畏惧心情和防止堕落是有好处的。只有慈母的本能，含有童贞时期的回忆和婚后妇女的经验的那种令人信服的直觉，才知道怎样并用什么来产生这种半明的光。任何东西都不能替代这种本能。在培养一个少女的心灵方面，世界上所有的修女也比不上一个母亲。
珂赛特不曾有过母亲，只有过许许多多的嬷嬷。
至于冉阿让，他心里有的是种种慈爱和种种关怀，但他究竟只是个啥也不懂的老人。
而在这种教育里，在这种为一个女性迎接人生作好准备的严肃事业里，得用多少真知灼见来向这个被称作天真的极其愚昧的状态进行斗争！
最能使少女具备发生狂热感情的条件的莫过于修院。修院把人的思想转向未知的世界。被压抑了的心，它无法扩展，便向内挖掘，无法开放，便钻向深处。因而产生种种幻象，种种迷信，种种猜测，种种空中楼阁，种种向往中的奇遇，种种怪诞的构思，种种全部建造在心灵黑暗处的海市蜃楼，种种狂情热爱一旦闯进铁栏门便立即定居下来的那些隐蔽和秘密的处所。修院为了驾驭人心，便对人心加以终生的钳制。
对于初离修院的珂赛特来说，再没有比卜吕梅街这所房子更美好，也更危险的了。这是狐寂的继续，也是自由的开始；一个关闭了的园子，却又有浓郁、畅茂、伤情、芳美的自然景物；心里仍怀着修院中那些梦想，却又能偶然瞥见一些少年男子的身影；有一道铁栏门，却又临街。
不过，我们重复一下，当她来到这里时，她还只是个孩子。冉阿让把荒园交付给她，说道：“你想在这里干啥就干啥。”珂赛特大为高兴，她翻动所有的草丛和石块，找“虫子”，她在那里玩耍，还没到触景生情的时候，她爱这园子，是因为她能在草中脚下找到昆虫，而不是为能从树枝中抬头望见星光。此外，她爱她的父亲，就是说，冉阿让，她以她的整个灵魂爱着他，以儿女孝亲的天真热情待这老人，把他作为自己一心依恋的伴侣。我们记得，马德兰先生读过不少书，冉阿让仍不断阅读，他因而获得谈话的能力。他知识丰富，有一个谦虚、真诚、有修养的人从自我教育中得来的口才。他还保留了一点点刚够调节他的厚道的粗糙性子，这是个举动粗鲁而心地善良的人。在卢森堡公园里，当他俩并坐交谈时，他常从书本知识和亲身磨难中汲取资料，对一切问题作出详尽的解释。珂赛特一面细听，一面望空怀想。
这个淳朴的人能使珂赛特的思想感到满足，正如这个荒园在游戏方面使她满意一样。当她追够了蝴蝶，喘吁吁地跑到他身边说：“啊！我再也跑不动了！”他便在她额头上亲一个吻。
珂赛特极爱这老人。她随时跟在他后面。冉阿让待在哪儿，哪儿便有幸福。冉阿让既不住楼房，也不住在园子里，她便感到那长满花草的园子不如后面的那个石板院子好，那间张挂壁衣、靠墙摆着软垫围椅的大客厅也不如那间只有两张麦秸椅的小屋好。有时，冉阿让因被她纠缠而高兴，便带笑说：“还不到你自己的屋子里去！让我一个人好好歇一会吧！”
这时，她便向他提出那种不顾父女尊卑、娇憨动人、极有风趣的责问：
“爹，我在您屋子里冻得要死了！您为什么不在这儿铺块地毯放个火炉呀？”
“亲爱的孩子，多少人比我强多了，可他们头上连块瓦片也没有呢。”
“那么，我屋子里为什么生着火，啥也不缺呢？”
“因为你是个女人，并且是个孩子。”
“不对！难道男人便应当挨冻受饿吗？”
“某些男人。”
“好吧，那么我以后要时时刻刻待在这儿，让您非生火不可。”
她还对他这样说：
“爹，您为什么老吃这种坏面包？”
“不为什么，我的女儿。”
“好吧，您要吃这种，我也就吃这种。”
于是，为了不让珂赛特吃黑面包，冉阿让只好改吃白面包。
对童年珂赛特只是模模糊糊地记得一些。她回忆早上和晚上为她所不认识的母亲祈祷。德纳第夫妇在她的记忆中好象是梦里见过的两张鬼脸。她还记得“某天晚上”她曾到一个树林里去取过水。她认为那是离巴黎很远的地方。她仿佛觉得她从前生活在一个黑洞里，是冉阿让把她从那洞里救出来的。在她的印象中，她的童年是一个在她的前后左右只有蜈蚣、蜘蛛和蛇的时期。她不大明白她怎么会是冉阿让的女儿，他又怎么会是她的父亲，她在夜晚入睡前想到这些事时，她便认为她母亲的灵魂已附在这老人的身体里，来和她住在一起了。
在他坐着的时候，她常把自己的脸靠在他的白发上，悄悄掉下一滴眼泪，心里想道：“他也许就是我的母亲吧，这人！”
还有一点，说来很奇怪：珂赛特是个由修院培养出来的姑娘，知识非常贫乏，母性，更是她在童贞时期绝对无法理解的，因而她最后想到她只是尽可能少的有过母亲。这位母亲，她连名字也不知道。每次她向冉阿让问起她母亲的名字，冉阿让总是默不作声。要是她再问，他便以笑容作答。有一次，她一定要问个清楚，他那笑容便成了一眶眼泪。
冉阿让守口如瓶，芳汀这名字便也湮灭了。
这是出于谨慎小心吗？出于敬意吗？是害怕万一传到别人耳朵里也会引起一些回忆吗？
在珂赛特还小的时候，冉阿让老爱和她谈到她的母亲，当她成了大姑娘，就不能这样了。他感到他不敢谈。这是因为珂赛特呢，还是因为芳汀？他感到有种敬畏鬼神的心情使他不能让这灵魂进入珂赛特的思想，不能让一个死去的人在他们的命运中占一个第三者的地位。在他心中，那幽灵越是神圣，便越是可怕。他每次想到芳汀，便感到一种压力，使他无法开口。他仿佛看见黑暗中有个什么东西象一只按在嘴唇上的手指。芳汀原是个识羞耻的人，但在她生前，羞耻已粗暴地从她心中被迫出走了，这羞耻心是否在她死后又回到她的身上，悲愤填膺地护卫着死者的安宁，横眉怒目地在她坟墓里保护着她呢？冉阿让是不是已在不知不觉中感到这种压力呢？我们这些信鬼魂的人是不会拒绝这种神秘的解释的。因此，即使在珂赛特面前，也不可能提到芳汀这名字了。
一天，珂赛特对他说：
“爹，昨晚我在梦里看见了我的母亲。她有两个大翅膀。我母亲在她活着的时候，应当已到圣女的地位吧。”
“通过苦难。”冉阿让回答说。
然而，冉阿让是快乐的。
珂赛特和他一道出门时，她总紧靠在他的臂膀上，心里充满了自豪和幸福。冉阿让知道这种美满的温情是专属于他一个人的，感到自己心也醉了。这可怜的汉子沉浸在齐天的福分里，乐到浑身抖颤，他暗自庆幸的将能这样度此一生，他心里想他所受的苦难确还不够，不配享受这样美好的幸福，他并从灵魂的深处感谢上苍，让他这样一个毫无价值的人受到这个天真孩子如此真诚的爱戴。
Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 5 The Rose perceives that it is an Engine of War
One day, Cosette chanced to look at herself in her mirror,and she said to herself: "Really!" It seemed to her almost that she was pretty. This threw her in a singularly troubled state of mind. Up to that moment she had never thought of her face. She saw herself in her mirror, but she did not look at herself. And then, she had so often been told that she was homely; Jean Valjean alone said gently: "No indeed! no indeed!" At all events, Cosette had always thought herself homely, and had grown up in that belief with the easy resignation of childhood. And here, all at once, was her mirror saying to her, as Jean Valjean had said: "No indeed!" That night, she did not sleep. "What if I were pretty!" she thought. "How odd it would be if I were pretty!" And she recalled those of her companions whose beauty had produced a sensation in the convent, and she said to herself: "What! Am I to be like Mademoiselle So-and-So?"
The next morning she looked at herself again, not by accident this time, and she was assailed with doubts: "Where did I get such an idea?" said she; "no, I am ugly." She had not slept well, that was all, her eyes were sunken and she was pale. She had not felt very joyous on the preceding evening in the belief that she was beautiful, but it made her very sad not to be able to believe in it any longer. She did not look at herself again, and for more than a fortnight she tried to dress her hair with her back turned to the mirror.
In the evening, after dinner, she generally embroidered in wool or did some convent needlework in the drawing-room, and Jean Valjean read beside her. Once she raised her eyes from her work, and was rendered quite uneasy by the manner in which her father was gazing at her.
On another occasion, she was passing along the street, and it seemed to her that some one behind her, whom she did not see, said: "A pretty woman! but badly dressed." "Bah!" she thought, "he does not mean me. I am well dressed and ugly." She was then wearing a plush hat and her merino gown.
At last, one day when she was in the garden, she heard poor old Toussaint saying: "Do you notice how pretty Cosette is growing, sir?" Cosette did not hear her father's reply, but Toussaint's words caused a sort of commotion within her. She fled from the garden, ran up to her room, flew to the looking-glass,--it was three months since she had looked at herself,--and gave vent to a cry. She had just dazzled herself.
She was beautiful and lovely; she could not help agreeing with Toussaint and her mirror. Her figure was formed, her skin had grown white, her hair was lustrous, an unaccustomed splendor had been lighted in her blue eyes. The consciousness of her beauty burst upon her in an instant, like the sudden advent of daylight; other people noticed it also, Toussaint had said so, it was evidently she of whom the passer-by had spoken, there could no longer be any doubt of that; she descended to the garden again, thinking herself a queen, imagining that she heard the birds singing, though it was winter, seeing the sky gilded, the sun among the trees, flowers in the thickets, distracted, wild, in inexpressible delight. 
Jean Valjean, on his side, experienced a deep and undefinable oppression at heart.
In fact, he had, for some time past, been contemplating with terror that beauty which seemed to grow more radiant every day on Cosette's sweet face. The dawn that was smiling for all was gloomy for him.
Cosette had been beautiful for a tolerably long time before she became aware of it herself. But, from the very first day, that unexpected light which was rising slowly and enveloping the whole of the young girl's person, wounded Jean Valjean's sombre eye. He felt that it was a change in a happy life, a life so happy that he did not dare to move for fear of disarranging something. This man, who had passed through all manner of distresses, who was still all bleeding from the bruises of fate, who had been almost wicked and who had become almost a saint, who, after having dragged the chain of the galleys, was now dragging the invisible but heavy chain of indefinite misery, this man whom the law had not released from its grasp and who could be seized at any moment and brought back from the obscurity of his virtue to the broad daylight of public opprobrium, this man accepted all, excused all, pardoned all, and merely asked of Providence, of man, of the law, of society, of nature, of the world, one thing, that Cosette might love him!
That Cosette might continue to love him! That God would not prevent the heart of the child from coming to him, and from remaining with him! Beloved by Cosette, he felt that he was healed, rested, appeased, loaded with benefits, recompensed, crowned. Beloved by Cosette, it was well with him! He asked nothing more! Had any one said to him: "Do you want anything better?" he would have answered: "No." God might have said to him: "Do you desire heaven?" and he would have replied: "I should lose by it." 
Everything which could affect this situation, if only on the surface, made him shudder like the beginning of something new. He had never known very distinctly himself what the beauty of a woman means; but he understood instinctively, that it was something terrible.
He gazed with terror on this beauty, which was blossoming out ever more triumphant and superb beside him, beneath his very eyes, on the innocent and formidable brow of that child, from the depths of her homeliness, of his old age, of his misery, of his reprobation. 
He said to himself: "How beautiful she is! What is to become of me?"
There, moreover, lay the difference between his tenderness and the tenderness of a mother. What he beheld with anguish, a mother would have gazed upon with joy.
The first symptoms were not long in making their appearance. 
On the very morrow of the day on which she had said to herself: "Decidedly I am beautiful!" Cosette began to pay attention to her toilet. She recalled the remark of that passer-by: "Pretty, but badly dressed," the breath of an oracle which had passed beside her and had vanished, after depositing in her heart one of the two germs which are destined, later on, to fill the whole life of woman, coquetry. Love is the other.
With faith in her beauty, the whole feminine soul expanded within her. She conceived a horror for her merinos, and shame for her plush hat. Her father had never refused her anything. She at once acquired the whole science of the bonnet, the gown, the mantle, the boot, the cuff, the stuff which is in fashion, the color which is becoming, that science which makes of the Parisian woman something so charming, so deep, and so dangerous. The words heady woman were invented for the Parisienne.
In less than a month, little Cosette, in that Thebaid of the Rue de Babylone, was not only one of the prettiest, but one of the "best dressed" women in Paris, which means a great deal more.
She would have liked to encounter her "passer-by," to see what he would say, and to "teach him a lesson!" The truth is,that she was ravishing in every respect, and that she distinguished the difference between a bonnet from Gerard and one from Herbaut in the most marvellous way.
Jean Valjean watched these ravages with anxiety. He who felt that he could never do anything but crawl, walk at the most, beheld wings sprouting on Cosette.
Moreover, from the mere inspection of Cosette's toilet, a woman would have recognized the fact that she had no mother. Certain little proprieties, certain special conventionalities, were not observed by Cosette. A mother, for instance, would have told her that a young girl does not dress in damask. 
The first day that Cosette went out in her black damask gown and mantle, and her white crape bonnet, she took Jean Valjean's arm, gay, radiant, rosy, proud, dazzling. "Father," she said, "how do you like me in this guise?" Jean Valjean replied in a voice which resembled the bitter voice of an envious man: "Charming!" He was the same as usual during their walk. On their return home, he asked Cosette:--
"Won't you put on that other gown and bonnet again,--you know the ones I mean?"
This took place in Cosette's chamber. Cosette turned towards the wardrobe where her cast-off schoolgirl's clothes were hanging.
"That disguise!" said she. "Father, what do you want me to do with it? Oh no, the idea! I shall never put on those horrors again. With that machine on my head, I have the air of Madame Mad-dog."
Jean Valjean heaved a deep sigh.
From that moment forth, he noticed that Cosette, who had always heretofore asked to remain at home, saying: "Father, I enjoy myself more here with you," now was always asking to go out. In fact, what is the use of having a handsome face and a delicious costume if one does not display them?
He also noticed that Cosette had no longer the same taste for the back garden. Now she preferred the garden, and did not dislike to promenade back and forth in front of the railed fence. Jean Valjean, who was shy, never set foot in the garden. He kept to his back yard, like a dog.
Cosette, in gaining the knowledge that she was beautiful, lost the grace of ignoring it. An exquisite grace, for beauty enhanced by ingenuousness is ineffable, and nothing is so adorable as a dazzling and innocent creature who walks along, holding in her hand the key to paradise without being conscious of it. But what she had lost in ingenuous grace, she gained in pensive and serious charm. Her whole person, permeated with the joy of youth, of innocence, and of beauty, breathed forth a splendid melancholy.
It was at this epoch that Marius, after the lapse of six months, saw her once more at the Luxembourg.
一天，珂赛特偶然拿起一面镜子来照她自己，独自说了一声：“怪！”她几乎感到自己是漂亮的。这使她心里产生了一种说不出的烦恼。她直到现在，还从来没有想到过自己脸蛋儿的模样。她常照镜子，但从来不望自己。况且她常听到别人说她生得丑，只有冉阿让一人细声说过：“一点也不！一点也不！”不管怎样，珂赛特一向认为自己丑，并且从小就带着这种思想长大，孩子们对这些原是满不在乎的。而现在，她的那面镜子，正和冉阿让一样，突然对她说：“一点也不！”她那一夜便没有睡好。“我漂亮又怎样呢？”她心里想，“真滑稽，我也会漂亮！”同时，她回忆起在她的同学中有过一些长得美的，在那修院里怎样引起大家的羡慕，于是她心里想道：“怎么！难道我也会象某某小姐那样！”
第二天，她又去照顾自己，这已不是偶然的举动，可她又怀疑：“我的眼力到哪里去了？”她说，“不，我生得丑。”很简单，她没有睡好，眼皮垂下来了，脸也是苍白的。前一天，她还以为自己漂亮，当时并没有感到非常快乐，现在她不那么想了，反而感到伤心。她不再去照镜子了，一连两个多星期，她老是试着背对镜子梳头。
晚饭过后，天黑了，她多半是在客厅里编织，或做一点从修院学来的其他手工，冉阿让在她旁边看书。一次，她在埋头工作时，偶然抬起眼睛，看见她父亲正望着她，露出忧虑的神气，她不禁大吃一惊。
另一次，她在街上走，仿佛听到有个人棗她没有看见棗在她后面说：“一个漂亮女人！可惜穿得不好。”她心里想：“管他的！他说的不是我。我穿得好，生得丑。”当时她戴的是一顶棉绒帽，穿的是一件粗毛呢裙袍。
还有一天，她在园子里，听见可怜的杜桑老妈妈这样说：“先生，您注意到小姐现在长得多漂亮了吗？”珂赛特没有听清她父亲的回答。杜桑的那句话已在她心里引起一阵惊慌。她立即离开园子，逃到楼上自己的卧房里，跑到镜子前面棗她已三个月不照镜子了棗叫了一声。这一下，她把自己的眼睛也看花了。
她是既漂亮又秀丽，她不能不对杜桑和镜子的意见表示同意。她的身躯长成了，皮肤白净了，头发润泽了，蓝眼睛的瞳孔里燃起了一种不曾见过的光采。她对自己的美，一转瞬间，正如突然遇到耀眼的阳光，已完全深信无疑，况且别人早已注意到，杜桑说过，街上那个人指的也明明是她了，已没有什么可怀疑的。她又下楼来，走到园子里，自以为当了王后，听着鸟儿歌唱，虽是在冬天，望着金黄色的天空、树枝间的阳光、草丛里的花朵，她疯了似的晕头转向，心里是说不出的欢畅。
在另一方面，冉阿让却感到心情无比沉重，一颗心好象被什么揪住了似的。
那是因为，许久以来，他确是一直怀着恐惧的心情，注视那美丽的容光在珂赛特的小脸蛋上一天比一天更光辉夺目。对所有的人来说这是清新可喜的晓色，而对他，却是阴沉暗淡的。
在珂赛特觉察到自己的美以前，她早已是美丽的了。可是这种逐渐上升的、一步步把这年轻姑娘浑身缠绕着的阳光，从第一天起，便刺伤了冉阿让忧郁的眼睛。他感到这是他幸福生活中的一种变化，他的生活过得那么幸福，以至使他一动也不敢动，唯恐打乱了他生活中的什么。这个人，经历过一切灾难，一生受到的创伤都还在不断流血，从前几乎是恶棍，现在几乎是圣人，在拖过苦役牢里的铁链以后，现在仍拖着一种无形而有分量的铁链棗受着说不出的罪名的责罚，对这个人，法律并没有松手，随时可以把他抓回去，从美德的黑暗中丢到光天化日下的公开羞辱里。这个人，能接受一切，原谅一切，饶恕一切，为一切祝福，愿一切都好，向天，向人，向法律，向社会，向大自然，向世界，但也只有一个要求：让珂赛特爱他！
让珂赛特继续爱他！愿上帝不禁止这孩子的心向着他，永远向着他！得到珂赛特的爱，他便觉得伤口愈合了，身心舒坦了，平静了，圆满了，得到酬报了，戴上王冕了。得到珂赛特的爱，他便心满意足！除此以外，他毫无所求。即使有人问他：“你还有什么奢望没有？”他一定会回答：“没有。”即使上帝问他：“你要不要天？”他也会回答：“那会得不偿失的。”
凡是可以触及这种现状的，哪怕只触及表皮，都会使他胆战心惊，以为这是另一种东西的开始。他从来不太知道什么是女性的美，但是，通过本能，他也懂得这是一种极可怕的东西。这种青春焕发的美，在他身旁，眼前，在这孩子天真开朗、使人心惊的脸蛋上，从他的丑，他的老，他的窘困、抵触、苦恼的土壤中开放出来，日益辉煌光艳，使他瞪眼望着，心慌意乱。
他对自己说：“她多么美！我将怎么办呢，我？”
这正是他的爱和母爱之间的不同处。使他见了便痛苦的，也正是一个母亲见了便快乐的东西。
初期症状很快就出现了。
从她对自己说“毫无疑问，我美！”的那一日的第二天起，珂赛特便留意她的服饰。她想起了她在街上听到的那句话：“漂亮，可惜穿得不好。”这话好象是从她身边吹过的一阵神风，虽然一去无踪影，却已把那两粒将要在日后支配女性生活方式的种子中的一粒棗爱俏癖棗播在她心里了。另一粒是爱情的种子。
对她自己的美貌有了信心以后，女性的灵魂便在她心中整个儿开了花。她见了粗毛呢便厌恶，见了棉绒也感到羞人。她父亲对她素来是有求必应的。她一下子便掌握了关于帽子、裙袍、短外套、缎靴、袖口花边、时式衣料、流行颜色这方面的一整套学问，也就是把巴黎女人搞得那么动人、那么深奥、那么危险的那套学问。“勾魂女人”这个词儿便是为巴黎妇女创造的。
不到一个月，珂赛特在巴比伦街附近的荒凉地段里，已不只是巴黎最漂亮的女人之一，这样就已经很了不起了，而且还是“穿得最好的”女人之一，做到这点就更了不起了。她希望能遇见从前在街上遇到的那个人，看他还有什么可说的，并“教训教训他”。事实是：她在任何方面都是楚楚动人的，并且能万无一失地分辨出哪顶帽子是热拉尔铺子的产品，哪顶帽子是埃尔博铺子的产品。
冉阿让看着她胡闹，干着急。他觉得他自己只能是个在地上爬的人，至多也只能在地上走，现在却看见珂赛特要生翅膀。
其实，只要对珂赛特的衣着随便看一眼，一个女人便能看出她是没有母亲的。某些细微的习俗，某些特殊的风尚，珂赛特都没有注意到。比方说，她如果有母亲，她母亲便会对她说年轻姑娘是不穿花缎衣服的。
珂赛特第一次穿上她的黑花缎短披风，戴着白绉纱帽出门的那天，她靠近冉阿让，挽着他的臂膀，愉快，欢乐，红润，大方，光艳夺目。她问道：“爹，您觉得我这个样子怎么样？”冉阿让带着一种自叹不如的愁苦声音回答说：“真漂亮！”他和平时一样蹓跶了一阵子。回到家里时，他问珂赛特：
“你不打算再穿你那件裙袍，戴你那顶帽子了吗？你知道我指的是……”
这话是在珂赛特的卧房里问的，珂赛特转身对着挂在衣柜里的那身寄读生服装。
“这种怪服装！”她说，“爹，您要我拿它怎么办？呵！简直笑话，不，我不再穿这些怪难看的东西了。把那玩意儿顶在头上，我成了个疯狗太太。”
冉阿让长叹一声。
从这时候起，他发现珂赛特已不象往日那样老爱待在家里，说着“参，我和您一道在这儿玩玩还开心些”，她现在总想到外面去走走。确实，假使不到人前去露露面，又何必生一张漂亮的脸，穿一身入时出众的衣服呢？
他还发现珂赛特对那个后院已不怎么感兴趣了。她现在比较喜欢待在花园里，并不厌烦常到铁栏门边去走走。冉阿让一肚子闷气，不再涉足花园。他待在他那后院里，象条老狗。
珂赛特在知道自己美的同时，失去了那种不自以为美的神态棗美不可言的神态，因为由天真稚气烘托着的美是无法形容的，没有什么能象那种容光焕发、信步向前、手里握着天堂的钥匙而不知的天真少女一样可爱。但是，她虽然失去了憨稚无知的神态，却赢回了端庄凝重的魅力。她整个被青春的欢乐、天真和美貌所渗透，散发着一种光辉灿烂的淡淡的哀愁。
正是在这时候，马吕斯过了六个月以后，又在卢森堡公园里遇见了她。
Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 6 The Battle Begun
Cosette in her shadow, like Marius in his, was all ready to take fire. Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, slowly drew together these two beings, all charged and all languishing with the stormy electricity of passion, these two souls which were laden with love as two clouds are laden with lightning, and which were bound to overflow and mingle in a look like the clouds in a flash of fire.
The glance has been so much abused in love romances that it has finally fallen into disrepute. One hardly dares to say, nowadays, that two beings fell in love because they looked at each other. That is the way people do fall in love, nevertheless, and the only way. The rest is nothing, but the rest comes afterwards. Nothing is more real than these great shocks which two souls convey to each other by the exchange of that spark.
At that particular hour when Cosette unconsciously darted that glance which troubled Marius, Marius had no suspicion that he had also launched a look which disturbed Cosette.
He caused her the same good and the same evil.
She had been in the habit of seeing him for a long time, and she had scrutinized him as girls scrutinize and see, while looking elsewhere. Marius still considered Cosette ugly, when she had already begun to think Marius handsome. But as he paid no attention to her,the young man was nothing to her.
Still, she could not refrain from saying to herself that he had beautiful hair, beautiful eyes, handsome teeth, a charming tone of voice when she heard him conversing with his comrades, that he held himself badly when he walked, if you like, but with a grace that was all his own, that he did not appear to be at all stupid, that his whole person was noble, gentle, simple, proud, and that, in short, though he seemed to be poor, yet his air was fine. 
On the day when their eyes met at last, and said to each other 
those first, obscure, and ineffable things which the glance lisps, Cosette did not immediately understand. She returned thoughtfully to the house in the Rue de l'Ouest, where Jean Valjean, according to his custom, had come to spend six weeks. The next morning, on waking, she thought of that strange young man, so long indifferent and icy, who now seemed to pay attention to her, and it did not appear to her that this attention was the least in the world agreeable to her. She was, on the contrary, somewhat incensed at this handsome and disdainful individual. A substratum of war stirred within her.It struck her, and the idea caused her a wholly childish joy, that she was going to take her revenge at last. 
Knowing that she was beautiful, she was thoroughly conscious, though in an indistinct fashion, that she possessed a weapon. Women play with their beauty as children do with a knife. They wound themselves. 
The reader will recall Marius' hesitations, his palpitations, his terrors. He remained on his bench and did not approach. This vexed Cosette. One day, she said to Jean Valjean: "Father, let us stroll about a little in that direction." Seeing that Marius did not come to her, she went to him. In such cases, all women resemble Mahomet. And then, strange to say, the first symptom of true love in a young man is timidity; in a young girl it is boldness. This is surprising, and yet nothing is more simple. It is the two sexes tending to approach each other and assuming,each the other's qualities.
That day, Cosette's glance drove Marius beside himself, and Marius' glance set Cosette to trembling. Marius went away confident,and Cosette uneasy. From that day forth, they adored each other.
The first thing that Cosette felt was a confused and profound melancholy. It seemed to her that her soul had become black since the day before. She no longer recognized it. The whiteness of soul in young girls, which is composed of coldness and gayety, resembles snow. It melts in love, which is its sun.
Cosette did not know what love was. She had never heard the word uttered in its terrestrial sense. On the books of profane music which entered the convent, amour (love) was replaced by tambour (drum) or pandour. This created enigmas which exercised the imaginations of the big girls, such as: Ah, how delightful is the drum! or, Pity is not a pandour. But Cosette had left the convent too early to have occupied herself much with the "drum." Therefore, she did not know what name to give to what she now felt. Is any one the less ill because one does not know the name of one's malady?
She loved with all the more passion because she loved ignorantly. She did not know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, useful or dangerous, eternal or temporary, allowable or prohibited; she loved. She would have been greatly astonished, had any one said to her: "You do not sleep? But that is forbidden! You do not eat? Why, that is very bad! You have oppressions and palpitations of the heart? That must not be! You blush and turn pale, when a certain being clad in black appears at the end of a certain green walk? But that is abominable!" She would not have understood, and she would have replied: "What fault is there of mine in a matter in which I have no power and of which I know nothing?"
It turned out that the love which presented itself was exactly suited to the state of her soul. It was a sort of admiration at a distance, a mute contemplation, the deification of a stranger. It was the apparition of youth to youth, the dream of nights become a reality yet remaining a dream, the longed-for phantom realized and made flesh at last, but having as yet, neither name, nor fault, nor spot, nor exigence, nor defect; in a word, the distant lover who lingered in the ideal, a chimaera with a form. Any nearer and more palpable meeting would have alarmed Cosette at this first stage, when she was still half immersed in the exaggerated mists of the cloister. She had all the fears of children and all the fears of nuns combined. The spirit of the convent, with which she had been permeated for the space of five years, was still in the process of slow evaporation from her person, and made everything tremble around her. In this situation he was not a lover, he was not even an admirer, he was a vision. She set herself to adoring Marius as something charming, luminous, and impossible.
As extreme innocence borders on extreme coquetry, she smiled at him with all frankness.
Every day, she looked forward to the hour for their walk with impatience, she found Marius there, she felt herself unspeakably happy,and thought in all sincerity that she was expressing her whole thought when she said to Jean Valjean:--
"What a delicious garden that Luxembourg is!"
Marius and Cosette were in the dark as to one another. They did not address each other, they did not salute each other, they did not know each other; they saw each other; and like stars of heaven which are separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing at each other.
It was thus that Cosette gradually became a woman and developed, beautiful and loving, with a consciousness of her beauty, and in ignorance of her love. She was a coquette to boot through her ignorance.
珂赛特和马吕斯都还在各自的掩蔽体里，燎原之火，一触即发。命运正以它那不可抗拒的神秘耐力慢慢推着他们两个去相互接近，这两个人，蓄足了爱情之电，随时都可引起一场狂风骤雨般的殊死战，两个充满了爱情的灵魂，正如两朵满载着霹雷的乌云，只待眼睛一望，或电光一闪，便将对面迎上去，进行一场混战。
人们在爱情小说里把眼睛的一望写得太滥了，以至于到后来大家对这问题都不大重视。我们现在几乎不怎么敢说两个人相爱是因为他们彼此望了一眼。可是人们相爱确是那样的，也只能是那样的。其余的一切只是其余的一切，并且那还是后来的事。再没有什么比两个灵魂在交换这一星星之火时给予对方的强烈震动更真实的了。
在珂赛特无意中向马吕斯一望使他心神不定的那一时刻，马吕斯同样没料到他也有这样一望使珂赛特心神不定。
他害她苦恼，也使她感到快乐。
从许久以前起，她便在看他，研究他，和其他的姑娘一样，她尽管在看在研究，眼睛却望着别处。在马吕斯还觉得珂赛特丑的时候，珂赛特已觉得马吕斯美了。但是，由于他一点也不注意她，这青年人在她眼里也就是无所谓的了。
但是她不能阻止自己对自己说，他的头发美，眼睛美，牙齿美，当她听到他和他的同学们谈话时，她也觉得他说话的声音动人，他走路的姿态不好看，如果一定要这么说的话，但是他有他的风度，他那模样一点也不傻，他整个人是高尚、温存、朴素、自负的，样子穷，但是好样儿的。
到了那天，他们的视线交会在一起了，终于突然互相传送了那种隐讳不宣、语言不能表达而顾盼可以细谈的一些最初的东西，起初，珂赛特并没有懂。她若有所思地回到了西街的那所房子里，当时冉阿让正按照他的习惯在过他那六个星期。她第二天醒来时，想起了这个不认识的青年，他素来是冷冰冰、漠不关心的，现在似乎在注意她了，这种注意她却全不称心。她对这个架子十足的美少年，心里有点生气。一种备战的意图在她的心里起伏。她仿佛觉得，并且感到一种具有强烈孩子气的快乐，她总得报复一下子。
知道了自己美，她便十分自信棗虽然看不大清楚棗她有了一件武器。妇女们玩弄她们的美，正如孩子们玩弄他们的刀。她们是自讨苦吃。
我们还记得马吕斯的迟疑，他的冲动，他的恐惧。他老待在他的长凳上，不近前来。这使珂赛特又气又恼。一天，她对冉阿让说：“我们到那边去走走吧，爹。”看见马吕斯绝不到她这边来，她便到他那边去。在这方面，每个女人都是和穆罕默德一样的①。并且，说也奇怪，真正爱情的最初症状，在青年男子方面是胆怯，在青年女子方面却是胆大。这似乎不可解，其实很简单。这是两性试图彼此接近而相互采纳对方性格的结果。 
①据说穆罕默德说过：“山不过来，我就到山那边去。”　
那天，珂赛特的一望使马吕斯发疯，而马吕斯的一望使珂赛特发抖。马吕斯满怀信心地走了，珂赛特的心却是七上八下的。自那一天起，他们相爱了。
珂赛特的最初感受是一种慌乱而沉重的愁苦。她觉得她的灵魂一天比一天变得更黑了。她已不再认识它了。姑娘们的灵魂的白洁是由冷静和轻松愉快构成的，象雪，它遇到爱情便融化，爱情是它的太阳。
珂赛特还不知道爱情是什么。她从来没有听过别人从尘世的意义用这个词。在修院采用的世俗音乐教材里，amour（爱情）是用tambour（鼓）或pandour（强盗）代替的。这就成了锻炼那些大姑娘想象力的闷葫芦，例如：“啊！鼓多美哟！”或者：“怜悯心并不是强盗！”但是，珂赛特离开修院时，年纪还太小，不曾为“鼓”烦心。因此她不知道对她目前的感受应给以什么名称。难道人不知道一种病的名称便不害那种病？
她越不知道爱是什么，越是爱得深。她不知道这是好事还是坏事，是有益的还是有害的，是必要的还是送命的，是长远的还是暂时的，是允许的还是禁止的，她只是在爱。她一定会莫名其妙，假使有人对她这样说：“您睡不好吗？不准这样！您吃不下东西吗？太不成话！您感到吐不出气心跳吗？不应当这样！您看见一个黑衣人出现在某条小路尽头的绿荫里，您的脸便会红一阵，白一阵？这真是卑鄙！”她一定听不懂，她也许会回答说：“对某件事我既无能为力也一点不知道，那又怎么会有我的过错呢？”
她所遇到的爱又恰是一种最能适合她当时心情的爱。那是一种远距离的崇拜，一种无言的仰慕，一个陌生人的神化。那是青春对青春的启示，已成好事而又止于梦境的梦境，向往已久、终于实现并有了血肉的幽灵，但还没有名称，也没有罪过，没有缺点，没有要求，没有错误，一句话，是一个可望而不可及、停留在理想境界中的情人，一种有了形象的幻想。在这发轫时期，珂赛特还半浸在修院那种萦回着的烟雾里，任何更实际、更密切的接触都会使她感到唐突。她有着孩子的种种顾虑和修女的种种顾虑。她在修院里待了五年，她脑子里的修院精神仍在慢慢地从她体内散发出来，使她感到自己周围的一切都是岌岌可危的。在这种情况下，她所要的不是一个情人，甚至也还不是一个密友，而是一种幻影。她开始把马吕斯当作一种动人的、光明灿烂的、不可能的东西来崇拜。
天真的极端和爱俏的极端是相连的，她向他微笑，毫无意图。
她每天焦急地等待着散步的钟点，她遇见马吕斯，感到说不出的快乐，当她对冉阿让这样说时，自以为确实表达了自己的全部思想：“这卢森堡公园真是个美妙的地方！”
马吕斯和珂赛特之间彼此还是一片漆黑。他们彼此还没交谈，不打招呼，不相识，他们彼此能看得见，正如天空中相隔十万八千里的星星那样，靠着彼此对看来生存。
珂赛特就这样渐渐成长为妇人的，貌美，多情，知道自己美而不知道多情是怎么回事。她特别爱俏，由于幼稚无知。
Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 7 To One Sadness oppose a Sadness and a Half
All situations have their instincts. Old and eternal Mother Nature warned Jean Valjean in a dim way of the presence of Marius. Jean Valjean shuddered to the very bottom of his soul. Jean Valjean saw nothing, knew nothing, and yet he scanned with obstinate attention,the darkness in which he walked, as though he felt on one side of him something in process of construction, and on the other, something which was crumbling away. Marius, also warned, and, in accordance with the deep law of God, by that same Mother Nature, did all he could to keep out of sight of "the father." Nevertheless, it came to pass that Jean Valjean sometimes espied him. Marius' manners were no longer in the least natural. He exhibited ambiguous prudence and awkward daring. He no longer came quite close to them as formerly. He seated himself at a distance and pretended to be reading;why did he pretend that? Formerly he had come in his old coat, now he wore his new one every day; Jean Valjean was not sure that he did not have his hair curled, his eyes were very queer, he wore gloves; in short, Jean Valjean cordially detested this young man.
Cosette allowed nothing to be divined. Without knowing just what was the matter with her she was convinced that there was something in it, and that it must be concealed.
There was a coincidence between the taste for the toilet which had recently come to Cosette, and the habit of new clothes developed by that stranger which was very repugnant to Jean Valjean. It might be accidental, no doubt, certainly, but it was a menacing accident.
He never opened his mouth to Cosette about this stranger. One day, however, he could not refrain from so doing, and, with that vague despair which suddenly casts the lead into the depths of its despair, he said to her: "What a very pedantic air that young man has!" 
Cosette, but a year before only an indifferent little girl, would have replied: "Why, no, he is charming." Ten years later, with the love of Marius in her heart, she would have answered: "A pedant, and insufferable to the sight! You are right!"-- At the moment in life and the heart which she had then attained, she contented herself with replying, with supreme calmness: "That young man!"
As though she now beheld him for the first time in her life.
"How stupid I am!" thought Jean Valjean. "She had not noticed him. It is I who have pointed him out to her."
Oh, simplicity of the old! oh, the depth of children! 
It is one of the laws of those fresh years of suffering and trouble, of those vivacious conflicts between a first love and the first obstacles, that the young girl does not allow herself to be caught in any trap whatever, and that the young man falls into every one. Jean Valjean had instituted an undeclared war against Marius, which Marius, with the sublime stupidity of his passion and his age, did not divine. Jean Valjean laid a host of ambushes for him; he changed his hour, he changed his bench, he forgot his handkerchief, he came alone to the Luxembourg; Marius dashed headlong into all these snares; and to all the interrogation marks planted by Jean Valjean in his pathway, he ingenuously answered "yes." But Cosette remained immured in her apparent unconcern and in her imperturbable tranquillity, so that Jean Valjean arrived at the following conclusion: "That ninny is madly in love with Cosette, but Cosette does not even know that he exists."
None the less did he bear in his heart a mournful tremor. The minute when Cosette would love might strike at any moment. Does not everything begin with indifference?
Only once did Cosette make a mistake and alarm him. He rose from his seat to depart, after a stay of three hours, and she said: "What, already?"
Jean Valjean had not discontinued his trips to the Luxembourg, as he did not wish to do anything out of the way, and as, above all things, he feared to arouse Cosette; but during the hours which were so sweet to the lovers, while Cosette was sending her smile to the intoxicated Marius, who perceived nothing else now, and who now saw nothing in all the world but an adored and radiant face, Jean Valjean was fixing on Marius flashing and terrible eyes. He, who had finally come to believe himself incapable of a malevolent feeling, experienced moments when Marius was present, in which he thought he was becoming savage and ferocious once more, and he felt the old depths of his soul, which had formerly contained so much wrath, opening once more and rising up against that young man. It almost seemed to him that unknown craters were forming in his bosom.
What! he was there, that creature! What was he there for? He came creeping about, smelling out, examining, trying! He came, saying: "Hey! Why not?" He came to prowl about his, Jean Valjean's, life! to prowl about his happiness, with the purpose of seizing it and bearing it away!
Jean Valjean added: "Yes, that's it! What is he in search of? An adventure! What does he want? A love affair! A love affair! And I? What! I have been first, the most wretched of men, and then the most unhappy, and I have traversed sixty years of life on my knees, I have suffered everything that man can suffer, I have grown old without having been young, I have lived without a family, without relatives, without friends, without life, without children, I have left my blood on every stone, on every bramble, on every mile-post, along every wall, I have been gentle, though others have been hard to me, and kind, although others have been malicious, I have become an honest man once more, in spite of everything, I have repented of the evil that I have done and have forgiven the evil that has been done to me, and at the moment when I receive my recompense, at the moment when it is all over, at the moment when I am just touching the goal, at the moment when I have what I desire, it is well, it is good, I have paid, I have earned it, all this is to take flight, all this will vanish, and I shall lose Cosette, and I shall lose my life, my joy, my soul, because it has pleased a great booby to come and lounge at the Luxembourg."
Then his eyes were filled with a sad and extraordinary gleam.
It was no longer a man gazing at a man; it was no longer an enemy surveying an enemy. It was a dog scanning a thief.
The reader knows the rest. Marius pursued his senseless course. One day he followed Cosette to the Rue de l'Ouest. Another day he spoke to the porter. The porter, on his side, spoke, and said to Jean Valjean: "Monsieur, who is that curious young man who is asking for you?" On the morrow Jean Valjean bestowed on Marius that glance which Marius at last perceived. A week later, Jean Valjean had taken his departure. He swore to himself that he would never again set foot either in the Luxembourg or in the Rue de l'Ouest. He returned to the Rue Plumet.
Cosette did not complain, she said nothing, she asked no questions, she did not seek to learn his reasons; she had already reached the point where she was afraid of being divined, and of betraying herself. Jean Valjean had no experience of these miseries, the only miseries which are charming and the only ones with which he was not acquainted; the consequence was that he did not understand the grave significance of Cosette's silence. 
He merely noticed that she had grown sad, and he grew gloomy. On his side and on hers, inexperience had joined issue.
Once he made a trial. He asked Cosette:--
"Would you like to come to the Luxembourg?"
A ray illuminated Cosette's pale face.
"Yes," said she.
They went thither. Three months had elapsed. Marius no longer went there. Marius was not there.
On the following day, Jean Valjean asked Cosette again:--
"Would you like to come to the Luxembourg?"
She replied, sadly and gently:--
"No."
Jean Valjean was hurt by this sadness, and heart-broken at this gentleness.
What was going on in that mind which was so young and yet already so impenetrable? What was on its way there within? What was taking place in Cosette's soul? Sometimes, instead of going to bed, Jean Valjean remained seated on his pallet, with his head in his hands, and he passed whole nights asking himself: "What has Cosette in her mind?" and in thinking of the things that she might be thinking about.
Oh! at such moments, what mournful glances did he cast towards that cloister, that chaste peak, that abode of angels, that inaccessible glacier of virtue! How he contemplated, with despairing ecstasy, that convent garden, full of ignored flowers and cloistered virgins, where all perfumes and all souls mount straight to heaven! How he adored that Eden forever closed against him, whence he had voluntarily and madly emerged! How he regretted his abnegation and his folly in having brought Cosette back into the world, poor hero of sacrifice, seized and hurled to the earth by his very self-devotion! How he said to himself, "What have I done?"
However, nothing of all this was perceptible to Cosette. No ill-temper, no harshness. His face was always serene and kind. Jean Valjean's manners were more tender and more paternal than ever. If anything could have betrayed his lack of joy, it was his increased suavity.
On her side, Cosette languished. She suffered from the absence of Marius as she had rejoiced in his presence, peculiarly, without exactly being conscious of it. When Jean Valjean ceased to take her on their customary strolls, a feminine instinct murmured confusedly, at the bottom of her heart, that she must not seem to set store on the Luxembourg garden, and that if this proved to be a matter of indifference to her, her father would take her thither once more. But days, weeks, months, elapsed. Jean Valjean had tacitly accepted Cosette's tacit consent. She regretted it. It was too late. So Marius had disappeared; all was over. The day on which she returned to the Luxembourg, Marius was no longer there. What was to be done? Should she ever find him again? She felt an anguish at her heart, which nothing relieved, and which augmented every day; she nolonger knew whether it was winter or summer, whether it was raining or shining, whether the birds were singing, whether it was the season for dahlias or daisies, whether the Luxembourg was more charming than the Tuileries, whether the linen which the laundress brought home was starched too much or not enough, whether Toussaint had 
done "her marketing" well or ill; and she remained dejected, absorbed, attentive to but a single thought, her eyes vague and staring as when one gazes by night at a black and fathomless spot where an apparition has vanished.
However, she did not allow Jean Valjean to perceive anything of this, except her pallor.
She still wore her sweet face for him.
This pallor sufficed but too thoroughly to trouble Jean Valjean. Sometimes he asked her:--
"What is the matter with you?"
She replied: "There is nothing the matter with me."
And after a silence, when she divined that he was sad also, she would add:--
"And you, father--is there anything wrong with you?"
"With me? Nothing," said he.
These two beings who had loved each other so exclusively, and with so touching an affection, and who had lived so long for each other now suffered side by side, each on the other's account; without acknowledging it to each other, without anger towards each other, and with a smile.
人在任何情况下都有预感。高寿和永生的母亲棗大自然棗把马吕斯的活动暗示给了冉阿让。冉阿让在他思想最深处发抖。冉阿让什么也没看见，什么也不知道，但却正以固执的注意力在探索他身边的秘密，仿佛他一方面已觉察到有些什么东西在形成，另一方面又有些什么在崩溃。马吕斯也得到了这同一个大自然母亲的暗示棗这是慈悲上帝的深奥法则，他竭尽全力要避开“父亲”的注意。但是有时候，冉阿让仍识破了他。马吕斯的举动极不自然。他有一些鬼头鬼脑的谨慎态度，也有一些笨头笨脑的大胆行为。他不再象从前那样走近他们身边，他老坐在远处发怔，他老捧着一本书，假装阅读，他在为谁装假呢？从前，他穿着旧衣服出来，现在他天天穿上新衣，不清楚他是否烫过头发，他那双眼睛的神气也确是古怪，他戴手套，总而言之，冉阿让真的从心里讨厌这个年轻人。
珂赛特丝毫不动声色。她虽然不能正确认识自己的心事，但感到这是件大事，应当把它隐瞒起来。
在珂赛特方面，出现了爱打扮的癖好，在这陌生人方面，有了穿新衣的习惯，冉阿让对这两者之间的平行关系感到很不痛快。这也许……想必……肯定是一种偶然的巧合，但是一种带威胁性的偶合。
他从不开口和珂赛特谈那个阳生人。可是，有一天，他耐不住了，苦恼万分，放不下心，想立即试探一下这倒霉的事究竟发展到了什么程度，他对她说“你看那个青年的那股书呆子味儿！”
在一年以前，当珂赛特还是个漠不关心的小姑娘时，她也许会回答：“不，他很讨人喜欢。”十年以后，心里怀着对马吕斯的爱，她也许会回答：“书呆子气，真叫人受不了！您说得对！”可是在当时的生活和感情的支配下，她只若无其事地回答了一句：
“那个年轻人！”
好象她还是生平第一次看到他。
“我真傻！”冉阿让想道，“她并没有注意他。倒是我先把他指给她看了。”
呵，老人的天真！孩子的老成！
初尝恋爱苦恼的年轻人在设法排除最初困难的激烈斗争中，这是一条规律：女子绝不上当，男子有当必上。冉阿让已开始对马吕斯进行暗斗，而马吕斯，受着那种狂热感情的支配和年龄的影响，傻透了，一点也见不到。冉阿让为他设下一连串圈套，他改时间，换坐位，掉手帕，独自来逛卢森堡公园，马吕斯却低着脑袋钻进了每一个圈套，冉阿让在他的路上安插许多问号，他都天真烂漫地一一回答说：“是的。”同时，珂赛特却深深隐藏在那种事不关己、泰然自若的外表下面，使冉阿让从中得出这样的结论：那傻小子把珂赛特爱到发疯，珂赛特却不知道有这回事，也不知道有这个人。
他并不因此就能减轻他心中痛苦的震颤。珂赛特爱的时刻随时都可以到来。开始时不也总是漠不关心的吗？
只有一次，珂赛特失误了，使他大吃一惊。在那板凳上待了三个钟头以后他立起来要走，她说：“怎么，就要走？”
冉阿让仍在公园里继续散步，不愿显得异样，尤其怕让珂赛特觉察出来，珂赛特朝着心花怒放的马吕斯不时微笑，马吕斯除此以外什么也瞧不见了，他现在在这世上所能见到的，只有一张容光焕发、他所倾倒的脸，两个情人正感到此时此刻无比美好，冉阿让却狠狠地横着一双火星直冒的眼睛钉在马吕斯的脸上。他自以为不至于再怀恶念了，但有时看见马吕斯，却不禁感到自己又有了那种野蛮粗暴的心情，在他当年充满仇恨的灵魂的深渊里，旧时的怒火又在重新崩裂的缺口里燃烧起来。他几乎觉得在他心里，一些不曾有过的火山口正在形成。
怎么！会有这么一个人，在这儿！他来干什么？他来转、嗅、研究、试探！他来说：“哼！有什么不可以！”他到他冉阿让生命的周围来打贼主意！到他幸福的周围来打贼主意！他想夺取它，据为己有！
冉阿让还说：“对，没错！他来找什么？找野食！他要什么？要个小娘们儿！那么，我呢！怎么！起先我是人中最倒霉的，随后又是一个最苦恼的。为生活，我用膝头爬了六十年，我受尽了人能受的一切痛苦，我不曾有过青春便已老了，我一辈子没有家，没有父母，没有朋友，没有女人，没有孩子，我把我的血洒在所有的石头上，所有的荆棘上，所有的路碑上，所有的墙边，我向对我刻薄的人低声下气，向虐待我的人讨好，我不顾一切，还是去改邪归正，我为自己所作的恶忏悔，也原谅别人对我所作的恶，而正当我快要得到好报，正当那一切都已结束，正当我快达到目的，正当我快要实现我的心愿时，好，好得很，我付出了代价，我收到了果实，但一切又要完蛋，一切又要落空，我还要丢掉珂赛特，丢掉我的生命、我的欢乐、我的灵魂，因为这使一个到卢森堡公园来游荡的大傻子感到有乐趣！”
这时，他的眼里充满了异常阴沉的煞气。那已不是一个看着人的人，那已不是个看着仇人的人，而是一条看着一个贼的看家狗。
其余的经过，我们都知道。马吕斯一直是没头没脑的。一次，他跟着珂赛特到了西街。另一次，他找门房谈过话，那门房又把这话告诉了冉阿让，并且问他说：“那个找您的爱管闲事的后生是个什么人？”第二天，冉阿让对马吕斯盯了那么一眼，那是马吕斯感到了的。一星期过后，冉阿让搬走了。他发誓不再去卢森堡公园，也不再去西街。他回到了卜吕梅街。
珂赛特没有表示异议，她没有吭一声气，没有问一句话，没设法去探听为的什么，她当时已到那种怕人猜破、走露消息的阶段。冉阿让对这些伤脑筋的事一点经验也没有，这恰巧是最动人的事，而他又恰巧一窍不通，因此他完全不能识破珂赛特闷声不响的严重意义。可是他已察觉到她变得抑郁了，而他，变阴沉了。双方都没有经验，构成了相持的僵局。
一天，他进行一次试探。他问珂赛特：
“你想去卢森堡公园走走吗？”
珂赛特苍白的脸上顿时喜气洋洋。
“想。”她说。
他们去了。那是过了三个月以后的事。马吕斯已经不去那里了。马吕斯不在。
第二天，冉阿让又问珂赛特：
“你想去卢森堡公园走走吗？”
“不想。”
冉阿让见她发愁就有气，见她柔顺就懊恼。
这小脑袋里究竟发生了什么事，年纪这么小，便已这样猜不透？那里正在策划着什么？珂赛特的灵魂出了什么事？有时，冉阿让不睡，常常整夜坐在破床边，双手捧着脑袋想：“珂赛特的思想里有些什么事？”他想到了一些她可能想到的东西。
呵！在这种时刻，他多少次睁着悲痛的眼睛，回头去望那修院，那个洁白的山峰，那个天使们的园地，那个高不可攀的美德的冰山！他怀着失望的爱慕心情瞻望修院，那生满了不足为外人道的花卉，关满了与世隔绝的处女，所有的香气和所有的灵魂都能一齐直上天国！他多么崇拜他当初一时迷了心窍自愿脱离的伊甸园，如今误入歧路，大门永不会再为他开放了！他多么悔恨自己当日竟那么克己，那么糊涂，要把珂赛特带回尘世。他这个为人牺牲的可怜的英雄，由于自己一片忠忱，竟至作茧自缚，自投苦海！正如他对他自己所说的：“我是怎么搞的？”
尽管如此，这一切他都不流露出来让珂赛特知道。既没有急躁的表现，也从不粗声大气，而总是那副宁静温和的面貌。冉阿让的态度比以往任何时候都更象慈父，更加仁爱。如果有什么东西可以使人察觉他不及从前那么快乐的话，那就是他更加和颜悦色了。
在珂赛特那一面，她终日郁郁不乐。她为马吕斯不在身旁而愁苦，正如当日因他常在眼前而喜悦，她万般苦闷，却不知道究竟是怎么回事。当冉阿让不再象往常那样带她去散步时，一种女性的本能便从她心底对她隐隐暗示：她不应现出老想念卢森堡公园的样子，如果她装得无所谓，她父亲便会再带她去的。但是，多少天、多少星期、多少个月接连过去了，冉阿让一声不响地接受了珂赛特一声不响的同意。她后悔起来了。已经太迟了。她回到卢森堡公园去的那天，马吕斯不在。马吕斯丢了，全完了，怎么办？她还能指望和他重相见吗？她感到自己的心揪作一团，无法排解，并且一天比一天更甚，她已不知是冬是夏，是睛是雨，鸟雀是否歌唱，是大丽花的季节还是菊花的时节，卢森堡公园是否比杜伊勒里宫更可爱，洗衣妇送回的衣服是否浆得太厚，杜桑买的东西是否合适，她整天垂头丧气，发呆出神，心里只有一个念头，眼睛朝前看而一无所见，正如夜里看着鬼魂刚刚隐没的黑暗深处。
此外，除了她那憔悴面容外她也不让冉阿让发现什么。她对他仍是亲亲热热的。
她的憔悴太使冉阿让痛心了。他有时问她：
“你怎么了？”
她回答说：
“我不怎么呀。”
沉寂了一会儿，她觉得他也同样闷闷不乐，便问道：
“您呢，爹，您有什么事吗？”
“我？没有什么。”他回答。
这两个人，多年以来，彼此都极亲爱，相依为命，诚笃感人，现在却面对面地各自隐忍，都为对方苦恼。大家避而不谈心里的话，也没有抱怨的心，而还总是微笑着。
Part 4 Book 3 Chapter 8 The Chain-Gang
Jean Valjean was the more unhappy of the two. Youth, even in its sorrows, always possesses its own peculiar radiance. 
At times, Jean Valjean suffered so greatly that he became puerile. It is the property of grief to cause the childish side of man to reappear. He had an unconquerable conviction that Cosette was escaping from him. He would have liked to resist, to retain her, to arouse her enthusiasm by some external and brilliant matter. These ideas, puerile, as we have just said, and at the same time senile, conveyed to him, by their very childishness, a tolerably just notion of the influence of gold lace on the imaginations of young girls. He once chanced to see a general on horseback, in full uniform, pass along the street, Comte Coutard, the commandant of Paris. He envied that gilded man; what happiness it would be, he said to himself, if he could put on that suit which was an incontestable thing; and if Cosette could behold him thus, she would be dazzled, and when he had Cosette on his arm and passed the gates of the Tuileries, the guard would present arms to him, and that would suffice for Cosette, and would dispel her idea of looking at young men.
An unforeseen shock was added to these sad reflections.
In the isolated life which they led, and since they had come to dwell in the Rue Plumet, they had contracted one habit. They sometimes took a pleasure trip to see the sun rise, a mild species of enjoyment which befits those who are entering life and those who are quitting it. 
For those who love solitude, a walk in the early morning is equivalent to a stroll by night, with the cheerfulness of nature added. The streets are deserted and the birds are singing. Cosette, a bird herself, liked to rise early. These matutinal excursions were planned on the preceding evening. He proposed, and she agreed. It was arranged like a plot, they set out before daybreak, and these trips were so many small delights for Cosette. These innocent eccentricities please young people.
Jean Valjean's inclination led him, as we have seen, to the least frequented spots, to solitary nooks, to forgotten places. There then existed, in the vicinity of the barriers of Paris, a sort of poor meadows, which were almost confounded with the city, where grew in summer sickly grain, and which, in autumn, after the harvest had been gathered, presented the appearance, not of having been reaped, but peeled. Jean Valjean loved to haunt these fields. Cosette was not bored there. It meant solitude to him and liberty to her. There, she became a little girl once more, she could run and almost play; she took off her hat, laid it on Jean Valjean's knees, and gathered bunches of flowers. She gazed at the butterflies on the flowers, but did not catch them; gentleness and tenderness are born with love, and the young girl who cherishes within her breast a trembling and fragile ideal has mercy on the wing of a butterfly. She wove garlands of poppies, which she placed on her head, and which, crossed and penetrated with sunlight, glowing until they flamed, formed for her rosy face a crown of burning embers. 
Even after their life had grown sad, they kept up their custom of early strolls.
One morning in October, therefore, tempted by the serene perfection of the autumn of 1831, they set out, and found themselves at break of day near the Barriere du Maine. It was not dawn, it was daybreak; a delightful and stern moment. A few constellations here and there in the deep, pale azure, the earth all black, the heavens all white, a quiver amid the blades of grass, everywhere the mysterious chill of twilight. A lark, which seemed mingled with the stars, was carolling at a prodigious height, and one would have declared that that hymn of pettiness calmed immensity. In the East, the Valde-Grace projected its dark mass on the clear horizon with the sharpness of steel; Venus dazzlingly brilliant was rising behind that dome and had the air of a soul making its escape from a gloomy edifice. 
All was peace and silence; there was no one on the road; a few stray laborers, of whom they caught barely a glimpse, were on their way to their work along the side-paths. 
Jean Valjean was sitting in a cross-walk on some planks deposited at the gate of a timber-yard. His face was turned towards the highway, his back towards the light; he had forgotten the sun which was on the point of rising; he had sunk into one of those profound absorptions in which the mind becomes concentrated, which imprison even the eye, and which are equivalent to four walls. There are meditations which may be called vertical; when one is at the bottom of them, time is required to return to earth. Jean Valjean had plunged into one of these reveries. He was thinking of Cosette, of the happiness that was possible if nothing came between him and her, of the light with which she filled his life, a light which was but the emanation of her soul. He was almost happy in his revery. Cosette, who was standing beside him, was gazing at the clouds as they turned rosy. 
All at once Cosette exclaimed: "Father, I should think some one was coming yonder." Jean Valjean raised his eyes.
Cosette was right. The causeway which leads to the ancient Barriere du Maine is a prolongation, as the reader knows, of the Rue de Sevres, and is cut at right angles by the inner boulevard. At the elbow of the causeway and the boulevard, at the spot where it branches, they heard a noise which it was difficult to account for at that hour, and a sort of confused pile made its appearance. Some shapeless thing which was coming from the boulevard was turning into the road.
It grew larger, it seemed to move in an orderly manner, though it was bristling and quivering; it seemed to be a vehicle, but its load could not be distinctly made out. There were horses, wheels, shouts; whips were cracking. By degrees the outlines became fixed, although bathed in shadows. It was a vehicle, in fact, which had just turned from the boulevard into the highway, and which was directing its course towards the barrier near which sat Jean Valjean; a second, of the same aspect, followed, then a third, then a fourth; seven chariots made their appearance in succession, the heads of the horses touching the rear of the wagon in front. Figures were moving on these vehicles, flashes were visible through the dusk as though there were naked swords there, a clanking became audible which resembled the rattling of chains, and as this something advanced, the sound of voices waxed louder, and it turned into a terrible thing such as emerges from the cave of dreams.
As it drew nearer, it assumed a form, and was outlined behind the trees with the pallid hue of an apparition; the mass grew white; the day, which was slowly dawning, cast a wan light on this swarming heap which was at once both sepulchral and living, the heads of the figures turned into the faces of corpses, and this is what it proved to be:--
Seven wagons were driving in a file along the road. The first six were singularly constructed. They resembled coopers' drays; they consisted of long ladders placed on two wheels and forming barrows at their rear extremities. Each dray, or rather let us say, each ladder, was attached to four horses harnessed tandem. On these ladders strange clusters of men were being drawn. In the faint light, these men were to be divined rather than seen. Twenty-four on each vehicle, twelve on a side, back to back, facing the passers-by, their legs dangling in the air,--this was the manner in which these men were travelling, and behind their backs they had something which clanked, and which was a chain, and on their necks something which shone, and which was an iron collar. Each man had his collar, but the chain was for all; so that if these four and twenty men had occasion to alight from the dray and walk, they were seized with a sort of inexorable unity, and were obliged to wind over the ground with the chain for a backbone, somewhat after the fashion of millepeds. In the back and front of each vehicle, two men armed with muskets stood erect, each holding one end of the chain under his foot. The iron necklets were square. The seventh vehicle, a huge rack-sided baggage wagon, without a hood, had four wheels and six horses, and carried a sonorous pile of iron boilers, cast-iron pots, braziers, and chains, among which were mingled several men who were pinioned and stretched at full length, and who seemed to be ill. This wagon, all lattice-work, was garnished with dilapidated hurdles which appeared to have served for former punishments. These vehicles kept to the middle of the road. On each side marched a double hedge of guards of infamous aspect, wearing three-cornered hats, like the soldiers under the Directory, shabby, covered with spots and holes, muffled in uniforms of veterans and the trousers of undertakers' men, half gray, half blue, which were almost hanging in rags, with red epaulets, yellow shoulder belts, short sabres, muskets, and cudgels; they were a species of soldier-blackguards. These myrmidons seemed composed of the abjectness of the beggar and the authority of the executioner. The one who appeared to be their chief held a postilion's whip in his hand. All these details, blurred by the dimness of dawn, became more and more clearly outlined as the light increased. At the head and in the rear of the convoy rode mounted gendarmes, serious and with sword in fist.
This procession was so long that when the first vehicle reached the barrier, the last was barely debauching from the boulevard. A throng, sprung, it is impossible to say whence, and formed in a twinkling, as is frequently the case in Paris, pressed forward from both sides of the road and looked on. In the neighboring lanes the shouts of people calling to each other and the wooden shoes of market-gardeners hastening up to gaze were audible. 
The men massed upon the drays allowed themselves to be jolted along in silence. They were livid with the chill of morning. They all wore linen trousers, and their bare feet were thrust into wooden shoes. The rest of their costume was a fantasy of wretchedness. Their accoutrements were horribly incongruous; nothing is more funereal than the harlequin in rags. Battered felt hats, tarpaulin caps, hideous woollen nightcaps, and, side by side with a short blouse, a black coat broken at the elbow; many wore women's headgear, others had baskets on their heads; hairy breasts were visible, and through the rent in their garments tattooed designs could be descried; temples of Love, flaming hearts, Cupids; eruptions and unhealthy red blotches could also be seen. Two or three had a straw rope attached to the cross-bar of the dray, and suspended under them like a stirrup, which supported their feet. One of them held in his hand and raised to his mouth something which had the appearance of a black stone and which he seemed to be gnawing; it was bread which he was eating. There were no eyes there which were not either dry, dulled, or flaming with an evil light. The escort troop cursed, the men in chains did not utter a syllable; from time to time the sound of a blow became audible as the cudgels descended on shoulder-blades or skulls; some of these men were yawning; their rags were terrible; their feet hung down, their shoulders oscillated, their heads clashed together, their fetters clanked, their eyes glared ferociously, their fists clenched or fell open inertly like the hands of corpses; in the rear of the convoy ran a band of children screaming with laughter. 
This file of vehicles, whatever its nature was, was mournful. It was evident that to-morrow, that an hour hence, a pouring rain might descend, that it might be followed by another and another, and that their dilapidated garments would be drenched, that once soaked, these men would not get dry again, that once chilled, they would not again get warm, that their linen trousers would be glued to their bones by the downpour, that the water would fill their shoes, that no lashes from the whips would be able to prevent their jaws from chattering, that the chain would continue to bind them by the neck, that their legs would continue to dangle, and it was impossible not to shudder at the sight of these human beings thus bound and passive beneath the cold clouds of autumn, and delivered over to the rain, to the blast, to all the furies of the air, like trees and stones.
Blows from the cudgel were not omitted even in the case of the sick men, who lay there knotted with ropes and motionless on the seventh wagon, and who appeared to have been tossed there like sacks filled with misery.
Suddenly, the sun made its appearance; the immense light of the Orient burst forth, and one would have said that it had set fire to all those ferocious heads. Their tongues were unloosed; a conflagration of grins, oaths, and songs exploded. The broad horizontal sheet of light severed the file in two parts, illuminating heads and bodies, leaving feet and wheels in the obscurity. Thoughts made their appearance on these faces; it was a terrible moment; visible demons with their masks removed, fierce souls laid bare. Though lighted up, this wild throng remained in gloom. Some, who were gay, had in their mouths quills through which they blew vermin over the crowd, picking out the women; the dawn accentuated these lamentable profiles with the blackness of its shadows; there was not one of these creatures who was not deformed by reason of wretchedness; and the whole was so monstrous that one would have said that the sun's brilliancy had been changed into the glare of the lightning. The wagon-load which headed the line had struck up a song, and were shouting at the top of their voices with a haggard joviality, a potpourri by Desaugiers, then famous, called The Vestal; the trees shivered mournfully; in the cross-lanes, countenances of bourgeois listened in an idiotic delight to these coarse strains droned by spectres. 
All sorts of distress met in this procession as in chaos; here were to be found the facial angles of every sort of beast, old men, youths, bald heads, gray beards, cynical monstrosities, sour resignation, savage grins, senseless attitudes, snouts surmounted by caps, heads like those of young girls with corkscrew curls on the temples, infantile visages, and by reason of that, horrible thin skeleton faces, to which death alone was lacking. On the first cart was a negro, who had been a slave, in all probability, and who could make a comparison of his chains. The frightful leveller from below, shame, had passed over these brows; at that degree of abasement, the last transformations were suffered by all in their extremest depths, and ignorance, converted into dulness, was the equal of intelligence converted into despair. There was no choice possible between these men who appeared to the eye as the flower of the mud. It was evident that the person who had had the ordering of that unclean procession had not classified them. These beings had been fettered and coupled pell-mell, in alphabetical disorder, probably, and loaded hap-hazard on those carts. Nevertheless, horrors, when grouped together, always end by evolving a result; all additions of wretched men give a sum total, each chain exhaled a common soul, and each dray-load had its own physiognomy. By the side of the one where they were singing, there was one where they were howling; a third where they were begging; one could be seen in which they were gnashing their teeth; another load menaced the spectators, another blasphemed God; the last was as silent as the tomb. Dante would have thought that he beheld his seven circles of hell on the march. The march of the damned to their tortures, performed in sinister wise, not on the formidable and flaming chariot of the Apocalypse, but, what was more mournful than that, on the gibbet cart.
One of the guards, who had a hook on the end of his cudgel, made a pretence from time to time, of stirring up this mass of human filth. An old woman in the crowd pointed them out to her little boy five years old, and said to him: "Rascal, let that be a warning to you!" 
As the songs and blasphemies increased, the man who appeared to be the captain of the escort cracked his whip, and at that signal a fearful dull and blind flogging, which produced the sound of hail, fell upon the seven dray-loads; many roared and foamed at the mouth; which redoubled the delight of the street urchins who had hastened up, a swarm of flies on these wounds. 
Jean Valjean's eyes had assumed a frightful expression. They were no longer eyes; they were those deep and glassy objects which replace the glance in the case of certain wretched men, which seem unconscious of reality, and in which flames the reflection of terrors and of catastrophes. He was not looking at a spectacle, he was seeing a vision. He tried to rise, to flee, to make his escape; he could not move his feet. Sometimes, the things that you see seize upon you and hold you fast. He remained nailed to the spot, petrified, stupid, asking himself, athwart confused and inexpressible anguish, what this sepulchral persecution signified, and whence had come that pandemonium which was pursuing him. All at once, he raised his hand to his brow, a gesture habitual to those whose memory suddenly returns; he remembered that this was, in fact, the usual itinerary, that it was customary to make this detour in order to avoid all possibility of encountering royalty on the road to Fontainebleau, and that, five and thirty years before, he had himself passed through that barrier.
Cosette was no less terrified, but in a different way. She did not understand; what she beheld did not seem to her to be possible; at length she cried:--
"Father! What are those men in those carts?"
Jean Valjean replied: "Convicts."
"Whither are they going?"
"To the galleys."
At that moment, the cudgelling, multiplied by a hundred hands, became zealous, blows with the flat of the sword were mingled with it, it was a perfect storm of whips and clubs; the convicts bent before it, a hideous obedience was evoked by the torture, and all held their peace, darting glances like chained wolves. 
Cosette trembled in every limb; she resumed:--
"Father, are they still men?"
"Sometimes," answered the unhappy man.
It was the chain-gang, in fact, which had set out before daybreak from Bicetre, and had taken the road to Mans in order to avoid Fontainebleau, where the King then was. This caused the horrible journey to last three or four days longer; but torture may surely be prolonged with the object of sparing the royal personage a sight of it.
Jean Valjean returned home utterly overwhelmed. Such encounters are shocks, and the memory that they leave behind them resembles a thorough shaking up.
Nevertheless, Jean Valjean did not observe that, on his way back to the Rue de Babylone with Cosette, the latter was plying him with other questions on the subject of what they had just seen; perhaps he was too much absorbed in his own dejection to notice her words and reply to them. But when Cosette was leaving him in the evening, to betake herself to bed, he heard her say in a low voice, and as though talking to herself: "It seems to me, that if I were to find one of those men in my pathway, oh, my God, I should die merely from the sight of him close at hand."
Fortunately, chance ordained that on the morrow of that tragic day, there was some official solemnity apropos of I know not what,-- fetes in Paris, a review in the Champ de Mars, jousts on the Seine, theatrical performances in the Champs-Elysees, fireworks at the Arc de l'Etoile, illuminations everywhere. Jean Valjean did violence to his habits, and took Cosette to see these rejoicings, for the purpose of diverting her from the memory of the day before, and of effacing, beneath the smiling tumult of all Paris, the abominable thing which had passed before her. The review with which the festival was spiced made the presence of uniforms perfectly natural; Jean Valjean donned his uniform of a national guard with the vague inward feeling of a man who is betaking himself to shelter. However, this trip seemed to attain its object. Cosette, who made it her law to please her father, and to whom, moreover, all spectacles were a novelty, accepted this diversion with the light and easy good grace of youth, and did not pout too disdainfully at that flutter of enjoyment called a public fete; so that Jean Valjean was able to believe that he had succeeded, and that no trace of that hideous vision remained. 
Some days later, one morning, when the sun was shining brightly, and they were both on the steps leading to the garden, another infraction of the rules which Jean Valjean seemed to have imposed upon himself, and to the custom of remaining in her chamber which melancholy had caused Cosette to adopt, Cosette, in a wrapper, was standing erect in that negligent attire of early morning which envelops young girls in an adorable way and which produces the effect of a cloud drawn over a star; and, with her head bathed in light, rosy after a good sleep, submitting to the gentle glances of the tender old man, she was picking a daisy to pieces. Cosette did not know the delightful legend, I love a little, passionately, etc.--who was there who could have taught her? She was handling the flower instinctively, innocently, without a suspicion that to pluck a daisy apart is to do the same by a heart. If there were a fourth, and smiling Grace called Melancholy, she would have worn the air of that Grace. Jean Valjean was fascinated by the contemplation of those tiny fingers on that flower, and forgetful of everything in the radiance emitted by that child.A red-breast was warbling in the thicket, on one side. White cloudlets floated across the sky, so gayly, that one would have said that they had just been set at liberty. Cosette went on attentively tearing the leaves from her flower; she seemed to be thinking about something; but whatever it was, it must be something charming; all at once she turned her head over her shoulder with the delicate languor of a swan, and said to Jean Valjean: "Father, what are the galleys like?"
在他们两人中，最苦恼的还是冉阿让。年轻人，即使不如意，总还有开朗的一面。
某些时刻，冉阿让竟苦闷到产生一些幼稚的想法。这原是痛苦的特点，苦极往往使人儿时的稚气重现出来。他无可奈何地感到珂赛特正从他的怀抱里溜开。他想挣扎，留住她，用身外的某些显眼的东西来鼓舞她。这种想法，我们刚才说过，是幼稚的，同时也是昏愦糊涂的，而他竟作如此想，有点象那种金丝锦缎在小姑娘们想象中产生的影响，都带着孩子气。一次，他看见一个将军，古达尔伯爵，巴黎的卫戍司令，穿着全副军装，骑着马打街上走过。他对这个金光闪闪的人起了羡慕之心。他想：“这种服装，该没有什么可说的了，要是能穿上这么一套，该多幸福，珂赛特见了他这身打扮，一定会看得眉飞色舞，他让珂赛特挽着他的手臂一同走过杜伊勒里宫的铁栏门前，那时，卫兵会向他举枪致敬，珂赛特也就满意了，不至于再想去看那些青年男子了。”
一阵意外的震颤来和这愁惨的思想搀和在一起。
在他们所过的那种孤寂生活里，自从他们搬来住在卜吕梅街以后，他们养成了一种习惯。他们常去观赏日出，借以消遣，这种恬淡的乐趣，对刚刚进入人生和行将脱离人生的人来说都是适合的。
一大早起来散步，对孤僻的人来说，等于夜间散步，另外还可以享受大自然的朝气。街上没有几个人，鸟雀在歌唱，珂赛特，本来就是一只小鸟，老早便高高兴兴地醒来了。这种晨游常常是在前一天便准备好了。他建议，她同意，好象是当作一种密谋来安排的，天没亮，他们便出门了，珂赛特尤其高兴。
这种无害的不轨行为最能投合年轻人的趣味。
冉阿让的倾向，我们知道，是去那些人不常去的地方，僻静的山坳地角，荒凉处所。当时在巴黎城外一带，有些贫瘠的田野，几乎和市区相连，在那些地方，夏季长着一种干瘪的麦子，秋季收获过后，那地方不象是割光的，而象是拔光的。冉阿让最欣赏那一带。珂赛特在那里也一点不感到厌烦。对他来说这是幽静，对她来说则是自由。到了那里，她又成了个小女孩，她可以随便跑，几乎可以随便玩，她脱掉帽子，把它放在冉阿让的膝头上，四处去采集野花。她望着花上的蝴蝶，但不捉它们，仁慈恻隐的心是和爱情并生的，姑娘们心中有了个颤悠悠、弱不禁风的理想，便要怜惜蝴蝶的翅膀。她把虞美人串成一个花环戴在头上，阳光射来照着它，象火一样红得发紫，成了她那绯红光艳的脸上的一顶炽炭冠。
即使在他们的心境暗淡以后，这种晨游的习惯仍保持不断。
因此，在十月间的一天早晨，他们受到一八三一年秋季那种高爽宁静天气的鼓舞，又出去玩了，他们绝早便到了梅恩便门。还不到日出的时候，天刚有点蒙蒙亮，那是一种美妙苍茫的时刻。深窈微白的天空里还散布着几颗星星，地上漆黑，天上全白，野草在微微颤动，四处都笼罩在神秘的薄明中。一只云雀，仿佛和星星会合在一起，在绝高的天际歌唱，寥廓的穹苍好象也在屏息静听这小生命为无边宇宙唱出的颂歌。在东方，军医学院被天边明亮的青钢色衬托着，显示出它的黑影，耀眼的太白星正悬在这山岗的顶上，好象是一颗从这座黑暗建筑里飞出来的灵魂。
绝无动静也绝无声息。大路上还没有人，路旁的小路上，偶尔有几个工人在矇眬晓色中赶着去上工。
冉阿让在大路旁工棚门前一堆屋架上坐下来。他脸对大路，背对曙光，他已忘了即将升起的太阳，他沉浸在一种深潜的冥想中，集中了全部精力，连视线好象也被四堵墙遮断了似的。有些冥想可以说是垂直的，思想升到顶端以后要再回到地面上来，便需要一定的时间。冉阿让当时正陷在这样的一种神游中。他在想着珂赛特，想着他俩之间如果不发生意外便可能享到的幸福，想到那种充塞在他生命中的光明，他的灵魂赖以呼吸的光明。他在这样的梦幻中几乎感到快乐。珂赛特，站在他身边，望着云彩转红。
珂赛特突然喊道：“爹，那边好象来了些什么人。”冉阿让抬起了眼睛。
我们知道，通向从前梅恩便门的那条大路，便是赛伏尔街，它和内马路以直角相交。在大路和那马路的拐角上，也就是在那分岔的地方，他们听到一种在那种时刻很难理解的声音，并且还出现了一群黑压压的模糊形象。不知道是种什么不成形的东西正从那马路转进大路。
那东西渐渐显得大起来了，好象是在有秩序地向前移动，但是浑身带刺，并在微微颤动，那好象是一辆车，但看不清车上装的是什么。传来了马匹、轱辘和人声，还有鞭子的劈啪声。渐渐地，那东西的轮廓明显起来了，虽然还不清晰。那果然是一辆车，它刚从马路转上了大路，朝着冉阿让所在地附近的便门驶来，第二辆同样的车跟在后面，随即又是第三辆，第四辆，七辆车一辆一辆过来了，马头衔接车尾。一些人影在车上攒动，微明中露出点点闪光，仿佛是些出了鞘的大刀，又仿佛听到铁链撞击的声音，那队形正朝前走，人声也渐渐大起来了。
那真是一种触目惊心的东西，好象是从梦魇里出来的。
那东西越走越近，形状也渐清楚，惨绿如鬼影，陆续从树身后面走出来，那堆东西发白了，渐渐升起的太阳以苍白的微光照在这群似人非人、似鬼非鬼、蠕蠕蠢动的东西上，那影子上的头变成了死尸的面孔，这原来是这么一回事：
七辆车在大路上一辆跟着一辆往前走。头六辆的结构相当奇特。它们象那种运酒桶的狭长车子，是置在两个车轮上的一道长梯子，梯杆的前端也是车轮。每辆车，说得更正确些，每道长梯，由四匹前后排成一线的马牵引着。梯上拖着一串串怪人。在微弱的阳光中，还看不真切那究竟是不是人，只是这样猜想而已。每辆车上二十四个，每边十二个，背靠背，脸对着路旁，腿悬在空中。这些人就是这样往前进的，他们背后有东西当啷作响，那是一条链子，颈上也有东西在闪闪发光，那是一面铁枷。枷是人各一面，链子是大家共有的，因而这二十四个人，遇到要下车走路时，便无可宽容地非一致行动不可，这时他们便象一条大蜈蚣，以链子为脊骨，在地上曲折前进。在每辆车的头上和尾上，立着两个背步枪的人，每人踏着那链子的一端。枷全是四方的。那第七辆，是一辆栏杆车，但没有顶篷，有四个轮子和六匹马，载着一大堆颠得一片响的铁锅、生铁罐、铁炉和铁链，在这些东西里，也夹着几个用绳子捆住的人，直直地躺着，大致是些病人。这辆车四面洞开，栏杆已破损不堪，足见它是囚车里资格最老的一辆。
车队走在大路的中间。两旁有两行奇形怪状的卫队，头上顶着疲软的三角帽，仿佛督政府时期的士兵，帽子上满是污迹和破洞，邋遢极了，身上穿着老兵的制服和埋葬工人的长裤，半灰半蓝，几乎已烂成丝缕，他们戴着红肩章，斜挎着黄背带，拿着砍白菜①、步枪和木棍棗一队叫化子兵。这些刑警队仿佛是由乞丐的丑陋和刽子手的威风组成的。那个貌似队长的人，手里握着一根长马鞭。这些细部，在矇眬的晓色中原是模糊不清的，随着逐渐明亮的阳光才逐渐清晰起来。一些骑马的宪兵，摆着指挥刀，阴沉沉地走在车队的前面和后面。 
①砍白菜，十九世纪法国步兵用的一种细长刀。　
这个队伍拉得那么长，第一辆车已到便门时，最后一辆几乎还正从马路转上大路。
一大群人，不知道是从什么地方来的，一下子便聚集拢来，挤在大路两旁看，这在巴黎原是常有的事。附近的小街小巷里，也响起了一片互相呼唤和跑来看热闹的菜农的木鞋橐橐声。
那些堆在车上的人一声不响地任凭车子颠簸。他们在清晨的寒气里发抖，脸色青灰。全穿着粗布裤，赤着两只脚，套一双木鞋。其他的人的服装更是可怜，有啥穿啥。他们的装束真是丑到光怪陆离，再没有什么比这种一块块破布叠补起来的衣服更令人心酸的了。凹瘪的宽边毡帽，油污的遮阳帽，丑陋的毛线瓜皮帽，并且，肘弯有洞的黑礼服和短布衫挤在一起，有几个人还戴着女人的帽子，也有一些人顶个柳条筐，人们可以望见毛茸茸的胸脯，从衣服裂缝里露出的刺花纹的身体：爱神庙、带火焰的心、爱神等。还能望见一些脓痂和恶疮。有两三个人把草绳拴在车底的横杆上，象个马镫似的悬在身体的下面，托着他们的脚。他们里面有个人捏着一块黑石头似的东西送到嘴里去啃，那便是他们所吃的面包。他们的眼睛全是枯涩的、呆滞的或杀气腾腾的。那押送的队伍一路叫骂不停，囚犯们却不吭气，人们不时听到棍棒打在背上或头上的声音，在那些人里，有几个在张着嘴打呵欠，衣服破烂到骇人，脚悬在空中，肩头不停摇摆，脑袋互相撞击，铁器丁当作响，眼里怒火直冒，拳头捏得紧紧或象死人的手那样张着不动，在整个队伍后面，一群孩子跟着起哄大笑。
这个队形，不管怎样，是阴惨的。显然，在明天，在一小时以内，就可能下一场暴雨，接着又来一场，又来一场，这些破烂衣服便会湿透，一次湿了，这些人便不会再干，一旦冻了，这些人便不会再暖，他们的粗布裤子会被雨水粘在他们的骨头上，水会在他们的木鞋里积满，鞭子的抽打不会制止牙床的战抖，铁链还要继续拴住他们的颈脖，他们的脚还要继续悬在空中。看见这些血肉之躯被当作木头石块来拴住，处在寒冷的秋云下面一无表示，听凭雨打风吹、狂飙袭击，是不可能不心寒的。
即使是那些被绳子捆住扔在第七辆车子里、象一个个破麻袋似的一动不动的病人，也免不了挨棍子。
突然，太阳出现了，东方的巨大光轮上升了，仿佛把火送给这些蛮悍的人头。一个个的舌头全灵活了，一阵笑谑、咒骂、歌唱的大火延烧起来了。那一大片平射的晨光把整个队伍截成两半，头和身躯在光里，脚和车轮在黑暗中。各人脸上也出现了思想活动，这个时刻是骇人的，一些真相毕露的魔鬼，一些精赤可怕的生灵。这一大伙人，尽管在阳光照射下，也还是阴惨惨的。有几个兴致好的，嘴里含一根翎管，把一条条蛆吹向人群，瞄准一些妇女。初升的日光把那些怪脸上的阴影显得特别阴暗，在这群人中，没有一个不是被苦难变得奇形怪状的，他们是如此丑恶，人们不禁要说：“他们把日光变成了闪电的微光。”领头的那一车人唱起了一首当时著名的歌，德佐吉埃的《女灶神的贞女》，并用一种鄙俗的轻浮态度来怪喊怪叫。树木惨然瑟缩，路旁小道上，一张张中产阶级的蠢脸对鬼怪们所唱的烂污调正听得津津有味。
在这混乱的车队里，所有的惨状全齐备了，那里有各种野兽的面角：老人、少年、光头、灰白胡子、横蛮的怪样、消极的顽抗、龇牙咧嘴的凶相、疯癫的姿态、戴遮阳帽的猪拱嘴、两鬓拖着一条条螺旋钻的女儿脸、孩子面孔（因此也特别可怕）、还剩一口气的骷髅头。在第一辆车上，有个黑人，他也许当过奴隶，能和链条相比。这些人蒙受了无以复加的耻辱；受到这种程度的屈辱，他们全都深深地起了极大的变化，并且已变傻的愚昧的人是和变得悲观绝望的聪明人处于同等地位的。这一伙看来好象是渣滓中提炼出来的人彼此不可能再分高下。这一污浊行列的那个不相干的领队官对他们显然没有加以区别。他们是乱七八糟拴成一对一对的，也许只是按字母的先后次序加以排列，胡乱装上了车子。但是一些丑恶的东西聚集在一起，结果总会合成一种力量，许多苦难中人加在一起便有个总和，从每条链子上出现了一个共同的灵魂，每一车人有他们共同的面貌。有一车人老爱唱，另一车人老爱嚷，第三车人向人乞讨，还有一车人咬牙切齿，另一车人威胁观众，另一车人咒骂上帝，最后的一车人寂静如坟墓。但丁见了，也会认为这些是行进中的七层地狱。
这是从判刑走向服刑的行列，惨不忍睹，他们坐的不是《启示录》里所说的那种电光闪耀骇人的战车，而是用来公开示众的囚车，因而形相更惨。
在那些卫队中有一个拿着一根尖端带钩的棍棒，不时龇牙咧嘴，吓唬那堆人类的残渣。人群中有个老妇把他们指给一个五岁的男孩看，并对他说：“坏蛋，看你还要不要学这些榜样！”
歌唱和咒骂声越来越大了，那个模样象押送队队长的人，劈啪一声，挥出了他的长鞭，这一信号发出以后，一阵惊心动魄的棍棒，象冰雹似的，不问青红皂白，劈里啪啦，一齐打在那七车人的身上；许多人狂喊怒骂，跑来看热闹的孩子象群逐臭的苍蝇，见了更加兴高采烈。
冉阿让的眼睛变得骇人可怕。那已不是眼睛，而是一种深杳的玻璃体，仿佛对现实无动于衷，并反射出面临大难、恐惧欲绝的光芒，一种忧患中人常有的那种眼神。他看到的已不是事物的实体，而是一种幻象。他想站起来，避开，逃走，但是一步也动不了。有时我们看见的东西是会把我们制住，拖着不放的。他象被钉住了，变成了石头，呆呆地待着，心里是说不出的烦乱和痛苦，搞不清楚这种非人的迫害是为了什么，他的心怎么会紊乱到如此程度。他忽然抬起一只手按在额上，猛然想起这地方正是必经之路，照例要走这一段弯路，以免在枫丹白露大道上惊动国王，而且三十五年前，他正是打这便门经过的。
珂赛特，虽然感受有所不同，但也一样胆战心惊。她不懂这是什么，她吐不出气，感到她所见到的景象是不可能存在的，她终于大声问道：
“爹！这些车子里装的是什么？”
冉阿让回答说：
“苦役犯。”
“他们去什么地方？”
“去上大桡船。”
这时，那一百多根棍棒正打得起劲，还夹着刀背也在砍，真是一阵鞭抽棍打的风暴，罪犯们全低下了头，重刑下面出现了丑恶的服从，所有的人一齐静下来了，一个个象被捆住了的狼似的觑着人。珂赛特浑身战抖，她又问道：
“爹，这些还算是人吗？”
“有时候。”那伤心人说。
那是一批犯人，天亮以前，便从比塞特出发了，当时国王正在枫丹白露，他们要绕道而行，便改走勒芒大路。这一改道便使那可怕的旅程延长三至四天，但是，为了不让万民之上的君王看见酷刑的惨状，多走几天路便也算不了什么。
冉阿让垂头丧气地回到家里。这种遭遇是打击，留下的印象也几乎是震撼。
冉阿让带着珂赛特一路走回家，没有留意她对刚才遇见的那些事再提出什么问题，也许他过于沉痛了，在不能自拔的时候，已听不到她说的话，也无心回答她了。不过到了晚上，当珂赛特离开他去睡觉时，他听到她轻轻地，仿佛自言自语地说：“我感到，要是我在我的一生中遇上一个那样的人，我的天主啊，只要我走近去看一眼，我便会送命的！”
幸好，在那次惨遇的第二天，现在已想不起是国家的什么盛典，巴黎要举行庆祝活动，马尔斯广场阅兵，塞纳河上比武，爱丽舍官演戏，明星广场放焰火，处处悬灯结彩。冉阿让，横着一条心，打破了他的习惯，领着珂赛特去赶热闹，也好借此冲淡一下对前一天的回忆，要让她遇见的那种丑恶景象消失在巴黎倾城欢笑的场面里。点缀那次节日的阅兵式自然要使戎装盛服在街头穿梭往来，冉阿让穿上了他的国民自卫军制服，心里隐藏着一个避难人的感受。总之，这次游逛的目的似乎达到了。珂赛特一向是以助她父亲的兴作为行动准则的，并且对她来说，任何场面都是新鲜的，她便以青年人平易轻松的兴致接受了这次散心，因而对所谓公众庆祝的那种乏味的欢乐，也没太轻蔑地撇一下嘴。因此冉阿让认为游玩是成功的，那种奇丑绝恶的幻象已不再存在了。
过了几天，在一个晴朗的早晨，他们两人全到了园里的台阶上，这对冉阿让自定的生活规则和珂赛特因烦闷而不出卧房的习惯来说，都是又一次破例的表现。珂赛特披一件起床时穿的浴衣，那种象朝霞蔽日那样把少女们裹得楚楚动人的便服，立在台阶上，睡了一个好觉而显得绯红的脸对着阳光，老人以疼爱的心情轻轻地望着她，她手里正拿着一朵雏菊，在一瓣一瓣地摘花瓣。珂赛特并不知道那种可爱的口诀“我爱你，爱一点点，爱到发狂，”等等，谁会教给她这些呢？她本能地、天真地在玩着那朵花，一点没有意识到：摘一朵雏菊的花瓣便是披露一个人的心。如果有第四位美惠女神，名叫多愁仙子而且是微笑着的，那她就有点象这仙子了。冉阿让痴痴地望着那花朵上的几个小手指，望到眼花心醉，在那孩子的光辉里把一切都忘了。一只知更鸟在旁边的树丛里低声啼唱。片片白云轻盈迅捷地飘过天空，好象刚从什么地方释放出来似的。珂赛特仍在一心一意地摘她的花瓣，她仿佛在想着什么，想必一定是件怪有意思的事，忽然，她以天鹅那种舒徐的优美姿态，从肩上转过头来向冉阿让说：“爹，大桡船是什么东西呀？”
Part 4 Book 4 Chapter 1 A Wound without, Healing within
Thus their life clouded over by degrees.
But one diversion, which had formerly been a happiness, remained to them, which was to carry bread to those who were hungry, and clothing to those who were cold. Cosette often accompanied Jean Valjean on these visits to the poor, on which they recovered some remnants of their former free intercourse; and sometimes, when the day had been a good one, and they had assisted many in distress, and cheered and warmed many little children, Cosette was rather merry in the evening. It was at this epoch that they paid their visit to the Jondrette den.
On the day following that visit, Jean Valjean made his appearance in the pavilion in the morning, calm as was his wont, but with a large wound on his left arm which was much inflamed, and very angry, which resembled a burn, and which he explained in some way or other. This wound resulted in his being detained in the house for a month with fever. He would not call in a doctor. When Cosette urged him, "Call the dog-doctor," said he.
Cosette dressed the wound morning and evening with so divine an air and such angelic happiness at being of use to him, that Jean Valjean felt all his former joy returning, his fears and anxieties dissipating, and he gazed at Cosette, saying: "Oh! what a kindly wound! Oh! what a good misfortune!"
Cosette on perceiving that her father was ill, had deserted the pavilion and again taken a fancy to the little lodging and the back courtyard. She passed nearly all her days beside Jean Valjean and read to him the books which he desired. Generally they were books of travel. Jean Valjean was undergoing a new birth; his happiness was reviving in these ineffable rays; the Luxembourg, the prowling young stranger, Cosette's coldness,--all these clouds upon his soul were growing dim. He had reached the point where he said to himself: "I imagined all that. I am an old fool."
His happiness was so great that the horrible discovery of the Thenardiers made in the Jondrette hovel, unexpected as it was, had, after a fashion, glided over him unnoticed. He had succeeded in making his escape; all trace of him was lost--what more did he care for! he only thought of those wretched beings to pity them. "Here they are in prison, and henceforth they will be incapacitated for doing any harm," he thought, "but what a lamentable family in distress!"
As for the hideous vision of the Barriere du Maine, Cosette had not referred to it again.
Sister Sainte-Mechtilde had taught Cosette music in the convent; Cosette had the voice of a linnet with a soul, and sometimes, in the evening, in the wounded man's humble abode, she warbled melancholy songs which delighted Jean Valjean.
Spring came; the garden was so delightful at that season of the year, that Jean Valjean said to Cosette:-- 
"You never go there; I want you to stroll in it."
"As you like, father," said Cosette.
And for the sake of obeying her father, she resumed her walks in the garden, generally alone, for, as we have mentioned, Jean Valjean, who was probably afraid of being seen through the fence, hardly ever went there.
Jean Valjean's wound had created a diversion.
When Cosette saw that her father was suffering less, that he was convalescing, and that he appeared to be happy, she experienced a contentment which she did not even perceive, so gently and naturally had it come. Then, it was in the month of March, the days were growing longer, the winter was departing, the winter always bears away with it a portion of our sadness; then came April, that daybreak of summer, fresh as dawn always is, gay like every childhood; a little inclined to weep at times like the new-born being that it is. In that month, nature has charming gleams which pass from the sky, from the trees, from the meadows and the flowers into the heart of man.
Cosette was still too young to escape the penetrating influence of that April joy which bore so strong a resemblance to herself. Insensibly, and without her suspecting the fact, the blackness departed from her spirit. In spring, sad souls grow light, as light falls into cellars at midday. Cosette was no longer sad. However, though this was so, she did not account for it to herself. In the morning, about ten o'clock, after brea kfast, when she had succeeded in enticing her father into the garden for a quarter of an hour, and when she was pacing up and down in the sunlight in front of the steps, supporting his left arm for him, she did not perceive that she laughed every moment and that she was happy. 
Jean Valjean, intoxicated, beheld her growing fresh and rosy once more.
"Oh! What a good wound!" he repeated in a whisper.
And he felt grateful to the Thenardiers.
His wound once healed, he resumed his solitary twilight strolls.
It is a mistake to suppose that a person can stroll alone in that fashion in the uninhabited regions of Paris without meeting with some adventure.
他们的生活便这样一天一天地暗淡下去了。
他们只剩下一种消遣方法，也就是从前的那种快乐事儿：把面包送给挨饿的人，把衣服送给挨冻的人。珂赛特时常陪着冉阿让去访贫问苦，他们在这些行动中，还能找到一点从前遗留下来的共同语言，有时，当一天的活动进行顺利，帮助了不少穷人，使不少小孩得到温饱后又活跃起来，到了点灯时，珂赛特便显得欢快一些。正是在这些日子里，他们去访问了容德雷特的破屋。
就在那次访问的第二天早晨，冉阿让来到楼房里，和平时一样镇静，只是左臂上带着一条大伤口，相当红肿，相当恶毒，象是火烫的伤口，他随便解释了一下。这次的伤使他发了一个多月的高烧，不曾出门。他不愿请任何医生。当珂赛特坚持要请一个的时候，他便说：“找个给狗看病的医生吧。”
珂赛特替他包扎，她的神气无比庄严，并以能为他尽力而感到莫大的安慰，冉阿让也感到旧时的欢乐又回到他心头了，他的恐惧和忧虑烟消云散了，他常望着珂赛特说：“呵！多美好的创伤！呵！多美好的痛苦！”
珂赛特看见她父亲害病，便背叛了那座楼房，重新跟小屋子和后院亲热起来。她几乎整天整天地待在冉阿让身边，把他要看的书念给他听，主要是些游记。冉阿让再生了，他的幸福也以无可形容的光辉焕然再现了，卢森堡公园，那个不相识的浪荡少年，珂赛特的冷淡，他心灵上的一切乌云全已消逝。因而他常对自己说：“那一切全是我无中生有想出来的。我是一个老疯子。
他感到非常宽慰，好象德纳第的新发现棗在容德雷特破屋里的意外遭遇棗在他身上已经消失了，他已胜利脱身，线索已经中断，其余的事，都无关重要。当他想到那次遭遇时，他只觉得那一伙歹徒可怜。他想，他们已进监牢，今后不能再去害人，可是这穷愁绝望的一家人也未免太悲惨了。
至于上次在梅恩便门遇见的那种奇丑绝恶的景象，珂赛特没有再提起过。
在修院时，珂赛特曾向圣梅克蒂尔德嬷嬷学习音乐。珂赛特的歌喉就象一只通灵的黄莺，有时，天黑以后，她在老人养病的那间简陋的小屋里，唱一两首忧郁的歌曲，冉阿让听了，心里大为喜悦。
春天来了，每年这个季节，园子总是非常美丽的，冉阿让对珂赛特说：“你从不去园子里，我要你到那里去走走。”我听您的吩咐就是了，爹。”珂赛特这样说。
为了听她父亲的话，她又常到她的园里去散步了，多半是独自一个人去，因为，我们已指出过，冉阿让几乎从不去那园子，大概是怕别人从铁栏门口看见他。
冉阿让的创伤成了一种改变情况的力量。
珂赛特看见她父亲的痛苦减轻了，伤口慢慢好了，心境也好象宽了些，她便也有了安慰，但是她自己并没有感到，因为它是一点一点、自然而然来到的。随后，便是三月，日子渐渐长了，冬天已经过去，冬天总是要把我们的伤感带走一部分的，随后又到了四月，这是夏季的黎明，象晓色一样新鲜，象童年一样欢快，也象初生的婴儿一样，间或要哭哭啼啼。大自然在这一月里具有多种感人的光泽，从天上、云端、林木、原野、花枝各方面映入人心。
珂赛特还太年轻，不能不让那种和她本人相似的四月天的欢乐透进她的心。伤感已在不知不觉中从她心里无影无踪地消逝了。灵魂在春天是明朗的，正如地窨子在中午是明亮的一样。珂赛特甚至已不怎么忧郁了。总之，情况就是这样，她自己并没有感觉到。早晨，将近十点，早餐过后，当她扶着她父亲负伤的手臂，搀他到园里台阶前散散步，晒上一刻来钟的太阳时，她一点也不觉得她自己随时都在笑，并且是快快活活的。
冉阿让满腔欢慰，看到她又变得红润光艳了。
“呵！美好的创伤！”他低声反复这样说。
他并对德纳第怀着感激的心情。
伤口好了以后，他又恢复了夜间独自散步的习惯。
如果认为独自一人在巴黎的那些荒凉地段散步不会遇到什么意外，那将是错误的设想。
Part 4 Book 4 Chapter 2 Mother Plutarque finds no Difficulty in explaining a Phenomenon
One evening, little Gavroche had had nothing to eat; he remembered that he had not dined on the preceding day either; this was becoming tiresome. He resolved to make an effort to secure some supper. He strolled out beyond the Salpetriere into deserted regions; that is where windfalls are to be found; where there is no one, one always finds something. He reached a settlement which appeared to him to be the village of Austerlitz.
In one of his preceding lounges he had noticed there an old garden haunted by an old man and an old woman, and in that garden, a passable apple-tree. Beside the apple-tree stood a sort of fruit-house, which was not securely fastened, and where one might contrive to get an apple. One apple is a supper; one apple is life. That which was Adam's ruin might prove Gavroche's salvation. The garden abutted on a solitary, unpaved lane, bordered with brushwood while awaiting the arrival of houses; the garden was separated from it by a hedge.
Gavroche directed his steps towards this garden; he found the lane, he recognized the apple-tree, he verified the fruit-house, he examined the hedge; a hedge means merely one stride. The day was declining, there was not even a cat in the lane, the hour was propitious.Gavroche began the operation of scaling the hedge, then suddenly paused. Some one was talking in the garden. Gavroche peeped through one of the breaks in the hedge.
A couple of paces distant, at the foot of the hedge on the other side, exactly at the point where the gap which he was meditating would have been made, there was a sort of recumbent stone which formed a bench, and on this bench was seated the old man of the garden, while the old woman was standing in front of him. The old woman was grumbling. Gavroche, who was not very discreet, listened. 
"Monsieur Mabeuf!" said the old woman. 
"Mabeuf!" thought Gavroche, "that name is a perfect farce."
The old man who was thus addressed, did not stir. The old woman repeated:--
"Monsieur Mabeuf!"
The old man, without raising his eyes from the ground, made up his mind to answer:--
"What is it, Mother Plutarque?"
"Mother Plutarque!" thought Gavroche, "another farcical name."
Mother Plutarque began again, and the old man was forced to accept the conversation:--
"The landlord is not pleased."
"Why?"
"We owe three quarters rent."
"In three months, we shall owe him for four quarters."
"He says that he will turn you out to sleep."
"I will go."
"The green-grocer insists on being paid. She will no longer leave her fagots. What will you warm yourself with this winter? We shall have no wood."
"There is the sun."
"The butcher refuses to give credit; he will not let us have any more meat."
"That is quite right. I do not digest meat well. It is too heavy."
"What shall we have for dinner?"
"Bread."
"The baker demands a settlement, and says, no money, no bread.'"
"That is well."
"What will you eat?"
"We have apples in the apple-room."
"But, Monsieur, we can't live like that without money."
"I have none."
The old woman went away, the old man remained alone. He fell into thought. Gavroche became thoughtful also. It was almost dark.
The first result of Gavroche's meditation was, that instead of scaling the hedge, he crouched down under it. The branches stood apart a little at the foot of the thicket.
"Come," exclaimed Gavroche mentally, "here's a nook!" and he curled up in it. His back was almost in contact with Father Mabeuf's bench. He could hear the octogenarian breathe.
Then, by way of dinner, he tried to sleep.
It was a cat-nap, with one eye open. While he dozed, Gavroche kept on the watch.
The twilight pallor of the sky blanched the earth, and the lane formed a livid line between two rows of dark bushes.
All at once, in this whitish band, two figures made their appearance. One was in front, the other some distance in the rear.
"There come two creatures," muttered Gavroche.
The first form seemed to be some elderly bourgeois, who was bent and thoughtful, dressed more than plainly, and who was walking slowly because of his age, and strolling about in the open evening air. 
The second was straight, firm, slender. It regulated its pace by that of the first; but in the voluntary slowness of its gait, suppleness and agility were discernible. This figure had also something fierce and disquieting about it, the whole shape was that of what was then called an elegant; the hat was of good shape, the coat black, well cut, probably of fine cloth, and well fitted in at the waist. The head was held erect with a sort of robust grace, and beneath the hat the pale profile of a young man could be made out in the dim light. The profile had a rose in its mouth. This second form was well known to Gavroche; it was Montparnasse. 
He could have told nothing about the other, except that he was a respectable old man.
Gavroche immediately began to take observations.
One of these two pedestrians evidently had a project connected with the other. Gavroche was well placed to watch the course of events. The bedroom had turned into a hiding-place at a very opportune moment. 
Montparnasse on the hunt at such an hour, in such a place, betokened something threatening. Gavroche felt his gamin's heart moved with compassion for the old man.
What was he to do? Interfere? One weakness coming to the aid of another! It would be merely a laughing matter for Montparnasse. Gavroche did not shut his eyes to the fact that the old man, in the first place, and the child in the second, would make but two mouthfuls for that redoubtable ruffian eighteen years of age. 
While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack took place, abruptly and hideously. The attack of the tiger on the wild ass, the attack of the spider on the fly. Montparnasse suddenly tossed away his rose, bounded upon the old man, seized him by the collar, grasped and clung to him, and Gavroche with difficulty restrained a scream. A moment later one of these men was underneath the other, groaning, struggling, with a knee of marble upon his breast. Only, it was not just what Gavroche had expected. The one who lay on the earth was Montparnasse; the one who was on top was the old man. All this took place a few paces distant from Gavroche. 
The old man had received the shock, had returned it, and that in such a terrible fashion, that in a twinkling, the assailant and the assailed had exchanged roles. 
"Here's a hearty veteran!" thought Gavroche.
He could not refrain from clapping his hands. But it was applause wasted. It did not reach the combatants, absorbed and deafened as they were, each by the other, as their breath mingled in the struggle.
Silence ensued. Montparnasse ceased his struggles. Gavroche indulged in this aside: "Can he be dead!" 
The goodman had not uttered a word, nor given vent to a cry. He rose to his feet, and Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse:--
"Get up."
Montparnasse rose, but the goodman held him fast. Montparnasse's attitude was the humiliated and furious attitude of the wolf who has been caught by a sheep.
Gavroche looked on and listened, making an effort to reinforce his eyes with his ears. He was enjoying himself immensely.
He was repaid for his conscientious anxiety in the character of a spectator. He was able to catch on the wing a dialogue which borrowed from the darkness an indescribably tragic accent. The goodman questioned, Montparnasse replied.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"You are strong and healthy. Why do you not work?"
"It bores me."
"What is your trade?"
"An idler."
"Speak seriously. Can anything be done for you? What would you like to be?"
"A thief."
A pause ensued. The old man seemed absorbed in profound thought. He stood motionless, and did not relax his hold on Montparnasse. 
Every moment the vigorous and agile young ruffian indulged in the twitchings of a wild beast caught in a snare. He gave a jerk, tried a crook of the knee, twisted his limbs desperately, and made efforts to escape.
The old man did not appear to notice it, and held both his arms with one hand, with the sovereign indifference of absolute force. 
The old man's revery lasted for some time, then, looking steadily at Montparnasse, he addressed to him in a gentle voice, in the midst of the darkness where they stood, a solemn harangue, of which Gavroche did not lose a single syllable:--
"My child, you are entering, through indolence, on one of the most laborious of lives. Ah! You declare yourself to be an idler! Prepare to toil. There is a certain formidable machine, have you seen it? It is the rolling-mill.You must be on your guard against it,it is crafty and ferocious; if it catches hold of the skirt of your coat, you will be drawn in bodily. That machine is laziness. Stop while there is yet time, and save yourself! Otherwise, it is all over with you; in a short time you will be among the gearing. Once entangled, hope for nothing more. Toil, lazybones! There is no more repose for you! The iron hand of implacable toil has seized you. You do not wish to earn your living, to have a task, to fulfil a duty! It bores you to be like other men? Well! You will be different. Labor is the law; he who rejects it will find ennui his torment. You do not wish to be a workingman, you will be a slave. Toil lets go of you on one side only to grasp you again on the other. You do not desire to be its friend, you shall be its negro slave. Ah! You would have none of the honest weariness of men, you shall have the sweat of the damned. Where others sing, you will rattle in your throat. You will see afar off, from below, other men at work; it will seem to you that they are resting. The laborer, the harvester, the sailor, the blacksmith, will appear to you in glory like the blessed spirits in paradise. What radiance surrounds the forge! To guide the plough, to bind the sheaves, is joy. The bark at liberty in the wind, what delight! Do you, lazy idler, delve, drag on, roll, march! Drag your halter. You are a beast of burden in the team of hell! Ah! To do nothing is your object. Well, not a week, not a day, not an hour shall you have free from oppression. You will be able to lift nothing without anguish. Every minute that passes will make your muscles crack. What is a feather to others will be a rock to you. The simplest things will become steep acclivities. Life will become monstrous all about you. To go, to come, to breathe, will be just so many terrible labors. Your lungs will produce on you the effect of weighing a hundred pounds. Whether you shall walk here rather than there, will become a problem that must be solved. Any one who wants to go out simply gives his door a push, and there he is in the open air. If you wish to go out, you will be obliged to pierce your wall. What does every one who wants to step into the street do? He goes down stairs; you will tear up your sheets, little by little you will make of them a rope, then you will climb out of your window, and you will suspend yourself by that thread over an abyss, and it will be night, amid storm, rain, and the hurricane, and if the rope is too short, but one way of descending will remain to you, to fall. To drop hap-hazard into the gulf, from an unknown height, on what? On what is beneath, on the unknown. Or you will crawl up a chimney-flue, at the risk of burning; or you will creep through a sewer-pipe, at the risk of drowning; I do not speak of the holes that you will be obliged to mask, of the stones which you will have to take up and replace twenty times a day, of the plaster that you will have to hide in your straw pallet. A lock presents itself; the bourgeois has in his pocket a key made by a locksmith. If you wish to pass out, you will be condemned to execute a terrible work of art; you will take a large sou, you will cut it in two plates; with what tools? You will have to invent them. That is your business. Then you will hollow out the interior of these plates, taking great care of the outside, and you will make on the edges a thread, so that they can be adjusted one upon the other like a box and its cover. The top and bottom thus screwed together, nothing will be suspected. To the overseers it will be only a sou; to you it will be a box. What will you put in this box? A small bit of steel. A watch-spring, in which you will have cut teeth, and which will form a saw. With this saw, as long as a pin, and concealed in a sou, you will cut the bolt of the lock, you will sever bolts, the padlock of your chain, and the bar at your window, and the fetter on your leg. This masterpiece finished, this prodigy accomplished, all these miracles of art, address, skill, and patience executed, what will be your recompense if it becomes known that you are the author? The dungeon. There is your future. What precipices are idleness and pleasure! Do you know that to do nothing is a melancholy resolution? To live in idleness on the property of society! To be useless, that is to say, pernicious! This leads straight to the depth of wretchedness. Woe to the man who desires to be a parasite! He will become vermin! Ah! So it does not please you to work? Ah! You have but one thought, to drink well, to eat well, to sleep well. You will drink water, you will eat black bread, you will sleep on a plank with a fetter whose cold touch you will feel on your flesh all night long, riveted to your limbs. You will break those fetters, you will flee. That is well. You will crawl on your belly through the brushwood, and you will eat grass like the beasts of the forest. And you will be recaptured. And then you will pass years in a dungeon, riveted to a wall, groping for your jug that you may drink, gnawing at a horrible loaf of darkness which dogs would not touch, eating beans that the worms have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in a cellar. Ah! Have pity on yourself, you miserable young child, who were sucking at nurse less than twenty years ago, and who have, no doubt, a mother still alive! I conjure you, listen to me, I entreat you. You desire fine black cloth, varnished shoes, to have your hair curled and sweet-smelling oils on your locks, to please low women, to be handsome. You will be shaven clean, and you will wear a red blouse and wooden shoes. You want rings on your fingers, you will have an iron necklet on your neck. If you glance at a woman, you will receive a blow. And you will enter there at the age of twenty. And you will come out at fifty! You will enter young, rosy, fresh, with brilliant eyes, and all your white teeth, and your handsome, youthful hair; you will come out broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, with white locks! Ah! my poor child, you are on the wrong road; idleness is counselling you badly; the hardest of all work is thieving. Believe me, do not undertake that painful profession of an idle man. It is not comfortable to become a rascal. It is less disagreeable to be an honest man. Now go, and ponder on what I have said to you. By the way, what did you want of me? My purse? Here it is."
And the old man, releasing Montparnasse, put his purse in the latter's hand; Montparnasse weighed it for a moment, after which he allowed it to slide gently into the back pocket of his coat, with the same mechanical precaution as though he had stolen it.
All this having been said and done, the goodman turned his back and tranquilly resumed his stroll. 
"The blockhead!" muttered Montparnasse.
Who was this goodman? The reader has, no doubt, already divined.
Montparnasse watched him with amazement, as he disappeared in the dusk. This contemplation was fatal to him.
While the old man was walking away, Gavroche drew near.
Gavroche had assured himself, with a sidelong glance, that Father Mabeuf was still sitting on his bench, probably sound asleep. Then the gamin emerged from his thicket, and began to crawl after Montparnasse in the dark, as the latter stood there motionless. In this manner he came up to Montparnasse without being seen or heard, gently insinuated his hand into the back pocket of that frock-coat of fine black cloth, seized the purse, withdrew his hand, and having recourse once more to his crawling, he slipped away like an adder through the shadows. Montparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard, and who was engaged in thought for the first time in his life, perceived nothing. When Gavroche had once more attained the point where Father Mabeuf was, he flung the purse over the hedge, and fled as fast as his legs would carry him.
The purse fell on Father Mabeuf's foot. This commotion roused him. 
He bent over and picked up the purse.
He did not understand in the least, and opened it.
The purse had two compartments; in one of them there was some small change; in the other lay six napoleons. 
M. Mabeuf, in great alarm, referred the matter to his housekeeper. 
"That has fallen from heaven," said Mother Plutarque.
一天晚上，小伽弗洛什一点东西也没有吃，他想起前一晚也不曾有什么东西下肚，老这样下去可真受不了。他决计去找点东西来充饥。他走到妇女救济院那一面的荒凉地方去打主意，在那一带可能有点意外收获，在没有人的地方常能找到东西。他一直走到一个有些人家聚居的地方，说不定就是奥斯特里茨村。
前几次他来这地方游荡时，便注意到这儿有一个老园子，住着一个老头和一个老妇人，园里还有一棵勉强过得去的苹果树。苹果树的旁边，是一口关不严实的鲜果箱，也许能从里面摸到个把苹果。一个苹果，便是一顿夜餐，一个苹果，便能救人一命。害了亚当①的也许能救伽弗洛什。那园子紧挨着一条荒僻的土巷，两旁杂草丛生，还没有盖房子，园子和巷子中间隔着一道篱笆。
伽弗洛什向园子走去，他找到了那条巷子，也认出了那株苹果树，看到了那只鲜果箱，也研究了那道篱笆，篱笆是一抬腿便可以跨过去的。天黑下来了，巷子里连一只猫也没有，这时间正合适。伽弗洛什摆起架势准备跨篱笆，又忽然停了下来。园里有人说话。伽弗洛什凑近一个空隙往里望。
离他两步的地方，在篱笆那一面的底下，恰好在他原先考虑要跨越的那个缺口的地方，地上平躺着一块当坐凳用的条石，园里的那位老人正坐在条石上，他前面站着一个老妇人。老妇人正在絮叨不休。伽弗洛什不大知趣，偷听了他们的谈话。
“马白夫先生！”那老妇人说。
“马白夫！”伽弗洛什心里想，“这名字好古怪。”② 
①据《圣经》记载，亚当偷吃了乐园的苹果，受到上帝责罚。
②马白夫（Mabeuf）的发音有点象“我的牛”。
被称呼的老人一点也不动。老妇人又说：
“马白夫先生！”
老人，眼不离地，决定回话：
“什么事，普卢塔克妈妈？”
“普卢塔克妈妈！”伽弗洛什心里想，“又一个古怪名字。”① 
①普卢塔克（Plutarque，约46?25）古希腊作家，唯心主义哲学家。写有古希腊罗马杰出活动家比较传记。
普卢塔克妈妈往下谈，老人答话却极勉强。
“房主人不高兴了。”
“为什么？”
“我们的房租欠了三个季度了。”
“再过三个月，便欠四个季度了。”
“他说他要撵您走。”
“我走就是。”
“卖柴的大妈要我们付钱。她不肯再供应树枝了。今年冬天您用什么取暖呢？我们不会有柴烧了。”
“有太阳嘛。”
“卖肉的不肯赊账。他不再给肉了。”
“正好。我消化不了肉。太腻。”
“吃什么呢？”
“吃面包。”
“卖面包的要求清账，他也说了：‘没有钱，就没有面包。’”
“好吧。”
“您吃什么呢？”
“我们有这苹果树上的苹果。”
“可是，先生，我们这样没有钱总过不下去吧。”
“我没有钱。”
老妇人走了，老人独自待着。他开始思考。伽弗洛什也在思考。天几乎全黑了。
伽弗洛什思考的第一个结果，便是蹲在篱笆底下不动，不想翻过去了。靠近地面的树枝比较稀疏。
“嗨！”伽弗洛什心里想，“一间壁厢！”他便蹲在那里。他的背几乎靠着马白夫公公的石凳。他能听到那八旬老人的呼吸。
于是，代替晚餐，他只好睡大觉。
猫儿睡觉，闭一只眼。伽弗洛什一面打盹，一面张望。
天上苍白的微光把大地映成白色，那条巷子成了两行深黑的矮树中间的一条灰白道儿。
忽然，在这白茫茫的道上，出现两个人影。一个走在前，一个跟在后，相隔只几步。
“来了两个生灵。”伽弗洛什低声说。
第一个影子仿佛是个老头儿，低着头，在想什么，穿得极简单，由于年事已高，步伐缓慢，正趁着星光夜游似的。
第二个是挺身健步的瘦长个子。他正合着前面那个人的步伐慢慢前进，从他故意放慢脚步的体态中，可以看出他的轻捷矫健。这个人影带有某种凶险恼人的味道，整个形态使人想起当时的那种时髦少年，帽子的式样是好的，一身黑骑马服，裁剪入时，料子应当也是上等的，紧裹着腰身。头向上仰起，有一种刚健秀美的风度，映着微明的惨白光线，帽子下面露出一张美少年的侧影。侧影的嘴里含着一朵玫瑰，这是伽弗洛什熟悉的，他就是巴纳斯山。
关于另外那个人，他什么也不知道，只知道是个老头儿。
伽弗洛什立即进入观察。
这两个行人，显然其中一个对另一个有所企图。伽弗洛什所在的地方正便于观察。所谓壁厢恰好是个掩蔽体。
巴纳斯山在这种时刻，这种地方，出来打猎，那是极可怕的。伽弗洛什觉得他那野孩子的好心肠在为那老人叫苦。
怎么办？出去干涉吗？以弱小救老弱！那只能为巴纳斯山提供笑料，伽弗洛什明知道，对那个十八岁的凶残匪徒来说，先一老，后一小，他两口便能吞掉。
伽弗洛什正在踌躇，那边凶猛的突袭已经开始。老虎对野驴的袭击，蜘蛛对苍蝇的袭击。巴纳斯山突然一下丢了那朵玫瑰，扑向老人，抓住他的衣领，掐住他的咽喉，揪着不放，伽弗洛什好不容易没有喊出来。过了一会，那两人中的一个已被另一个压倒在下面，力竭声嘶，还在挣扎，一个铁膝头抵在胸口上。但是情况并不完全象伽弗洛什预料的那样。在底下的，是巴纳斯山，在上面的，是那老头。
这一切是在离伽弗洛什两步远的地方发生的。
老人受到冲击，便立刻狠狠还击，转眼之间，进攻者和被攻者便互换了地位。
“好一个猛老将！”伽弗洛什心里想。
他不禁拍起手来。不过这是一种没有效果的鼓掌。掌声达不到那两个搏斗的人那里，他们正在全力搏斗，气喘如牛，耳朵已完全不管事。
忽然一下，声息全无。巴纳斯山已停止斗争。伽弗洛什对自己说：“敢情他死了！”
老人没有说一句话，也没有喊一声。他站了起来，伽弗洛什听见他对巴纳斯山说：
“起来。”
巴纳斯山起来，那老人仍抓住他不放。巴纳斯山又羞又恼，模样象一头被绵羊咬住了的狼。
伽弗洛什睁着眼望，竖起耳听，竭力用耳朵来帮助眼睛。
他可真乐开了。
作为一个旁观者，他那从良心出发的焦虑得到了补偿。他听到了他们的对话，他们的话从黑暗中传来，具有一种说不出的悲剧味道。老人问，巴纳斯山答。
“你多大了？”
“十九岁。”
“你有气力，身体结实。为什么不工作呢？”
“不高兴。”
“你是干哪一行的？”
“闲游浪荡。”
“好好说话。我可以替你干点什么吗？你想做什么？”
“做强盗。”
对话停止了。老人好象在深思细想。他丝毫不动，也不放松巴纳斯山。
那年轻的匪徒，矫健敏捷，象一头被铁夹子夹住了的野兽，不时要乱蹦一阵。他突然挣一下，试一个钩腿，拼命扭动四肢，企图逃脱。老人好象没有感到这些似的，用一只手抓住他的两只手臂，镇定自若，岿然不动。
老人深思了一段时间，才定定地望着巴纳斯山，用温和的语调，在黑暗中向他作了一番语重心长的劝告，字字进入伽弗洛什的耳朵：
“我的孩子，你想啥也不干，便进入最辛苦的人生。啊！你说你闲游浪荡，还是准备劳动吧。你见过一种可怕的机器吗？那东西叫做碾片机。对它应当小心，那是个阴险凶恶的东西，假使它拖住了你衣服的一只角，你整个人便会被卷进去。这架机器，便象是游手好闲的习惯。不要去惹它，在你还没有被卷住的时候，赶快避开！要不，你便完了，不用多久，你便陷在那一套联动齿轮里。一旦被它卡住，你便啥也不用指望了。你将受一辈子苦。懒骨头！不会再有休息了。不容情的苦工的铁手已经抓住了你。自己挣饭吃吧，找工作做吧，尽你的义务吧，你不愿意！学别人那样，你不高兴！好吧！你便不会和大家一样。劳动是法则。谁把它当作麻烦的事来抗拒，谁就会在强制中劳动。你不愿意当工人，你就得当奴隶。劳动在这一方面放松你，只是为了在另一方面抓紧你，你不肯当它的朋友，便得当它的奴才。啊！你拒绝人们的诚实的疲劳，你便将到地狱里去流汗。在别人歌唱的地方，你将哀号痛哭。你将只能从远处，从下面望着别人劳动，你将感到他们是在休息。掘土的人、种庄稼的人、水手、铁匠，都将以天堂里的快乐人的形象出现在你眼前的光明里。铁砧里有多大的光芒！使犁、捆草是一种快乐。船在风里自由行驶，多么欢畅！你这个懒汉，去锄吧，拖吧，滚吧，走吧！挽你的重轭吧，你成了在地狱里拖车的载重牲口！啊！什么事都不干，这是你的目的。好吧！你便不会有一个星期，不会有一天、不会有一个钟点不吃苦受罪的。你搬任何东西都将腰酸背痛。每过一分钟都将使你感到筋骨开裂。对别人轻得象羽毛的东西，对你会重得象岩石。最简单的事物也会变得异常艰巨。生活将处处与你为敌。走一步路，吸一口气，同样成了非常吃力的苦活。你的肺将使你感到是个百斤重的负担。走这边还是走那边，也将成为一个待解决的难题。任何人要出去，他只要推一下门，门一开，他便到了外面。而你，你如果要出去，便非在你的墙上打洞不可。要上街，人家怎么办呢？人家走下楼梯便成了，人人都是这样；而你，你得撕裂你床上的褥单，一条一条地把它接成一根绳子，随后，你得从窗口爬出去，你得临空吊在这根绳子上，并且是在黑夜里，在起狂风、下大雨、飞砂走石的时候，并且，万一那根绳子太短，你便只有一个办法可以下去，掉下去。盲目地掉下去，掉在一个黑洞里，也不知道有多深，掉在什么东西上面呢？下面有什么便掉在什么上面，掉在自己不知道的东西上面。或者你从烟囱里爬出去，烧死了活该；或者你从排粪道里爬出去，淹死也活该。我还没有跟你说有多少洞得掩盖起来，多少石头每天得取下又放上二十次，多少灰渣得藏在他的草荐里。遇到一把锁，那个有钱的先生，在他的衣袋里，有锁匠替他做好的钥匙。而你呢，假使你要过去，你便非作一件杰出的惊人作品不可，你得拿一个大个的苏，把它剖成两片，用什么工具呢？你自己去想办法。那是你的事。随后，你把那两片的里面挖空，还得小心谨慎，不让它的外表受损伤，你再沿着周围的边，刻出一道螺旋纹，让那两个薄片，象一盖一底似的，能严密地合上。上下两片这样旋紧以后，别人便一点也猜不出了。对狱监们，因为你是受到监视的，这只是一个大个的苏；对你，却是个匣子。你在这匣子里放什么呢？一小片钢。一条表上的发条，你在发条上已凿出了许多齿，使它成为一把锯子。这条藏在苏里的锯子，只有别针一般长，你能用来锯断锁上的梢子，门闩上的横条，挂锁上的梁，你窗上的铁条，你脚上的铁镣。这个杰作告成了，这一神奇的工具做成了，这一系列巧妙、细致、精微、艰苦的奇迹全完成了，万一被人发觉是你干的，你会得到怎样的报酬呢？坐地牢。这便是你的前程。懒惰，贪图舒服，多么险恶的悬崖！什么事也不干，那是一种可悲的打算，你知道吗？无所事事地专靠社会的物质来生活！做一个无用的、就是说有害的人！那只能把我们一直带到绝路的尽头。当个寄生虫，结果必然是不幸。那种人只能变成蛆。啊！你不高兴工作！啊！你只有一个念头：喝得好好的，吃得好好的，睡得好好的。你将来只能喝水，吃黑面包，睡木板，还要在你的手脚上铆上铁件，教你整夜都感到皮肉是冷的！你将弄断那些铁件，逃跑。这很好。你将在草莽中爬着走，你将象树林中的野人一样吃草。结果你又被逮回来。到那时候，一连好几年，你将待在阴沟里，一条链子拴在墙上，摸着你的瓦罐去喝水，啃一块连狗也不要吃的怪可怕的黑面包，吃那种在你到嘴以前早已被虫蛀空了的蚕豆。你将成为地窖里的一只土鳖。啊！可怜你自己吧，倒霉的孩子，这样年轻，你断奶还不到二十年，也一定还有母亲！我诚恳地奉劝你，听我的话吧。你要穿优质的黑料子衣服、薄底漆皮鞋、烫头发、在蓬松的头发里擦上香油、讨女人的喜欢、显得漂亮。结果你将被推成光头，戴一顶红帽子，穿双木鞋。你要在指头上戴个戒指，将来你会在颈子上戴一面枷。并且，只要你望一眼女人，便给你一棒子。并且，你二十岁进去，五十岁出来！你进去时是小伙子，绯红的脸、鲜润的皮肤、亮晶晶的眼睛、满嘴雪白的牙齿、一头美丽的乌发，出来的时候呢，垮了，驼了，皱了，没牙了，怪难看的，头发也白了！啊！我可怜的孩子，你走错路了，懒鬼替你出了个坏主意，最艰苦的活计是抢人。相信我，不要干那种当懒汉的苦活计。做一个坏蛋，并不那么方便嘛。做一个诚实人，反而麻烦少些。现在你去吧，把我对你说的话，仔细想想。你刚才想要我的什么东西？我的钱包。在这儿。”
老人放了巴纳斯山，把他的钱包放在他手里，巴纳斯山拿来托在手上掂了一阵，随后，
j@!!!
l?瘃
, 
Part 4 Book 5 Chapter 1 Solitude and the Barracks Combined
Cosette's grief, which had been so poignant and lively four or five months previously, had, without her being conscious of the fact, entered upon its convalescence. Nature, spring, youth, love for her father, the gayety of the birds and flowers, caused something almost resembling forgetfulness to filter gradually, drop by drop, into that soul, which was so virgin and so young. Was the fire wholly extinct there? Or was it merely that layers of ashes had formed? The truth is, that she hardly felt the painful and burning spot any longer.
One day she suddenly thought of Marius: "Why!" said she, "I no longer think of him."
That same week, she noticed a very handsome officer of lancers,with a wasp-like waist, a delicious uniform, the cheeks of a young girl,a sword under his arm, waxed mustaches, and a glazed schapka,passing the gate. Moreover, he had light hair, prominent blue eyes,a round face, was vain, insolent and good-looking; quite the reverse of Marius. He had a cigar in his mouth. Cosette thought that this officer doubtless belonged to the regiment in barracks in the Rue de Babylone.
On the following day, she saw him pass again. She took note of the hour.
From that time forth, was it chance? she saw him pass nearly every day. 
The officer's comrades perceived that there was, in that "badly kept" garden, behind that malicious rococo fence, a very pretty creature, who was almost always there when the handsome lieutenant,--who is not unknown to the reader, and whose name was Theodule Gillenormand,-- passed by.
"See here!" they said to him,"there's a little creature there who is making eyes at you, look."
"Have I the time," replied the lancer, "to look at all the girls who look at me?"
This was at the precise moment when Marius was descending heavily towards agony, and was saying: "If I could but see her before I die!"-- Had his wish been realized, had he beheld Cosette at that moment gazing at the lancer, he would not have been able to utter a word, and he would have expired with grief.
Whose fault was it? No one's. 
Marius possessed one of those temperaments which bury themselves in sorrow and there abide; Cosette was one of those persons who plunge into sorrow and emerge from it again. 
Cosette was, moreover, passing through that dangerous period, the fatal phase of feminine revery abandoned to itself, in which the isolated heart of a young girl resembles the tendrils of the vine which cling, as chance directs, to the capital of a marble column or to the post of a wine-shop: A rapid and decisive moment, critical for every orphan, be she rich or poor, for wealth does not prevent a bad choice; misalliances are made in very high circles, real misalliance is that of souls; and as many an unknown young man, without name, without birth, without fortune, is a marble column which bears up a temple of grand sentiments and grand ideas, so such and such a man of the world satisfied and opulent, who has polished boots and varnished words, if looked at not outside, but inside, a thing which is reserved for his wife, is nothing more than a block obscurely haunted by violent, unclean, and vinous passions; the post of a drinking-shop. 
What did Cosette's soul contain? Passion calmed or lulled to sleep; something limpid, brilliant, troubled to a certain depth, and gloomy lower down. The image of the handsome officer was reflected in the surface. Did a souvenir linger in the depths?-- Quite at the bottom?--Possibly. Cosette did not know.
A singular incident supervened.
珂赛特的痛苦，在四五个月以前，还是那么强烈，那么敏锐，现在，连她自己也没有想到，居然平息下去了。大自然、春天、青春、对她父亲的爱、鸟雀的快乐、鲜花，已一点一点，一天一天，一滴一滴地把一种无以名之的类似遗忘的东西渗入了这个贞洁年轻的灵魂。这里的火已完全熄灭了吗？还是只盖上了一层灰呢？事实是她已几乎不再感到有剧痛的痛处了。
一天，她忽然想起了马吕斯。
“啊！”她说，“我已经不再想他了。”
正是在那一个星期里，她发现一个相当俊美的长矛兵军官打那园子的铁栏门前走过，那军官有着蜂腰、挺秀的军服、年轻姑娘的脸、手臂下一把指挥刀、上了蜡的菱角胡子、漆布军帽，外加上浅黄头发、不凹不凸的蓝眼睛、圆脸，他庸俗、傲慢而漂亮，完全是马吕斯的反面形象。嘴里衔一根雪茄。珂赛特在想：“这军官一定是驻扎在巴比伦街的那个部队里的。”
第二天，她又看见他走过。她留意了他走过的钟点。
从那时候起，难道是偶然吗？几乎每天她都看见他走过。
那军官的伙伴们也发现了在这座“不修边幅”的园子里，那道难看的老古董铁栏门的后面，有一个相当漂亮的货色，当那俊美的中尉走过时，几乎老待在那地方，这个中尉，对读者来说并不是陌生人，他叫忒阿杜勒·吉诺曼。
“喂！”他们对他说，“那里有个小娘们儿对你飞眼呢，留意留意吧。”
“我哪有时间，”那长矛兵回答说，“如果要留意所有对我留意的姑娘，那还了得？”
正在这时，马吕斯怀着沉痛的心情，向着死亡的边缘走下去，并且常说：“只要我能在死以前再和她见一次面就好了！”假使他的这个愿望果真实现了，他便会看见珂赛特这时正在瞄一个长矛兵，他会一句话也说不出来，饮恨而死。
这是谁的过错？谁也没有过错。
马吕斯的性格是陷进了苦恼便停留在苦恼里，而珂赛特是掉了进去便爬出来。
珂赛特并且正在经历那个危险时期，也就是女性没人指点、全凭自己面壁虚构的那个一失足成千古恨的阶段，在这种时候，孤独的年轻姑娘便好象葡萄藤上的卷须，不管遇到的是云石柱子上的柱头还是酒楼里的木头柱子，都会一样随缘攀附。这对于每一个无父无母的孤女，无论贫富，都是一个危机，一种稍纵即逝、并且起决定作用的时机，因为家财并不能防止错误的择配，错误的结合往往发生在极上层；真正的错误结合是灵魂上的错误结合，并且，多少无声无臭的年轻男子，没有声名，没有身世，没有财富，却是个云石柱子的柱头，能撑持一座伟大感情和伟大思想的庙宇。同样，一个上层社会的男人，万事如意，万贯家财，穿着擦得光亮的长靴，说着象上过漆的动人的语言，如果不从他的外表去看他，而是从他的内心，就是说，从他留给一个妇女的那部分东西去看他，便只是一个至愚极蠢、心里暗藏着多种卑污狂妄的强烈欲念的蠢物，一根酒楼里的木头柱子。
珂赛特的灵魂里有了些什么呢？平息了的或睡眠中的热烈感情，游移状态中的爱，某种清澈晶莹、到了某种深度便有些混浊，再深下去便有些灰暗的东西。那个俊美军官的形影是反映在表面的。在底层上有没有印象呢？在底层的极下面呢？
也许有。珂赛特不知道。
突然发生了一桩少见的意外事件。
Part 4 Book 5 Chapter 3 Enriched with Commentaries by Toussaint
In the garden, near the railing on the street, there was a stone bench, screened from the eyes of the curious by a plantation of yoke-elms, but which could, in case of necessity, be reached by an arm from the outside, past the trees and the gate.
One evening during that same month of April, Jean Valjean had gone out; Cosette had seated herself on this bench after sundown. The breeze was blowing briskly in the trees, Cosette was meditating; an objectless sadness was taking possession of her little by little, that invincible sadness evoked by the evening, and which arises, perhaps, who knows, from the mystery of the tomb which is ajar at that hour.
Perhaps Fantine was within that shadow. 
Cosette rose, slowly made the tour of the garden, walking on the grass drenched in dew, and saying to herself, through the species of melancholy somnambulism in which she was plunged: "Really, one needs wooden shoes for the garden at this hour. One takes cold." 
She returned to the bench.
As she was about to resume her seat there, she observed on the spot which she had quitted, a tolerably large stone which had, evidently, not been there a moment before.
Cosette gazed at the stone, asking herself what it meant. All at once the idea occurred to her that the stone had not reached the bench all by itself, that some one had placed it there, that an arm had been thrust through the railing, and this idea appeared to alarm her. This time, the fear was genuine; the stone was there. No doubt was possible; she did not touch it, fled without glancing behind her, took refuge in the house, and immediately closed with shutter, bolt, and bar the door-like window opening on the flight of steps. She inquired of Toussaint:--
"Has my father returned yet?"
"Not yet, Mademoiselle."
[We have already noted once for all the fact that Toussaint stuttered. May we be permitted to dispense with it for the future. The musical notation of an infirmity is repugnant to us.]
Jean Valjean, a thoughtful man, and given to nocturnal strolls, often returned quite late at night. 
"Toussaint," went on Cosette, "are you careful to thoroughly barricade the shutters opening on the garden, at least with bars, in the evening, and to put the little iron things in the little rings that close them?"
"Oh! be easy on that score, Miss."
Toussaint did not fail in her duty, and Cosette was well aware of the fact, but she could not refrain from adding:-- 
"It is so solitary here."
"So far as that is concerned," said Toussaint, "it is true. We might be assassinated before we had time to say ouf! And Monsieur does not sleep in the house, to boot. But fear nothing, Miss, I fasten the shutters up like prisons. Lone women! That is enough to make one shudder, I believe you! Just imagine, what if you were to see men enter your chamber at night and say: `Hold your tongue!' and begin to cut your throat. It's not the dying so much; you die, for one must die, and that's all right; it's the abomination of feeling those people touch you. And then, their knives; they can't be able to cut well with them! Ah, good gracious!"
"Be quiet," said Cosette. "Fasten everything thoroughly."
Cosette, terrified by the melodrama improvised by Toussaint, and possibly, also, by the recollection of the apparitions of the past week, which recurred to her memory, dared not even say to her: "Go and look at the stone which has been placed on the bench!" for fear of opening the garden gate and allowing "the men" to enter. She saw that all the doors and windows were carefully fastened, made Toussaint go all over the house from garret to cellar, locked herself up in her own chamber, bolted her door, looked under her couch, went to bed and slept badly. All night long she saw that big stone, as large as a mountain and full of caverns.
At sunrise,--the property of the rising sun is to make us laugh at all our terrors of the past night, and our laughter is in direct proportion to our terror which they have caused,--at sunrise Cosette, when she woke, viewed her fright as a nightmare, and said to herself: "What have I been thinking of? It is like the footsteps that I thought I heard a week or two ago in the garden at night! It is like the shadow of the chimney-pot! Am I becoming a coward?" The sun, which was glowing through the crevices in her shutters, and turning the damask curtains crimson, reassured her to such an extent that everything vanished from her thoughts, even the stone.
"There was no more a stone on the bench than there was a man in a round hat in the garden; I dreamed about the stone, as I did all the rest." 
She dressed herself, descended to the garden, ran to the bench, and broke out in a cold perspiration. The stone was there. 
But this lasted only for a moment. That which is terror by night is curiosity by day. 
"Bah!" said she, "come, let us see what it is." 
She lifted the stone, which was tolerably large. Beneath it was something which resembled a letter. It was a white envelope. Cosette seized it. There was no address on one side, no seal on the other. Yet the envelope, though unsealed, was not empty. Papers could be seen inside.
Cosette examined it. It was no longer alarm, it was no longer curiosity; it was a beginning of anxiety. 
Cosette drew from the envelope its contents, a little notebook of paper, each page of which was numbered and bore a few lines in a very fine and rather pretty handwriting, as Cosette thought. 
Cosette looked for a name; there was none. To whom was this addressed? To her, probably, since a hand had deposited the packet on her bench. From whom did it come? An irresistible fascination took possession of her; she tried to turn away her eyes from the leaflets which were trembling in her hand, she gazed at the sky, the street, the acacias all bathed in light, the pigeons fluttering over a neighboring roof, and then her glance suddenly fell upon the manuscript, and she said to herself that she must know what it contained. 
This is what she read.
在那园里，靠铁栏门临街的地方，有一条石凳，为了挡住人们好奇的视线，在石凳旁边，栽了一排千金榆，但是，严格地说，一个过路人如果把手臂从铁栏门和千金榆缝里伸过来，仍能伸到石凳上面。
仍是在那个四月里，一天，将近黄昏时，冉阿让上街去了，珂赛特坐在石凳上，当时太阳已经落山。树林里的风已经有些凉意，珂赛特正想着心事，一种莫来由的伤感情绪渐渐控制了她，苍茫中带来的这种无可克服的伤感，也许，是由在这一时刻的半开着的坟墓里的一种神秘力量引起的吧，谁知道？
芳汀也许就在迷蒙的暮色中。
珂赛特站起来，绕着园子，踏着沾满露水的青草，慢慢地走，象个梦游人，她凄声说道：“这种时刻在园里走，真非穿着木鞋不可。搞不好就要伤风。”
她回到了石凳前。
正待坐下去时，她发现在她原先离开的坐处，放了一块相当大的石头，这明明是先头没有的。
珂赛特望着石头，心里在问那是什么意思。她想这块石头决不会自己跑到坐位上来，一定是什么人放在那里的，一定有谁把手臂从铁栏门的缝里伸进来过。这个思想一出现，她便害怕起来了。这一次是真正害了怕。没有什么可怀疑的，石头在那里嘛，她没有碰它，连忙逃走，也不敢回头望一眼。躲进房子后她立即把临台阶的长窗门关上，推上板门、门杠和铁闩。她问杜桑说：
“我爹回来了没有？”
“还没有回来，姑娘。”
（我们已把杜桑口吃的情形写过了，提过一次，便不必再提。希望读者能允许我们不再突出这一点。我们厌恶那种把别人的缺陷一板一眼记录下来的乐谱。）
冉阿让是个喜欢思索和夜游的人，他常常要到夜深才回家。
“杜桑，”珂赛特又说，“您到夜里想必一定会把对花园的板门关好，门杠上好，把那些小铁件好好插在那些铁环里的吧？”
“呵！您请放心吧，姑娘。”
杜桑在这些方面从不大意，珂赛特也完全知道，但是她无法控制自己不加上这么一句：
“问题是这地方太偏僻了！”
“说到这点，”杜桑说，“真是不错。要是有人来杀害我们，我们连哼一声的时间也不会有。特别是，先生不睡在这大房子里。但是您不用害怕，姑娘。我天天晚上要把门窗关得和铁桶一样。孤零零的两个女人！真是，我一想到，寒毛便会竖起来！您想想吧。半夜里，看见许多男子汉走到你屋子里来，对你说：‘不许喊！’他们上来便割你的颈脖子。死，并没有什么了不起，要死就死吧，你也明明知道，不死没有旁的路，可怕的是那些人走上来碰你，那可不是滋味。并且，他们那些刀子，一定是割不大动的！天主啊！”
“不许说了，”珂赛特说，“把一切都好好关上。”
珂赛特被杜桑临时编出来的戏剧性台词吓得心惊肉跳，也许还回想到在那个星期里遇到的怪事，竟至不敢对她说：“您去看看什么人放在石凳上的石块嘛！”唯恐去园里的门开了，那些“男子汉”便会闯进来。她要杜桑把所有的门窗都一一留意关好，把整所房子，从顶楼到地窖，全部检视一番，回头把自己关在卧房里，推上铁闩，检查了床底下，提心吊胆地睡了。
一整夜，她都看见那块石头，大得象一座山，满是洞穴。
出太阳的时候棗初升太阳的特点便是叫我们嘲笑夜间的一切惊扰，嘲笑的程度又往往和我们有过的恐惧成正比棗，出太阳的时候，珂赛特，醒过来，便把自己的一场虚惊看作了一场恶梦，她对自己说：“我想到哪里去了？这和我上星期晚上自以为在园子里听到脚步声是同一回事！和烟囱的影子也是同一回事！我现在快要变成胆小鬼了吧？”太阳光从板窗缝里强烈地照射进来，把花缎窗帘照得发紫，使她完全恢复了自信心，清除了她思想中的一切，连那块石头也不见了。
“石凳上不会有石头，正如园里不会有戴圆帽的人，全是由于我做梦，才会有什么石头和其他的东西。”
她穿好衣服，下楼走到园里，跑向石凳，觉得自己出了身冷汗，石头仍在老地方。
但这不过是一刹那间的事。夜间的畏惧一到白天便成了好奇心。
“有什么关系！”她说，“让我来看看。”
她搬开那块相当大的石头，下面出现一件东西，仿佛是一封信。
那是一个白信封。珂赛特拿起来看。看这一面，没有姓名地址，那一面也没有火漆印。信封虽然敞着口，却不是空的。里面露出几张纸。
珂赛特伸手到里面去摸。这已不是恐惧，也不是好奇心，而是疑惑的开始。
珂赛特把信封里的东西抽出来看。那是一小叠纸，每一张都编了号，并写了几行字，笔迹很秀丽，珂赛特心里想，并且字迹纤细。
珂赛特找一个名字，没有，找一个签字，也没有。这是寄给谁的呢？也许是给她的，因为它是放在她坐过的条凳上的。是谁送来的呢？一种无可抗拒的诱感力把她控制住了。她想把她的眼睛从那几张在她手里发抖的纸上移开。她望望天，望望街上，望望那些沐浴在阳光中的刺槐，在邻居屋顶上飞翔的鸽子，随后她的视线迅捷地朝下看那手稿，并对自己说，她应当知道那里写的究竟是什么。
她念的是：
Part 4 Book 5 Chapter 4 A Heart beneath a Stone
The reduction of the universe to a single being, the expansion of a single being even to God, that is love. 
Love is the salutation of the angels to the stars.
How sad is the soul, when it is sad through love!
What a void in the absence of the being who, by herself alone fills the world! Oh! how true it is that the beloved being becomes God. One could comprehend that God might be jealous of this had not God the Father of all evidently made creation for the soul, and the soul for love.
The glimpse of a smile beneath a white crape bonnet with a lilac curtain is sufficient to cause the soul to enter into the palace of dreams.
God is behind everything, but everything hides God. Things are black, creatures are opaque. To love a being is to render that being transparent.
Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the attitude of the body may be, the soul is on its knees. 
Parted lovers beguile absence by a thousand chimerical devices, which possess, however, a reality of their own. They are prevented from seeing each other, they cannot write to each other; they discover a multitude of mysterious means to correspond. They send each other the song of the birds, the perfume of the flowers, the smiles of children, the light of the sun, the sighings of the breeze, the rays of stars, all creation. And why not? All the works of God are made to serve love. Love is sufficiently potent to charge all nature with its messages.
Oh Spring! Thou art a letter that I write to her.
The future belongs to hearts even more than it does to minds. Love, that is the only thing that can occupy and fill eternity. In the infinite, the inexhaustible is requisite.
Love participates of the soul itself. It is of the same nature. Like it, it is the divine spark; like it, it is incorruptible, indivisible, imperishable. It is a point of fire that exists within us, which is immortal and infinite, which nothing can confine, and which nothing can extinguish. We feel it burning even to the very marrow of our bones, and we see it beaming in the very depths of heaven.
Oh Love! Adorations! Voluptuousness of two minds which understand each other, of two hearts which exchange with each other, of two glances which penetrate each other! You will come to me, will you not, bliss! Strolls by twos in the solitudes! Blessed and radiant days! I have sometimes dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves from the lives of the angels and came here below to traverse the destinies of men. 
God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love, except to give them endless duration. After a life of love, an eternity of love is, in fact, an augmentation; but to increase in intensity even the ineffable felicity which love bestows on the soul even in this world, is impossible, even to God. God is the plenitude of heaven; love is the plenitude of man.
You look at a star for two reasons, because it is luminous, and because it is impenetrable. You have beside you a sweeter radiance and a greater mystery, woman.
All of us, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings. We lack air and we stifle. Then we die. To die for lack of love is horrible. Suffocation of the soul.
When love has fused and mingled two beings in a sacred and angelic unity, the secret of life has been discovered so far as they are concerned; they are no longer anything more than the two boundaries of the same destiny; they are no longer anything but the two wings of the same spirit. Love, soar. 
On the day when a woman as she passes before you emits light as she walks, you are lost, you love. But one thing remains for you to do: to think of her so intently that she is constrained to think of you. 
What love commences can be finished by God alone.
True love is in despair and is enchanted over a glove lost or a handkerchief found, and eternity is required for its devotion and its hopes. It is composed both of the infinitely great and the infinitely little.
If you are a stone, be adamant; if you are a plant, be the sensitive plant; if you are a man, be love. 
Nothing suffices for love. We have happiness, we desire paradise; we possess paradise, we desire heaven. 
Oh ye who love each other, all this is contained in love. Understand how to find it there. Love has contemplation as well as heaven, and more than heaven, it has voluptuousness. 
"Does she still come to the Luxembourg?" "No, sir." "This is the church where she attends mass, is it not?" "She no longer comes here." "Does she still live in this house?" "She has moved away." "Where has she gone to dwell?"
"She did not say."
What a melancholy thing not to know the address of one's soul!
Love has its childishness, other passions have their pettinesses. Shame on the passions which belittle man! Honor to the one which makes a child of him!
There is one strange thing, do you know it? I dwell in the night. There is a being who carried off my sky when she went away.
Oh! Would that we were lying side by side in the same grave, hand in hand, and from time to time, in the darkness, gently caressing a finger,--that would suffice for my eternity!
Ye who suffer because ye love, love yet more. To die of love, is to live in it.
Love. A sombre and starry transfiguration is mingled with this torture. There is ecstasy in agony. 
Oh joy of the birds! It is because they have nests that they sing.
Love is a celestial respiration of the air of paradise.
Deep hearts, sage minds, take life as God has made it; it is a long trial, an incomprehensible preparation for an unknown destiny. This destiny, the true one, begins for a man with the first step inside the tomb. Then something appears to him, and he begins to distinguish the definitive. The definitive, meditate upon that word. The living perceive the infinite; the definitive permits itself to be seen only by the dead. In the meanwhile, love and suffer, hope and contemplate. Woe, alas! to him who shall have loved only bodies, forms, appearances! Death will deprive him of all. Try to love souls, you will find them again.
I encountered in the street, a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat was worn, his elbows were in holes; water trickled through his shoes, and the stars through his soul. 
What a grand thing it is to be loved! What a far grander thing it is to love! The heart becomes heroic, by dint of passion. It is no longer composed of anything but what is pure; it no longer rests on anything that is not elevated and great. An unworthy thought can no more germinate in it, than a nettle on a glacier. The serene and lofty soul, inaccessible to vulgar passions and emotions, dominating the clouds and the shades of this world, its follies, its lies, its hatreds, its vanities, its miseries, inhabits the blue of heaven, and no longer feels anything but profound and subterranean shocks of destiny, as the crests of mountains feel the shocks of earthquake. 
If there did not exist some one who loved, the sun would become extinct.
把宇宙缩减到唯一的一个人，把唯一的一个人扩张到上帝，这才是爱。
爱，便是众天使向群星的膜拜。
灵魂是何等悲伤，当它为爱而悲伤！
不见那唯一充塞天地的人，这是何等的空虚！呵！情人成上帝，这是多么真实。人们不难理解，如果万物之父不是明明为了灵魂而创造宇宙，不是为了爱而创造灵魂，上帝也会伤心的。
能从远处望见一顶紫飘带白绉纱帽下的盈盈一笑。已够使灵魂进入美梦之宫了。
上帝在一切的后面，但是一切遮住了上帝。东西是黑的，人是不透明的。爱一个人，便是要使他透明。
某些思想是祈祷。有时候，无论身体的姿势如何，灵魂却总是双膝跪下的。
相爱而不能相见的人有千百种虚幻而真实的东西用来骗走离愁别恨。别人不让他们见面，他们不能互通音讯，他们却能找到无数神秘的通信方法。他们互送飞鸟的啼唱、花朵的香味、孩子们的笑声、太阳的光辉、风的叹息、星的闪光、整个宇宙。这有什么办不到呢？上帝的整个事业是为爱服务的。爱有足够的力量可以命令大自然为它传递书信。
呵春天，你便是我写给她的一封信。
未来仍是属于心灵的多，属于精神的少。爱，是唯一能占领和充满永恒的东西。对于无极，必须不竭。
爱是灵魂的组成部分。爱和灵魂是同一本质的。和灵魂一样，爱也是神的火星；和灵魂一样，爱也是不可腐蚀的，不可分割的，不会涸竭的。爱是人们心里的一个火源，它是无尽期、无止境的，任何东西所不能局限，任何东西所不能熄灭的。人们感到它一直燃烧到骨髓，一直照耀到天际。
呵爱！崇拜！两心相知、两情相投、两目相注的陶醉！你会到我这里来的，不是吗，幸福！在寥寂中并肩散步！美满、光辉的日子！我有时梦见时间离开了天使的生命，来到下界伴随人的命运。
上帝不能增加相爱的人们的幸福，除非给予他们无止境的岁月。在爱的一生之后，有爱的永生，那确是一种增益；但是，如果要从此生开始，便增加爱给予灵魂的那种无可言喻的极乐的强度，那是无法做到的，甚至上帝也做不到。上帝是天上的饱和，爱是人间的饱和。
你望一颗星，有两个动机，因为它是发光的，又因为它是望不透的。你在你的身边有一种更柔美的光辉和一种更大的神秘，女人。
无论我们是谁，全有供我们呼吸的物质。如果我们缺少它们，我们便缺少空气，不能呼吸。我们便会死去。因缺爱而死，那是不堪设想的。灵魂的窒息症！
当爱把两人溶化并渗合在一个极乐和神圣的一体中时，他们才算是找到了人生的秘密，他们便成了同一个命运的两极，同一个神灵的两翼。爱吧，飞翔吧！
一个女人来到你的跟前，一面走，一面放光，从那时起，你便完了，你便爱了。你只有一条路可走，集中全部力量去想她，以迫使她也来想你。
爱所开始的只能由上帝来完成。
真正的爱可以为了一只失去的手套或一条找到的手帕而懊恼，而陶醉，并且需要永恒来寄托它的忠诚和希望。它是同时由无限大和无限小所构成的。
如果你是石头，便应当做磁石；如果你是植物，便应当做含羞草；如果你是人，便应当做意中人。
爱是不知足的。有了幸福，还想乐园，有了乐园，还想天堂。
爱中的你呵，那一切已全在爱中了。靠你自己去找来。天上所有的，爱中全有，仰慕；爱中所有的，天上不一定有，欢情。
“她还会来卢森堡公园吗？”“不会再来了，先生。”“她到这个礼拜堂里来做弥撒，不是吗？”她现在不来这儿了。”“她仍住在这房子里吗？”她已经搬走了。”“她搬到什么地方去了呢？”
“她没有说。”
多么凄惨，竟不知道自己的灵魂在何方。
爱有稚气，其他感情有小气。使人变渺小的感情可耻。使人变孩子的感情可贵！
这是一件怪事，你知道吗？我在黑暗中。有个人临走时把天带走了。
呵！手牵着手，肩并着肩，同睡在一个墓穴里，不时在黑暗中相互轻轻抚摸我们的一个手指尖，这已能满足我的永恒的生命了。
因爱而受苦的你，爱得更多一点吧。为爱而死，便是为爱而生。
爱吧。在这苦刑中，有星光惨淡的乐境。极苦中有极乐。
呵鸟雀的欢乐！那是因为它们有巢可栖，有歌可唱。
爱是汲取天堂空气的至上之乐。
深邃的心灵们，明智的精灵们，按照上帝的安排来接受生命吧。这是一种长久的考验，一种为未知的命运所作的不可理解的准备工作。这个命运，真正的命运，对人来说，是从他第一步踏出墓穴时开始的。到这时，便会有一种东西出现在他眼前，他也开始能辨认永定的命运。永定，请你仔细想想这个词儿。活着的人只能望见无极，而永定只让死了的人望见它。在死以前，为爱而忍痛，为希望而景仰吧。不幸的是那些只爱躯壳、形体、表相的人，唉！这一切都将由一死而全部化为乌有。
应当知道爱灵魂，你日后还能找到它。
我在街头遇见过一个为爱所苦的极穷的青年。他的帽子是破旧的，衣服是磨损的，他的袖子有洞，水浸透他的鞋底，星光照彻他的灵魂。
何等大事，被爱！何等更为重大的事，爱！心因激情而英雄化了。除了纯洁的东西以外，心里什么也没有了，除了高贵和伟大的东西以外，它什么也不依附了。邪恶的思想已不能再在这心里滋长，正如荨麻不能生在冰山上。欲念和庸俗的冲动所不能攀缘的崇高宁静的灵魂高踞青天，镇压着人世间的乌云和黑影，疯狂，虚伪，仇恨，虚荣，卑贱，并且只感别来自命运底下的深沉的震撼，有如山峰感知地震。
人间如果没有爱，太阳也会灭。
Part 4 Book 5 Chapter 5 Cosette after the Letter
As Cosette read, she gradually fell into thought. At the very moment when she raised her eyes from the last line of the note-book, the handsome officer passed triumphantly in front of the gate,-- it was his hour; Cosette thought him hideous.
She resumed her contemplation of the book. It was written in the most charming of chirography, thought Cosette; in the same hand, but with divers inks, sometimes very black, again whitish, as when ink has been added to the inkstand, and consequently on different days. It was, then, a mind which had unfolded itself there, sigh by sigh, irregularly, without order, without choice, without object, hap-hazard. Cosette had never read anything like it. This manuscript, in which she already perceived more light than obscurity, produced upon her the effect of a half-open sanctuary. Each one of these mysterious lines shone before her eyes and inundated her heart with a strange radiance. The education which she had received had always talked to her of the soul, and never of love, very much as one might talk of the firebrand and not of the flame. This manuscript of fifteen pages suddenly and sweetly revealed to her all of love, sorrow, destiny, life, eternity, the beginning, the end. It was as if a hand had opened and suddenly flung upon her a handful of rays of light. In these few lines she felt a passionate, ardent, generous, honest nature, a sacred will, an immense sorrow, and an immense despair, a suffering heart, an ecstasy fully expanded. What was this manuscript? A letter. A letter without name, without address, without date, without signature, pressing and disinterested, an enigma composed of truths, a message of love made to be brought by an angel and read by a virgin, an appointment made beyond the bounds of earth, the love-letter of a phantom to a shade. It was an absent one, tranquil and dejected, who seemed ready to take refuge in death and who sent to the absent love, his lady, the secret of fate, the key of life, love. This had been written with one foot in the grave and one finger in heaven. These lines, which had fallen one by one on the paper, were what might be called drops of soul. 
Now, from whom could these pages come? Who could have penned them?
Cosette did not hesitate a moment. One man only.
He!
Day had dawned once more in her spirit; all had reappeared. She felt an unheard-of joy, and a profound anguish. It was he! He who had written! He was there! It was he whose arm had been thrust through that railing! While she was forgetful of him, he had found her again! But had she forgotten him? No, never! She was foolish to have thought so for a single moment. She had always loved him, always adored him. The fire had been smothered, and had smouldered for a time, but she saw all plainly now; it had but made headway, and now it had burst forth afresh, and had inflamed her whole being. This note-book was like a spark which had fallen from that other soul into hers. She felt the conflagration starting up once more.
She imbued herself thoroughly with every word of the manuscript: "Oh yes!" said she, "how perfectly I recognize all that! That is what I had already read in his eyes." As she was finishing it for the third time, Lieutenant Theodule passed the gate once more, and rattled his spurs upon the pavement. Cosette was forced to raise her eyes. She thought him insipid, silly, stupid, useless, foppish, displeasing, impertinent, and extremely ugly. The officer thought it his duty to smile at her.
She turned away as in shame and indignation. She would gladly have thrown something at his head.
She fled, re-entered the house, and shut herself up in her chamber to peruse the manuscript once more, to learn it by heart, and to dream. When she had thoroughly mastered it she kissed it and put it in her bosom.
All was over, Cosette had fallen back into deep, seraphic love. The abyss of Eden had yawned once more.
All day long, Cosette remained in a sort of bewilderment. She scarcely thought, her ideas were in the state of a tangled skein in her brain, she could not manage to conjecture anything, she hoped through a tremor, what? vague things. She dared make herself no promises, and she did not wish to refuse herself anything. Flashes of pallor passed over her countenance, and shivers ran through her frame. It seemed to her, at intervals, that she was entering the land of chimaeras; she said to herself: "Is this reality?" Then she felt of the dear paper within her bosom under her gown, she pressed it to her heart, she felt its angles against her flesh; and if Jean Valjean had seen her at the moment, he would have shuddered in the presence of that luminous and unknown joy, which overflowed from beneath her eyelids.--"Oh yes!" she thought, "it is certainly he! This comes from him, and is for me!"
And she told herself that an intervention of the angels, a celestial chance, had given him back to her. 
Oh transfiguration of love! Oh dreams! That celestial chance, that intervention of the angels, was a pellet of bread tossed by one thief to another thief, from the Charlemagne Courtyard to the Lion's Ditch, over the roofs of La Force.
珂赛特在读信时，渐渐进入梦想。她看到那一叠纸的最后一行，抬起眼睛，恰巧望见那个俊美的军官高仰着脸儿准时打那铁栏门前走过。珂赛特觉得他丑恶不堪。
她再回头去细细玩味那叠纸。纸上的字迹非常秀丽，珂赛特这样想，字是一个人写的，但是墨迹不一样，有时浓黑，有时很淡，好象墨水瓶里新加了水，足见是在不同的日子里写的。因此，那是一种有感而作的偶记，不规则，无次序，无选择，无目的，信手拈来的。珂赛特从来没有见过这类东西。这随笔里所谈的，她大都能领会，仿佛见了一扇半开着的宝库门。那些奥妙语言的每一句都使她感到耀眼，使她的心沐浴在一种奇特的光里。她从前受过的教育经常向她谈到灵魂，却从来没有提到过爱，几乎象只谈炽炭而不谈火光。这十五张纸上的随笔一下子便把全部的爱、痛苦、命运、生命、永恒、开始、终止都一一温婉地向她揭示开了。好象是一只张开的手突然向她抛出了一把光明。她感到在那寥寥几行字里有一种激动、热烈、高尚、诚挚的性格，一种崇高的志愿，特大的痛苦和特大的希望，一颗抑郁的心，一种坦率的倾慕。这随笔是什么呢？一封信。一封没有收信人姓名，没有寄信人姓名，没有日期，没有签字，情词迫切而毫无所求的信，一封天使致贞女的书柬，世外的幽期密约，孤魂给鬼影的情书。是仿佛准备安安静静到死亡中去栖身的一个悲观绝望的陌生男子，把命运的秘密、生命的钥匙、爱，寄给了一个陌生的女子。那是脚踏在坟墓里，手指伸在天空中写的。那些字，一个个落在纸上，可以称之为一滴滴的灵魂。
现在，这几张东西是谁送来给她的呢？是谁写的呢？珂赛特一点没有产生疑问。一定是那个唯一的人。他！
她心里又亮了。她感到一种从未有过的快乐和一种深切的酸楚。是他！是他写给她的！是他到此地来过了！是他从铁栏门外把手臂伸进来过了！当她把他忘了的时候，他又把她找着了！不过，她真把他忘了吗？没有！从来没有！她在神志不清的时候曾偶然那么想过一下。她始终是爱他的，始终是崇拜他的。她心中的火曾隐在它自己的灰底下燃烧了一段时间。但是她看得很清楚，它只是燃烧得更深入一些，现在重又冒出来了，把她整个人裹在火焰里了。那一叠纸如同从另外一个灵魂里爆出来落在她的火里的一块炽炭的碎片，她感到一场大火又开始了。她深入领会了那随笔里的每一个字：“是呵！”她说，“我深深体会到这一切！这完全是我从前从他眼睛里看到过的那种心情。”
当她第三遍读完那手迹时，忒阿杜勒中尉又打那铁栏门前走回来，一路踏着街心的石块路面，把他靴上的刺马距震得一片响，使珂赛特不得不抬起眼睛来望了一下。她觉得他庸俗、笨拙、愚蠢、无用、浮夸、讨厌、无礼并且还非常丑。那军官认为应当向她露个笑脸。她连忙把头转过去，感到丢人，并且生了气，差一点没有抓个什么东西甩在他的头上。
她逃了进去，回到房子里，把自己关在卧室里反复阅读那几篇随笔，把它背下来，并细细思索，读够以后，吻了它一下，才把它塞在自己的衬衣里。
完了。珂赛特又深深地陷在仙境似的爱慕中了。神仙洞府里的深渊又开放了。
一整天，珂赛特都处在如醉如痴的状态中。她几乎不想什么，脑子里的思路成了一团乱麻。任何问题都无法分析，只能悠悠忽忽地一心期待。她不敢要自己同意什么，也不愿要自己拒绝什么。面容憔悴，身体战惊。有时，她仿佛觉得自己进入幻境；她问自己：“这是真实的吗？”这时，她便捏捏自己衣服里的那一叠心爱的纸，把它压在胸口，感到纸角刺着自己的皮肉，如果冉阿让这时候见了她，一定会在她眼里溢出的那种空前光艳的喜色面前打哆嗦。“是呀！”她想道。“一定是他！是他送来给我的！”
她并且认为是天使关怀，上苍垂念，又把他交还给她了。呵，爱的美化！呵，幻想！所谓上苍垂念，所谓天使关怀，只不过是一个匪徒从查理大帝院经过拉弗尔斯监狱的房顶抛向狮子沟里另一匪徒的一个面包团罢了。
Part 4 Book 5 Chapter 6 Old People are made to go out opportunely
When evening came, Jean Valjean went out; Cosette dressed herself. She arranged her hair in the most becoming manner, and she put on a dress whose bodice had received one snip of the scissors too much, and which, through this slope, permitted a view of the beginning of her throat, and was, as young girls say, "a trifle indecent." It was not in the least indecent, but it was prettier than usual. She made her toilet thus without knowing why she did so.
Did she mean to go out? No.
Was she expecting a visitor? No.
At dusk, she went down to the garden. Toussaint was busy in her kitchen, which opened on the back yard. 
She began to stroll about under the trees, thrusting aside the branches from time to time with her hand, because there were some which hung very low.
In this manner she reached the bench.
The stone was still there.
She sat down, and gently laid her white hand on this stone as though she wished to caress and thank it. 
All at once, she experienced that indefinable impression which one undergoes when there is some one standing behind one, even when she does not see the person.
She turned her head and rose to her feet.
It was he.
His head was bare. He appeared to have grown thin and pale. His black clothes were hardly discernible. The twilight threw a wan light on his fine brow, and covered his eyes in shadows. Beneath a veil of incomparable sweetness, he had something about him that suggested death and night. His face was illuminated by the light of the dying day, and by the thought of a soul that is taking flight.
He seemed to be not yet a ghost, and he was no longer a man.
He had flung away his hat in the thicket, a few paces distant.
Cosette, though ready to swoon, uttered no cry. She retreated slowly, for she felt herself attracted. He did not stir. By virtue of something ineffable and melancholy which enveloped him, she felt the look in his eyes which she could not see. 
Cosette, in her retreat, encountered a tree and leaned against it. Had it not been for this tree, she would have fallen.
Then she heard his voice, that voice which she had really never heard, barely rising above the rustle of the leaves, and murmuring:-- 
"Pardon me, here I am. My heart is full. I could not live on as I was living, and I have come. Have you read what I placed there on the bench? Do you recognize me at all? Have no fear of me. It is a long time, you remember the day, since you looked at me at the Luxembourg, near the Gladiator. And the day when you passed before me? It was on the 16th of June and the 2d of July. It is nearly a year ago. I have not seen you for a long time. I inquired of the woman who let the chairs, and she told me that she no longer saw you. You lived in the Rue de l'Ouest, on the third floor, in the front apartments of a new house,--you see that I know! I followed you. What else was there for me to do? And then you disappeared. I thought I saw you pass once, while I was reading the newspapers under the arcade of the Odeon. I ran after you. But no. It was a person who had a bonnet like yours. At night I came hither. Do not be afraid, no one sees me. I come to gaze upon your windows near at hand. I walk very softly, so that you may not hear, for you might be alarmed. The other evening I was behind you, you turned round, I fled. Once, I heard you singing. I was happy. Did it affect you because I heard you singing through the shutters? That could not hurt you. No, it is not so? You see, you are my angel! Let me come sometimes; I think that I am going to die. If you only knew! I adore you. Forgive me, I speak to you, but I do not know what I am saying; I may have displeased you; have I displeased you?"
"Oh! my mother!" said she.
And she sank down as though on the point of death.
He grasped her, she fell, he took her in his arms, he pressed her close, without knowing what he was doing. He supported her, though he was tottering himself. It was as though his brain were full of smoke; lightnings darted between his lips; his ideas vanished; it seemed to him that he was accomplishing some religious act, and that he was committing a profanation. Moreover, he had not the least passion for this lovely woman whose force he felt against his breast. He was beside himself with love.
She took his hand and laid it on her heart. He felt the paper there, he stammered:--
"You love me, then?"
She replied in a voice so low that it was no longer anything more than a barely audible breath:-- 
"Hush! Thou knowest it!"
And she hid her blushing face on the breast of the superb and intoxicated young man.
He fell upon the bench, and she beside him. They had no words more. The stars were beginning to gleam. How did it come to pass that their lips met? How comes it to pass that the birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that May expands, that the dawn grows white behind the black trees on the shivering crest of the hills?
A kiss, and that was all.
Both started, and gazed into the darkness with sparkling eyes.
They felt neither the cool night, nor the cold stone, nor the damp earth, nor the wet grass; they looked at each other, and their hearts were full of thoughts. They had clasped hands unconsciously. 
She did not ask him, she did not even wonder, how he had entered there, and how he had made his way into the garden. It seemed so simple to her that he should be there!
From time to time, Marius' knee touched Cosette's knee, and both shivered.
At intervals, Cosette stammered a word. Her soul fluttered on her lips like a drop of dew on a flower.
Little by little they began to talk to each other. Effusion followed silence, which is fulness. The night was serene and splendid overhead. These two beings, pure as spirits, told each other everything, their dreams, their intoxications, their ecstasies, their chimaeras, their weaknesses, how they had adored each other from afar, how they had longed for each other, their despair when they had ceased to see each other. They confided to each other in an ideal intimacy, which nothing could augment, their most secret and most mysterious thoughts. They related to each other, with candid faith in their illusions, all that love, youth, and the remains of childhood which still lingered about them, suggested to their minds. Their two hearts poured themselves out into each other in such wise, that at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it was the young man who had the young girl's soul, and the young girl who had the young man's soul. Each became permeated with the other, they were enchanted with each other, they dazzled each other. 
When they had finished, when they had told each other everything, she laid her head on his shoulder and asked him:-- 
"What is your name?"
"My name is Marius," said he. "And yours?"
"My name is Cosette."
黄昏时，冉阿让出去了，珂赛特动手梳妆。她把头发理成最适合自己的式样，穿一件裙袍，上衣的领口，因为多剪了一刀，把颈窝露出来了，按照姑娘们的说法，那样的领口是“有点不正派”的。其实一点也没有什么不正派，只不过比不那样的更漂亮些罢了。她这样装饰，自己也不知道为什么。
她想出去吗？不。
她等待客人来访问吗？也不。
天黑了，她从楼上下来，到了园里。杜桑正在厨房里忙着，厨房是对着后院的。
她在树枝下面走，有时得用手去分开树枝，因为有些枝子很低。
她这样走到了条凳跟前。
那块石头仍在原处。
她坐下来，伸出一只白嫩的手，放在那石头上，仿佛要抚摸它、感激它似的。
她忽然有一种说不出的感觉：在自己背后立着一个人，即使不看，也能感到。
她转过头去，并且立了起来。
果然是他。
他头上没戴帽子，脸色显得苍白，并且瘦了。几乎看不出他的衣服是黑的。傍晚的微光把他的俊美的脸映得发青，两只眼睛隐在黑影里。他在一层无比柔和的暮霭中，有种类似幽灵和黑夜的意味。他的脸反映着奄奄一息的白昼的残晖和行将远离的灵魂的思慕。
他象一种尚未成鬼却已非人的东西。
他的帽子落在几步外的乱草中。
珂赛特蹒跚欲倒，却没有喊一声。她慢慢往后退，因为她感到自己被吸引住了。他呢，立着不动。她看不见他的眼睛，却感到他的目光里有一种说不上来的难以表达和忧伤的东西把她裹住了。
珂赛特往后退时，碰到一棵树，她便靠在树身上。如果没有这棵树，她早已倒下去了。
她听到他说话的声音，这确实是她在这之前从来没听到过的，他吞吞吐吐地说，比树叶颤动的声音大不了多少：“请原谅，我到这儿来了。我心里太苦闷，不能再那样活下去，所以我来了。您已看了我放在这里、这条凳上的东西了吧？您认清我了吧？请不要怕我。已很久了，您还记得您望我一眼的那天吗？那是在卢森堡公园里，在那角斗士塑像的旁边。还有您从我面前走过的那一天，您也记得吗？那是六月十六和七月二日。快一年了。许久许久以来，我再也见不着您。我问过出租椅子的妇人，她告诉我说她也没有再看见过您。您当时住在西街，一栋新房子的四层楼上。您看得出我知道吗？我跟过您，我。我有什么办法？过后，您忽然不见了。有一次，我在奥德翁戏院的走廊下面读报纸，忽然看见您走过。我便跑去追原来并不是您。是个戴一顶和您的帽子一样的人。到了晚上，我常来这儿。您不用担心，没有人看见我。我到您窗子下面的近处来望望。我轻轻地走路，免得您听见，要不，您会害怕的。有一天晚上，我站在您的背后，您转身过来，我便逃了。还有一次，我听到您唱歌。我快乐极了。我在板窗外面听您唱，您不会不高兴吧？您不会不高兴。不会的，对吗？您明白，您是我的天使，让我多来几次吧。我想我快死了，假使您知道！我崇拜您，我！请您原谅，我和您说话。我不知道我说了些什么，我也许使您生气了；我使您生气了吗？”
“呵，我的母亲！”她说。
她好象要死似的，瘫软下去了。
他连忙搀住她，她仍往下坠，他只得用手臂把她紧紧抱住，一点不知道自己在干什么。他踉踉跄跄地扶住她，觉得自己满脑子里烟雾缭绕，睫毛里电光闪闪，心里也迷糊了，他仿佛觉得他是在完成一项宗教行为，却犯了亵渎神明的罪。其实，他怀里抱着这个动人的女郎，胸脯已感到她的体形，却毫无欲念。他被爱情搞得神魂颠倒了。
她拿起他的一只手，把它放在胸口。他感到藏在里面的那叠纸。他怯生生地说：
“您爱我吗？”
她以轻如微风，几乎使人听不见的声音悄悄地回答说：
“不要你问！你早知道了！”
她把羞得绯红的脸藏在那个出类拔萃、心花怒放的青年的怀里。
他落在条凳上，她待在他旁边。他们已不再说话。星光开始闪耀。他们的嘴唇又怎么相遇的呢？鸟雀又怎么会唱，雪花又怎么会融，玫瑰又怎么会开，五月又怎么会纷红骇绿，曙光又怎么会在萧瑟的小丘顶上那些幽暗的林木后面泛白呢？
一吻，便一切都在了。
他俩心里同时吃了一惊，睁着雪亮的眼睛在黑暗中互相注视。
他们已感觉不到晚凉，也感觉不到石凳的冷，泥土的潮，青草的湿，他们相互望着，思绪满怀，不知不觉中，已彼此互握着手。
她没有问他，甚至没有想到要问他是从什么地方进来的，又是怎样来到这园里的。在她看来，他来到此地是一件极简单自然的事！
马吕斯的膝头间或碰到珂赛特的膝头，他俩便感到浑身一阵颤。
珂赛特偶尔结结巴巴地说上一两句话。她的灵魂，象花上的一滴露珠，在她的唇边抖颤。
他们渐渐谈起话来了。倾诉衷肠接替了代表情真意酣的沉默。在他们上空夜色明净奇美。他俩，纯洁如精灵，无所不谈，谈他们的怀念，他们的思慕，他们的陶醉，他们的幻想，他们的忧伤，他们怎样两地相思，他们怎样遥相祝愿，他们在不再相见时的痛苦。他们以已无可增添的极度亲密互诉了自己心里最隐密和最神秘的东西。他们各凭自己的幻想，以天真憨直的信任，把爱情、青春和各自残剩的一点孩子气全部交流了。彼此都把自己的心倾注在对方的心里，这样一个钟头过后，少男获得了少女的灵魂，少女也获得了少男的灵魂。他们互相渗透，互相陶醉，互相照耀了。
当他们谈完了，当他们倾吐尽了时，她把她的头靠在他的肩上，问他说：
“您叫什么名字？”
“我叫马吕斯，”他说，“您呢？”
“我叫珂赛特。”
Part 4 Book 6 Chapter 1 The Malicious Playfulness of the Wind
Since 1823, when the tavern of Montfermeil was on the way to shipwreck and was being gradually engulfed, not in the abyss of a bankruptcy, but in the cesspool of petty debts, the Thenardier pair had had two other children; both males. That made five; two girls and three boys. 
Madame Thenardier had got rid of the last two, while they were still young and very small, with remarkable luck. 
Got rid of is the word. There was but a mere fragment of nature in that woman. A phenomenon, by the way, of which there is more than one example extant. Like the Marechale de La Mothe-Houdancourt, the Thenardier was a mother to her daughters only. There her maternity ended. Her hatred of the human race began with her own sons. In the direction of her sons her evil disposition was uncompromising, and her heart had a lugubrious wall in that quarter. As the reader has seen, she detested the eldest; she cursed the other two. Why? Because.The most terrible of motives, the most unanswerable of retorts--Because. "I have no need of a litter of squalling brats," said this mother.
Let us explain how the Thenardiers had succeeded in getting rid of their last two children; and even in drawing profit from the operation.
The woman Magnon, who was mentioned a few pages further back, was the same one who had succeeded in making old Gillenormand support the two children which she had had. She lived on the Quai des Celestins, at the corner of this ancient street of the Petit-Musc which afforded her the opportunity of changing her evil repute into good odor. The reader will remember the great epidemic of croup which ravaged the river districts of the Seine in Paris thirty-five years ago, and of which science took advantage to make experiments on a grand scale as to the efficacy of inhalations of alum, so beneficially replaced at the present day by the external tincture of iodine. During this epidemic, the Magnon lost both her boys, who were still very young, one in the morning, the other in the evening of the same day. This was a blow. These children were precious to their mother; they represented eighty francs a month. These eighty francs were punctually paid in the name of M. Gillenormand, by collector of his rents, M. Barge, a retired tip-staff, in the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile. The children dead, the income was at an end. The Magnon sought an expedient. In that dark free-masonry of evil of which she formed a part, everything is known, all secrets are kept, and all lend mutual aid. Magnon needed two children; the Thenardiers had two.The same sex, the same age. A good arrangement for the one, a good investment for the other. The little Thenardiers became little Magnons. Magnon quitted the Quai des Celestins and went to live in the Rue Clocheperce. In Paris, the identity which binds an individual to himself is broken between one street and another.
The registry office being in no way warned, raised no objections,and the substitution was effected in the most simple manner in the world. Only, the Thenardier exacted for this loan of her children, ten francs a month, which Magnon promised to pay, and which she actually did pay. It is unnecessary to add that M. Gillenormand continued to perform his compact. He came to see the children every six months. He did not perceive the change. "Monsieur," Magnon said to him, "how much they resemble you!"
Thenardier, to whom avatars were easy, seized this occasion to become Jondrette. His two daughters and Gavroche had hardly had time to discover that they had two little brothers. When a certain degree of misery is reached, one is overpowered with a sort of spectral indifference, and one regards human beings as though they were spectres. Your nearest relations are often no more for you than vague shadowy forms, barely outlined against a nebulous background of life and easily confounded again with the invisible. 
On the evening of the day when she had handed over her two little ones to Magnon, with express intention of renouncing them forever, the Thenardier had felt, or had appeared to feel, a scruple. She said to her husband: "But this is abandoning our children!" Thenardier, masterful and phlegmatic, cauterized the scruple with this saying: "Jean Jacques Rousseau did even better!" From scruples, the mother proceeded to uneasiness: "But what if the police were to annoy us? Tell me, Monsieur Thenardier, is what we have done permissible?" Thenardier replied: "Everything is permissible. No one will see anything but true blue in it. Besides, no one has any interest in looking closely after children who have not a sou."
Magnon was a sort of fashionable woman in the sphere of crime. She was careful about her toilet. She shared her lodgings, which were furnished in an affected and wretched style, with a clever gallicized English thief. This English woman, who had become a naturalized Parisienne, recommended by very wealthy relations, intimately connected with the medals in the Library and Mademoiselle Mar's diamonds, became celebrated later on in judicial accounts. She was called Mamselle Miss.
The two little creatures who had fallen to Magnon had no reason to complain of their lot. Recommended by the eighty francs, they were well cared for, as is everything from which profit is derived; they were neither badly clothed, nor badly fed; they were treated almost like "little gentlemen,"--better by their false mother than by their real one. Magnon played the lady, and talked no thieves' slang in their presence. 
Thus passed several years. Thenardier augured well from the fact. One day, he chanced to say to Magnon as she handed him his monthly stipend of ten francs: "The father must give them some education." 
All at once, these two poor children, who had up to that time been protected tolerably well, even by their evil fate, were abruptly hurled into life and forced to begin it for themselves. 
A wholesale arrest of malefactors, like that in the Jondrette garret, necessarily complicated by investigations and subsequent incarcerations, is a veritable disaster for that hideous and occult counter-society which pursues its existence beneath public society; an adventure of this description entails all sorts of catastrophes in that sombre world. The Thenardier catastrophe involved the catastrophe of Magnon.
One day, a short time after Magnon had handed to Eponine the note relating to the Rue Plumet, a sudden raid was made by the police in the Rue Clocheperce; Magnon was seized, as was also Mamselle Miss; and all the inhabitants of the house, which was of a suspicious character, were gathered into the net. While this was going on, the two little boys were playing in the back yard, and saw nothing of the raid. When they tried to enter the house again, they found the door fastened and the house empty. A cobbler opposite called them to him, and delivered to them a paper which "their mother" had left for them. On this paper there was an address: M. Barge, collector of rents, Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, No. 8. The proprietor of the stall said to them: "You cannot live here any longer. Go there. It is near by. The first street on the left. Ask your way from this paper." 
The children set out, the elder leading the younger, and holding in his hand the paper which was to guide them. It was cold, and his benumbed little fingers could not close very firmly,and they did not keep a very good hold on the paper. At the corner of the Rue Clocheperce, a gust of wind tore it from him,and as night was falling, the child was not able to find it again.
They began to wander aimlessly through the streets.
从一八二三年起，当孟费郿的那个客店渐渐衰败，逐步向……不是向破产的深渊，而是向零星债务丛集的泥潭沉陷下去时，德纳第夫妇又添了两个孩子，全是雄的。这样便成了五个，两个姑娘，三个男孩。够多的了。
最小的两个年纪还很小时，德纳第大娘便把他们打发掉了，她心里还怪高兴的。
说“打发掉”，是对的。这个妇人原只有天性的一个碎片。这种现象的例子不止一个。和拉莫特·乌丹古尔元帅夫人一样，德纳第大娘做母亲只做到她的两个女儿身上为止。她的母爱到此便完了。她对人类的憎恨从她的几个儿子身上开始。在她儿子那边，她的凶狠劲便陡然高耸，在这里她的心有一道阴森的陡壁。我们已经见过她怎样厌恶她的大儿子，对另外两个儿子，她更是恨透了。为什么？因为。这是最可怕的原因和最无可争辩的回答：因为。
“我不想养一大群牛崽。”那个做母亲的常这样说。
我们来谈谈德纳第两口子是怎样摆脱他们对两个小儿子的责任，甚至从中找些好处的。
在前面几页里，我们谈到过一个叫马侬的姑娘，曾取得吉诺曼这个老好人的津贴来抚养她的两个儿子，现在涉及到的便是这个妇人。她当时住在则肋斯定河沿，在那条古老的小麝香街转角的地方，那条街已力所能及地把它的臭名声变为香气。我们还记得三十五年前那次白喉流行症曾广泛侵袭塞纳沿河岸一带的地区，当时的科学还利用了这一机会来大规模试验明矾喷雾疗法的效果，这种疗法幸而今天已被外用碘酒所替代。在那次白喉流行期间，马侬姑娘在一天里，早上一个，傍晚一个，接连失掉了两个儿子，两个年龄都还很小。这是一个打击。那两个孩子对他们的母亲来说是宝贵的，他们代表每月八十法郎的收入。这八十法郎一向是由吉诺曼先生的年息代理人巴什先生棗退职公证人，住在西西里王街棗准时如数代付的。两个孩子一死，津贴便没有着落了。马侬姑娘便得想办法。她原是那种罪恶的黑社会里的一分子，大家知道一切，并且相互保密，相互支援。马侬姑娘急需两个孩子，德纳第妈妈恰有两个。同一性别，同一年龄。对一方来说，是一笔好交易，对另一方来说，是一笔好投资。两个小德纳第便成了两个小马侬。马侬姑娘离开了则肋斯定河沿，迁到钟锥街去住了。在巴黎，一个人的出身可以由住处换一条街而断绝。
民政机关一点没有发觉，也就无所谓异议，这一偷换行为便毫不费劲地成功了。不过德纳第在出借那两个孩子时，要求每月非分给他十个法郎不可，马侬姑娘表示同意，甚至每月到期照付。吉诺曼先生当然继续承担义务。他每六个月来看一次那两个小孩。他没有看出破绽。马侬姑娘每次都对他说：
“先生，他们长得多么象您！”
德纳第不难改名换姓，他趁这机会变成了容德雷特。他的两个女儿和伽弗洛什几乎没有时间来注意他们还有两个小弟弟。贫苦到了某种程度，人会变成孤魂野鬼，彼此漠不关心，把生人也当成游魂。你的最亲的骨肉也会被你看作是些憧憧往来的黑影，几乎成了人生的穷途末路中一些若有若无的形象，很容易和无形的鬼魂混淆在一起。
德纳第大娘对她的两个小儿子，原已下定决定永远抛弃不要了的，可是在把他们交付给马侬姑娘的那天晚上，她忽然感到心虚，或是故意装作心虚。她对她的丈夫说：“这可是遗弃孩子哟，这种作法！”德纳第见她心虚，便威严地冷冰冰地安慰她说：“让·雅克·卢梭比我们干得更高明呢！”可是大娘由心虚转到了心慌，她说：“万一警察来找我们的麻烦呢？我们干的这种事，德纳第先生，你说说，是允许的吗？”德纳第回答说：“全是允许的。谁也会认为这是通明透亮的。并且，对这种没有一文钱的孩子，谁也不会感兴趣，要跑来看个清楚。”
马侬姑娘是一种作恶的漂亮人物。她爱装饰。她家里的陈设既穷酸又考究，和她同住的是一个有本领的女贼，入了法国籍的英国姑娘。这个取得巴黎户籍的英国姑娘受到人们尊敬，是因为她和一些富人有交往，她同图书馆里的勋章和马尔斯小姐的金刚钻都有密切的关系，日后在一些刑事案件中还很有名。人们称她为“密斯姑娘”。
那两个孩子，归了马侬姑娘以后，没有什么可抱怨的。在那八十法郎的栽培下，他们和任何有油水可榨的东西一样，是受到照顾的，穿得一点也不坏，吃得一点也不坏，被看待得几乎象两个“小先生”，和假母亲相处得比真母亲还好。马侬姑娘装出一副贵妇人的样子，不在他们面前说行话。
他们便这样过了几年。德纳第确有先见之明。一天，马侬姑娘来付她那十个法郎的月费，他对她说：“应当由‘父亲’来给他们受点教育了。”
那两个可怜的孩子，虽然命薄，总算一向受到相当好的保护，没想到他们忽然一下被抛入了人生，非开始自谋生路不可。
象在德纳第贼窝里进行的那种大规模逮捕，必然还惹出一连串的搜查和拘禁，这对生活在公开社会下的那种丑恶的秘密社会来说，确是一种真正的灾难，这样的风浪常在黑暗世界里造成各式各样的崩塌。德纳第的灾难引起了马侬姑娘的灾难。
一天，在马侬姑娘把那张关于卜吕梅街的纸条交给了爱潘妮后不久，忽然有一批警察来到钟锥街，马侬姑娘被捕了，密斯姑娘也被捕了，并且那整栋房子里的人，因形迹可疑，都被一网打尽。两个小男孩这时正在一个后院里玩，一点没有看见当时的那种突袭情形。到了他们要回家时，他们发现家里的门已经封了，整栋房子都是空的。对面棚子里的一个补鞋匠把他们找去，把“他们的母亲”留下来的一张纸交给了他们。纸上写的是一个地址：“西西里王街，八号，年息代理人，巴什先生”。棚子里的那个人还对他们说：“你们不再住这儿了。去找这个地方，很近。左边第一条街便是。拿好这张纸，问路去。”
两个孩子走了，大的牵着小的，手里捏着那张引路的纸。当时天气正冷，他的小指头僵了，抓不大稳，没有把那张纸拿好。走到钟锥街转角的地方，一阵风把他手里的纸吹走了，天已经黑下来，孩子没法把它找回来。
他们只好在街上随便流浪。
Part 4 Book 6 Chapter 2 In which Little Gavroche extracts Profit from Napoleon the Great
Spring in Paris is often traversed by harsh and piercing breezes which do not precisely chill but freeze one; these north winds which sadden the most beautiful days produce exactly the effect of those puffs of cold air which enter a warm room through the cracks of a badly fitting door or window. It seems as though the gloomy door of winter had remained ajar, and as though the wind were pouring through it. In the spring of 1832, the epoch when the first great epidemic of this century broke out in Europe, these north gales were more harsh and piercing than ever. It was a door even more glacial than that of winter which was ajar. It was the door of the sepulchre. In these winds one felt the breath of the cholera. 
From a meteorological point of view, these cold winds possessed this peculiarity, that they did not preclude a strong electric tension. Frequent storms, accompanied by thunder and lightning, burst forth at this epoch.
One evening, when these gales were blowing rudely, to such a degree that January seemed to have returned and that the bourgeois had resumed their cloaks, Little Gavroche, who was always shivering gayly under his rags, was standing as though in ecstasy before a wig-maker's shop in the vicinity of the Orme-Saint-Gervais. He was adorned with a woman's woollen shawl, picked up no one knows where, and which he had converted into a neck comforter. Little Gavroche appeared to be engaged in intent admiration of a wax bride, in a low-necked dress, and crowned with orange-flowers, who was revolving in the window, and displaying her smile to passers-by, between two argand lamps; but in reality, he was taking an observation of the shop, in order to discover whether he could not "prig" from the shop-front a cake of soap, which he would then proceed to sell for a sou to a "hair-dresser" in the suburbs. He had often managed to breakfast off of such a roll. He called his species of work, for which he possessed special aptitude, "shaving barbers."
While contemplating the bride, and eyeing the cake of soap, he muttered between his teeth: "Tuesday. It was not Tuesday. Was it Tuesday? Perhaps it was Tuesday. Yes, it was Tuesday."
No one has ever discovered to what this monologue referred.
Yes, perchance, this monologue had some connection with the last occasion on which he had dined, three days before, for it was now Friday.
The barber in his shop, which was warmed by a good stove, was shaving a customer and casting a glance from time to time at the enemy, that freezing and impudent street urchin both of whose hands were in his pockets, but whose mind was evidently unsheathed.
While Gavroche was scrutinizing the shop-window and the cakes of windsor soap, two children of unequal stature, very neatly dressed, and still smaller than himself, one apparently about seven years of age, the other five, timidly turned the handle and entered the shop, with a request for something or other, alms possibly, in a plaintive murmur which resembled a groan rather than a prayer. They both spoke at once, and their words were unintelligible because sobs broke the voice of the younger, and the teeth of the elder were chattering with cold. The barber wheeled round with a furious look, and without abandoning his razor, thrust back the elder with his left hand and the younger with his knee, and slammed his door, saying: "The idea of coming in and freezing everybody for nothing!" 
The two children resumed their march in tears. In the meantime,a cloud had risen; it had begun to rain.
Little Gavroche ran after them and accosted them:--
"What's the matter with you, brats?"
"We don't know where we are to sleep," replied the elder.
"Is that all?" said Gavroche. "A great matter, truly. The idea of bawling about that. They must be greenies!"
And adopting, in addition to his superiority, which was rather bantering, an accent of tender authority and gentle patronage:--
"Come along with me, young 'uns!"
"Yes, sir," said the elder.
And the two children followed him as they would have followed an archbishop. They had stopped crying. 
Gavroche led them up the Rue Saint-Antoine in the direction of the Bastille.
As Gavroche walked along, he cast an indignant backward glance at the barber's shop.
"That fellow has no heart, the whiting,"[35] he muttered. "He's an Englishman."
[35] Merlan: a sobriquet given to hairdressers because they are white with powder.
A woman who caught sight of these three marching in a file, with Gavroche at their head, burst into noisy laughter. This laugh was wanting in respect towards the group.
"Good day, Mamselle Omnibus," said Gavroche to her.
An instant later, the wig-maker occurred to his mind once more, and he added:--
"I am making a mistake in the beast; he's not a whiting, he's a serpent. Barber, I'll go and fetch a locksmith, and I'll have a bell hung to your tail."
This wig-maker had rendered him aggressive. As he strode over a gutter, he apostrophized a bearded portress who was worthy to meet Faust on the Brocken, and who had a broom in her hand.
"Madam," said he, "so you are going out with your horse?"
And thereupon, he spattered the polished boots of a pedestrian.
"You scamp!" shouted the furious pedestrian.
Gavroche elevated his nose above his shawl. 
"Is Monsieur complaining?"
"Of you!" ejaculated the man.
"The office is closed," said Gavroche, "I do not receive any more complaints."
In the meanwhile, as he went on up the street, he perceived a beggar-girl, thirteen or fourteen years old, and clad in so short a gown that her knees were visible, lying thoroughly chilled under a porte-cochere. The little girl was getting to be too old for such a thing. Growth does play these tricks. The petticoat becomes short at the moment when nudity becomes indecent. 
"Poor girl!" said Gavroche. "She hasn't even trousers. Hold on, take this."
And unwinding all the comfortable woollen which he had around his neck, he flung it on the thin and purple shoulders of the beggar-girl, where the scarf became a shawl once more.
The child stared at him in astonishment, and received the shawl in silence. When a certain stage of distress has been reached in his misery, the poor man no longer groans over evil, no longer returns thanks for good.
That done: "Brrr!" said Gavroche, who was shivering more than Saint Martin, for the latter retained one-half of his cloak. 
At this brrr! The downpour of rain, redoubled in its spite, became furious. The wicked skies punish good deeds.
"Ah, come now!" exclaimed Gavroche, "what's the meaning of this? It's re-raining! Good Heavens, if it goes on like this, I shall stop my subscription."
And he set out on the march once more. 
"It's all right," he resumed, casting a glance at the beggar-girl, as she coiled up under the shawl, "she's got a famous peel."
And looking up at the clouds he exclaimed:-- 
"Caught!"
The two children followed close on his heels.
As they were passing one of these heavy grated lattices, which indicate a baker's shop, for bread is put behind bars like gold, Gavroche turned round:--
"Ah, by the way, brats, have we dined?"
"Monsieur," replied the elder, "we have had nothing to eat since this morning."
"So you have neither father nor mother?" resumed Gavroche majestically.
"Excuse us, sir, we have a papa and a mamma, but we don't know where they are."
"Sometimes that's better than knowing where they are," said Gavroche, who was a thinker.
"We have been wandering about these two hours," continued the elder, "we have hunted for things at the corners of the streets, but we have found nothing."
"I know," ejaculated Gavroche, "it's the dogs who eat everything."
He went on, after a pause:--
"Ah! we have lost our authors. We don't know what we have done with them. This should not be, gamins. It's stupid to let old people stray off like that. Come now! we must have a snooze all the same." 
However, he asked them no questions. What was more simple than that they should have no dwelling place! 
The elder of the two children, who had almost entirely recovered the prompt heedlessness of childhood, uttered this exclamation:--
"It's queer, all the same. Mamma told us that she would take us to get a blessed spray on Palm Sunday." 
"Bosh," said Gavroche. 
"Mamma," resumed the elder, "is a lady who lives with Mamselle Miss."
"Tanflute!" retorted Gavroche.
Meanwhile he had halted, and for the last two minutes he had been feeling and fumbling in all sorts of nooks which his rags contained. 
At last he tossed his head with an air intended to be merely satisfied, but which was triumphant, in reality. 
"Let us be calm, young 'uns. Here's supper for three."
And from one of his pockets he drew forth a sou.
Without allowing the two urchins time for amazement, he pushed both of them before him into the baker's shop, and flung his sou on the counter, crying:--
"Boy! Five centimes' worth of bread."
The baker, who was the proprietor in person, took up a loaf and a knife.
"In three pieces, my boy!" went on Gavroche.
And he added with dignity:--
"There are three of us."
And seeing that the baker, after scrutinizing the three customers, had taken down a black loaf, he thrust his finger far up his nose with an inhalation as imperious as though he had had a pinch of the great Frederick's snuff on the tip of his thumb, and hurled this indignant apostrophe full in the baker's face:--
"Keksekca?"
Those of our readers who might be tempted to espy in this interpellation of Gavroche's to the baker a Russian or a Polish word, or one of those savage cries which the Yoways and the Botocudos hurl at each other from bank to bank of a river, athwart the solitudes, are warned that it is a word which they [our readers] utter every day, and which takes the place of the phrase: "Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela?" The baker understood perfectly, and replied:--
"Well! It's bread, and very good bread of the second quality."
"You mean larton brutal [black bread]!" retorted Gavroche, calmly and coldly disdainful. "White bread, boy! White bread [larton savonne]! I'm standing treat."
The baker could not repress a smile, and as he cut the white bread he surveyed them in a compassionate way which shocked Gavroche.
"Come, now, baker's boy!" said he, "what are you taking our measure like that for?"
All three of them placed end to end would have hardly made a measure.
When the bread was cut, the baker threw the sou into his drawer, and Gavroche said to the two children:--
"Grub away."
The little boys stared at him in surprise.
Gavroche began to laugh.
"Ah! hullo, that's so! They don't understand yet, they're too small."
And he repeated:--
"Eat away."
At the same time, he held out a piece of bread to each of them.
And thinking that the elder, who seemed to him the more worthy of his conversation, deserved some special encouragement and ought to be relieved from all hesitation to satisfy his appetite, he added, as be handed him the largest share:--
"Ram that into your muzzle."
One piece was smaller than the others; he kept this for himself.
The poor children, including Gavroche, were famished. As they tore their bread apart in big mouthfuls, they blocked up the shop of the baker, who, now that they had paid their money, looked angrily at them.
"Let's go into the street again," said Gavroche.
They set off once more in the direction of the Bastille.
From time to time, as they passed the lighted shop-windows, the smallest halted to look at the time on a leaden watch which was suspended from his neck by a cord.
"Well, he is a very green 'un," said Gavroche.
Then, becoming thoughtful, he muttered between his teeth:--
"All the same, if I had charge of the babes I'd lock 'em up better than that."
Just as they were finishing their morsel of bread, and had reached the angle of that gloomy Rue des Ballets, at the other end of which the low and threatening wicket of La Force was visible:-- 
"Hullo, is that you, Gavroche?" said some one.
"Hullo, is that you, Montparnasse?" said Gavroche. 
A man had just accosted the street urchin, and the man was no other than Montparnasse in disguise, with blue spectacles, but recognizable to Gavroche.
"The bow-wows!" went on Gavroche, "you've got a hide the color of a linseed plaster, and blue specs like a doctor. You're putting on style, 'pon my word!"
"Hush!" ejaculated Montparnasse, "not so loud."
And he drew Gavroche hastily out of range of the lighted shops.
The two little ones followed mechanically, holding each other by the hand.
When they were ensconced under the arch of a portecochere, sheltered from the rain and from all eyes:--
"Do you know where I'm going?" demanded Montparnasse.
"To the Abbey of Ascend-with-Regret,"[36] replied Gavroche.
[36] The scaffold.
"Joker!"
And Montparnasse went on:--
"I'm going to find Babet."
"Ah!" exclaimed Gavroche, "so her name is Babet."
Montparnasse lowered his voice:--
"Not she, he."
"Ah! Babet."
"Yes, Babet."
"I thought he was buckled."
"He has undone the buckle," replied Montparnasse.
And he rapidly related to the gamin how, on the morning of that very day, Babet, having been transferred to La Conciergerie, had made his escape, by turning to the left instead of to the right in "the police office." 
Gavroche expressed his admiration for this skill.
"What a dentist!" he cried.
Montparnasse added a few details as to Babet's flight, and ended with:--
"Oh! That's not all."
Gavroche, as he listened, had seized a cane that Montparnasse held in his hand, and mechanically pulled at the upper part, and the blade of a dagger made its appearance.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, pushing the dagger back in haste, "you have brought along your gendarme disguised as a bourgeois."
Montparnasse winked.
"The deuce!" resumed Gavroche, "so you're going to have a bout with the bobbies?"
"You can't tell," replied Montparnasse with an indifferent air. "It's always a good thing to have a pin about one." 
Gavroche persisted:--
"What are you up to to-night?"
Again Montparnasse took a grave tone, and said, mouthing every syllable: "Things."
And abruptly changing the conversation:--
"By the way!"
"What?"
"Something happened t'other day. Fancy. I meet a bourgeois. He makes me a present of a sermon and his purse. I put it in my pocket. A minute later, I feel in my pocket. There's nothing there."
"Except the sermon," said Gavroche.
"But you," went on Montparnasse, "where are you bound for now?"
Gavroche pointed to his two proteges, and said:--
"I'm going to put these infants to bed."
"Whereabouts is the bed?"
"At my house."
"Where's your house?"
"At my house."
"So you have a lodging?"
"Yes, I have."
"And where is your lodging?"
"In the elephant," said Gavroche.
Montparnasse, though not naturally inclined to astonishment, could not restrain an exclamation.
"In the elephant!"
"Well, yes, in the elephant!" retorted Gavroche. "Kekcaa?"
This is another word of the language which no one writes, and which every one speaks.
Kekcaa signifies: Quest que c'est que cela a? [What's the matter with that?]
The urchin's profound remark recalled Montparnasse to calmness and good sense. He appeared to return to better sentiments with regard to Gavroche's lodging.
"Of course," said he, "yes, the elephant. Is it comfortable there?"
"Very," said Gavroche. "It's really bully there. There ain't any draughts, as there are under the bridges."
"How do you get in?"
"Oh, I get in."
"So there is a hole?" demanded Montparnasse.
"Parbleu! I should say so. But you mustn't tell. It's between the fore legs. The bobbies haven't seen it."
"And you climb up? Yes, I understand."
"A turn of the hand, cric, crac, and it's all over, no one there."
After a pause, Gavroche added:--
"I shall have a ladder for these children."
Montparnasse burst out laughing:--
"Where the devil did you pick up those young 'uns?"
Gavroche replied with great simplicity:--
"They are some brats that a wig-maker made me a present of."
Meanwhile, Montparnasse had fallen to thinking:--
"You recognized me very readily," he muttered.
He took from his pocket two small objects which were nothing more than two quills wrapped in cotton, and thrust one up each of his nostrils. This gave him a different nose.
"That changes you," remarked Gavroche, "you are less homely so, you ought to keep them on all the time."
Montparnasse was a handsome fellow, but Gavroche was a tease.
"Seriously," demanded Montparnasse, "how do you like me so?"
The sound of his voice was different also. In a twinkling, Montparnasse had become unrecognizable.
"Oh! Do play Porrichinelle for us!" exclaimed Gavroche.
The two children, who had not been listening up to this point, being occupied themselves in thrusting their fingers up their noses, drew near at this name, and stared at Montparnasse with dawning joy and admiration.
Unfortunately, Montparnasse was troubled.
He laid his hand on Gavroche's shoulder, and said to him, emphasizing his words: "Listen to what I tell you, boy! If I were on the square with my dog, my knife, and my wife, and if you were to squander ten sous on me, I wouldn't refuse to work, but this isn't Shrove Tuesday." 
This odd phrase produced a singular effect on the gamin. He wheeled round hastily, darted his little sparkling eyes about him with profound attention, and perceived a police sergeant standing with his back to them a few paces off. Gavroche allowed an: "Ah! Good!" to escape him, but immediately suppressed it, and shaking Montparnasse's hand:--
"Well, good evening," said he, "I'm going off to my elephant with my brats. Supposing that you should need me some night, you can come and hunt me up there. I lodge on the entresol. There is no porter. You will inquire for Monsieur Gavroche."
"Very good," said Montparnasse.
And they parted, Montparnasse betaking himself in the direction of the Greve, and Gavroche towards the Bastille. The little one of five, dragged along by his brother who was dragged by Gavroche, turned his head back several times to watch "Porrichinelle" as he went. 
The ambiguous phrase by means of which Montparnasse had warned Gavroche of the presence of the policeman, contained no other talisman than the assonance dig repeated five or six times in different forms. This syllable, dig, uttered alone or artistically mingled with the words of a phrase, means: "Take care, we can no longer talk freely." There was besides, in Montparnasse's sentence, a literary beauty which was lost upon Gavroche, that is mon dogue, ma dague et ma digue, a slang expression of the Temple, which signifies my dog, my knife,
and my wife, greatly in vogue among clowns and the red-tails in the great century when Moliere wrote and Callot drew. 
Twenty years ago, there was still to be seen in the southwest corner of the Place de la Bastille, near the basin of the canal, excavated in the ancient ditch of the fortress-prison, a singular monument, which has already been effaced from the memories of Parisians, and which deserved to leave some trace, for it was the idea of a "member of the Institute, the General-in-chief of the army of Egypt."
We say monument, although it was only a rough model. But this model itself, a marvellous sketch, the grandiose skeleton of an idea of Napoleon's, which successive gusts of wind have carried away and thrown, on each occasion, still further from us, had become historical and had acquired a certain definiteness which contrasted with its provisional aspect.It was an elephant forty feet high, constructed of timber and masonry, bearing on its back a tower which resembled a house, formerly painted green by some dauber, and now painted black by heaven, the wind, and time. In this deserted and unprotected corner of the place, the broad brow of the colossus, his trunk, his tusks, his tower, his enormous crupper, his four feet, like columns produced, at night, under the starry heavens, a surprising and terrible form. It was a sort of symbol of popular force. It was sombre, mysterious, and immense. It was some mighty, visible phantom, one knew not what, standing erect beside the invisible spectre of the Bastille.
Few strangers visited this edifice, no passer-by looked at it. It was falling into ruins; every season the plaster which detached itself from its sides formed hideous wounds upon it. "The aediles," as the expression ran in elegant dialect, had forgotten it ever since 1814. There it stood in its corner, melancholy, sick, crumbling, surrounded by a rotten palisade, soiled continually by drunken coachmen; cracks meandered athwart its belly, a lath projected from its tail, tall grass flourished between its legs; and, as the level of the place had been rising all around it for a space of thirty years, by that slow and continuous movement which insensibly elevates the soil of large towns, it stood in a hollow, and it looked as though the ground were giving way beneath it. It was unclean, despised, repulsive, and superb, ugly in the eyes of the bourgeois, melancholy in the eyes of the thinker. There was something about it of the dirt which is on the point of being swept out, and something of the majesty which is on the point of being decapitated. As we have said, at night, its aspect changed. Night is the real element of everything that is dark. As soon as twilight descended, the old elephant became transfigured; he assumed a tranquil and redoubtable appearance in the formidable serenity of the shadows. Being of the past, he belonged to night; and obscurity was in keeping with his grandeur.
This rough, squat, heavy, hard, austere, almost misshapen, but assuredly majestic monument, stamped with a sort of magnificent and savage gravity, has disappeared, and left to reign in peace, a sort of gigantic stove, ornamented with its pipe, which has replaced the sombre fortress with its nine towers, very much as the bourgeoisie replaces the feudal classes. It is quite natural that a stove should be the symbol of an epoch in which a pot contains power. This epoch will pass away, people have already begun to understand that, if there can be force in a boiler, there can be no force except in the brain; in other words, that which leads and drags on the world, is not locomotives, but ideas. Harness locomotives to ideas,-- that is well done; but do not mistake the horse for the rider.
At all events, to return to the Place de la Bastille, the architect of this elephant succeeded in making a grand thing out of plaster; the architect of the stove has succeeded in making a pretty thing out of bronze.
This stove-pipe, which has been baptized by a sonorous name, and called the column of July, this monument of a revolution that miscarried, was still enveloped in 1832, in an immense shirt of woodwork, which we regret, for our part, and by a vast plank enclosure, which completed the task of isolating the elephant.
It was towards this corner of the place, dimly lighted by the reflection of a distant street lamp, that the gamin guided his two "brats." 
The reader must permit us to interrupt ourselves here and to remind him that we are dealing with simple reality, and that twenty years ago, the tribunals were called upon to judge, under the charge of vagabondage, and mutilation of a public monument, a child who had been caught asleep in this very elephant of the Bastille. This fact noted, we proceed.
On arriving in the vicinity of the colossus, Gavroche comprehended the effect which the infinitely great might produce on the infinitely small, and said:--
"Don't be scared, infants."
Then he entered through a gap in the fence into the elephant's enclosure and helped the young ones to clamber through the breach. The two children, somewhat frightened, followed Gavroche without uttering a word, and confided themselves to this little Providence in rags which had given them bread and had promised them a shelter.
There, extended along the fence,lay a ladder which by day served the laborers in the neighboring timber-yard. Gavroche raised it with remarkable vigor, and placed it against one of the elephant's forelegs. Near the point where the ladder ended, a sort of black hole in the belly of the colossus could be distinguished.
Gavroche pointed out the ladder and the hole to his guests, and said to them:--
"Climb up and go in."
The two little boys exchanged terrified glances.
"You're afraid, brats!" exclaimed Gavroche.
And he added:--
"You shall see!"
He clasped the rough leg of the elephant, and in a twinkling, without deigning to make use of the ladder, he had reached the aperture. He entered it as an adder slips through a crevice, and disappeared within, and an instant later, the two children saw his head, which looked pale, appear vaguely, on the edge of the shadowy hole, like a wan and whitish spectre.
"Well!" he exclaimed, "climb up, young 'uns! You'll see how snug it is here! Come up, you!" he said to the elder, "I'll lend you a hand."
The little fellows nudged each other, the gamin frightened and inspired them with confidence at one and the same time, and then, it was raining very hard. The elder one undertook the risk. The younger, on seeing his brother climbing up, and himself left alone between the paws of this huge beast, felt greatly inclined to cry, but he did not dare.
The elder lad climbed, with uncertain steps, up the rungs of the ladder; Gavroche, in the meanwhile, encouraging him with exclamations like a fencing-master to his pupils, or a muleteer to his mules. 
"Don't be afraid!--That's it!--Come on!--Put your feet there!-- Give us your hand here!--Boldly!" 
And when the child was within reach, he seized him suddenly and vigorously by the arm, and pulled him towards him. 
"Nabbed!" said he.
The brat had passed through the crack.
"Now," said Gavroche, "wait for me. Be so good as to take a seat, Monsieur."
And making his way out of the hole as he had entered it, he slipped down the elephant's leg with the agility of a monkey, landed on his feet in the grass, grasped the child of five round the body, and planted him fairly in the middle of the ladder, then he began to climb up behind him, shouting to the elder:--
"I'm going to boost him, do you tug."
And in another instant, the small lad was pushed, dragged, pulled, thrust, stuffed into the hole, before he had time to recover himself, and Gavroche, entering behind him, and repulsing the ladder with a kick which sent it flat on the grass, began to clap his hands and to cry:-- 
"Here we are! Long live General Lafayette!"
This explosion over, he added:--
"Now, young 'uns, you are in my house."
Gavroche was at home, in fact.
Oh, unforeseen utility of the useless! Charity of great things! Goodness of giants! This huge monument, which had embodied an idea of the Emperor's, had become the box of a street urchin. The brat had been accepted and sheltered by the colossus. The bourgeois decked out in their Sunday finery who passed the elephant of the Bastille, were fond of saying as they scanned it disdainfully with their prominent eyes: "What's the good of that?" It served to save from the cold, the frost, the hail, and rain, to shelter from the winds of winter, to preserve from slumber in the mud which produces fever, and from slumber in the snow which produces death, a little being who had no father, no mother, no bread, no clothes, no refuge. It served to receive the innocent whom society repulsed. It served to diminish public crime. It was a lair open to one against whom all doors were shut. It seemed as though the miserable old mastodon, invaded by vermin and oblivion, covered with warts, with mould, and ulcers, tottering, worm-eaten, abandoned, condemned, a sort of mendicant colossus, asking alms in vain with a benevolent look in the midst of the cross-roads, had taken pity on that other mendicant, the poor pygmy, who roamed without shoes to his feet, without a roof over his head,blowing on his fingers, clad in rags, fed on rejected scraps. That was what the elephant of the Bastille was good for. This idea of Napoleon, disdained by men, had been taken back by God. That which had been merely illustrious, had become august. In order to realize his thought, the Emperor should have had porphyry, brass, iron, gold, marble; the old collection of planks, beams and plaster sufficed for God. The Emperor had had the dream of a genius; in that Titanic elephant, armed, prodigious, with trunk uplifted, bearing its tower and scattering on all sides its merry and vivifying waters, he wished to incarnate the people. God had done a grander thing with it, he had lodged a child there.
The hole through which Gavroche had entered was a breach which was hardly visible from the outside, being concealed, as we have stated, beneath the elephant's belly, and so narrow that it was only cats and homeless children who could pass through it.
"Let's begin," said Gavroche, "by telling the porter that we are not at home."
And plunging into the darkness with the assurance of a person who is well acquainted with his apartments, he took a plank and stopped up the aperture.
Again Gavroche plunged into the obscurity. The children heard the crackling of the match thrust into the phosphoric bottle. The chemical match was not yet in existence; at that epoch the Fumade steel represented progress.
A sudden light made them blink; Gavroche had just managed to ignite one of those bits of cord dipped in resin which are called cellar rats. The cellar rat, which emitted more smoke than light, rendered the interior of the elephant confusedly visible. 
Gavroche's two guests glanced about them, and the sensation which they experienced was something like that which one would feel if shut up in the great tun of Heidelberg, or, better still, like what Jonah must have felt in the biblical belly of the whale. An entire and gigantic skeleton appeared enveloping them. Above, a long brown beam, whence started at regular distances, massive, arching ribs, represented the vertebral column with its sides, stalactites of plaster depended from them like entrails, and vast spiders' webs stretching from side to side, formed dirty diaphragms. Here and there, in the corners, were visible large blackish spots which had the appearance of being alive, and which changed places rapidly with an abrupt and frightened movement.
Fragments which had fallen from the elephant's back into his belly had filled up the cavity, so that it was possible to walk upon it as on a floor.
The smaller child nestled up against his brother, and whispered to him:--
"It's black."
This remark drew an exclamation from Gavroche. The petrified air of the two brats rendered some shock necessary.
"What's that you are gabbling about there?" he exclaimed. "Are you scoffing at me? Are you turning up your noses? Do you want the tuileries? Are you brutes? Come, say! I warn you that I don't belong to the regiment of simpletons. Ah, come now, are you brats from the Pope's establishment?"
A little roughness is good in cases of fear. It is reassuring. The two children drew close to Gavroche. 
Gavroche, paternally touched by this confidence, passed from grave to gentle, and addressing the smaller:--
"Stupid," said he, accenting the insulting word, with a caressing intonation, "it's outside that it is black. Outside it's raining, here it does not rain; outside it's cold, here there's not an atom of wind; outside there are heaps of people, here there's no one; outside there ain't even the moon, here there's my candle, confound it!"
The two children began to look upon the apartment with less terror; but Gavroche allowed them no more time for contemplation. 
"Quick," said he. 
And he pushed them towards what we are very glad to be able to call the end of the room. 
There stood his bed.
Gavroche's bed was complete; that is to say, it had a mattress, a blanket, and an alcove with curtains. 
The mattress was a straw mat, the blanket a rather large strip of gray woollen stuff, very warm and almost new. This is what the alcove consisted of:--
Three rather long poles, thrust into and consolidated, with the rubbish which formed the floor, that is to say, the belly of the elephant, two in front and one behind, and united by a rope at their summits, so as to form a pyramidal bundle. This cluster supported a trellis-work of brass wire which was simply placed upon it, but artistically applied, and held by fastenings of iron wire, so that it enveloped all three holes. A row of very heavy stones kept this network down to the floor so that nothing could pass under it. This grating was nothing else than a piece of the brass screens with which aviaries are covered in menageries. Gavroche's bed stood as in a cage, behind this net. The whole resembled an Esquimaux tent. 
This trellis-work took the place of curtains. 
Gavroche moved aside the stones which fastened the net down in front, and the two folds of the net which lapped over each other fell apart. 
"Down on all fours, brats!" said Gavroche. 
He made his guests enter the cage with great precaution, then he crawled in after them, pulled the stones together, and closed the opening hermetically again.
All three had stretched out on the mat. Gavroche still had the cellar rat in his hand. 
"Now," said he, "go to sleep! I'm going to suppress the candelabra."
"Monsieur," the elder of the brothers asked Gavroche, pointing to the netting, "what's that for?"
"That," answered Gavroche gravely, "is for the rats. Go to sleep!"
Nevertheless, he felt obliged to add a few words of instruction for the benefit of these young creatures, and he continued:-- 
"It's a thing from the Jardin des Plantes. It's used for fierce animals. There's a whole shopful of them there. All you've got to do is to climb over a wall, crawl through a window, and pass through a door. You can get as much as you want."
As he spoke, he wrapped the younger one up bodily in a fold
of the blanket, and the little one murmured:--
"Oh! how good that is! It's warm!"
Gavroche cast a pleased eye on the blanket.
"That's from the Jardin des Plantes, too," said he. "I took that from the monkeys."
And, pointing out to the eldest the mat on which he was lying, a very thick and admirably made mat, he added:--
"That belonged to the giraffe."
After a pause he went on:--
"The beasts had all these things. I took them away from them. It didn't trouble them. I told them: It's for the elephant.'"
He paused, and then resumed:--
"You crawl over the walls and you don't care a straw for the government. So there now!"
The two children gazed with timid and stupefied respect on this intrepid and ingenious being, a vagabond like themselves,isolated like themselves, frail like themselves, who had something admirable and all-powerful about him, who seemed supernatural to them, and whose physiognomy was composed of all the grimaces of an old mountebank, mingled with the most ingenuous and charming smiles. 
"Monsieur," ventured the elder timidly, "you are not afraid of the police, then?"
Gavroche contented himself with replying:-- 
"Brat! Nobody says `police,' they say `bobbies.'"
The smaller had his eyes wide open, but he said nothing. As he was on the edge of the mat, the elder being in the middle, Gavroche tucked the blanket round him as a mother might have done, and heightened the mat under his head with old rags, in such a way as to form a pillow for the child. Then he turned to the elder:--
"Hey! We're jolly comfortable here, ain't we?"
"Ah, yes!" replied the elder, gazing at Gavroche with the expression of a saved angel.
The two poor little children who had been soaked through, began to grow warm once more. 
"Ah, by the way," continued Gavroche, "what were you bawling about?" 
And pointing out the little one to his brother:--"A mite like that, I've nothing to say about, but the idea of a big fellow like you crying! It's idiotic; you looked like a calf."
"Gracious, replied the child, "we have no lodging."
"Bother!" retorted Gavroche, "you don't say lodgings,' you say crib.'"
"And then, we were afraid of being alone like that at night."
"You don't say night,' you say `darkmans.'"
"Thank you, sir," said the child.
"Listen," went on Gavroche, "you must never bawl again over anything. I'll take care of you. You shall see what fun we'll have. In summer, we'll go to the Glaciere with Navet, one of my pals, we'll bathe in the Gare, we'll run stark naked in front of the rafts on the bridge at Austerlitz,--that makes the laundresses raging. They scream, they get mad, and if you only knew how ridiculous they are! We'll go and see the man-skeleton. And then I'll take you to the play. I'll take you to see Frederick Lemaitre. I have tickets, I know some of the actors, I even played in a piece once. There were a lot of us fellers, and we ran under a cloth, and that made the sea. I'll get you an engagement at my theatre. We'll go to see the savages. They ain't real, those savages ain't. They wear pink tights that go all in wrinkles, and you can see where their elbows have been darned with white. Then, we'll go to the Opera. We'll get in with the hired applauders. The Opera claque is well managed. I wouldn't associate with the claque on the boulevard. At the Opera, just fancy! some of them pay twenty sous, but they're ninnies. They're called dishclouts. And then we'll go to see the guillotine work. I'll show you the executioner. He lives in the Rue des Marais. Monsieur Sanson. He has a letter-box at his door. Ah! we'll have famous fun!"
At that moment a drop of wax fell on Gavroche's finger, and recalled him to the realities of life.
"The deuce!" said he, "there's the wick giving out. Attention! I can't spend more than a sou a month on my lighting. When a body goes to bed, he must sleep. We haven't the time to read M. Paul de Kock's romances. And besides, the light might pass through the cracks of the porte-cochere, and all the bobbies need to do is to see it."
"And then," remarked the elder timidly,--he alone dared talk to Gavroche, and reply to him, "a spark might fall in the straw, and we must look out and not burn the house down."
"People don't say `burn the house down,'" remarked Gavroche, "they say `blaze the crib.'"
The storm increased in violence, and the heavy downpour beat upon the back of the colossus amid claps of thunder. "You're taken in, rain!" said Gavroche. "It amuses me to hear the decanter run down the legs of the house. Winter is a stupid;it wastes its merchandise, it loses its labor, it can't wet us, and that makes it kick up a row, old water-carrier that it is." 
This allusion to the thunder, all the consequences of which Gavroche,in his character of a philosopher of the nineteenth century, accepted, was followed by a broad flash of lightning, so dazzling that a hint of it entered the belly of the elephant through the crack. Almost at the same instant, the thunder rumbled with great fury. The two little creatures uttered a shriek, and started up so eagerly that the network came near being displaced, but Gavroche turned his bold face to them, and took advantage of the clap of thunder to burst into a laugh.
"Calm down, children. Don't topple over the edifice. That's fine, first-class thunder; all right. That's no slouch of a streak of lightning. Bravo for the good God! Deuce take it! It's almost as good as it is at the Ambigu."
That said, he restored order in the netting, pushed the two children gently down on the bed, pressed their knees, in order to stretch them out at full length, and exclaimed:--
"Since the good God is lighting his candle, I can blow out mine. Now, babes, now, my young humans, you must shut your peepers. It's very bad not to sleep. It'll make you swallow the strainer, or, as they say, in fashionable society, stink in the gullet. Wrap yourself up well in the hide! I'm going to put out the light. Are you ready?"
"Yes," murmured the elder, "I'm all right. I seem to have feathers under my head."
"People don't say `head,'" cried Gavroche, "they say `nut'."
The two children nestled close to each other, Gavroche finished arranging them on the mat, drew the blanket up to their very ears, then repeated, for the third time, his injunction in the hieratical tongue:-- 
"Shut your peepers!"
And he snuffed out his tiny light.
Hardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar trembling began to affect the netting under which the three children lay. 
It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a metallic sound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire. This was accompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries. 
The little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub overhead, and chilled with terror, jogged his brother's elbow; but the elder brother had already shut his peepers, as Gavroche had ordered. Then the little one, who could no longer control his terror, questioned Gavroche, but in a very low tone, and with bated breath:--
"Sir?"
"Hey?" said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes.
"What is that?"
"It's the rats," replied Gavroche.
And he laid his head down on the mat again.
The rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass of the elephant, and who were the living black spots which we have already mentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle, so long as it had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern, which was the same as their city, had returned to darkness, scenting what the good story-teller Perrault calls "fresh meat," they had hurled themselves in throngs on Gavroche's tent, had climbed to the top of it, and had begun to bite the meshes as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap. 
Still the little one could not sleep.
"Sir?" he began again.
"Hey?" said Gavroche.
"What are rats?"
"They are mice."
This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white mice in the course of his life, and he was not afraid of them. Nevertheless, he lifted up his voice once more.
"Sir?"
"Hey?" said Gavroche again.
"Why don't you have a cat?"
"I did have one," replied Gavroche, "I brought one here, but they ate her."
This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the little fellow began to tremble again. 
The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time:--
"Monsieur?"
"Hey?"
"Who was it that was eaten?"
"The cat."
"And who ate the cat?"
"The rats."
"The mice?"
"Yes, the rats."
The child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of mice which ate cats, pursued:--
"Sir, would those mice eat us?"
"Wouldn't they just!" ejaculated Gavroche.
The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added:--
"Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here! Here, catch hold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers!" 
At the same time Gavroche grasped the little fellow's hand across his brother. The child pressed the hand close to him, and felt reassured. Courage and strength have these mysterious ways of communicating themselves. Silence reigned round them once more, the sound of their voices had frightened off the rats; at the expiration of a few minutes, they came raging back, but in vain, the three little fellows were fast asleep and heard nothing more.
The hours of the night fled away. Darkness covered the vast Place de la Bastille. A wintry gale, which mingled with the rain, blew in gusts, the patrol searched all the doorways, alleys, enclosures, and obscure nooks, and in their search for nocturnal vagabonds they passed in silence before the elephant; the monster, erect, motionless, staring open-eyed into the shadows, had the appearance of dreaming happily over his good deed; and sheltered from heaven and from men the three poor sleeping children.
In order to understand what is about to follow, the reader must remember, that, at that epoch, the Bastille guard-house was situated at the other end of the square, and that what took place in the vicinity of the elephant could neither be seen nor heard by the sentinel.
Towards the end of that hour which immediately precedes the dawn, a man turned from the Rue Saint-Antoine at a run, made the circuit of the enclosure of the column of July, and glided between the palings until he was underneath the belly of the elephant. If any light had illuminated that man, it might have been divined from the thorough manner in which he was soaked that he had passed the night in the rain. Arrived beneath the elephant, he uttered a peculiar cry, which did not belong to any human tongue, and which a paroquet alone could have imitated. Twice he repeated this cry, of whose orthography the following barely conveys an idea:--
"Kirikikiou!"
At the second cry, a clear, young, merry voice responded from the belly of the elephant:-- 
"Yes!"
Almost immediately, the plank which closed the hole was drawn aside, and gave passage to a child who descended the elephant's leg, and fell briskly near the man. It was Gavroche. The man was Montparnasse.
As for his cry of Kirikikiou,--that was, doubtless, what the child had meant, when he said:--
"You will ask for Monsieur Gavroche."
On hearing it, he had waked with a start, had crawled out of his "alcove," pushing apart the netting a little, and carefully drawing it together again, then he had opened the trap, and descended. 
The man and the child recognized each other silently amid the gloom: Montparnasse confined himself to the remark:--
"We need you. Come, lend us a hand."
The lad asked for no further enlightenment.
"I'm with you," said he.
And both took their way towards the Rue Saint-Antoine, whence Montparnasse had emerged, winding rapidly through the long file of market-gardeners' carts which descend towards the markets at that hour. 
The market-gardeners, crouching, half-asleep, in their wagons, amid the salads and vegetables, enveloped to their very eyes in their mufflers on account of the beating rain, did not even glance at these strange pedestrians.
巴黎的春天常会刮起阵阵峭劲的寒风，它给人们的感受不完全是冷，而是冻，这种风象从关得不严密的门窗缝里吹进暖室的冷空气那样，即使在晴天也能使人愁苦。仿佛冬季的那扇阴惨的门还半开着，风是从那门口吹来的。本世纪欧洲的第一次大流行病便是在一八三二年春天突发的，从没有象那次霜风那样冷冽刺骨。比起平时冬季的那扇半开的门，那一年的门来得还更冻人些。那简直是一扇墓门。人们感到在那种寒风里有鬼气。
从气象学的角度看，那种冷风的特点是它一点不排除强电压。那一时期经常有雷电交加的大风暴。
有一个晚上，那种冷风正吹得起劲，隆冬仿佛又回了头，资产阶级都重新披上了大氅，小伽弗洛什始终穿着他的那身烂布筋，立在圣热尔韦榆树附近的一家理发店的前面出神，冷得发抖但高高兴兴。他围着一条不知是从什么地方拾来的女用羊毛披肩，用来当作围巾。看神气，小伽弗洛什是在一心欣羡一个蜡制的新娘，那蜡人儿敞着胸脯，头上装饰着橙花，在橱窗后面两盏煤油灯间转个不停，对过路的人盈盈微笑；其实，伽弗洛什老望着那家铺子的目的，是想看看有没有办法从柜台上“摸”一块香皂，拿到郊区的一个“理发师”那里去卖一个苏。他是时常依靠这种香皂来吃一顿饭的。对这种工作，他颇有些才干，他说这是“刮那刮胡子人的胡子”。
他一面瞻仰新娘，并一眼又一眼瞟着那块香皂，同时他牙齿缝里还在唠唠叨叨地说：“星期二……不是星期二……是星期二吧？……也许是星期二……对了，是星期二。”
从来不曾有人知道过他这样自问自答究竟是在谈什么。
要是这段独白涉及到他上一次吃饭的日子，他便是三天没有吃饭了，因为那天是星期五。
理发师正在那生着一炉好火的店里为一个主顾刮胡子，他不时扭过头去瞧一下他的敌人，这个冷到哆嗦，两手插在口袋里，脑子里显然是在打坏主意的厚脸皮野孩子。
正当伽弗洛什研究那新娘、那橱窗和那块温莎香皂时，忽然走来另外两个孩子，一高一矮，穿得相当整洁，比他个子还小，看来一个七岁，一个五岁，羞怯怯地转动门把手，走进那铺子，不知道是在请求什么，也许是在请求布施，低声下气，可怜巴巴的，好象是在哀告而不是请求。他们两个同时说话，话是听不清楚的，因为小的那个的话被抽泣的声音打断了，大的那个又冻到牙床发抖。理发师怒容满面地转过身来，手里捏着剃刀，左手推着大的，一个膝头推着小的，把他们俩一齐推到街上，关上大门，一面说道：
“无缘无故走来害人家受冻！”
那两个孩子，一面往前走，一面哭。同时，天上飘来一片乌云，开始下雨了。
小伽弗洛什从他们后面赶上去，对他们说：
“你们怎么了，小鬼？”
“我们不知道到哪里去睡觉。”大的那个回答说。‘就为了这？”伽弗洛什说。“可了不得。这也值得哭吗？真是两个傻瓜蛋！”
接着，他又以略带讥笑意味的老大哥派头，怜惜的命令语气和温和的爱护声音说道：
“伢子们，跟我来。”
“是，先生。”大的那个说。
两个孩子便跟着他走，象跟了个大主教似的。他们已经不哭了。
伽弗洛什领着他们朝巴士底广场的方向走上了圣安东尼街。
伽弗洛什一面走，一面向后转过头去对着理发师的铺子狠狠地望了一眼。
“这家伙太没有心肠，老白鱼，”他嘟囔着，“这是个英国佬。”
一个姑娘看见他们三个一串儿地往前走，伽弗洛什领头，她放声大笑起来。这种笑声对那一伙失了敬意。
“您好，公共车①小姐。”伽弗洛什对她说。
过了一阵，他又想起那理发师，他说：
“我把那畜生叫错了，他不是白鱼②，是条蛇。理发师傅，我要去找一个铜匠师傅，装个响铃在你的尾巴上。” 
①公共车，有属于众人的意思。
②古代欧洲的男人留长头发，有钱人还在头发里撒上白粉，认为美观。理发师都这样修饰自己的头发，因此人们戏称理发师为白鱼。
那理发师使他冒火。他在跨过水沟时遇见一个看门婆，她嘴上有胡须，手里拿着扫帚，那模样，够得上到勃罗肯山①去找浮士德。 
①勃罗肯山（Brocken），在德国，相传是巫女和魔鬼幽会的地方。歌德的《浮士德》中对此有描写。　
“大婶，”他对她说，“您骑着马儿上街来了？”
正说到这里，他又一脚把污水溅在一个过路人的漆皮靴子上。
“小坏蛋！”那过路人怒气冲冲地嚷了起来。
“先生要告状吗？”
“告你！”那过路人说。
“办公时间过了，”伽弗洛什说，“我不受理起诉状了。”
可是，在顺着那条街继续往上去的时候，他看见一个十三、四岁的女叫化子，待在一扇大门下冷得发抖，她身上的衣服已短到连膝头也露在外面。那女孩已经太大，不能这样了。年龄的增长常和我们开这种玩笑。恰恰是在赤脚露腿有碍观瞻的时候裙子变短了。
“可怜的姑娘！”伽弗洛什说，“连裤衩也没有一条。接住，把这拿去吧。”
他一面说，一面把那条暖暖的围在他颈子上的羊毛围巾解下来，披在那女叫化子的冻紫了的瘦肩头上，这样，围巾又成了披肩。
女孩呆瞪瞪地望着他，一声不响，接受了那条披肩。人穷到了某种程度时往往心志沉迷，受苦而不再呻吟，受惠也不再道谢。
这之后：
“噗……！”伽弗洛什说，他抖得比圣马丁①更凶，圣马丁至少还留下了他那大氅的一半。 
①相传圣马丁曾以身上的半件衣服让给一个穷人。
他这一噗……那阵大雨，再接再厉，狂倾猛泄下来了。真是恶天不佑善行。
“岂有此理，”伽弗洛什喊着说，“这是什么意思？它又下起来了！慈悲的天主，要是你再下，我便只好退票了。”
他再往前走。
“没有关系，”他一面说，一面对那蜷缩在披肩下的女叫化子望了一眼，“她这一身羽毛还不坏。”
他望了望头上的乌云，喊道：
“着了！”
那两个孩子照着他的脚步紧跟在后面。
他们走过一处有那种厚铁丝网遮护着的橱窗，一望便知道是一家面包铺，因为面包和金子一样，是放在铁栅栏后面的，伽弗洛什转过身来问道：
“我说，伢子们，我们吃了晚饭没有呀？”
“先生，”大的那个回答说，“我们从今天早上起还没有吃过东西。”
“难道你们没有父亲，也没有母亲吗？”伽弗洛什一本正经地问。
“请不要乱说，先生，我们有爸爸妈妈，但是我们不知道他们在什么地方。”
“有时，知道还不如不知道的好。”伽弗洛什意味深长地说。
“我们已经走了两个钟头，”大的那个继续说，“我们在好些墙角旮旯里找过，想找点东西，可什么也没有。”
“我知道，”伽弗洛什说，“狗把所有的东西全吃了。”
沉默了一阵，他接着又说：
“啊！我们丢了我们的作者。我们不知道是怎么搞的。不应当这样，孩子们。把老一辈弄丢了，真是傻。可了不得！我们总得找点吃的。”
此外他并不向他们问底细。没有住处，还有什么比这更简单的呢？
两个孩子里大的那个，几乎一下子便完全回到童年时代那种无忧无虑的状态里，他大声说道：
“想想真是滑稽。妈妈还说过，到了树枝礼拜日那天，还要带我们去找些祝福过的黄杨枝呢。”
“唔。”伽弗洛什回答说。
“妈妈，”大的那个又说，“是个和密斯姑娘同住的夫人。”
“了不起。”伽弗洛什说。
他没有再说下去，他在他那身破烂衣服的各式各样的角落里摸摸找找已经有好一阵了。
最后他终于仰起了头，他那神气，原只想表示满意，而他实际表现的却是极大的兴奋。
“不用愁了，伢子们。瞧这已经够我们三个人吃一顿晚饭的了。”
同时他从身上的一个衣袋里摸出了一个苏来。
那两个孩子还没有来得及表示高兴，他便已推着他们，自己走在他们的背后，把他们一齐推进了面包铺，把手里的那个苏放在柜台上，喊道：
“伙计！五生丁的面包。”
那卖面包的便是店主人，他拿起了一个面包和一把刀。
“切作三块，伙计！”伽弗洛什又说。
他还煞有介事地补上一句：
“我们一共是三个人。”
他看见面包师傅在研究了这三位晚餐客人以后，拿起一个黑面包，他便立即把一个指头深深地塞在自己的鼻孔里，猛吸一口气，仿佛他那大拇指头上捏了一撮弗雷德里克大帝的鼻烟，正对着那面包师傅的脸，粗声大气地冲他说了这么一句：
“Keksekca？”
在我们的读者中，如果有人以为伽弗洛什对面包师傅说的这句话是俄语或波兰语，或是约维斯人和波托古多斯人对着寥寂的江面隔岸相呼的蛮语，我们便应当指出，这不过是他们（我们的读者）每天都在说的一句话，它是quAestBcequecAestquecela？①的一种说法而已。那面包师傅完全听懂了，他回答说：
“怎么！这是面包，极好的二级面包呀。”
“您是说黑炭团吧，”伽弗洛什冷静而傲慢地反驳说，“要白面包，伙计！肥皂洗过的面包！我要请客。” 
①法语，“这是什么？”
面包师傅不禁莞尔微笑，他一面拿起一块白面包来切，一面带着怜悯的神情望着他们，这又触犯了伽弗洛什。他说：
“怎么了，面包师傅！您干吗要这样丈量我们啊？”
其实他们三个连接起来也还不够一脱阿斯。
当面包已经切好，面包师也收下了那个苏，伽弗洛什便对那两个孩子说：
“捅吧。”
那两个小男孩直望着他发楞。
伽弗洛什笑了出来：
“啊！对，不错，小毛头还听不懂，还太小！”
他便改口说：
“吃吧。”
同时他递给他们每人一块面包。
他又想到大的那个似乎更有资格作为他交谈的对象，也应当受到一点特殊的鼓励，使他解除一切顾虑来满足他的食欲，他便拣了最大的一块，递给他，并说道：
“把这拿去塞在你的炮筒里。”
他把三块中最小的一块留给了自己。
这几个可怜的孩子，包括伽弗洛什在内，确是饿惨了。他们大口咬着面包往下咽，现在钱已收过了，面包师傅见他们仍挤在他的铺子里，便显得有些不耐烦。
“我们回到街上去吧。”伽弗洛什说。
他们再朝着巴士底广场那个方向走去。
他们每次打有灯光的店铺门前走过，小的那个总要停下来，把他那用一根绳子拴在颈子上的铅表拿起来看看钟点。
“真是个憨宝。”伽弗洛什说。
说了过后，他又有所感叹似的，从牙缝里说：
“没有关系，要是我有孩子，我一定会拉扯得比这好一些。”
他们已经吃完面包，走到了阴暗的芭蕾舞街的转角处，一望便可以看见位于街底的拉弗尔斯监狱的那个矮而森严的问讯窗口。
“嗨，是你吗，伽弗洛什？”一个人说。
“哟，是你，巴纳斯山？”伽弗洛什说。
这是刚碰到那野孩的人，不是别人而是已化了装的巴纳斯山，他戴着一副夹鼻蓝眼镜。伽弗洛什却仍能认出他来。
“坏种！”伽弗洛什接着说，“你披一身麻子膏药颜色的皮，又象医生一样戴副蓝眼镜。你真神气，老实说！”
“嘘，”巴纳斯山说，“声音轻点。”
他急忙把伽弗洛什拖出店铺灯光所能照到的地方。
那两个小孩手牵着手，机械地跟了过去。
他们到了一道大车门的黑圆顶下面，一个人眼望不见，雨也打不着的地方。
“你知道我要去什么地方吗？”巴纳斯山问。
“去悔不该来修道院。”①伽弗洛什说。
“烂你的舌头！” 
①“悔不该来修道院”指断头台。
巴纳斯山接着又说：
“我要去找巴伯。”
“啊！”伽弗洛什说，“她叫巴伯。”
巴纳斯山放低了声音。
“不是她，是他。”
“啊，巴伯！”
“对，巴伯。”
“他不是被扣起来了吗？”
“他把扣子解了。”巴纳斯山回答说。
他又急急忙忙告诉那野孩子说，当天早晨，巴伯被押解到刑部监狱去时，走到“候审过道”里，他原应往右转，可是他来了个往左转，便溜走了。
伽弗洛什对这种机灵劲儿大为欣赏。
“这老油子！”他说。
巴纳斯山把巴伯越狱的细情又补充说明了几句，最后，他说：
“呵！事情还没有完呢。”
伽弗洛什一面听他谈，一面把巴纳斯山手里的一根手杖取了来，他机械地把那手杖的上半段拔出来，一把尖刀的刀身便露出来了。他赶忙又推进去，说道：
“啊！你还带了一名便衣队。”
巴纳斯山眨了眨眼睛。
“冒失鬼！”伽弗洛什又说，“你还准备和活阎王拚命吗？”
“不知道，”巴纳斯山若无其事地回答说，“身上带根别针总是好的。”
伽弗洛什追问一句：
“你今晚到底要干什么？”
巴纳斯山又放低了声音，随意回答说：
“有事。”
他陡然又改变话题，说：
“我想到一件事！”
“什么事？”
“前几天发生的一桩事。你想想。我遇见一个阔佬。他给了我一顿教训和一个钱包。我把它拿来放在口袋里。一分钟过后，我摸摸口袋，却什么也没有了。”
“只剩下那教训。”伽弗洛什说。
“你呢？”巴纳斯山又说，“你现在去什么地方？”
伽弗洛什指着那两个受他保护的孩子说：
“我带这两个孩子去睡觉。”
“睡觉，去什么地方睡觉？”
“我家里。”
“什么地方，你家里？”
“我家里。”
“你有住处吗？”
“对，我有住处。”
“你的住处在哪儿？”
“象肚子里。”
巴纳斯山生来就不大惊小怪，这会却不免诧异起来：
“象肚子里？”
“一点没错，象肚子里！”伽弗洛什接着说。“Kekcaa？”
这又是一句谁也不写但人人都说的话。它的意思是：quAestBcquecelaa？（这有什么？）
野孩这一深邃的启发恢复了巴纳斯山的平静心情和健全的理智。他对伽弗洛什的住处似乎有了较好的感情。
“可不是！”他说，“是啊，象肚子……住得还好吗？”
“很好，”伽弗洛什说，“那儿，老实说，舒服透了。那里面，不象桥底下，没有穿堂风。”
“你怎样进去呢？”
“就这么进去。”
“有一个洞吗？”巴纳斯山问。
“当然！但是，千万不能说出去。是在前面两条腿的中间。
croqueurs①都没有看出来。” 
①密探，警察。棗原注　
“你得爬上去？当然，我懂得。”
“简单得很，嚓嚓两下便成了，影子也没有一个。”
停了一会，伽弗洛什接着又说：
“为了这两个娃子，我得找条梯子才行。”
巴纳斯山笑了起来。
“这两个小鬼，你是从什么鬼地方找来的？”

Part 4 Book 6 Chapter 3 The Vicissitudes of Flight
This is what had taken place that same night at the La Force:--
An escape had been planned between Babet, Brujon, Guelemer, and Thenardier, although Thenardier was in close confinement. Babet had arranged the matter for his own benefit, on the same day, as the reader has seen from Montparnasse's account to Gavroche. Montparnasse was to help them from outside.
Brujon, after having passed a month in the punishment cell, had had time, in the first place, to weave a rope, in the second, to mature a plan. In former times, those severe places where the discipline of the prison delivers the convict into his own hands, were composed of four stone walls, a stone ceiling, a flagged pavement, a camp bed, a grated window, and a door lined with iron, and were called dungeons; but the dungeon was judged to be too terrible; nowadays they are composed of an iron door, a grated window, a camp bed, a flagged pavement, four stone walls, and a stone ceiling, and are called chambers of punishment. A little light penetrates towards mid-day. The inconvenient point about these chambers which, as the reader sees, are not dungeons, is that they allow the persons who should be at work to think.
So Brujon meditated, and he emerged from the chamber of punishment with a rope. As he had the name of being very dangerous in the Charlemagne courtyard, he was placed in the New Building. The first thing he found in the New Building was Guelemer, the second was a nail; Guelemer, that is to say, crime; a nail, that is to say, liberty. Brujon, of whom it is high time that the reader should have a complete idea, was, with an appearance of delicate health and a profoundly premeditated languor, a polished, intelligent sprig, and a thief, who had a caressing glance, and an atrocious smile. His glance resulted from his will, and his smile from his nature. His first studies in his art had been directed to roofs. He had made great progress in the industry of the men who tear off lead, who plunder the roofs and despoil the gutters by the process called double pickings.
The circumstance which put the finishing touch on the moment peculiarly favorable for an attempt at escape, was that the roofers were re-laying and re-jointing, at that very moment, a portion of the slates on the prison. The Saint-Bernard courtyard was no longer absolutely isolated from the Charlemagne and the Saint-Louis courts. Up above there were scaffoldings and ladders; in other words, bridges and stairs in the direction of liberty.
The New Building, which was the most cracked and decrepit thing to be seen anywhere in the world, was the weak point in the prison. The walls were eaten by saltpetre to such an extent that the authorities had been obliged to line the vaults of the dormitories with a sheathing of wood, because stones were in the habit of becoming detached and falling on the prisoners in their beds. In spite of this antiquity, the authorities committed the error of confining in the New Building the most troublesome prisoners, of placing there "the hard cases," as they say in prison parlance. 
The New Building contained four dormitories, one above the other, and a top story which was called the Bel-Air (FineAir). A large chimney-flue, probably from some ancient kitchen of the Dukes de la Force, started from the groundfloor, traversed all four stories, cut the dormitories, where it figured as a flattened pillar, into two portions, and finally pierced the roof.
Guelemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been placed, by way of precaution, on the lower story. Chance ordained that the heads of their beds should rest against the chimney.
Thenardier was directly over their heads in the top story known as Fine-Air.The pedestrian who halts on the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, after passing the barracks of the firemen, in front of the porte-cochere of the bathing establishment, beholds a yard full of flowers and shrubs in wooden boxes, at the extremity of which spreads out a little white rotunda with two wings, brightened up with green shutters, the bucolic dream of Jean Jacques. 
Not more than ten years ago, there rose above that rotunda an enormous black, hideous, bare wall by which it was backed up. 
This was the outer wall of La Force.
This wall, beside that rotunda, was Milton viewed through Berquin.
Lofty as it was, this wall was overtopped by a still blacker roof, which could be seen beyond. This was the roof of the New Building. There one could descry four dormer-windows, guarded with bars; they were the windows of the Fine-Air.
A chimney pierced the roof; this was the chimney which traversed the dormitories.
The Bel-Air, that top story of the New Building, was a sort of large hall, with a Mansard roof, guarded with triple gratings and double doors of sheet iron, which were studded with enormous bolts. When one entered from the north end, one had on one's left the four dormer-windows, on one's right, facing the windows, at regular intervals, four square, tolerably vast cages, separated by narrow passages, built of masonry to about the height of the elbow, and the rest, up to the roof, of iron bars.
Thenardier had been in solitary confinement in one of these cages since the night of the 3d of February. No one was ever able to discover how, and by what connivance, he succeeded in procuring, and secreting a bottle of wine, invented, so it is said, by Desrues, with which a narcotic is mixed, and which the band of the Endormeurs, or Sleep-compellers, rendered famous.
There are, in many prisons, treacherous employees, half-jailers,half-thieves, who assist in escapes, who sell to the police an unfaithful service, and who turn a penny whenever they can. 
On that same night, then, when Little Gavroche picked up the two lost children, Brujon and Guelemer, who knew that Babet, who had escaped that morning, was waiting for them in the street as well as Montparnasse, rose softly, and with the nail which Brujon had found, began to pierce the chimney against which their beds stood. The rubbish fell on Brujon's bed, so that they were not heard. Showers mingled with thunder shook the doors on their hinges, and created in the prison a terrible and opportune uproar. Those of the prisoners who woke, pretended to fall asleep again, and left Guelemer and Brujon to their own devices. Brujon was adroit; Guelemer was vigorous. Before any sound had reached the watcher, who was sleeping in the grated cell which opened into the dormitory, the wall had, been pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron grating which barred the upper orifice of the flue forced, and the two redoubtable ruffians were on the roof. The wind and rain redoubled, the roof was slippery.
"What a good night to leg it!" said Brujon.
An abyss six feet broad and eighty feet deep separated them from the surrounding wall. At the bottom of this abyss, they could see the musket of a sentinel gleaming through the gloom. They fastened one end of the rope which Brujon had spun in his dungeon to the stumps of the iron bars which they had just wrenched off, flung the other over the outer wall, crossed the abyss at one bound, clung to the coping of the wall, got astride of it, let themselves slip, one after the other, along the rope, upon a little roof which touches the bath-house, pulled their rope after them, jumped down into the courtyard of the bath-house, traversed it, pushed open the porter's wicket, beside which hung his rope, pulled this, opened the porte-cochere, and found themselves in the street. 
Three-quarters of an hour had not elapsed since they had risen in bed in the dark, nail in hand, and their project in their heads.
A few moments later they had joined Babet and Montparnasse, who were prowling about the neighborhood. 
They had broken their rope in pulling it after them, and a bit of it remained attached to the chimney on the roof. They had sustained no other damage, however, than that of scratching nearly all the skin off their hands. 
That night, Thenardier was warned, without any one being able to explain how, and was not asleep. 
Towards one o'clock in the morning, the night being very dark, he saw two shadows pass along the roof, in the rain and squalls, in front of the dormer-window which was opposite his cage. One halted at the window, long enough to dart in a glance. This was Brujon.
Thenardier recognized him, and understood. This was enough.
Thenardier, rated as a burglar, and detained as a measure of precaution under the charge of organizing a nocturnal ambush, with armed force, was kept in sight. The sentry, who was relieved every two hours, marched up and down in front of his cage with loaded musket. The Fine-Air was lighted by a skylight. The prisoner had on his feet fetters weighing fifty pounds. Every day, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a jailer, escorted by two dogs,--this was still in vogue at that time,--entered his cage, deposited beside his bed a loaf of black bread weighing two pounds, a jug of water, a bowl filled with rather thin bouillon, in which swam a few Mayagan beans, inspected his irons and tapped the bars. This man and his dogs made two visits during the night. 
Thenardier had obtained permission to keep a sort of iron bolt which he used to spike his bread into a crack in the wall, "in order to preserve it from the rats," as he said. As Thenardier was kept in sight, no objection had been made to this spike. Still, it was remembered afterwards, that one of the jailers had said: "It would be better to let him have only a wooden spike." 
At two o'clock in the morning, the sentinel, who was an old soldier,was relieved, and replaced by a conscript. A few moments later, the man with the dogs paid his visit, and went off without noticing anything, except, possibly, the excessive youth and "the rustic air" of the "raw recruit." Two hours afterwards, at four o'clock, when they came to relieve the conscript, he was found asleep on the floor, lying like a log near Thenardier's cage. As for Thenardier, he was no longer there. There was a hole in the ceiling of his cage, and, above it, another hole in the roof. One of the planks of his bed had been wrenched off, and probably carried away with him, as it was not found. They also seized in his cell a half-empty bottle which contained the remains of the stupefying wine with which the soldier had been drugged. The soldier's bayonet had disappeared. 
At the moment when this discovery was made, it was assumed that Thenardier was out of reach. The truth is, that he was no longer in the New Building, but that he was still in great danger. 
Thenardier, on reaching the roof of the New Building, had found the remains of Brujon's rope hanging to the bars of the upper trap of the chimney, but, as this broken fragment was much too short, he had not been able to escape by the outer wall, as Brujon and Guelemer had done.
When one turns from the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, one almost immediately encounters a repulsive ruin. There stood on that spot, in the last century, a house of which only the back wall now remains, a regular wall of masonry, which rises to the height of the third story between the adjoining buildings. This ruin can be recognized by two large square windows which are still to be seen there; the middle one, that nearest the right gable, is barred with a worm-eaten beam adjusted like a prop. Through these windows there was formerly visible a lofty and lugubrious wall, which was a fragment of the outer wall of La Force.
The empty space on the street left by the demolished house is half-filled by a fence of rotten boards, shored up by five stone posts. In this recess lies concealed a little shanty which leans against the portion of the ruin which has remained standing. The fence has a gate, which, a few years ago, was fastened only by a latch.
It was the crest of this ruin that Thenardier had succeeded in reaching, a little after one o'clock in the morning. 
How had he got there? That is what no one has ever been able to explain or understand. The lightning must, at the same time, have hindered and helped him. Had he made use of the ladders and scaffoldings of the slaters to get from roof to roof, from enclosure to enclosure, from compartment to compartment, to the buildings of the Charlemagne court, then to the buildings of the Saint-Louis court, to the outer wall, and thence to the hut on the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile? But in that itinerary there existed breaks which seemed to render it an impossibility. Had he placed the plank from his bed like a bridge from the roof of the Fine-Air to the outer wall, and crawled flat, on his belly on the coping of the outer wall the whole distance round the prison as far as the hut? But the outer wall of La Force formed a crenellated and unequal line; it mounted and descended, it dropped at the firemen's barracks, it rose towards the bath-house, it was cut in twain by buildings, it was not even of the same height on the Hotel Lamoignon as on the Rue Pavee; everywhere occurred falls and right angles; and then, the sentinels must have espied the dark form of the fugitive; hence, the route taken by Thenardier still remains rather inexplicable. In two manners, flight was impossible. Had Thenardier, spurred on by that thirst for liberty which changes precipices into ditches, iron bars into wattles of osier, a legless man into an athlete, a gouty man into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into intelligence, and intelligence into genius, had Thenardier invented a third mode? No one has ever found out.
The marvels of escape cannot always be accounted for. The man who makes his escape, we repeat, is inspired; there is something of the star and of the lightning in the mysterious gleam of flight; the effort towards deliverance is no less surprising than theflight towards the sublime, and one says of the escaped thief: "How did he contrive to scale that wall?" in the same way that one 
says of Corneille: "Where did he find the means of dying?"
At all events, dripping with perspiration, drenched with rain, with his clothes hanging in ribbons, his hands flayed, his elbows bleeding, his knees torn, Thenardier had reached what children, in their figurative language, call the edge of the wall of the ruin, there he had stretched himself out at full length, and there his strength had failed him. A steep escarpment three stories high separated him from the pavement of the street.
The rope which he had was too short.
There he waited, pale, exhausted, desperate with all the despair which he had undergone, still hidden by the night, but telling 
himself that the day was on the point of dawning, alarmed at the idea of hearing the neighboring clock of Saint-Paul strike four within a few minutes, an hour when the sentinel was relieved and when the latter would be found asleep under the pierced roof, staring in horror at a terrible depth, at the light of the street lanterns, the wet, black pavement, that pavement longed for yet frightful, which meant death, and which meant liberty. 
He asked himself whether his three accomplices in flight had succeeded, if they had heard him, and if they would come to his assistance. He listened. With the exception of the patrol, no one had passed through the street since he had been there. Nearly the whole of the descent of the market-gardeners from Montreuil, from Charonne, from Vincennes, and from Bercy to the markets was accomplished through the Rue Saint-Antoine.
Four o'clock struck. Thenardier shuddered. A few moments later, that terrified and confused uproar which follows the discovery of an escape broke forth in the prison. The sound of doors opening and shutting, the creaking of gratings on their hinges, a tumult in the guard-house, the hoarse shouts of the turnkeys, the shock of musket-butts on the pavement of the courts, reached his ears. Lights ascended and descended past the grated windows of the dormitories, a torch ran along the ridge-pole of the top story of the New Building, the firemen belonging in the barracks on the right had been summoned. Their helmets, which the torch lighted up in the rain, went and came along the roofs. At the same time, Thenardier perceived in the direction of the Bastille a wan whiteness lighting up the edge of the sky in doleful wise.
He was on top of a wall ten inches wide, stretched out under the heavy rains, with two gulfs to right and left, unable to stir, subject to the giddiness of a possible fall, and to the horror of a certain arrest, and his thoughts, like the pendulum of a clock, swung from one of these ideas to the other: "Dead if I fall, caught if I stay." In the midst of this anguish, he suddenly saw, the street being still dark, a man who was gliding along the walls and coming from the Rue Pavee, halt in the recess above which Thenardier was, as it were, suspended. Here this man was joined by a second, who walked with the same caution, then by a third, then by a fourth. When these men were re-united, one of them lifted the latch of the gate in the fence, and all four entered the enclosure in which the shanty stood. They halted directly under Thenardier. These men had evidently chosen this vacant space in order that they might consult without being seen by the passers-by or by the sentinel who guards the wicket of La Force a few paces distant. It must be added, that the rain kept this sentinel blocked in his box. Thenardier, not being able to distinguish their visages, lent an ear to their words with the desperate attention of a wretch who feels himself lost.
Thenardier saw something resembling a gleam of hope flash before his eyes,--these men conversed in slang.
The first said in a low but distinct voice:--
"Let's cut. What are we up to here?"
The second replied: "It's raining hard enough to put out the very devil's fire. And the bobbies will be along instanter. There's a soldier on guard yonder. We shall get nabbed here." 
These two words, icigo and icicaille, both of which mean ici, and which belong, the first to the slang of the barriers, the second to the slang of the Temple, were flashes of light for Thenardier. By the icigo he recognized Brujon, who was a prowler of the barriers, by the icicaille he knew Babet, who, among his other trades, had been an old-clothes broker at the Temple.
The antique slang of the great century is no longer spoken except in the Temple, and Babet was really the only person who spoke it in all its purity. Had it not been for the icicaille, Thenardier would not have recognized him, for he had entirely changed his voice. 
In the meanwhile, the third man had intervened.
"There's no hurry yet, let's wait a bit. How do we know that he doesn't stand in need of us?" 
By this, which was nothing but French, Thenardier recognized Montparnasse, who made it a point in his elegance to understand all slangs and to speak none of them.
As for the fourth, he held his peace, but his huge shouldersbetrayed him. Thenardier did not hesitate. It was Guelemer. 
Brujon replied almost impetuously but still in a low tone:-- 
"What are you jabbering about? The tavern-keeper hasn't managed to cut his stick. He don't tumble to the racket, that he don't! You have to be a pretty knowing cove to tear up your shirt, cut up your sheet to make a rope, punch holes in doors, get up false papers, make false keys, file your irons, hang out your cord, hide yourself, and disguise yourself! The old fellow hasn't managed to play it, he doesn't understand how to work the business." 
Babet added, still in that classical slang which was spoken by Poulailler and Cartouche, and which is to the bold, new, highly colored and risky argot used by Brujon what the language of Racine is to the language of Andre Chenier:--
"Your tavern-keeper must have been nabbed in the act. You have to be knowing. He's only a greenhorn. He must have let himself be taken in by a bobby, perhaps even by a sheep who played it on him as his pal. Listen, Montparnasse, do you hear those shouts in the prison? You have seen all those lights. He's recaptured, there! He'll get off with twenty years. I ain't afraid, I ain't a coward, but there ain't anything more to do, or otherwise they'd lead us a dance. Don't get mad, come with us, let's go drink a bottle of old wine together." 
"One doesn't desert one's friends in a scrape," grumbled Montparnasse.
"I tell you he's nabbed!" retorted Brujon. "At the present moment, the inn-keeper ain't worth a ha'penny. We can't do nothing for him. Let's be off. Every minute I think a bobby has got me in his fist." 
Montparnasse no longer offered more than a feeble resistance; the fact is, that these four men, with the fidelity of ruffians who never abandon each other, had prowled all night long about La Force, great as was their peril, in the hope of seeing Thenardier make his appearance on the top of some wall. But the night, which was really growing too fine,--for the downpour was such as to render all the streets deserted,--the cold which was overpowering them, their soaked garments, their hole-ridden shoes, the alarming noise which had just burst forth in the prison, the hours which had elapsed, the patrol which they had encountered, the hope which was vanishing, all urged them to beat a retreat. Montparnasse himself, who was, perhaps, almost Thenardier's son-in-law, yielded. A moment more, and they would be gone. Thenardier was panting on his wall like the shipwrecked sufferers of the Meduse on their raft when they beheld the vessel which had appeared in sight vanish on the horizon. 
He dared not call to them; a cry might be heard and ruin everything. An idea occurred to him, a last idea, a flash of inspiration; he drew from his pocket the end of Brujon's rope, which he had detached from the chimney of the New Building, and flung it into the space enclosed by the fence.
This rope fell at their feet.
"A widow,"[37] said Babet.
[37] Argot of the Temple.
"My tortouse!"[38] said Brujon.
[38] Argot of the barriers.
"The tavern-keeper is there," said Montparnasse.
They raised their eyes. Thenardier thrust out his head a very little.
"Quick!" said Montparnasse, "have you the other end of the rope, Brujon?"
"Yes."
"Knot the two pieces together, we'll fling him the rope, he can fasten it to the wall, and he'll have enough of it to get down with." 
Thenardier ran the risk, and spoke:--
"I am paralyzed with cold."
"We'll warm you up."
"I can't budge."
"Let yourself slide, we'll catch you."
"My hands are benumbed."
"Only fasten the rope to the wall."
"I can't."
"Then one of us must climb up," said Montparnasse.
"Three stories!" ejaculated Brujon.
An ancient plaster flue, which had served for a stove that had been used in the shanty in former times, ran along the wall and mounted almost to the very spot where they could see Thenardier. This flue, then much damaged and full of cracks, has since fallen, but the marks of it are still visible.
It was very narrow.
"One might get up by the help of that," said Montparnasse.
"By that flue?" exclaimed Babet, "a grown-up cove, never! it would take a brat."
"A brat must be got," resumed Brujon.
"Where are we to find a young 'un?" said Guelemer.
"Wait," said Montparnasse. "I've got the very article."
He opened the gate of the fence very softly, made sure that no one was passing along the street, stepped out cautiously, shut the gate behind him, and set off at a run in the direction of the Bastille. 
Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Thenardier; Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer did not open their lips; at last the gate opened once more, and Montparnasse appeared, breathless, and followed by Gavroche. The rain still rendered the street completely deserted. 
Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the forms of these ruffians with a tranquil air. The water was dripping from his hair. Guelemer addressed him:--
"Are you a man, young 'un?" 
Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied:-- 
"A young 'un like me's a man, and men like you are babes."
"The brat's tongue's well hung!" exclaimed Babet.
"The Paris brat ain't made of straw," added Brujon.
"What do you want?" asked Gavroche.
Montparnasse answered:--
"Climb up that flue."
"With this rope," said Babet.
"And fasten it," continued Brujon.
"To the top of the wall," went on Babet.
"To the cross-bar of the window," added Brujon.
"And then?" said Gavroche.
"There!" said Guelemer.
The gamin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the windows, and made that indescribable and disdainful noise with his lips which signifies:--
"Is that all!"
"There's a man up there whom you are to save," resumed Montparnasse.
"Will you?" began Brujon again.
"Greenhorn!" replied the lad, as though the question appeared a most unprecedented one to him.
And he took off his shoes.
Guelemer seized Gavroche by one arm, set him on the roof of the shanty, whose worm-eaten planks bent beneath the urchin's weight,and handed him the rope which Brujon had knotted together during Montparnasse's absence. The gamin directed his steps towards the flue, which it was easy to enter, thanks to a large crack which touched the roof. At the moment when he was on the point of ascending, Thenardier, who saw life and safety approaching, bent over the edge of the wall; the first light of dawn struck white upon his brow dripping with sweat, upon his livid cheek-bones, his sharp and savage nose, his bristling gray beard, and Gavroche recognized him.
"Hullo! it's my father! Oh, that won't hinder."
And taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely began the ascent.
He reached the summit of the hut, bestrode the old wall as though it had been a horse. and knotted the rope firmly to the upper cross-bar of the window.
A moment later, Thenardier was in the street.
As soon as he touched the pavement, as soon as he found himself out of danger, he was no longer either weary, or chilled or trembling; the terrible things from which he had escaped vanished like smoke, all that strange and ferocious mind awoke once more, and stood erect and free, ready to march onward.
These were this man's first words:--
"Now, whom are we to eat?"
It is useless to explain the sense of this frightfully transparent remark, which signifies both to kill, to assassinate, and to plunder. To eat, true sense: to devour. 
"Let's get well into a corner," said Brujon. "Let's settle it in three words, and part at once. There was an affair that promised well in the Rue Plumet, a deserted street, an isolated house, an old rotten gate on a garden, and lone women."
"Well! why not?" demanded Thenardier.
"Your girl, Eponine, went to see about the matter," replied Babet.
"And she brought a biscuit to Magnon," added Guelemer. "Nothing to be made there."
"The girl's no fool," said Thenardier. "Still, it must be seen to." 
"Yes, yes," said Brujon, "it must be looked up."
In the meanwhile, none of the men seemed to see Gavroche, who, during this colloquy, had seated himself on one of the fence-posts; he waited a few moments, thinking that perhaps his father would turn towards him, then he put on his shoes again, and said:--
"Is that all? You don't want any more, my men? Now you're out of your scrape. I'm off. I must go and get my brats out of bed." 
And off he went.The five men emerged, one after another, from the enclosure.
When Gavroche had disappeared at the corner of the Rue des Ballets, Babet took Thenardier aside.
"Did you take a good look at that young 'un?" he asked.
"What young 'un?"
"The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope."
"Not particularly."
"Well, I don't know, but it strikes me that it was your son."
"Bah!" said Thenardier, "do you think so?"
下面是这同一个晚上发生在拉弗尔斯监狱里的事：
巴伯、普吕戎、海嘴和德纳第之间早已商量好了要越狱，尽管德纳第是关在单人牢房里。巴伯当天便办妥了他自己的事，这是我们已在巴纳斯山向伽弗洛什所作的叙述中见到了的。
巴纳斯山应当从外面援助他们。
普吕戎在刑房里住了一个月，趁这期间他做了两件事：一，编好了一根绳子；二，一套计划思考成熟了。从前，狱里的制度是让囚犯自己去处理自己的，囚禁他们的那种严酷的地方，四堵墙是条石砌的，顶上也是条石架的，地上铺了石板，放一张布榻，有一个用铁条拦住的透风洞，一道钉上铁皮的门，这种地方叫做囚牢，但是有人认为囚牢太可怕了。现在，这种地方的结构是：一道铁门、一个用铁条拦住的透风洞、一张布榻、石板地面、条石架起的顶、条石砌起的四堵墙，而且改称为刑房。那里在中午稍微有点光。这种房间，我们心里明白，已不是囚牢，但仍有它的不便之处，那就是，它让一些应当从事劳动的人待下来动脑筋。
普吕戎，正因为他爱动脑筋，才带着一根绳子走出了刑房。他在查理大帝院里，被公认为一个相当危险的人物，别人便把他安插在新大楼里。他在新大楼里发现的第一件东西，是海嘴，第二件，是一根钉子。海嘴，意味着犯罪，一根钉子，意味着自由。
关于普吕戎，我们现在应当有个完整的概念。这人，外表具有文弱的体质和经过预先细想过的忧伤神情，是一条打磨光了的好汉，聪明，诡诈，眼神柔媚，笑容凶残。眼神是他意志的表露，笑容是他本性的表露。他最先学习的技艺是针对屋顶的，他大大发展了拔除铅皮的技能，运用所谓“切牛胃”的方法来破坏屋顶结构和溜槽。
使当时更有利于实现越狱企图的，是当日有些泥瓦工在掀开重整那监狱房顶上的石板瓦。圣贝尔纳院和查理大帝院以及圣路易院之间已不是绝对隔离的了。那上面架起了不少脚手架和梯子，也就是说，已有了一些可以和外界沟通的天桥和飞梯了。
新大楼原是那监狱的弱点，已处处开裂，破旧到了举世无双的程度。那些墙被盐硝腐蚀到如此地步，以至每间寝室的拱形圆顶都非加上一层木板来保护不可，因为常有石块从顶上落到睡在床上的囚犯身上。房屋虽已破旧不堪，人们却仍错误地把那些最恼火的犯人，按照狱里的话来说，把那些“重案子”
关在新大楼里。
新大楼有四间上下相叠的寝室和一间叫做气爽楼的顶楼。一道很宽的壁炉烟囱棗也许是前拉弗尔斯公爵的厨房里的烟囱，从底层起，穿过四层楼房，把那些寝室一隔为二，象一根扁平的柱子，直通过屋顶。
海嘴和普吕戎同住一间寝室。为了谨慎起见，人们把这两个人安置在下面的一层楼上。他们两人的床头又都偶然抵在壁炉烟囱上。
德纳第住在所谓气爽楼的那间顶楼里，正好在他们的头上。
街上的行人，在走过消防队营房，停在圣卡特琳园地街的班家宅子的大车门前，便能望见一个摆满栽有花木的木盆的院子，院子底里有一座白色的圆亭，亭有两翼，都装了绿色的百叶窗，颇有让－雅克所梦想的那种牧场情趣。前此不出十年，在这圆亭上面，还耸立着一道高大的黑墙，形象奇丑，圆亭便紧靠着这道赤裸裸的墙。墙头便是拉弗尔斯监狱的巡逻道所在之处。
圆亭背后的这道墙，令人想象出现在贝尔坎背后的密尔顿。
那道墙尽管很高，但仍从墙头露出一道更黑的屋顶，那便是新大楼的屋顶。屋顶上有四扇全装了铁条的天窗，那便是气爽楼的窗子。一道烟囱从屋顶下伸出来，那便是穿过几层寝室的一道烟囱。
气爽楼在新大楼的顶层，是一大间顶楼，有几道装了三层铁栏的门和两面都装了铁皮并布满特大铁钉的板门。我们打北头进去，左面有那四扇天窗，右面，正对着天窗有四个相当大的方形铁笼，四个笼子是分开的，它们之间有一条窄过道，笼子的下面一截是齐胸高的墙，上面一截是直达屋顶的铁栅栏。
德纳第自二月三日晚上起，便被单独关在这样的一个铁笼里。人们始终没能查明，他是如何，以及和谁勾结，得到了一瓶那种据说是德吕发明的含有麻醉剂的药酒，这帮匪徒因而以“哄睡者”闻名于世。
在好些监狱里都有那种奸役猾吏，半官半匪，他们协助越狱，向警察当局虚报情况，从中捞取油水。
就在小伽弗洛什收留两个流浪儿的那天晚上，普吕戎和海嘴知道了巴伯已在当天早上逃走并将和巴纳斯山一起在街上接应他们。他们悄悄从床上爬起来，开始用普吕戎找来的那棍钉子挖通他们床头边的壁炉烟囱。灰碴全落在普吕戎的床上，以免旁人听见。风雨夹着雷声，正推使各处的门在门臼中撞击，以至监狱里响起了一片骇人而有用的响声。被吵醒的囚犯们都假装睡着了，让海嘴和普吕戎行动。普吕戎手脚灵巧，海嘴体力充沛。狱监睡在一间对着寝室开一道铁栏门的单人房间里，在他听出动静以前，那两个凶顽的匪徒早已挖通墙壁，爬上烟囱，破开烟囱顶上的铁丝网，到了屋顶上面。雨和风来得更猛，屋顶是滑溜溜的。
“一个多么好的开小差的夜晚！”普吕戎说。
一道六尺宽、八丈深的鸿沟横在他们和那巡逻道之间。在那鸿沟的底里，他们还望见一个站岗兵士的步枪在黑暗中闪光。他们拿出普吕戎在牢里编的绳子，一头拴在烟囱顶上刚被他们扭曲的铁条上，一头向着巡逻道的上面甩出去，一个箭步便跨过了鸿沟，双手攀住墙边，翻身跨上去，一前一后，顺着那根绳子滑下去，落在班家宅子旁边的一个小屋顶上，接着又拉回他们的绳子，跳到班家院子里，穿过院子，推开门房门头上的小窗，抽动那根悬在小窗旁边的索子，开了大车门，便到了街上。
从他们在黑暗中，手里捏着一根钉子，脑子里有着一个计划，爬起来立在床上算起，还不到三刻钟。
不久他们便遇上了在附近徘徊的巴伯和巴纳斯山。
他们的那根绳子，在抽回时断了，有一段还拴在屋顶上的烟囱口上。除了手掌皮几乎全被擦掉以外，他们并没有其他的伤。
那晚，德纳第便已得到消息，不知他是怎么得到的，他老睡不着。
将近凌晨一点钟时，夜黑极了，雨大风狂，他望见两个人影，在屋顶上，从他那铁笼对面的天窗外面闪过。其中的一个在天窗口上停了一下，不过一眨眼的时间。这是普吕戎。德纳第认清楚了，他心里明白。这已经够了。
德纳第是被指控为黑夜手持凶器谋害人命的凶犯而受到囚禁和监视的。老有一个值班的兵士掮着枪在他的铁笼前面走来走去，每两个钟点换一班。气爽楼是由一个挂在墙上的烛台照明的。这犯人的脚上有一对五十斤重的铁球。每天下午四点，由一个狱卒带两只大头狗棗当时还采用这种办法棗来到他的铁笼里，把一块两斤重的黑面包、一罐冷水、一满瓢带几粒豆子的素汤放在他的床前，检查他的脚镣，敲敲那些铁件。这人每晚要带着他的大头狗来巡查两次。
德纳第曾得到许可，把一根铁扦似的东西留下来，好插住他的面包钉在墙缝里，“免得给耗子吃了。”他说。由于德纳第是经常受到监视的，便没有人感到这铁扦有什么不妥。直到日后大伙儿才想起有个狱卒曾经说过：“只给他根木扦会更妥当些。”
早上两点钟换班时把一个老兵撤走了，换来一个新兵。过了一会儿，那个带狗的人来巡查，除了感到那“丘八”过于年轻和“那种乡巴佬的样子”外，并没有发现什么，也就走了。过了两个钟头，到四点，又该换班，这才发现那新兵象块石头似的倒在德纳第的铁笼旁边，睡着了。至于德纳第，已不知去向。他的脚镣断了，留在方砖地上。在他那铁笼的顶上，有一个洞，更上面，屋顶上，也有一个洞。他床上的一块木板被撬掉了，也许还被带走了，因为日后始终没有找回来。在那囚牢里，还找到半瓶迷魂酒，是那兵士喝剩下来的，他已被蒙汗药蒙倒，他的刺刀也不见了。
到这一切都被发觉时，大伙儿都认为德纳第已经远走高飞了。其实，他只逃出了新大楼，没有脱离危险。他的越狱企图还远没有完成。
德纳第到了新大楼的屋顶上，发现普吕戎留下的那段绳子，还挂在烟囱顶罩上的铁条上，但是这段绳子太短，他不能象普吕戎和海嘴那样，从巡逻道上面逃出去。
当我们从芭蕾舞街转进西西里王街时，便几乎立即遇到右手边的一小块肮脏不堪的空地。这地方，在前一世纪，原有一栋房子，现在只剩下一堵后墙了，那真正是一栋破烂房子的危墙，高达四层楼，竖在毗邻的房屋之间。这一残迹不难辨认，现在人们还能望见那上面的两扇大方窗，中间，最靠近右墙尖的那扇窗子顶上还横着一根方椽，这是作为承受压力的搁条装在那上面的，已有虫伤。过去人们从这些窗口可以望见一道阴森森的高墙，那便是拉弗尔斯监狱的围墙，墙头上便是巡逻道。
那房屋被毁以后，留下一块临街的空地，空地的一半由一道有五根条石支撑着的栅栏围着，栅栏上的木板已经腐朽。栅栏里隐藏着一间小木棚，紧靠在那堵要倒不倒的危墙下面。栅栏上有一扇门，几年前，门上还有一根销子。
德纳第在早上三点过后不久到达的地方便是在这危墙顶上。
他是怎样来到这地方的呢？谁也说不清，也无从理解。闪电大致一直在妨碍他，也一直在帮助他。他是不是利用了那些盖瓦工人的梯子和脚手架，从一个房顶达到一个房顶，一个圈栏达到一个圈栏，一个间隔达到一个间隔，先是查理大帝院的大楼，再是圣路易院的大楼，巡逻道的墙头，从这里再爬到这破房子上的呢？但是在这样一条路线上，有许多无法解决的衔接问题，看来是不大可能的。他是不是把他床上的那块木板当作桥梁，从气爽楼架到巡逻道的墙头，再顺着围墙边，趴在地上，绕着监狱爬了一圈，才到达这幢破房子的呢？但是拉弗尔斯监狱的这条巡逻道的墙是起伏不平的，它时而高，时而低，在消防队营房那一带，它低下去，到了班家宅子，又高起来，一路上还被一些建筑所隔断，靠近拉莫瓦尼翁府邸那一段的高度便不同于对着铺石街那一段的高度，处处都是陡壁和直角，并且，哨兵们也不会看不见一个逃犯的黑影，因此德纳第所走的路线，要这样去解释，也仍旧说不通。以这两种方式，看来逃走都是不可能的。德纳第迫切渴望自由，因而情急智生，把深渊化为浅坑，铁栏门化为柳条篱，双腿残缺者化为运动员，瘫子化为飞鸟，愚痴化为直感，直感化为智慧，智慧化为天才，他是否临时创造发明了第三种办法呢？始终没有人知道。
越狱的奇迹不总是能阐述清楚的。脱离险境的人，让我们反复说明，常靠灵机一动，在促成逃脱的那种精秘的微明中，常有星光和闪电，探寻生路的毅力是和奇文妙语同样惊人的。我们在谈到一个逃犯时，常会问道：“他怎么会翻过这房顶的呢？”同样，我们在谈到高乃依时，也常会问道：“他是从什么地方想出那句妙语‘死亡’的呢？”
总之，淌着一身汗，淋着一身雨，衣服缕裂，双手被剥了皮，双肘流血，双膝被撕破了的德纳第来到了那堵危墙的“刃儿”上棗照孩子们想象的说法棗，他伸直了身体，伏在那上面，精疲力竭了。在他和街面之间还隔着一道四层楼高的陡峭削壁。
他揣着的那根绳子太短了。
他只能等待，脸如死灰，气力不济，刚才的指望全成了泡影，虽然仍在黑夜的掩蔽中，心里却老念着不久就要天亮，想到附近圣保罗教堂的钟马上就要报四点了，更是心惊胆战，到那时，哨兵要换班，人们将发现那哨兵躺在捅开了的屋顶下面，他丧魂失魄地望着身下的骇人的深度，望着路灯的微光，望着那湿漉漉、黑洞洞、一心想踏上却又危险万状、既能带来死亡又是自由所在的街心。
他心里在琢磨，那三个和他同谋越狱的人是否已经脱逃，他们是否在等他，会不会来搭救他。他侧耳细听。自从他到达那上面以后，除了一个巡逻队以外，还没有谁在街上走过。凡是从蒙特勒伊、夏罗纳、万塞纳、贝尔西去市场的蔬菜贩子几乎全是由圣安东尼街走的。
四点钟报了。德纳第听了毛发直竖。不大一会儿，监狱里便响起一片在发现越狱事件后必有的那种乱哄哄的惊扰声。开门，关门，铁门斗的尖叫，卫队的喧嚷，狱卒们的哑嗓子，枪托在院子里石板地上撞击的声音，都一齐传到了他的耳边。无数灯光在那些寝室的铁窗口忽上忽下，火炬在新大楼的顶上奔跑，旁边营房里的消防队员也调来了。火炬照着他们的钢盔，在各处的房顶上迎着风雨来来往往。同时，德纳第望见，靠巴士底广场那个方向，有一片灰暗的色彩，在苍茫凄惨的天边渐渐转白。
他呢，陷在那十寸宽的墙头上，躺在瓢泼大雨的下面，左右两边都是绝地，动弹不得，既怕头晕掉下去，又怕重遭逮捕，他的思想，象个钟锤，在这样两个念头间来回摇摆：掉下去便只有死，不动又只有被捕。
他正在悲痛绝望中，忽然看见棗当时街道还完全是黑的棗一个人顺着围墙，从铺石街那面走来，停在他德纳第仿佛临空挂着的那地方下面的空地上。这人到了以后，随即又来了第二个人，也是那样偷偷摸摸走来的，随后又是第三个，随后又是第四个。这些人会齐以后，其中的一个提起了栅栏门上的销子，四个人全走进了那有木棚的圈栏里。他们恰巧都站在德纳第的下面。这几个人显然是为了不让街上的过路人和守在几步以外拉弗尔斯监狱了望口的那个哨兵看见，才选择了这块空地作为他们交谈的地点。也应当指出，当时的大雨已把那哨兵封锁在他的岗亭里。德纳第看不清他们的面孔，只得集中一个自叹生机已绝的穷途末路人所具有的那一点无所希冀的注意力，张着耳朵去听他们的谈话。
德纳第仿佛看见他眼前有了一线希望，这些人说的是黑话。
第一个轻轻地，但是清晰地说道：
“我们走吧。我们还待在此地干啥？”
第二个回答说：
“这雨下得连鬼火也熄灭了。并且警察就要来了。那边有个兵在站岗。我们会在此地被人逮住。”
Icigo和icicaille这两个字全当“此地”讲，头一个字属于便门一带的黑话，后一个属于大庙一带的黑话，这对德纳第来说，等于是一道光明。从icigo，他认出了普吕戎，普吕戎原是便门一带的歹徒，从icicaille，他认出了巴伯，巴伯干过许多行当，也曾在大庙贩卖过旧货。
大世纪的古老黑话，也只有大庙一带的人还能说说，巴伯甚至是唯一能把这种黑话说得地道的人。他当时如果没有说ici－caille，德纳第绝不会认出他来，因为他把口音完全改变了。
这时，第三个人插进来说：
“不用急，再等一下。现在还不能肯定他不需要我们。”
这句话是用法语说的，德纳第听到，便认出了巴纳斯山，此人的高贵处便在于能听懂任何一种黑话，而自己绝不说。
第四个人没有开口，但是他那双宽肩膀瞒不了人。德纳第一眼便看出了。那是海嘴。
普吕戎表示反对，他几乎是急不可耐，但始终压低着嗓子说道：
“你在和我们说什么？客店老板大致没有逃成功。他不懂得这里的窍门，确是！撕衬衫，裂垫单，用来做根绳子，门上挖洞，造假证件，做假钥匙，掐断脚镣，拴好绳子甩到外面去，躲起来，化装，这些都得有点小聪明！这老倌大致没有能办到，他不知道工作！”
巴伯说的始终是普拉耶和卡图什常说的那种正规古典的黑话，而普吕戎所用的是一种大胆创新、色彩丰富、敢于突破陈规的黑话，它们之间的不同，有如拉辛的语言不同于安德烈·舍尼埃的语言。巴伯接着说道：
“你那客店老板也许当场就让人家逮住了。非有点小聪明不成。他还只是个学徒。他也许上了一个暗探的当，甚至被一个假装同行的奸细卖了。听，巴纳斯山，你听见狱里那种喊声没有？你看见那一片烛光。他已被抓住了，你放心！不成问题他又得去坐他的二十年牢了。我并不害怕，我不是胆小鬼，你们全知道，但是现在只能溜走，要不，我们也跟着倒霉。你不要生气，还是跟我们一道去喝一瓶老酒吧。”
“朋友有困难，我们总不能不管。”巴纳斯山嘟囔着。
“我告诉你，他已经完了！”普吕戎说。“到如今，那客店老板已经一文不值。我们没有办法。我们还是走吧。我随时都感到一个警察已把我牵在他的手里。”
巴纳斯山只能微微表示反对了，事情是这样：这四个人，带着匪徒们常有的那种彼此永不离弃的忠忱，曾不顾任何危险，在拉弗尔斯监狱四周徘徊了一整夜，希望看见德纳第忽然出现在某一处的墙头上。但是那天夜里的确太好了，倾盆大雨清除了各处街道上的行人，寒气越来越重，他们的衣服全湿透了，鞋底通了，监狱里响起了一片使人心慌的声音，时间过去了，巡逻队一再走过，希望渐渐渺茫，恐惧心逐渐回复，这一切都在迫使他们退却。巴纳斯山本人，也许多少算是德纳第的女婿，也让步了。再过片刻，他们便全散了。德纳第待在墙头上，气促心跳，正象墨杜萨海船上的罹难者，待在木排上面，远远望见一条船，却又在天边消失了。
他不敢喊，万一被人听见，便全完了，他心生一计，最后的一计，一线微光；他把普吕戎拴在新大楼烟囱上被他解下来的那段绳子从衣袋里掏出来，往木栅栏圈子里丢去。
绳子正好落在他们的脚边。
“一个veuve①。”巴伯说。
“我的tortouse②！”普吕戎说。 
①寡妇：指绳子。（大庙的黑话）
②乌龟，指绳子。（便门的黑话）
他们抬头望去。德纳第把脑袋稍微伸出了一点。
“快！”巴纳斯山说，“你另外的那一段绳子还在吗，普吕戎？”
“在。”
“把两段结起来，我们把绳子抛给他，他拿来拴在墙上，便够他下来了。”
德纳第冒着危险提起嗓子说：
“我冻僵了。”
“回头再叫你暖起来。”
“我动不了。”
“你滑下来，我们接住你。”
“我的手麻木了。”
“拴根绳子在墙上，你总成吧。”
“不成。”
“我们非得有个人上去不行。”巴纳斯山说。
“四层楼！”普吕戎说。
一道泥灰砌的管道棗供从前住在木棚里的人生火炉用的管道棗贴着那堵墙向上伸展，几乎到达德纳第所在处的高度。烟囱已经有许多裂痕，并且全破裂了，现在早已坍塌，只留下一点痕迹。那管道相当窄。
“我们可以打这儿上去。”巴纳斯山说。
“一个orgue！”①巴伯说，“钻这烟囱？决过不去！非得有个mion②不成。”
“非得有个moCme③。”普吕戎说。
“到哪儿去找小孩？”海嘴说。
“等等，”巴纳斯山说，“我有办法。” 
①大风琴，指大人。（黑话）
②小孩。（大庙的黑话）
③小孩。（便门的黑话）
他轻轻把栅栏门推开了一点，看明了街上没人，悄悄走了出去，顺手把门带上，朝着巴士底广场那个方向跑去了。
七八分钟过去了，对德纳第来说却是八千个世纪，巴伯、普吕戎、海嘴都一直咬紧了牙，那扇门终于又开了，巴纳斯山，上气不接下气，领着伽弗洛什出现了。雨仍在下，因而街上绝无行人。
伽弗洛什走进栅栏，若无其事地望着那几个匪徒的脸。头发里雨水直流。海嘴先开口对他说道：
“伢子，你是个大人吧？”
伽弗洛什耸了耸肩，回答说：
“象我这样一个mome是一个orgue，象你们这样的orgues却是些momes。”
“这小子说话好不厉害！”巴伯说。
“巴黎的孩子不是湿草做的。”普吕戎说。
“你们要怎么？”伽弗洛什说。
巴纳斯山回答说：
“从这烟囱里爬上去。”
“带着这个寡妇。”巴伯说。
“还得拴上这只乌龟。”普吕戎跟着说。
“在这墙上。”巴伯又说。
“在那窗子的横杠上。”普吕戎补充。
“还有呢？”伽弗洛什问。
“就这些！”海嘴回答说。
那野孩细看了那些绳子、烟囱、墙、窗以后，便用上下嘴唇发出那种无法说清、表示轻蔑的声音，含义是：
“屁大的事！”
“那上面有个人要你去救。”巴纳斯山又说。
“你肯吗？”普吕戎问。
“笨蛋！”那孩子回答说，仿佛感到那句话问得太奇怪，他随即脱下鞋子。
海嘴一把提起伽弗洛什，将他放在板棚顶上，那些蛀伤了的顶板在孩子的体重下面直闪，他又把普吕戎在巴纳斯山离开时重新结好了的绳子递给他。孩子向那烟囱走去，烟囱在接近棚顶的地方有一个大缺口，他一下便钻进去了。他正在往上爬的时候，德纳第望见救星来了，有了生路，便把脑袋伸向墙边，微弱的曙光照着他那浸满了汗水的额头，土灰色的颧骨细长、开豁的鼻子，散乱直竖的灰白头发，伽弗洛什已经认出了他。
“哟！”他说，“原来是我的老子！……呵！没有关系。”
他随即一口咬住那根绳子，使力往上爬。
他到达破屋顶上，象骑马似的跨在危墙的头上，把绳子牢固地拴在窗子头上的横条上。
不大一会儿，德纳第便到了街上。
一踏上街心，感到自己脱离了危险，他便不再觉得疲乏麻木，也不再发抖了，他刚挣脱的那种险恶处境，象一溜烟似的全消逝了，他完全恢复了他固有的那种凶残少见的性格，感到自己能站稳，能自主，踏步前进了。这人开口说出的第一句话是：
“现在，我们打算去吃谁呢？”
这个透明到可怕的字，不用再解释了，它的含义既是杀，又是谋害，又是抢劫。“吃”的真正意义是“吞下去”。
“大家站拢点，”普吕戎说，“我们用三两句话来谈一下，然后大家立刻分手。卜吕梅街有件买卖，看来还有点搞头，一条冷清的街，一幢孤零零的房子，一道古老的朽铁门对着花园，孤孤单单的两个女人。”
“好嘛！何不来一下呢？”德纳第问。
“你的女儿，爱潘妮，已经去看过了。”巴伯回答说。
“她给了马侬一块饼干，”海嘴接着说，“没有搞头。”
“这姑娘并不傻，”德纳第说，“可是应当去瞧瞧。”
“对，对，”普吕戎说，“应当去瞧瞧。”
这时，那几个人好象全没注意伽弗洛什，伽弗洛什坐在一块支撑栅栏的条石上，望着他们谈话，他等了一会，也许是在等他父亲向他转过来吧，随后，他又穿上鞋子，说道：
“事情是不是完了？不再需要我了吧，你们这些人？我要走了。我还得去把我那两个孩子叫起来。”
说完，他便走了。
那五个人，一个跟着一个，也走出了木栅栏。
当伽弗洛什转进芭蕾舞街不见时，巴伯把德纳第拉到一边，问他说：
“你留意那个孩子没有？”
“哪个孩子？”
“爬上墙头，把绳子捎给你的那个孩子。”
“我没有怎么留意。”
“喂，我也不知道，我好象觉得那是你的儿子。”
“管他的！”德纳第说，“不见得吧。”
他便也走开了。
Part 4 Book 7 Chapter 1 Origin
Pigritia is a terrible word.
It engenders a whole world, la pegre, for which read theft, and a hell, la pegrenne, for which read hunger.
Thus, idleness is the mother.
She has a son, theft, and a daughter, hunger.
Where are we at this moment? In the land of slang.
What is slang? It is at one and the same time, a nation and a dialect; it is theft in its two kinds; people and language.
When, four and thirty years ago, the narrator of this grave and sombre history introduced into a work written with the same aim as this[39] a thief who talked argot, there arose amazement and clamor.--"What! How! Argot! Why, argot is horrible! It is the language of prisons, galleys, convicts, of everything that is most abominable in society!" etc., etc. 
[39] The Last Day of a Condemned Man.
We have never understood this sort of objections.
Since that time, two powerful romancers, one of whom is a profound observer of the human heart, the other an intrepid friend of the people, Balzac and Eugene Sue, having represented their ruffians as talking their natural language, as the author of The Last Day of a Condemned Man did in 1828, the same objections have been raised. People repeated: "What do authors mean by that revolting dialect? Slang is odious! Slang makes one shudder!" 
Who denies that? Of course it does.
When it is a question of probing a wound, a gulf, a society, since when has it been considered wrong to go too far? to go to the bottom? We have always thought that it was sometimes a courageous act, and, at least, a simple and useful deed, worthy of the sympathetic attention which duty accepted and fulfilled merits. Why should one not explore everything, and study everything? Why should one halt on the way? The halt is a matter depending on the sounding-line, and not on the leadsman.
Certainly, too, it is neither an attractive nor an easy task to undertake an investigation into the lowest depths of the social order, where terra firma comes to an end and where mud begins, to rummage in those vague, murky waves, to follow up, to seize and to fling, still quivering, upon the pavement that abject dialect which is dripping with filth when thus brought to the light, that pustulous vocabulary each word of which seems an unclean ring from a monster of the mire and the shadows. Nothing is more lugubrious than the contemplation thus in its nudity, in the broad light of thought, of the horrible swarming of slang. It seems, in fact, to be a sort of horrible beast made for the night which has just been torn from its cesspool. 
One thinks one beholds a frightful, living, and bristling thicket which quivers, rustles, wavers, returns to shadow, threatens and glares. One word resembles a claw, another an extinguished and bleeding eye, such and such a phrase seems to move like the claw of a crab. All this is alive with the hideous vitality of things which have been organized out of disorganization.
Now, when has horror ever excluded study? Since when has malady banished medicine? Can one imagine a naturalist refusing to study the viper, the bat, the scorpion, the centipede, the tarantula, and one who would cast them back into their darkness, saying: "Oh! How ugly that is!" The thinker who should turn aside from slang would resemble a surgeon who should avert his face from an ulcer or a wart. He would be like a philologist refusing to examine a fact in language, a philosopher hesitating to scrutinize a fact in humanity. For, it must be stated to those who are ignorant of the case, that argot is both a literary phenomenon and a social result. What is slang, properly speaking? It is the language of wretchedness. 
We may be stopped; the fact may be put to us in general terms, which is one way of attenuating it; we may be told, that all trades, professions, it may be added, all the accidents of the social hierarchy and all forms of intelligence, have their own slang. The merchant who says: "Montpellier not active, Marseilles fine quality," the broker on 'change who says: "Assets at end of current month," the gambler who says: "Tiers et tout, refait de pique," the sheriff of the Norman Isles who says: The holder in fee reverting to his landed estate cannot claim the fruits of that estate during the hereditary seizure of the real estate by the mortgagor," the playwright who says: "The piece was hissed," the comedian who says: "I've made a hit," the philosopher who says: "Phenomenal triplicity," the huntsman who says: "Voileci allais, Voileci fuyant," the phrenologist who says:"Amativeness, combativeness, secretiveness," the infantry soldier who says: "My shooting-iron," the cavalry-man who says: "My turkey-cock," the fencing-master who says: "Tierce, quarte, break,"the printer who says: "My shooting-stick and galley,"--all, printer, fencing-master, cavalry dragoon, infantry-man, phrenologist, huntsman, philosopher, comedian, playwright, sheriff, gambler, stock-broker, and merchant, speak slang. The painter who says: "My grinder," the notary who says: "My Skip-the-Gutter," the hairdresser who says: "My mealyback," the cobbler who says: "My cub," talks slang. Strictly speaking, if one absolutely insists on the point, all the different fashions of saying the right and the left, the sailor's port and starboard, the scene-shifter's court-side, and garden-side, the beadle's Gospel-side and Epistle-side, are slang. There is the slang of the affected lady as well as of the precieuses. The Hotel Rambouillet nearly adjoins the Cour des Miracles. There is a slang of duchesses, witness this phrase contained in a love-letter from a very great lady and a very pretty woman of the Restoration: "You will find in this gossip a fultitude of reasons why I should libertize."[40] Diplomatic ciphers are slang; the pontifical chancellery by using 26 for Rome, grkztntgzyal for despatch, and abfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI. for the Due de Modena, speaks slang. The physicians of the Middle Ages who, for carrot, radish, and turnip,said Opoponach, perfroschinum, reptitalmus, dracatholicum, angelorum,postmegorum, talked slang. The sugar-manufacturer who says: "Loaf, clarified, lumps, bastard, common, burnt,"--this honest manufacturer talks slang. A certain school of criticism twenty years ago, which used to say: "Half of the works of Shakespeare consists of plays upon words and puns,"--talked slang. The poet, and the artist who, with profound understanding, would designate M.de Montmorency as "a bourgeois," if he were not a judge of verses and statues, speak slang. The classic Academician who calls flowers "Flora," fruits, "Pomona," the sea, "Neptune," love, "fires," beauty, "charms," a horse, "a courser," the white or tricolored cockade, "the rose of Bellona," the three-cornered hat, "Mars' triangle,"--that classical Academician talks slang. Algebra, medicine, botany, have each their slang. The tongue which is employed on board ship, that wonderful language of the sea, which is so complete and so picturesque, which was spoken by Jean Bart, Duquesne, Suffren, and Duperre, which mingles with the whistling of the rigging, the sound of the speaking-trumpets, the shock of the boarding-irons, the roll of the sea, the wind, the gale, the cannon, is wholly a heroic and dazzling slang, which is to the fierce slang of the thieves what the lion is to the jackal. 
[40] "Vous trouverez dans ces potains-la, une foultitude de raisons pour que je me libertise." 
No doubt. But say what we will, this manner of understanding the word slang is an extension which every one will not admit. For our part, we reserve to the word its ancient and precise, circumscribed and determined significance, and we restrict slang to slang. The veritable slang and the slang that is pre-eminently slang, if the two words can be coupled thus, the slang immemorial which was a kingdom, is nothing else, we repeat, than the homely, uneasy, crafty, treacherous, venomous, cruel, equivocal, vile, profound, fatal tongue of wretchedness. There exists, at the extremity of all abasement and all misfortunes, a last misery which revolts and makes up its mind to enter into conflict with the whole mass of fortunate facts and reigning rights; a fearful conflict, where, now cunning, now violent, unhealthy and ferocious at one and the same time,it attacks the social order with pin-pricks through vice, and with club-blows through crime. To meet the needs of this conflict, wretchedness has invented a language of combat, which is slang.
To keep afloat and to rescue from oblivion, to hold above the gulf, were it but a fragment of some language which man has spoken and which would, otherwise, be lost, that is to say, one of the elements, good or bad, of which civilization is composed, or by which it is complicated, to extend the records of social observation; is to serve civilization itself. This service Plautus rendered, consciously or unconsciously, by making two Carthaginian soldiers talk Phoenician; that service Moliere rendered, by making so many of his characters talk Levantine and all sorts of dialects. Here objections spring up afresh. Phoenician, very good! Levantine, quite right! Even dialect, let that pass! They are tongues which have belonged to nations or provinces; but slang! What is the use of preserving slang? What is the good of assisting slang "to survive"?
To this we reply in one word, only. Assuredly, if the tongue which a nation or a province has spoken is worthy of interest, the language which has been spoken by a misery is still more worthy of attention and study.
It is the language which has been spoken, in France, for example, for more than four centuries, not only by a misery, but by every possible human misery.
And then, we insist upon it, the study of social deformities and infirmities, and the task of pointing them out with a view to remedy, is not a business in which choice is permitted. The historian of manners and ideas has no less austere a mission than the historian of events. The latter has the surface of civilization, the conflicts of crowns, the births of princes, the marriages of kings, battles, assemblages, great public men, revolutions in the daylight, everything on the exterior; the other historian has the interior, the depths, the people who toil, suffer, wait, the oppressed woman,the agonizing child, the secret war between man and man, obscure ferocities, prejudices, plotted iniquities, the subterranean, the indistinct tremors of multitudes, the die-of-hunger, the counter-blows of the law, the secret evolution of souls, the go-bare-foot, the bare-armed, the disinherited, the orphans, the unhappy, and the infamous, all the forms which roam through the darkness. He must descend with his heart full of charity, and severity at the same time, as a brother and as a judge, to those impenetrable casemates where crawl, pell-mell, those who bleed and those who deal the blow, those who weep and those who curse, those who fast and those who devour, those who endure evil and those who inflict it. Have these historians of hearts and souls duties at all inferior to the historians of external facts? Does any one think that Alighieri has any fewer things to say than Machiavelli? Is the under side of civilization any less important than the upper side merely because it is deeper and more sombre? Do we really know the mountain well when we are not acquainted with the cavern? 
Let us say, moreover, parenthetically, that from a few words of what precedes a marked separation might be inferred between the two classes of historians which does not exist in our mind. No one is a good historian of the patent, visible, striking, and public life of peoples, if he is not, at the same time, in a certain measure, the historian of their deep and hidden life; and no one is a good historian of the interior unless he understands how, at need, to be the historian of the exterior also. The history of manners and ideas permeates the history of events, and this is true reciprocally. They constitute two different orders of facts which correspond to each other, which are always interlaced, and which often bring forth results. All the lineaments which providence traces on the surface of a nation have their parallels, sombre but distinct, in their depths, and all convulsions of the depths produce ebullitions on the surface. True history being a mixture of all things, the true historian mingles in everything. 
Man is not a circle with a single centre; he is an ellipse with a double focus. Facts form one of these, and ideas the other. 
Slang is nothing but a dressing-room where the tongue having some bad action to perform, disguises itself. There it clothes itself in word-masks, in metaphor-rags. In this guise it becomes horrible. 
One finds it difficult to recognize. Is it really the French tongue, the great human tongue? Behold it ready to step upon the stage and to retort upon crime, and prepared for all the employments of the repertory of evil. It no longer walks, it hobbles; it limps on the crutch of the Court of Miracles, a crutch metamorphosable into a club; it is called vagrancy; every sort of spectre,its dressers, have painted its face, it crawls and rears, the double gait of the reptile. Henceforth, it is apt at all roles, it is made suspicious by the counterfeiter, covered with verdigris by the forger, blacked by the soot of the incendiary; and the murderer applies its rouge.
When one listens, by the side of honest men, at the portals of society, one overhears the dialogues of those who are on the outside. One distinguishes questions and replies. One perceives, without understanding it, a hideous murmur, sounding almost like human accents, but more nearly resembling a howl than an articulate word. It is slang. The words are misshapen and stamped with an indescribable and fantastic bestiality. One thinks one hears hydras talking. 
It is unintelligible in the dark. It gnashes and whispers,completing the gloom with mystery. It is black in misfortune, it is blacker still in crime; these two blacknesses amalgamated, compose slang. Obscurity in the atmosphere, obscurity in acts, obscurity in voices. Terrible, toad-like tongue which goes and comes, leaps, crawls, slobbers, and stirs about in monstrous wise in that immense gray fog composed of rain and night, of hunger, of vice, of falsehood, of injustice, of nudity, of suffocation, and of winter, the high noonday of the miserable.
Let us have compassion on the chastised. Alas! Who are we ourselves? Who am I who now address you? Who are you who are listening to me? And are you very sure that we have done nothing before we were born? The earth is not devoid of resemblance to a jail. Who knows whether man is not a recaptured offender against divine justice? Look closely at life. It is so made, that everywhere we feel the sense of punishment.
Are you what is called a happy man? Well! you are sad every day. Each day has its own great grief or its little care. Yesterday you were trembling for a health that is dear to you, to-day you fear for your own; to-morrow it will be anxiety about money, the day after to-morrow the diatribe of a slanderer, the day after that, the misfortune of some friend; then the prevailing weather, then something that has been broken or lost, then a pleasure with which your conscience and your vertebral column reproach you; again, the course of public affairs. This without reckoning in the pains of the heart. And so it goes on. One cloud is dispelled, another forms. There is hardly one day out of a hundred which is wholly joyous and sunny. And you belong to that small class who are happy! As for the rest of mankind, stagnating night rests upon them.
Thoughtful minds make but little use of the phrase: the fortunate and the unfortunate. In this world, evidently the vestibule of another, there are no fortunate.
The real human division is this: the luminous and the shady. To diminish the number of the shady, to augment the number of the luminous,--that is the object. That is why we cry: Education! science! To teach reading, means to light the fire; every syllable spelled out sparkles.
However, he who says light does not, necessarily, say joy. People suffer in the light; excess burns. The flame is the enemy of the wing. To burn without ceasing to fly,--therein lies the marvel of genius.
When you shall have learned to know, and to love, you will still suffer. The day is born in tears. The luminous weep, if only over those in darkness.
Pigritia①是个可怕的字。
它生出一个世界，lapègre，意思是“盗窃”，和一个地狱，lapégrenne，意思是“饥饿”。
因此，懒惰是母亲。
她有一个儿子，叫盗窃，和一个女儿，叫饥饿。
我们现在在谈什么？谈黑话问题。
黑话是什么？它是民族同时又是土语，它是人民和语言这两个方面的盗窃行为。
三十四年前，这个阴惨故事的叙述者在另一本和本书同一目的的著作中②，谈到过一个说黑话的强盗，在当时曾使舆论哗然。“什么！怎么！黑话！黑话终究是太丑了！这话终究是那些囚犯、苦役牢里的人、监狱里的人、社会上最恶的人说的！”等等，等等，等等。 
①拉丁文，懒惰。
②指《一个死囚的末日》。　
我们从来就没有听懂过这类反对意见。
从那时起，两个伟大的小说家，一个是人心的深刻的观察者，一个是人民的勇敢的朋友，巴尔扎克和欧仁·苏，都象《一个死囚的末日》的作者在一八二八年所作的那样，让一些匪徒们用他们本来的语言来谈话，这也引起了同样的反对。人们一再说道：“这些作家写出了这种令人作呕的俗话，他们究竟想要我们怎么样？黑话太丑了！黑话使人听了毛骨悚然！”
谁会否认这些呢？肯定不会。
当我们要深入观察一个伤口、一个深渊或一个社会时，从几时起，又有谁说过：“下得太深，下到底里去是种错误呢？”我们倒一向认为深入观察有时是一种勇敢的行为，至少也是一种朴素有益的行动，这和接受并完成任务是同样值得加以注意并寄予同情的。不全部探测，不全部研究，中途停止，为什么要这样呢？条件的限制可使探测工作中止，但探测者却不应该中止工作。
当然，深入到社会结构的底层，在土壤告罄污泥开始的地方去寻找，到那粘糊糊的浊流中去搜寻，抓起来并把那种鄙俗不堪、泥浆滴答的语言，那种脓血模糊、每个字都象秽土中幽暗处那些怪虫异豸身上的一个肮脏环节，活生生地丢在阳光下和众人前，这并不是种吸引人的工作，也并不是种轻而易举的工作。在思想的光辉下正视着公然大说特说着的骇人的大量的黑话，再没有什么比这更凄惨的了。它确实象一种见不得太阳刚从污池里捞出来的怪兽。人们仿佛见到一片活生生的长满了刺的怪可怕的荆棘在抽搐、匍匐、跳动，钻向黑处，瞪眼唬人。这个字象只爪子，另一个字象只流血的瞎眼，某句话象个开合着的蟹螯。这一切都是活着的，以某种杂乱而有秩序的事物的那种奇丑的生命力活动着。
现在我们要问，丑恶的事物，从几时起被排斥不研究呢？疾病又从几时起驱逐了医生呢？一个人，拒绝研究毒蛇、蝙蝠、蝎子、蜈蚣、蜘蛛，见了这些便把它们打回到它们的洞里去，同时还说：“啊！这太难看了！”这样还能设想他是个生物学家吗？掉头不顾黑话的思想家有如掉头不顾痈疽的外科医师。这也好比是一个不大想根究语言的实际问题的语言学家，一个不大想钻研人类的实际问题的哲学家。因此，必须向不明真相的人说清楚，黑话是文学范畴中的一种奇迹，也是人类社会的一种产物。所谓的黑话究竟是什么呢？黑话是穷苦人的语言。
到此，人们可以止住我们，人们可以把这一事理广泛运用到其他范畴，虽然广泛运用有时能起冲淡的作用，人们可以对我们说，所有的手艺，一切职业，也不妨加上等级社会中的所有一切阶层，各种各样的知识都有它们的黑话。商人说“蒙培利埃可发售”，“优质马赛”；兑换商说“延期交割，本月底的手续贴补费”；玩纸牌的人说“通行无阻，黑桃完啦”；诺曼底群岛的法庭执达吏说“在租户有禁令的地段，在宣布对拒绝者的不动产有继承权时，不能从这地段要求收益”；闹剧作家说“喝了倒彩”；喜剧作家说“我垮了”；哲学家说“三重性”；猎人说“红野禽，食用野禽”；骨相家说“友善，好战，热中于秘密”；步兵说“我的黑管”；骑兵说“我的小火鸡”；剑术师说“三度，四度，冲刺”；印刷工人说“加铅条”；所有这些印刷工人、剑术师、骑兵、步兵、骨相家、猎人、哲学家、喜剧作家，闹剧作家、法庭执达吏、玩纸牌的人、兑换商、商人，全是在说黑话。画家说“我的刷子”；公证人说“我的跳来跳去的人”；理发师说“我的助手”；鞋匠说“我的帮手”，也是在说黑话。严格地说，假使我们一定要那么看，所有那些表达右边和左边的种种方式，如海员们所说的“船右舷”和“左舷”，舞台布景人员所说的“庭院”和“花园”，教堂勤杂人员所说的“圣徒的”和“福音的”，也还都是黑话。从前有过女才子的黑话，今天也有娇娘子的黑话。朗布耶的府第和圣迹区相去不远。还有公爵夫人的黑话，王朝复辟时期的一个极高贵又极美丽的夫人在一封情书里写的这句话便可以证明：“你从所有这些诽谤中可以找到大量根据，我是不得不逃出来的啊。”外交界的数字和密码也是黑话，教廷的国务院以26作为罗马的代号，以grkztntgzyal为使臣的代号，以abfxustgrnogrkzu　tu　XI为摩德纳公爵的代号，便是黑话。中世纪的医生称胡萝卜、小红萝卜和白萝卜为opoponach，perfroschinum，reptitalmus，dracatholicum　
angelorum，
postmegorum，也是在说黑话。糖厂主人说“沙糖、大糖块、净化糖、精制块糖、热糖酒、黄糖砂、块糖、方块糖”，这位诚实的厂主是在说黑话。二十年前评论界里的某一派人常说“莎士比亚的一半是来自文字游戏和双关的俏皮话”，他们是在说黑话。有两个诗人和艺术家意味深长地说，如果德·蒙莫朗西先生对韵文和雕塑不是行家的话，他们便要称他为“布尔乔亚”，这也是在说黑话。古典的科学院院士称花为“福罗拉”，果为“波莫那”，海为“尼普顿”，爱情为“血中火”，美貌为“迷人”，马为“善跑”，白帽徽或三色帽徽为“柏洛娜①的玫瑰”，三角帽为“玛斯的三角”，这位古典院士是在说黑话。代数、医学、植物学也都有它们的黑话。人在船上所用的语言，让·巴尔、杜肯、絮弗朗和杜佩雷等人在帆、桅、绳索迎风呼啸，传声筒发布命令，舷边刀斧搏击，船身滚荡，狂风怒吼，大炮轰鸣中所用的那种极其完整、极其别致、令人赞赏的海上语言也完全是一种黑话，不过这种具有英雄豪迈气概的黑话和流行于鬼蜮世界的那种粗野的黑话比起来，确有雄狮与豺狗之分。 
①柏洛娜（Bellone），罗马神话中之女战神，战神玛斯之妻或姐妹，为玛斯准备战车。　
这是无疑的。然而，不论人们说什么，这样去认识黑话这个词，总还是就广义而言，而且还不是人人都能接受的。至于我们，我们却要为这个词保存它旧时的那种确切、分明、固定的含义，把黑话限制在黑话的范围里。真正的黑话，精彩的黑话（假定这两个词可以连缀在一起的话），古老到无从稽考自成一个王国的黑话，我们再重复一次，只不过是穷苦社会里那种丑恶、使人惊疑、阴险、奸宄、狠毒、凶残、暧昧、卑鄙、隐秘、不祥的语言而已。在堕落和苦难的尽头，有一种极端穷苦的人在从事反抗，并决计投入对幸福的总体和居于统治地位的法律的斗争，这种可怕的斗争，有时狡猾，有时猛烈，既险恶又凶狠，它用针刺（通过邪恶手段），也用棍棒（通过犯罪行为），向社会秩序进行攻击。为了适应这种斗争的需要，穷人便发明了一种战斗的语言，这便是黑话。
把人类说过的任何一种语言，也就是说，由文明所构成或使文明更复杂的因素之一，不论好坏，也不论是否完整，去把它从遗忘和枯井中拯救出来，使它能幸存下去，免于泯没，这也就是对社会提供进行观察的资料，为文明本身作出了贡献。普劳图斯，在有意或无意中，让两个迦太基士兵用腓尼基语谈话，便作了这种贡献；莫里哀曾使他的许多角色用东方语言和各色各样的方言谈话，也作出了这种贡献。这儿又出现了反对意见：腓尼基语，妙极！东方语，也很好！甚至方言，也还说得过去！这些都是某国或某省的语言。可是这黑话？把黑话保留下来有什么好处呢？让黑话“幸存下去”有什么好处呢？
对此，我们只打算回答一句话。如果说一国或一省所说的语言是值得关怀的，那么，就还有比这更值得注意研究的东西，那就是一个穷苦层所说的语言。
这种语言，在法国，举例说，便说了四百多年，说这种语言的不仅是某一个穷苦层，而是整个穷苦层，在人类中可能存在的整个穷苦层。
并且，我们要强调，对社会的畸形和残疾进行研究，把它揭示出来以便加以医治，这种工作是绝不能单凭个人好恶而加以选择或放弃的。研究习俗和思想的历史学家的任务的严肃性决不在研究大事的历史学家之下。后者所研究的是文明的表层、王冠的争夺、王子的出生、国君的婚姻、战争、会议、著名的大人物、阳光下的兴衰变革，一切外表的东西；而另一种历史学家研究的是内容、实质、劳动、苦难、期待着的人民、被压迫的妇女、呻吟中的儿童、人与人的暗斗、隐秘的暴行、成见、公开的不平等待遇、法律的暗中反击、心灵的秘密演变、群众的隐微震颤、饿到快死的人、赤脚露臂的无依靠的人、孤儿孤女、穷愁潦倒蒙羞受辱的人和在黑暗中流浪的一切游魂野鬼。他应怀着满腔怜悯心，同时以严肃的态度下到那些进不去的坑窟里，象同胞兄弟和法官似的去接近那些在那里横七竖八搅作一团的人、流血的人和动武的人、哭泣的人和咒骂的人、挨饿的人和大嚼的人、吞声忍泪和为非作歹的人。难道这些观察人们心灵的历史学家的责任比不上那些研究外部事物的历史学家吗？谁能认为但丁要说的东西比马基雅弗利少些呢？文明的底蕴是不是因为比较深奥、比较幽暗便不及表相那么重要呢？在我们还没有认识山洞时，我们能说已经认清山了吗？
我们还要顺便指出，根据上面所说的那几句话，我们可以推论出两类截然不同的历史学家，其中的区别并不存在于我们的思想里。一个研究各族人民公开的、可见的、明显的群众生活的历史学家如果他不同时也洞悉他们隐蔽的较深的生活，便不是一个优秀的历史学家；而一个人，如果不能在需要时成为外部事物的历史学家，也就不可能成为一个良好的内在事物的历史学家。习俗和思想的历史是渗透在大事的历史里的，反过来也是如此。这是两类互相影响、随时互相关连、经常互为因果的不同事物。上苍刻画在一个国家表面上的线条，必有暗淡而明显的平行线，在它的底里的任何骚乱也必然引起表面的震动。历史既然包罗一切，真正的历史学家便应过问一切。
人并不是只有一个圆心的圆圈，它是一个有两个焦点的椭圆。事物是一个点，思想是另一个点。
黑话只不过是语言在要干坏事时用来改头换面的化装室。它在这里换上面罩似的词句和破衣烂衫似的隐喻。
这样，它便成了面目可憎的。
人们几乎认不出它的真面目了。这确是法兰西语言，人类的伟大语言吗？它准备上台，替罪行打掩护，适合扮演整套坏戏中的任何角色。它不再好好走路，而是一瘸一拐的，它两腋支在圣迹区的拐杖上蹒跚前进，拐杖还可以一下变成大头棒，它自称是托钵行乞的，牛鬼蛇神把它装扮成种种怪模样，它爬行，也能昂头竖起，象蛇的动作。它从此能担任任何角色，作伪的人把它变成斜视眼，放毒的人使它生了铜锈，纵火犯替它涂上松烟，杀人犯替它抹上胭脂。
当我们在社会的门边，从诚实人这方面去听时，我们的耳朵会刮到一些门外人的对话。我们能分辨出一些问话和一些答话。我们听到一种可恶的声音在窃窃私语，不知道说些什么，好象是人在说话，但更象狗吠，不全象人话。这便是黑话了。那些字是畸形的，带一种不知是什么怪兽的味道。我们仿佛听见了七头蛇在说话。
这是黑暗中的鬼语。轧轧聒耳，翕张如风，仿佛黄昏时听人猜哑谜。人在苦难时眼前一片黑，犯罪时眼前更黑，这两种黑凝结在一起便构成黑话。天空中的黑，行动上的黑，语言里的黑。这是种可怕的癞虾蟆语言，它在茫茫一大片由雨、夜、饥饿、淫邪、欺诈、横暴、裸体、毒气、严冬（穷苦人的春秋佳日）所构成的昏黄迷雾中来往跳跃，匍匐，唾沫四溅，象魔怪似的扭曲着身体。
对于受到惩罚的人我们应当有同情心。唉！我们自己是些什么人？向你们谈话的我是什么人？听我谈话的你们又是什么人？我们是从什么地方来的？谁能肯定我们在出生以前什么也没有做过呢？地球和牢狱并非绝无相似之处。谁能说人不是天条下再次下狱的囚犯呢？
你们把眼睛凑近去细察人生吧。从各个方面去看，我们会感到人的一生处处是惩罚。
你是个被人称作幸福的人吗？好吧，可你没有一天不是忧心忡忡的。每天都有大的烦恼或小的操心。昨天你曾为一个亲人的健康发抖，今天你又为自己的健康担忧，明天将是银钱方面的麻烦，后天又将受到一个诽谤者的抨击，大后天，一个朋友的坏消息；随后又是天气问题，又是什么东西砸破了，丢失了，又是遇到一件什么开心事，但心里不安或使脊梁骨也不好受了；另一次又是什么公事进展问题。还不去算内心的种种痛苦，没完没了，散了一片乌云，又来一片乌云。一百天里难得有一天是充满欢乐和阳光的。还说什么你是属于这少数享福人里的！至于其余的人，他们却老待在那种终年不亮的沉沉黑夜里。
有思想的人很少用这样的短语：幸福的人和不幸的人。这个世界显然是另一个世界的前厅，这儿没有幸福的人。
人类的真正区分是这样的：光明中人和黑暗中人。
减少黑暗中人的人数，增加光明中人的人数，这就是目的。这也是为什么我们要大声疾呼：教育！科学！学会读书，便是点燃火炬，每个字的每个音节都发射火星。
可是光明不一定就是欢乐。人在光明中仍然有痛苦，过度的光能引起燃烧。火焰是翅膀的敌人。燃烧而不中止飞翔，那只是天仙的奇迹。
当你已有所悟并有所爱，你还是会痛苦的。曙光初现，遍地泪珠。光明中人想到了黑暗中的同类，能不垂泪欷歔。
Part 4 Book 7 Chapter 2 Roots
Slang is the tongue of those who sit in darkness.
Thought is moved in its most sombre depths, social philosophy is bidden to its most poignant meditations, in the presence of that enigmatic dialect at once so blighted and rebellious. Therein lies chastisement made visible. Every syllable has an air of being marked. The words of the vulgar tongue appear therein wrinkled and shrivelled, as it were, beneath the hot iron of the executioner. Some seem to be still smoking. Such and such a phrase produces upon you the effect of the shoulder of a thief branded with the fleur-de-lys, which has suddenly been laid bare. Ideas almost refuse to be expressed in these substantives which are fugitives from justice. Metaphor is sometimes so shameless, that one feels that it has worn the iron neck-fetter.
Moreover, in spite of all this, and because of all this, this strange dialect has by rights, its own compartment in that great impartial case of pigeon-holes where there is room for the rusty farthing as well as for the gold medal, and which is called literature. Slang, whether the public admit the fact or not has its syntax and its poetry. It is a language. Yes, by the deformity of certain terms, we recognize the fact that it was chewed by Mandrin, and by the splendor of certain metonymies, we feel that Villon spoke it.
That exquisite and celebrated verse--
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? But where are the snows of years gone by?
is a verse of slang. Antam--ante annum--is a word of Thunes slang, which signified the past year, and by extension, formerly. Thirty-five years ago, at the epoch of the departure of the great chain-gang, there could be read in one of the cells at Bicetre, this maxim engraved with a nail on the wall by a king of Thunes condemned to the galleys: Les dabs d'antan trimaient siempre pour la pierre du Coesre. This means Kings in days gone by always went and had themselves anointed. In the opinion of that king, anointment meant the galleys.
The word decarade, which expresses the departure of heavy vehicles at a gallop, is attributed to Villon, and it is worthy of him. This word, which strikes fire with all four of its feet, sums up in a masterly onomatopoeia the whole of La Fontaine's admirable verse:--
Six forts chevaux tiraient un coche. Six stout horses drew a coach.
From a purely literary point of view, few studies would prove more curious and fruitful than the study of slang. It is a whole language within a language, a sort of sickly excrescence, an unhealthy graft which has produced a vegetation, a parasite which has its roots in the old Gallic trunk, and whose sinister foliage crawls all over one side of the language. This is what may be called the first, the vulgar aspect of slang. But, for those who study the tongue as it should be studied, that is to say, as geologists study the earth, slang appears like a veritable alluvial deposit. According as one digs a longer or shorter distance into it, one finds in slang, below the old popular French, Provencal, Spanish, Italian, Levantine, that language of the Mediterranean ports, English and German, the Romance language in its three varieties, French, Italian, and Romance Romance, Latin, and finally Basque and Celtic. A profound and unique formation. A subterranean edifice erected in common by all the miserable. Each accursed race has deposited its layer, each suffering has dropped its stone there, each heart has contributed its pebble. A throng of evil, base, or irritated souls, who have traversed life and have vanished into eternity, linger there almost entirely visible still beneath the form of some monstrous word.
Do you want Spanish? The old Gothic slang abounded in it. Here is boffete, a box on the ear, which is derived from bofeton; vantane, window (later on vanterne), which comes from vantana; gat, cat, which comes from gato; acite, oil, which comes from aceyte. Do you want Italian? Here is spade, sword, which comes from spada; carvel, boat, which comes from caravella. Do you want English? Here is bichot, which comes from bishop; raille, spy, which comes from rascal, rascalion; pilche, a case, which comes from pilcher, a sheath. Do you want German? Here is the caleur, the waiter, kellner; the hers, the master, herzog (duke). Do you want Latin? Here is frangir, to break, frangere; affurer, to steal, fur; cadene, chain, catena. There is one word which crops up in every language of the continent, with a sort of mysterious power and authority. It is the word magnus; the Scotchman makes of it his mac, which designates the chief of the clan; Mac-Farlane, Mac-Callumore, the great Farlane, the great Callumore[41]; slang turns it into meck and later le meg, that is to say, God. Would you like Basque? Here is gahisto, the devil, which comes from gaiztoa, evil; sorgabon, good night, which comes from gabon, good evening. Do you want Celtic? Here is blavin, a handkerchief, which comes from blavet, gushing water; menesse, a woman (in a bad sense), which comes from meinec, full of stones; barant, brook, from baranton, fountain; goffeur, locksmith,from goff, blacksmith; guedouze, death, which comes from guenn-du, black-white. Finally, would you like history? Slang calls crowns les malteses, a souvenir of the coin in circulation on the galleys of Malta.
[41] It must be observed, however, that mac in Celtic means son.
In addition to the philological origins just indicated, slang possesses other and still more natural roots, which spring, so to speak, from the mind of man itself.
In the first place, the direct creation of words. Therein lies the mystery of tongues. To paint with words, which contains figures one knows not how or why, is the primitive foundation of all human languages, what may be called their granite.
Slang abounds in words of this description, immediate words, words created instantaneously no one knows either where or by whom, without etymology, without analogies, without derivatives, solitary, barbarous, sometimes hideous words, which at times possess a singular power of expression and which live. The executioner, le taule; the forest, le sabri; fear, flight, taf; the lackey, le larbin; the mineral, the prefect, the minister, pharos; the devil, le rabouin. Nothing is stranger than these words which both mask and reveal. Some, le rabouin, for example, are at the same time grotesque and terrible, and produce on you the effect of a cyclopean grimace.
ln the second place, metaphor. The peculiarity of a language which is desirous of saying all yet concealing all is that it is rich in figures. Metaphor is an enigma, wherein the thief who is plotting a stroke, the prisoner who is arranging an escape, take refuge. No idiom is more metaphorical than slang: devisser le coco (to unscrew the nut), to twist the neck; tortiller (to wriggle), to eat; etre gerbe, to be tried; a rat, a bread thief; il lansquine, it rains, a striking, ancient figure which partly bears its date about it, which assimilates long oblique lines of rain, with the dense and slanting pikes of the lancers, and which compresses into a single word the popular expression: it rains halberds. Sometimes, in proportion as slang progresses from the first epoch to the second, words pass from the primitive and savage sense to the metaphorical sense. The devil ceases to be le rabouin, and becomes le boulanger (the baker), who puts the bread into the oven. This is more witty, but less grand, something like Racine after Corneille, like Euripides after AEschylus. Certain slang phrases which participate in the two epochs and have at once the barbaric character and the metaphorical character resemble phantasmagories. Les sorgueuers vont solliciter des gails a la lune--the prowlers are going to steal horses by night,-- this passes before the mind like a group of spectres. One knows not what one sees.
In the third place, the expedient. Slang lives on the language. It uses it in accordance with its fancy, it dips into it hap-hazard, and it often confines itself, when occasion arises, to alter it in a gross and summary fashion. Occasionally, with the ordinary words thus deformed and complicated with words of pure slang, picturesque phrases are formed, in which there can be felt the mixture of the two preceding elements, the direct creation and the metaphor: le cab jaspine, je marronne que la roulotte de Pantin trime dans le sabri, the dog is barking, I suspect that the diligence for Paris is passing through the woods. Le dab est sinve, la dabuge est merloussiere, la fee est bative, the bourgeois is stupid, the bourgeoise is cunning, the daughter is pretty. Generally, to throw listeners off the track, slang confines itself to adding to all the words of the language without distinction, an ignoble tail, a termination in aille, in orgue, in iergue, or in uche. Thus: Vousiergue trouvaille bonorgue ce gigotmuche? Do you think that leg of mutton good? A phrase addressed by Cartouche to a turnkey in order to find out whether the sum offered for his escape suited him. 
The termination in mar has been added recently.
Slang, being the dialect of corruption, quickly becomes corrupted itself. Besides this, as it is always seeking concealment, as soon as it feels that it is understood, it changes its form. Contrary to what happens with every other vegetation, every ray of light which falls upon it kills whatever it touches. Thus slang is in constant process of decomposition and recomposition; an obscure and rapid work which never pauses. It passes over more ground in ten years than a language in ten centuries. Thus le larton (bread) becomes le lartif; le gail (horse) becomes le gaye; la fertanche (straw) becomes la fertille; le momignard (brat), le momacque; les fiques (duds), frusques; la chique (the church), l'egrugeoir; le colabre (neck), le colas. The devil is at first, gahisto, then le rabouin, then the baker; the priest is a ratichon, then the boar (le sanglier); the dagger is le vingt-deux (twenty-two), then le surin, then le lingre; the police are railles, then roussins, then rousses, then marchands de lacets (dealers in stay-laces), then coquers, then cognes; the executioner is le taule, then Charlot, l'atigeur, then le becquillard. In the seventeenth century, to fight was "to give each other snuff"; in the nineteenth it is "to chew each other's throats." There have been twenty different phrases between these two extremes. Cartouche's talk would have been Hebrew to Lacenaire. All the words of this language are perpetually engaged in flight like the men who utter them.
Still, from time to time, and in consequence of this very movement, the ancient slang crops up again and becomes new once more. It has its headquarters where it maintains its sway. The Temple preserved the slang of the seventeenth century; Bicetre, when it was a prison, preserved the slang of Thunes. There one could hear the termination in anche of the old Thuneurs. Boyanches-tu (bois-tu), do you drink? But perpetual movement remains its law, nevertheless. 
If the philosopher succeeds in fixing, for a moment, for purposes of observation, this language which is incessantly evaporating, he falls into doleful and useful meditation. No study is more efficacious and more fecund in instruction. There is not a metaphor, not an analogy, in slang, which does not contain a lesson. Among these men, to beat means to feign; one beats a malady; ruse is their strength.
For them, the idea of the man is not separated from the idea of darkness. The night is called la sorgue; man, l'orgue. Man is a derivative of the night.
They have taken up the practice of considering society in the light of an atmosphere which kills them, of a fatal force, and they speak of their liberty as one would speak of his health. A man under arrest is a sick man; one who is condemned is a dead man.
The most terrible thing for the prisoner within the four walls in which he is buried, is a sort of glacial chastity, and he calls the dungeon the castus. In that funereal place, life outside always presents itself under its most smiling aspect. The prisoner has irons on his feet; you think, perhaps, that his thought is that it is with the feet that one walks? No; he is thinking that it is with the feet that one dances; so, when he has succeeded in severing his fetters, his first idea is that now he can dance, and he calls the saw the bastringue (public-house ball).--A name is a centre; profound assimilation.--The ruffian has two heads, one of which reasons out his actions and leads him all his life long, and the other which he has upon his shoulders on the day of his death; he calls the head which counsels him in crime la sorbonne, and the head which expiates it la tronche.--When a man has no longer anything but rags upon his body and vices in his heart, when he has arrived at that double moral and material degradation which the word blackguard characterizes in its two acceptations, he is ripe for crime; he is like a well-whetted knife; he has two cutting edges, his distress and his malice; so slang does not say a blackguard, it says un reguise.--What are the galleys? A brazier of damnation, a hell. The convict calls himself a fagot.-- And finally, what name do malefactors give to their prison? The college. A whole penitentiary system can be evolved from that word.
Does the reader wish to know where the majority of the songs of the galleys, those refrains called in the special vocabulary lirlonfa, have had their birth?
Let him listen to what follows:--
There existed at the Chatelet in Paris a large and long cellar. This cellar was eight feet below the level of the Seine. It had neither windows nor air-holes, its only aperture was the door; men could enter there, air could not. This vault had for ceiling a vault of stone, and for floor ten inches of mud. It was flagged; but the pavement had rotted and cracked under the oozing of the water. Eight feet above the floor, a long and massive beam traversed this subterranean excavation from side to side; from this beam hung, at short distances apart, chains three feet long, and at the end of these chains there were rings for the neck. In this vault, men who had been condemned to the galleys were incarcerated until the day of their departure for Toulon. They were thrust under this beam, where each one found his fetters swinging in the darkness and waiting for him.
The chains, those pendant arms, and the necklets, those open hands, caught the unhappy wretches by the throat. They were rivetted and left there. As the chain was too short, they could not lie down. They remained motionless in that cavern, in that night, beneath that beam, almost hanging, forced to unheard-of efforts to reach their bread, jug, or their vault overhead, mud even to mid-leg, filth flowing to their very calves, broken asunder with fatigue, with thighs and knees giving way, clinging fast to the chain with their hands in order to obtain some rest, unable to sleep except when standing erect, and awakened every moment by the strangling of the collar; some woke no more. In order to eat, they pushed the bread, which was flung to them in the mud, along their leg with their heel until it reached their hand.
How long did they remain thus? One month, two months, six months sometimes; one stayed a year. It was the antechamber of the galleys. Men were put there for stealing a hare from the king. In this sepulchre-hell, what did they do? What man can do in a sepulchre, they went through the agonies of death, and what can man do in hell, they sang; for song lingers where there is no longer any hope. In the waters of Malta, when a galley was approaching, the song could be heard before the sound of the oars. Poor Survincent, the poacher, who had gone through the prison-cellar of the Chatelet, said: "It was the rhymes that kept me up." Uselessness of poetry. What is the good of rhyme?
It is in this cellar that nearly all the slang songs had their birth. It is from the dungeon of the Grand-Chatelet of Paris that comes the melancholy refrain of the Montgomery galley: "Timaloumisaine, timaloumison." The majority of these
Icicaille est la theatre Here is the theatre Du petit dardant. Of the little archer (Cupid).
Do what you will, you cannot annihilate that eternal relic in the heart of man, love.
In this world of dismal deeds, people keep their secrets. The secret is the thing above all others. The secret, in the eyes of these wretches, is unity which serves as a base of union. To betray a secret is to tear from each member of this fierce community something of his own personality. To inform against, in the energetic slang dialect, is called: "to eat the bit." As though the informer drew to himself a little of the substance of all and nourished himself on a bit of each one's flesh.
What does it signify to receive a box on the ear? Commonplace metaphor replies: "It is to see thirty-six candles." 
Here slang intervenes and takes it up: Candle, camoufle. Thereupon, the ordinary tongue gives camouflet[42] as the synonym for soufflet.Thus, by a sort of infiltration from below upwards, with the aid of metaphor, that incalculable, trajectory slang mounts from the cavern to the Academy; and Poulailler saying: "I light my camoufle," causes Voltaire to write: "Langleviel La Beaumelle deserves a hundred camouflets."
[42] Smoke puffed in the face of a person asleep.
Researches in slang mean discoveries at every step. Study and investigation of this strange idiom lead to the mysterious point of intersection of regular society with society which is accursed. 
The thief also has his food for cannon, stealable matter, you, I, whoever passes by; le pantre. (Pan, everybody.) 
Slang is language turned convict.
That the thinking principle of man be thrust down ever so low, that it can be dragged and pinioned there by obscure tyrannies of fatality, that it can be bound by no one knows what fetters in that abyss, is sufficient to create consternation.
Oh, poor thought of miserable wretches!
Alas! will no one come to the succor of the human soul in that darkness? Is it her destiny there to await forever the mind, the liberator, the immense rider of Pegasi and hippo-griffs, the combatant of heroes of the dawn who shall descend from the azure between two wings, the radiant knight of the future? Will she forever summon in vain to her assistance the lance of light of the ideal? Is she condemned to hear the fearful approach of Evil through the density of the gulf, and to catch glimpses, nearer and nearer at hand, beneath the hideous water of that dragon's head, that maw streaked with foam, and that writhing undulation of claws, swellings, and rings? Must it remain there, without a gleam of light, without hope, given over to that terrible approach, vaguely scented out by the monster, shuddering, dishevelled, wringing its arms, forever chained to the rock of night, a sombre Andromeda white and naked amid the shadows!
黑话是黑暗中人的语言。
思想在它那最幽暗的深处起伏翻腾，社会哲学，面对这种受过烙刑而又顽抗的谜语似的俗话，不能不作最沉痛的思考。这里有明显的刑罚。每个音节都有烙痕。通常语言的词汇在这里出现时也仿佛已被刽子手的烙铁烙得缩蹙枯焦。有些似乎还在冒烟。某些句子会给你这样一种印象：仿佛看见一个盗匪突然剥下了衣服，露出一个有百合花烙印的肩头①。人们几乎要拒绝用这些被法律贬斥了的词汇来表达思想。那里所用的隐喻法有时是那么大胆，致使人们感到它是箍过铁枷的。
可是，尽管这一切情况，也正因为这一切情况，这种奇特的俗话，在对锈铜钱和金勋章都没有成见、一概收藏的方格大柜里，也就是所谓文学的领域里，理应有它的一格地位。这黑话，不管你同意不同意，是有它的语法和诗律的。这是一种语言。如果我们能从某些单词的丑恶中看出曼德朗②的影响，我们也能从某些换喻的卓越中感到维庸也曾说过这种话。 
①法国古代用烙刑在犯人右肩上烙一个百合花形的烙印。百合花是法国封建时代的国花。
②曼德朗（Mandrin，1724?755），法国著名强人。
这句隽永而极著名的诗：
MaisoùsontlesneigesdAantan？①
就是一句黑话诗。Antan（来自anteannum），这是土恩王国②黑话里的字，意思是“去年”，引伸为“从前”。三十五年前，在一八二七年那次大队犯人出发的时期，人们还可在比塞特监狱的一间牢房里看见这句由一个被发配大桡船服刑的土恩王用钉子刻在墙上的名言：LesdabsdAantantrimaientsiemBprepourlapierreduCoeDsre。这句话的意思是“从前的国王总是要去举行祝圣典礼的。”在这个国王的思想里，祝圣，便是苦刑。 
①意思是“往年的雪又在哪儿呢？”
②恩王国（Thunes），十五世纪巴黎乞丐集团之一，聚居在圣迹区。参阅雨果另一小说《巴黎圣母院》。
Décarade这个字所表达的意思是一辆重车飞奔出发，据说这字源出于维庸，这倒也相称。这个字令人想见四只铁蹄下面的火花，把拉封丹这句美好的诗：
六匹骏马拉着一辆马车。
压缩在一个巧妙的拟声词里了。
从纯文学的角度看，也很少有比黑话更为丰富奇特的研究题材了。这是语言中整整一套语言，一种病态的树瘤，一种产生肿瘤的不健康的接枝，一种根子扎在高卢老树干上，虬枝怪叶满布在整整半边语言上的寄生植物。这可称为黑话的第一个方面，通俗方面。但是，对那些以应有的严肃态度棗也就是说象地质学家研究地球那样棗研究语言的人来说，黑话却真象一片真正的冲积土。当我们往下挖掘，在深浅不一的地方发现，在黑话中比古代法兰西民族语言更往下的地方有普罗旺斯语、西班牙语、意大利语、东方语（地中海沿岸各港口的语言）、英语和德语，有罗曼语的三个分支法兰西罗曼语、意大利罗曼语和罗曼罗曼语，有拉丁语，最后还有巴斯克语和克尔特语。深厚离奇的结构。这是所有穷苦人在地下共同起造的建筑。每一个被诅咒的部族都铺上了它的一层土，每一种痛苦都投入了它的一块石，每一颗心都留下了它的一撮砂。无数恶劣、卑下、急躁、度过人生便消失在悠悠宇宙中的灵魂还几乎以原有形象存留在我们中间，凭借一个词的奇形怪状显现在我们的眼前。
要从西班牙语方面谈谈吗？这里大量存在着古老的哥特语的黑话。例如boffette（风箱），出自bofeton；vantane和后来的vanterne（窗子），出自vantana；gat（猫），出自gato；a－cite（油），出自aceyte。要从意大利语方面谈谈吗？例如spade（剑），出自spada；carvel（船），出自caravella。要从英语方面谈谈吗？例如bichot（主教），出自bishop；raille（间谍），出自rascal，rascalion（流氓）；pilche（套子），出自pilcher（鞘）。要从德语方面谈谈吗？例如caleur（侍者），出自kell－ner；hers）主人），出自herzog（公爵）。要从拉丁语方面谈谈吗？例如franBgir（破），出自frangere；affurer（偷盗），出自fur；cadène（链条），出自catena。有一个字，以一种强大的力量和神秘的权威出现在大陆上的一切语言中，那便是magnus这个字，苏格兰语用它来构成它的mac（族长），如Mac－Far－lane，Mac－Callummore（应注意mac在克尔特语里作“儿子”解释）；黑话用它来构成meck，后又变为meg，也就是说“上帝”。要从巴斯克语方面谈谈吗？例如gahisto（鬼），出自gaiztoa（恶）；sorBgabon（晚安），出自gabon（晚上好）。要从克尔特语谈谈吗？例如blavin（手帕），出自blavet（喷泉）；ménesse（女人，含有恶意的说法），出自meinec（戴满钻石的）；barant（溪流），出自baranton（泉水）；goffeur（锁匠），出自goff（铁匠）；guédouze（死神），出自guenn－du（白和黑）。最后还要知道这些事吗？黑话称埃居为maltaise，这词来自对从前马尔他大桡船上通行的钱币的回忆①。 
①Maltaise，马尔他的钱币。
除了刚才就语言学方面指出的种种来源以外，黑话还另有一些更为自然、直接出自人们意识的根源。
第一，字的直接创造。这在语言中是难于理解的。用一些字去刻画一些有形象的事物，既说不出通过什么方式，也说不出为了什么理由。这是人类任何一种语言最原始的基石，我们不妨称它为语言的内核。黑话中充斥着这一类的字，一些自然浑成、凭空臆造、不知来自何处出自何人、既无根源也无旁据也无派生的词，一些独来独往、粗野不文、有时面目可憎，却具有奇特的表现力和生命力的词。刽子手（taule），森林（sabri），恐惧、逃跑（taf），仆从（larbin），将军、省长、部长（pharos），魔鬼（ra－bouin）。再没有比这些又遮掩又揭露的字更奇怪的东西了。有些字，如rabouin，既粗俗又骇人，使你想象出独眼巨人作的鬼脸。
第二，隐喻。一种既要完全表达又要完全隐瞒的语言，它的特点便是增加比喻。隐喻是一种谜语，是企图一逞的盗匪和阴谋越狱的囚犯的藏身之处。没有任何语言能比黑话更富于隐喻的了。Dévisserlecoco（扭脖子），tortiller（吃），etregerbé（受审），un　rat（一个偷面包的贼），il　lansquine（下雨），这是句非常形象化的古老的话，多少带有它那时代的烙印，它把雨水的斜长线条比作长矛队的斜立如林的矛杆，把“下刀子”这一通俗换喻表现在一个字里了。有时，黑话从第一阶段进入第二阶段的过程中，某些字会从野蛮的原始状态转入隐喻。
“鬼”不再是rabouin，而变成boulanger，也就是说，把东西送进炉子的人。这样比较风趣，却减了气派，仿佛是继高乃依而起的拉辛，继埃斯库罗斯而起的欧里庇得斯。黑话中某些跨两个时代的句子兼有粗野和隐喻的性格，就象凹凸镜里的鬼影。
Lessorgueursvontsollicerdesgailsàlalune（贼将在夜里去偷马），这给人一种如见鬼群的印象，不知看见的是什么。
第三，应急之策。黑话凭借语言而生存。它按自己一时兴之所至而加以利用，它在语言中随意信手拈取，并且常常在必要时简单粗暴地加以歪曲。有时，它用一些改变原形的普通字，夹杂在纯黑话的专用词中，构成一些生动的短语，我们能在这里感到前两种因素棗直接创造和隐喻棗的混合使用：Le　cabjaspine，je　marronne　que　la　roulotte　de　Pantin　trimedans　le　sabri（狗在咬，我怀疑巴黎的公共马车已进入树林）。Ledabestsinve，ladabugeest merloussière，laféeestbative（老板傻，老板娘狡猾，姑娘漂亮）。还有一种最常见的情况，为了迷惑别人的听觉，黑话只从aille，orgue，iergue或uche这些字尾中不加区别地任选一个，替日常语言所用的一些字加上一条非常难听的尾巴。例如：
Vousiergue　trouvaillebonorgue　ce　gigotmu che？（你认为这羊后腿好吗？）这是卡图什对一个狱卒说过的一句话，他要问的是他所赠送的越狱款是否合他的意。近年来，才添了mar这个字尾。
黑话是一种常具有腐蚀性的俗话，因而它自身也易于被腐蚀。此外，它总是要遮遮掩掩，一旦感到自己已被识破，便又改头换面。正和一切植物相反，它一见太阳，便得死亡。因而黑话一直是处在不停的败坏和新生中，它隐秘、迅捷、从不停息地工作。它在十年中所走的路比普通语言在十个世纪中所走的路还远些。于是larton（面包）变成lartif，gail（马）变成gaye，fertanche（麦秸）变成fertille，momignard（小孩）成了mo－macque，siques（破烂衣服）成了frusques，chique（教堂）
成了égrugeoir，colabre（颈子）成了colas。“鬼”最初是gahis to，后来变成rabouin，继又改为boulanger（面包师傅）；神甫是ratichon，继为sanglier（野猪）；匕首是vingt－deux（二十二），继为surin，继又为lingre；警察是railles（耙子），后来改为roussins（高大的马），再改为rousses（红毛女人），再改为marchands　de　lacets（卖棉纱带的小贩），再改为coqueurs，
再改为cognes；刽子手是taule（铁砧的铁皮垫子），后来改为Charlot（小查理），再改为atigeur，再改为becquillard。在十七世纪，“互殴”是se　donner　du　tabac（互敬鼻烟），到十九世纪，却成了se　chiquer　la　gueule（互咬狗嘴）。在这两个极端之间曾改变过二十种不同的说法。卡图什的黑话对于拉色内尔，几乎是希伯来语。这种语言的词正如说这种语言的人一样，永不停息，总是在逃避。
但是，在某些时候，由于变来变去，古老的黑话也会再次出现成为新的。它有一些保存自己的据点。大庙保存了十七世纪的黑话；比塞特，当它还是监狱时，也保存了土恩王国的黑话。在那些黑话里，人们可以听到古代土恩王国居民所用的anche这字尾。Boyanches－tu？（你喝吗？）il　croyanche（他信）。但是永恒的变化仍然是一条规律。
一个从事哲学的人，如果能有一段时间来研究这种不断消失的语言，他便会落在苦痛而有益的沉思里。没有任何研究工作会比这更有功效，更富于教育意义。黑话中的每个隐喻和每个词源都是一个教训。在那些人中，“打”作“伪装”解释，他“打”病，狡诈是他们的力量。
对他们来说，“人”的概念是和“黑影”的概念分不开的。夜是sorgue，人是orgue。人是夜的派生字。
他们已习惯于把社会当作杀害他们的环境，当作一种致命的力量来看待。他们谈到自己的自由正如人们谈到自己的健康一样。一个被逮捕的人是个“病人”，一个被判了刑的人是个“死人”。
被埋在四堵石墙里的囚犯所最怕的是那种冰冷的独居生活，他称地牢为castus。在这种阴森凄惨的地方，外界的生活总是以它最欢快的形象出现的。囚犯拖着脚镣，你也许以为他所想念的是脚能走路吧？不，他所想念的是脚能跳舞，万一他能锯断脚镣，他的第一个念头就将是“他现在能跳舞了”，因此他把锯子叫做“村镇中的舞会”。一个“人名”是一个“中心”，一种极深的相似。匪徒有两个脑袋，一个指导他的行动使他度过一生的脑袋，一个到他临死那天还留在他肩上的脑袋，他称那个唆使他犯罪的脑袋为“神学院”，替他抵罪的那个脑袋为“树桩子”。当一个人到了只剩下一身破衣和一腔恶念、在物质和精神两方面都已堕落到“无赖”这个词所具有的双重意义时，他便是到了犯罪的边缘，他象一把锋利的快刀，有着双刃：穷苦和凶恶，不过黑话不说“一个无赖”，它说“一个磨快了的”。苦役牢是什么？是该诅咒的火坑和地狱。苦役犯叫做“成束的柴枝”。最后，歹徒们替监狱取了个什么名字呢？“学府”。整整一套惩罚制度可以从这个词里产生出来。
你们要不要知道苦役牢里的那些歌，在专用词汇里所谓lir　onfa的那种叠歌，多半是从什么地方开出花来的呢？请听我说：
从前在巴黎的小沙特雷，有个长长的大地牢。这地牢紧贴着塞纳河，比河水低八尺。什么窗子通风洞它全没有，唯一的洞口是一道门。人可以进去，空气却进不去。地牢顶上是石砌的圆拱顶，地上是十寸厚的稀泥。地上原是铺了石板的，但由于水的渗透，石板全腐烂了，遍地是裂缝。离地八尺高的地方有根粗重的长梁，从地道的这一端伸到另一端，从这巨梁上，每隔一定距离便垂下一根三尺长的铁链，链子头上挂一个铁枷。这地牢是用来看管那些发配大桡船的犯人的，直到他们被遣送到土伦去的那天为止。这些犯人，一个个被推到那横梁下面，去接受那条在黑暗中摇摇摆摆等待着他们的铁器。那些链子，象垂着的胳膊，还有那些枷，象张着的手掌，把一个个可怜人的颈子掐起来。铆钉钉上以后，他们便在那里待着。链条太短，他们躺不下去。他们呆呆地待在那地牢里，在那样的一个黑洞里，那样的一根横梁下面，几乎是挂着的，得使尽全力才能摸到面包或水罐，头顶着圆拱顶，半条腿浸在稀泥里，粪便沿着两腿淌下去，疲乏到浑身酥软，如遭四马撕裂的死刑那样，弯着胯骨，屈着膝头，两手攀住链条，这才能喘一口气，只能立着睡觉，还得随时被铁枷掐醒，有些人也就不再醒了。要吃东西，他们得用脚跟把别人丢在污泥里的面包顺着大腿推送到自己的手里。他们这样得待多久呢？一个月，两个月，有时六个月，有一个待了一整年。这里是大桡船的接待室。偷了国王的一只野兔，便得到那里去待待。在这坟墓地狱里面，他们干些什么呢？干人在坟墓里所能干的，他们等死，也干人在地狱里所能干的，他们歌唱。因为凡是希望断绝的地方，一定有歌声。在马尔他的水面上，当一只大桡船摇来时，人们总是先听到歌声，后听到桡声。苏尔旺尚，那个违禁打猎的可怜人，便在这小沙特雷的地牢里待过，他说：“当时支持着我的便是诗韵。”诗味索然，韵有什么用处呢？几乎所有用黑话唱出的歌全产生在这地牢里。蒙哥马利大桡船上的那首悲切的叠歌Timaloumisaine，timoulamison便是从巴黎大沙特雷的那个地牢里唱起的。这些歌多半是凄凄惨惨的，有几首是愉快的，有一首却温柔：
这儿是
小投枪手①的舞台。
你别白费力气。你消灭不了人心中这一点永存的残余：
爱。 
①小投枪手，指射箭的爱神。
在这处处是暧昧行为的世界上，人人相互保守秘密。秘密，这是大众的东西。对那些穷苦人来说，秘密是构成团结基础的统一体。泄密，便是从这个横蛮的共同体的每个成员身上夺去他本人的一点东西。在黑话的那种有力的语言里，“揭发”是“吃那块东西”。这仿佛是说，揭发者为他自己，从大众的实体中取走了一点东西，从每个人身上取走了一块肉去养肥他自己。
挨耳光是什么？庸俗的隐喻回答说：“就是看三十六支蜡烛。”黑话在这里参加意见说：“Chandelle，camoufle①。”于是日常用语便以camouflet为“耳光”的同义词。于是黑话在隐喻棗这一无法计算的弹道棗的帮助下，通过一种自下而上的渗透，便由匪窟升到文学院，根据普拉耶所说的“我点燃我的camoufle（蜡烛）”，伏尔泰便也写下了“朗勒维·拉波梅尔够得上挨一百下camouflets（耳光）。” 
①“就是看三十六支蜡烛”，黑话称Chandelle（蜡烛）为camoufle。
对黑话进行挖掘，步步都能有所发现。对这种奇特语言深入的钻研能把人引向正常社会和那被诅咒的社会幽奥的交叉点。
贼，也有他的炮灰，可偷的物质，你，我，任何人都是；1e　pan－tre。（Pan，人人。）
黑话，便是语言中的苦役犯。
愿人的思维的活力能深深下降到底层，让厄运的黑暗势力能把它牵曳束缚在那里，让一种不知道是什么的用具捆扎在那万丈深渊里，你必将茫然自失。
呵穷困中人的苦心！
唉！难道没有人来拯救黑暗中人的灵魂吗？这些人的命运难道是永远在原处等待着这位精神的解放者，这位跨着飞马和半马半鹰飞兽的伟大天神，这位身披曙光长着双翅从天而降的战士，这位光辉灿烂代表未来的飞将军吗？它将永远毫无结果地向理想的光辉呼救吗？它将永远困在那黑暗的洞里，揪心地听着恶魔的进逼声，望着那狰狞严酷的头、咽着口沫的下额、虎爪、蛇身、虺腹，时起时伏，翻腾出没在恶水中吗？难道它就该待在那里，没有一线光明，没有希望，听凭祸害来临，听凭魔怪发觉，只好心惊胆战，蓬头散发，扼腕绞臂，象天昏地黑中惨痛、白洁、赤身露体的安德洛墨达①那样，永远拴在幽冥的岩石上吗？ 
①安德洛墨达（Andromède），希腊神话中被献祭给海怪的少女。 
Part 4 Book 7 Chapter 3 Slang which weeps and Slang which laughs
As the reader perceives, slang in its entirety, slang of four hundred years ago, like the slang of to-day, is permeated with that sombre, symbolical spirit which gives to all words a mien which is now mournful, now menacing. One feels in it the wild and ancient sadness of those vagrants of the Court of Miracles who played at cards with packs of their own, some of which have come down to us. The eight of clubs, for instance, represented a huge tree bearing eight enormous trefoil leaves, a sort of fantastic personification of the forest. At the foot of this tree a fire was burning, over which three hares were roasting a huntsman on a spit, and behind him, on another fire, hung a steaming pot, whence emerged the head of a dog. Nothing can be more melancholy than these reprisals in painting, by a pack of cards, in the presence of stakes for the roasting of smugglers and of the cauldron for the boiling of counterfeiters. The diverse forms assumed by thought in the realm of slang, even song, even raillery, even menace, all partook of this powerless and dejected character. All the songs, the melodies of some of which have been collected, were humble and lamentable to the point of evoking tears. The pegre is always the poor pegre, and he is always the hare in hiding, the fugitive mouse, the flying bird. He hardly complains, he contents himself with sighing; one of his moans has come down to us: "I do not understand how God, the father of men, can torture his children and his grandchildren and hear them cry, without himself suffering torture."[43] The wretch, whenever he has time to think, makes himself small before the low, and frail in the presence of society; he lies down flat on his face, he entreats, he appeals to the side of compassion; we feel that he is conscious of his guilt.
[43] Je n'entrave que le dail comment meck, le daron des orgues, peut atiger ses momes et ses momignards et les locher criblant sans etre agite lui-meme.
Towards the middle of the last century a change took place, prison songs and thieves' ritournelles assumed, so to speak, an insolent and jovial mien. The plaintive malure was replaced by the larifla. We find in the eighteenth century, in nearly all the songs of the galleys and prisons, a diabolical and enigmatical gayety. We hear this strident and lilting refrain which we should say had been lighted up by a phosphorescent gleam, and which seems to have been flung into the forest by a will-o'-the-wisp playing the fife:--
Miralabi suslababo Mirliton ribonribette Surlababi mirlababo Mirliton ribonribo.
This was sung in a cellar or in a nook of the forest while cutting a man's throat.
A serious symptom. In the eighteenth century, the ancient melancholy of the dejected classes vanishes. They began to laugh. They rally the grand meg and the grand dab. Given Louis XV. they call the King of France "le Marquis de Pantin." And behold, they are almost gay. A sort of gleam proceeds from these miserable wretches, as though their consciences were not heavy within them any more. These lamentable tribes of darkness have no longer merely the desperate audacity of actions, they possess the heedless audacity of mind. A sign that they are losing the sense of their criminality, and that they feel, even among thinkers and dreamers, some indefinable support which the latter themselves know not of. A sign that theft and pillage are beginning to filter into doctrines and sophisms, in such a way as to lose somewhat of their ugliness, while communicating much of it to sophisms and doctrines. A sign, in short, of some outbreak which is prodigious and near unless some diversion shall arise.
Let us pause a moment. Whom are we accusing here? Is it the eighteenth century? Is it philosophy? Certainly not. The work of the eighteenth century is healthy and good and wholesome. The encyclopedists, Diderot at their head; the physiocrates, Turgot at their head; the philosophers, Voltaire at their head; the Utopians, Rousseau at their head,--these are four sacred legions. Humanity's immense advance towards the light is due to them. They are the four vanguards of the human race, marching towards the four cardinal points of progress. Diderot towards the beautiful, Turgot towards the useful, Voltaire towards the true, Rousseau towards the just. But by the side of and above the philosophers, there were the sophists, a venomous vegetation mingled with a healthy growth, hemlock in the virgin forest. While the executioner was burning the great books of the liberators of the century on the grand staircase of the court-house, writers now forgotten were publishing, with the King's sanction, no one knows what strangely disorganizing writings, which were eagerly read by the unfortunate. Some of these publications, odd to say, which were patronized by a prince, are to be found in the Secret Library. These facts, significant but unknown, were imperceptible on the surface. Sometimes, in the very obscurity of a fact lurks its danger. It is obscure because it is underhand. Of all these writers, the one who probably then excavated in the masses the most unhealthy gallery was Restif de La Bretonne.
This work, peculiar to the whole of Europe, effected more ravages in Germany than anywhere else. In Germany, during a given period, summed up by Schiller in his famous drama The Robbers, theft and pillage rose up in protest against property and labor, assimilated certain specious and false elementary ideas, which, though just in appearance, were absurd in reality, enveloped themselves in these ideas, disappeared within them, after a fashion, assumed an abstract name, passed into the state of theory, and in that shape circulated among the laborious, suffering, and honest masses, unknown even to the imprudent chemists who had prepared the mixture, unknown even to the masses who accepted it. Whenever a fact of this sort presents itself, the case is grave. Suffering engenders wrath; and while the prosperous classes blind themselves or fall asleep, which is the same thing as shutting one's eyes, the hatred of the unfortunate classes lights its torch at some aggrieved or ill-made spirit which dreams in a corner, and sets itself to the scrutiny of society. The scrutiny of hatred is a terrible thing. 
Hence, if the ill-fortune of the times so wills it, those fearful commotions which were formerly called jacqueries, beside which purely political agitations are the merest child's play, which are no longer the conflict of the oppressed and the oppressor, but the revolt of discomfort against comfort. Then everything crumbles.
Jacqueries are earthquakes of the people.
It is this peril, possibly imminent towards the close of the eighteenth century, which the French Revolution, that immense act of probity, cut short.
The French Revolution, which is nothing else than the idea armed with the sword, rose erect, and, with the same abrupt movement, closed the door of ill and opened the door of good.
It put a stop to torture, promulgated the truth, expelled miasma, rendered the century healthy, crowned the populace. 
It may be said of it that it created man a second time, by giving him a second soul, the right.
The nineteenth century has inherited and profited by its work, and to-day, the social catastrophe to which we lately alluded is simply impossible. Blind is he who announces it! Foolish is he who fears it! Revolution is the vaccine of Jacquerie.
Thanks to the Revolution, social conditions have changed. Feudal and monarchical maladies no longer run in our blood. There is no more of the Middle Ages in our constitution. We no longer live in the days when terrible swarms within made irruptions, when one heard beneath his feet the obscure course of a dull rumble, when indescribable elevations from mole-like tunnels appeared on the surface of civilization, where the soil cracked open, where the roofs of caverns yawned, and where one suddenly beheld monstrous heads emerging from the earth.
The revolutionary sense is a moral sense. The sentiment of right, once developed, develops the sentiment of duty. The law of all is liberty, which ends where the liberty of others begins, according to Robespierre's admirable definition. Since '89, the whole people has been dilating into a sublime individual; there is not a poor man, who, possessing his right, has not his ray of sun; the die-of-hunger feels within him the honesty of France; the dignity of the citizen is an internal armor; he who is free is scrupulous; he who votes reigns. Hence incorruptibility; hence the miscarriage of unhealthy lusts; hence eyes heroically lowered before temptations. The revolutionary wholesomeness is such, that on a day of deliverance, a 14th of July, a 10th of August, there is no longer any populace. The first cry of the enlightened and increasing throngs is: death to thieves! Progress is an honest man; the ideal and the absolute do not filch pocket-handkerchiefs. By whom were the wagons containing the wealth of the Tuileries escorted in 1848? By the rag-pickers of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.Rags mounted guard over the treasure. Virtue rendered these tatterdemalions resplendent. In those wagons in chests, hardly closed, and some, even, half-open, amid a hundred dazzling caskets, was that ancient crown of France, studded with diamonds, surmounted by the carbuncle of royalty, by the Regent diamond, which was worth thirty millions. Barefooted, they guarded that crown.
Hence, no more Jacquerie. I regret it for the sake of the skilful. The old fear has produced its last effects in that quarter; and henceforth it can no longer be employed in politics. The principal spring of the red spectre is broken. Every one knows it now. The scare-crow scares no longer. The birds take liberties with the mannikin, foul creatures alight upon it, the bourgeois laugh at it.
正如我们所见，整个黑话，无论是四百年前的黑话或今天的黑话，都渗透了那种时而把抑郁姿态，时而把威吓神情赋予一切词的象征性的阴暗气质。我们能在这里感受到当年在圣迹区玩纸牌的那些流浪汉的郁怒情绪，那些人有他们自己独创的纸牌，我们还保存了几副。例如那张梅花八便是一株有八片大花瓣的大树，一种表现森林的怪诞手法。树底下画了一堆燃烧着的火，三只野兔抬着一个穿在烤叉上的猎人在火上烘烤，树后面，另一堆火上挂一口热气腾腾的锅，锅里露出一个狗头。这上面所画的是对那种烧死走私犯和煮死铸私钱犯的火刑的反击情绪，而竟描绘在一张纸牌上，可以说再没有什么比这更阴森的了。在黑话的王国里，思想所采取的各种不同形式，即使是歌曲、嘲笑或恐吓，也全有那种无可奈何和压抑的特征。所有的歌曲棗某些旋律已经收集棗全是低声下气悲切到使人流泪的。鬼蜮社会自称为“可怜的鬼蜮社会”，它总是象一只随时隐藏的野兔、逃窜的老鼠、飞走的小鸟。它稍微表示了一点意见，便又抑制自己，以一叹了之。我们的耳朵刮到过这么一句诉苦的话：“我不懂，上帝，人的父亲，怎么可以虐待他的子孙后代，听凭他们呼号而无动于衷。”穷苦人每到想问题时，总自以为在法律面前是渺小的，在社会面前是软弱无力的，他五体投地地乞求怜悯，人们感到他认识了自己的错误。
但在上一世纪的中叶，却起了变化。监狱里的歌，歹徒们经常唱的曲调，可以说，有了种傲慢和欢快的姿态。怨叹的maluré已被larifla所替代。及至十九世纪，几乎所有的大桡船、苦役牢、囚犯队里的任何歌曲都有了一种疯狂费解的轻快趣味。人们在其中常听到这几句尖戾跳动的叠歌，它们好象被微弱的磷光照亮着，随着笛声被一团鬼火引进森林里似的：
看啊在那里，就在那里嘛，
高声歌唱啊，大打牙祭吧！
就在那里啊，你去看看嘛！
歌声要响亮，狂饮要痛快！
在地窖里或在林中一角掐死人时，人们便唱着这首歌。
严重的症状。那些阴沉阶级的古老伤感情绪到十八世纪已经消失了。他们开始笑起来了。他们嘲笑上帝和国王。在谈到路易十五时，他们把法兰西国王叫做“庞坦侯爷”。他们几乎是轻松愉快的。有一种轻微的光从这些穷苦的人群中透出来了，仿佛他们心中的压抑已不存在。这些活在黑暗中的悲惨人群已不仅是只有行动上那种不顾一切的胆量，也还有精神上那种无所顾忌的胆量。这说明他们已失去了那种自惭多罪的感受，并感到自己已在某些思想家和空想者中间受到一种说不上是什么的不自觉的支持。这说明偷盗和劫掠行为已被列为某些学说和诡辩的论题，得以稍稍减掉一点它们的丑恶，却也大大增加了这些学说和诡辩的丑恶。总之，这说明，假使没有变化，在不久的将来，便将出现巨大的暴动。
且慢。我们在此地控诉谁呢？十八世纪吗？它的哲学吗？当然不是。十八世纪的成就是健康的，好的。以狄德罗为首的百科全书派，以杜尔哥①为首的重农学派，以伏尔泰为首的哲学家，以卢梭为首的乌托邦主义者，这是四支神圣的大军。人类走向光明的巨大进展应当归功于他们。这是人类向进步的四个方面进军的四个先锋，狄德罗驰向美，杜尔哥驰向功利，伏尔泰驰向真理，卢梭驰向正义。但是，在哲学家的身旁和底下，有那些诡辩派，这是杂在香花中的毒草，是处女林中的霸王鞭。正当刽子手在最高法院的正厅楼梯上焚烧那个世纪一些伟大而志在解放的书籍时，许多现已被遗忘的作家却在国王的特许下发表了不知多少破坏性极强的文章，专供穷苦人尽情阅读。这些著作中的好几种，说也奇怪，还受到一个亲王的保护，收藏在“秘密图书馆”里。这些意味深长但不让人知的小事，表面上是未被觉察的。而有时，一件事的危险性正在于它的不公开。它不公开，因为它是在地下进行的。在所有这些作家的著作中，把人民群众引向最不健康的邪路上去的一部，也许要数上勒蒂夫·德·拉布雷东②的。 
①杜尔哥（Turgot），路易十六的财政大臣，曾废除国内关卡，实行粮食自由买卖，减轻赋税，因触犯了贵族和僧侣的特权，被解职。
②勒蒂夫·德·拉布雷东（Restif　de　la　Bretonne，1734?806），法国作家。
这部著作，风行于整个欧洲，在德国比在任何地方为害更烈。在德国，经过席勒在他那名剧《强盗》中加以概括以后，偷盗和劫掠便曾在某个时期挺身而起，向财产和工作提出抗议，吸取了某些浅薄、似是而非、虚伪、表面正确而实际荒谬的思想，并用这些思想把自己装扮起来，隐藏在里面，取了个抽象的名词，使自己成为理论，并以这样的方式在勤劳、痛苦和诚实的人民群众中泛滥成灾，连那配制这一混合药剂的化学家也没有察觉，连那些接受了它的群众也没有察觉。每次发生这样的事，那总是严重的。痛苦生怒火，每当荣华阶级瞎了眼或睡大觉（这总是闭着眼的），苦难阶级的仇恨便在一些郁闷或怀着坏心眼待在角落里梦想的人的心中燃起它的火把，并开始对社会作研究。仇恨所作的研究，可怕得很！
因此，假使时代的灾难一定要这样，便会发生人们在过去称作“扎克雷运动”①的那种骇人听闻的震荡，纯政治性的动乱和那种运动比较起来只不过是儿戏，那已不是被压迫者对压迫者的斗争，而是窘困对宽裕的暴动。到那时候一切都得崩溃。 
①扎克雷运动（jacquerie），原指十四世纪中叶席卷法国北部的农民大起义，继泛指一般暴力运动。
扎克雷运动是人民的震动。
在十八世纪末，这种危险也许已迫在眉睫，法国革命棗
这一正大光明的行动棗却一下子截住了它。
法国革命只不过是一种用利剑武装起来的理想，它挺身猛然一击，在同一动作中关上了恶门也打开了善门。它解决了问题，宣布了真理，清除了瘴气，净化了世纪，替人民加了冠冕。
我们可以说它又一次创造了人类，赋予人类以第二个灵魂，人权。
十九世纪继承并享受了它的成果，到今天，我们刚才指出的那种社会灾难已干脆变成不可能的了。只有瞎子才会对它大惊小怪！只有傻子才会对它谈虎色变！革命是预防扎克雷运动的疫苗。
幸亏那次革命，社会的情况改变了。在我们的血液里已不再存在封建制和君主制的病害。在我们的体质里已经不再存在中世纪。我们这时代不会再发生那种引起剧变的内部纷争聚讼，不会再听到自己脚下那种隐隐可辨的暗流，不会再遇到那种来自鼹鼠的坑道、出现在文明表层的难于形容的骚动，不会再有地裂，岩洞下坼，也不会再看见妖魔鬼怪的头从地底下突然钻出来。
革命观便是道德观。人权的感情，一经发展，便能发展成责任感。全民的法律，这就是自由，按照罗伯斯庇尔的令人钦佩的定义，自由止于他人自由之始。自从一七八九年以来，全体人民都以崇高化了的个体从事自我发展，没有一个穷人不因获得了人权而兴高采烈，饿到快死的人也感到对法兰西的诚实满怀信心，公民的尊严是精神的武装。谁有自由，谁就自爱，谁有选举权，谁就是统治者。不可腐蚀性由此而生，不健康的贪念由此而灭，从此，人们的眼睛都在诱惑面前英勇地低垂下去了。革命的净化作用竟达到了如此程度，一朝得救，例如在七月十四日，例如在八月十日，所有的贱民全不存在了。光明伟大的群众的第一声呐喊便是：“处死盗窃犯！”进步创造正气，理想和绝对真理决不偷偷摸摸。一八四八年载运杜伊勒里宫财富的那些货车是由谁押送的？是由圣安东尼郊区的那些收破衣烂衫的人押送的。破烂儿护卫着宝库。好品德使那些衣服褴褛的人显得无比庄严。在那些货车上的一些没有关严，有些甚至还半开着的箱子里，在一百只灿烂夺目的宝石匣子里，有那顶整个镶满了钻石的古老王冠，顶上托着那颗价值三千万的代表王权和摄政权所用的红宝石。他们，赤着脚，保卫着这顶王冠。
足见不会再有扎克雷运动了。我对那些机智的人感到遗憾。旧日的畏惧心在这里起了它最后一次作用，从此不能再用在政治方面了。红鬼的大弹簧已断。现在人人都识破了这一点。稻草人已不能再吓唬人了。飞鸟已和草人混熟，鸠雀停在它的头上，资产阶级把它当作笑话。
Part 4 Book 7 Chapter 4 The Two Duties: To Watch and to Hope
This being the case, is all social danger dispelled? Certainly not. There is no Jacquerie; society may rest assured on that point; blood will no longer rush to its head. But let society take heed to the manner in which it breathes. Apoplexy is no longer to be feared, but phthisis is there. Social phthisis is called misery.
One can perish from being undermined as well as from being struck by lightning.
Let us not weary of repeating, and sympathetic souls must not forget that this is the first of fraternal obligations, and selfish hearts must understand that the first of political necessities consists in thinking first of all of the disinherited and sorrowing throngs, in solacing, airing, enlightening, loving them, in enlarging their horizon to a magnificent extent, in lavishing upon them education in every form, in offering them the example of labor, never the example of idleness, in diminishing the individual burden by enlarging the notion of the universal aim, in setting a limit to poverty without setting a limit to wealth, in creating vast fields of public and popular activity, in having, like Briareus, a hundred hands to extend in all directions to the oppressed and the feeble, in employing the collective power for that grand duty of opening workshops for all arms, schools for all aptitudes, and laboratories for all degrees of intelligence, in augmenting salaries, diminishing trouble, balancing what should be and what is, that is to say, in proportioning enjoyment to effort and a glut to need; in a word, in evolving from the social apparatus more light and more comfort for the benefit of those who suffer and those who are ignorant.
And, let us say it, all this is but the beginning. The true question is this: labor cannot be a law without being a right. 
We will not insist upon this point; this is not the proper place for that.
If nature calls itself Providence, society should call itself foresight. 
Intellectual and moral growth is no less indispensable than material improvement. To know is a sacrament, to think is the prime necessity, truth is nourishment as well as grain. A reason which fasts from science and wisdom grows thin. Let us enter equal complaint against stomachs and minds which do not eat. If there is anything more heart-breaking than a body perishing for lack of bread, it is a soul which is dying from hunger for the light.
The whole of progress tends in the direction of solution. Some day we shall be amazed. As the human race mounts upward, the deep layers emerge naturally from the zone of distress. The obliteration of misery will be accomplished by a simple elevation of level.
We should do wrong were we to doubt this blessed consummation.
The past is very strong, it is true, at the present moment. It censures. This rejuvenation of a corpse is surprising. Behold, it is walking and advancing. It seems a victor; this dead body is a conqueror. He arrives with his legions, superstitions, with his sword, despotism, with his banner, ignorance; a while ago, he won ten battles. He advances, he threatens, he laughs, he is at our doors. Let us not despair, on our side. Let us sell the field on which Hannibal is encamped.
What have we to fear, we who believe? 
No such thing as a back-flow of ideas exists any more than there exists a return of a river on its course. 
But let those who do not desire a future reflect on this matter. When they say "no" to progress, it is not the future but themselves that they are condemning. They are giving themselves a sad malady; they are inoculating themselves with the past. There is but one way of rejecting To-morrow, and that is to die.
Now, no death, that of the body as late as possible, that of the soul never,--this is what we desire.
Yes, the enigma will utter its word, the sphinx will speak, the problem will be solved.
Yes, the people, sketched out by the eighteenth century, will be finished by the nineteenth. He who doubts this is an idiot! The future blossoming, the near blossoming forth of universal well-being, is a divinely fatal phenomenon.
Immense combined propulsions direct human affairs and conduct them within a given time to a logical state, that is to say, to a state of equilibrium; that is to say, to equity. A force composed of earth and heaven results from humanity and governs it; this force is a worker of miracles; marvellous issues are no more difficult to it than extraordinary vicissitudes. Aided by science, which comes from one man, and by the event, which comes from another, it is not greatly alarmed by these contradictions in the attitude of problems, which seem impossibilities to the vulgar herd. It is no less skilful at causing a solution to spring forth from the reconciliation of ideas, than a lesson from the reconciliation of facts, and we may expect anything from that mysterious power of progress, which brought the Orient and the Occident face to face one fine day, in the depths of a sepulchre, and made the imaums converse with Bonaparte in the interior of the Great Pyramid.
In the meantime, let there be no halt, no hesitation, no pause in the grandiose onward march of minds. Social philosophy consists essentially in science and peace. Its object is, and its result must be, to dissolve wrath by the study of antagonisms. It examines, it scrutinizes, it analyzes; then it puts together once more, it proceeds by means of reduction, discarding all hatred.
More than once, a society has been seen to give way before the wind which is let loose upon mankind; history is full of the shipwrecks of nations and empires; manners, customs, laws, religions,--and some fine day that unknown force, the hurricane, passes by and bears them all away. The civilizations of India, of Chaldea, of Persia, of Syria, of Egypt, have disappeared one after the other. Why? We know not. What are the causes of these disasters? We do not know. Could these societies have been saved? Was it their fault? Did they persist in the fatal vice which destroyed them? What is the amount of suicide in these terrible deaths of a nation and a race? Questions to which there exists no reply. Darkness enwraps condemned civilizations. They sprung a leak, then they sank. We have nothing more to say; and it is with a sort of terror that we look on, at the bottom of that sea which is called the past, behind those colossal waves, at the shipwreck of those immense vessels, Babylon, Nineveh, Tarsus, Thebes, Rome, beneath the fearful gusts which emerge from all the mouths of the shadows. But shadows are there, and light is here. We are not acquainted with the maladies of these ancient civilizations, we do not know the infirmities of our own. Everywhere upon it we have the right of light, we contemplate its beauties, we lay bare its defects. Where it is ill, we probe; and the sickness once diagnosed, the study of the cause leads to the discovery of the remedy. Our civilization, the work of twenty centuries, is its law and its prodigy; it is worth the trouble of saving. It will be saved. It is already much to have solaced it; its enlightenment is yet another point. All the labors of modern social philosophies must converge towards this point. The thinker of to-day has a great duty-- to auscultate civilization. 
We repeat, that this auscultation brings encouragement; it is by this persistence in encouragement that we wish to conclude these pages, an austere interlude in a mournful drama. Beneath the social mortality, we feel human imperishableness. The globe does not perish, because it has these wounds, craters, eruptions, sulphur pits, here and there, nor because of a volcano which ejects its pus. The maladies of the people do not kill man. 
And yet, any one who follows the course of social clinics shakes his head at times. The strongest, the tenderest, the most logical have their hours of weakness.
Will the future arrive? It seems as though we might almost put this question, when we behold so much terrible darkness. Melancholy face-to-face encounter of selfish and wretched. On the part of the selfish, the prejudices, shadows of costly education, appetite increasing through intoxication, a giddiness of prosperity which dulls, a fear of suffering which, in some, goes as far as an aversion for the suffering, an implacable satisfaction, the I so swollen that it bars the soul; on the side of the wretched covetousness, envy, hatred of seeing others enjoy, the profound impulses of the human beast towards assuaging its desires, hearts full of mist, sadness, need, fatality, impure and simple ignorance.
Shall we continue to raise our eyes to heaven? Is the luminous point which we distinguish there one of those which vanish? The ideal is frightful to behold, thus lost in the depths, small,isolated, imperceptible, brilliant, but surrounded by those great, black menaces, monstrously heaped around it; yet no more in danger than a star in the maw of the clouds.
既然如此，社会的危险是否完全消失了呢？当然不是。扎克雷运动绝不会发生。在这方面，社会可以安心，血液不再上冲使头脑发晕了，但是它得注意呼吸。不用再怕脑溢血了，痨病却还存在。社会的痨病便是穷。
慢性侵害和突然轰击一样能使人死亡。
我们应当不厌其烦地反复提出：要最先想到那些没有生计的痛苦民众，为他们减少困难，让他们得到空气和光明，爱护他们，扩大他们的视野，使他们感到灿烂辉煌，用种种形式为他们提供接受教育的机会，为他们提供劳动的榜样，而不是游手好闲的榜样，减轻他们个人负担的压力，增加他们对总目标的认识，限制穷困而不限制财富，大量创造人民共同劳动的天地，象布里亚柔斯①那样，把一百只手从四面八方伸向受压迫和软弱无力的人，为这一伟大职责运用集体的力量，为所有的胳膊开设工厂，为所有的才能开办学校，为所有的智力设立实验室，增加工资，减轻惩罚，平衡收支，也就是说，调整福利与劳动之间和享用与需求之间的比重。总之，要使社会机器为受苦和无知的人的利益发出更多的光明和更多的温暖，使富于同情心的人不忘记这些，这是人间友爱的第一义务，使自私自利的人懂得这些，这是政治的第一需要。 
①布里亚柔斯（Briarée），神话中的巨人，是天和地的儿子，有五十个头和一百只手。　
我们还得指出，所有这些，只不过是一个开始。真正的问题是：劳动如果不成为权利，就不可能成为一种法制。
我们不在这里细谈，这里不是细谈的地方。
如果自然界是人类的依靠，人类社会便该有预见。
才智和精神的增长的必要性决不亚于物质的改善。知识是人生旅途中的资粮，思想第一重要，真理是粮食，有如稻麦。缺乏科学和哲理依据的智力必然枯竭。不吸取营养的精神和不吃不喝的胃是一样可怜的。如果还有什么比死于饥渴的躯体更能使人痛心的话，那一定是由于得不到光明而死去的灵魂了。
进步总倾向于问题的解决。总有一天，人们会大吃一惊。人类既是向高处前进的，处于底层深处的阶层必将自然而然地从灾区冲出。贫困的消灭将由水平的一次简单提高而得以完成。
人们如果怀疑这种善良的解决，那就错了。
过去的影响在目前确实还是很强大的。它会卷土重来。再次获得青春的尸体是骇人的。瞧！它大踏步地走来了。它好象是胜利者，这死尸成了征服者。它领着它的军团棗种种迷信，带着它的佩剑棗专制制度，举着它的大旗棗愚昧无知，来到了，不久前它还打了十次胜仗。它前进，它威吓，它笑，它到了我们的门口。至于我们，我们不用气馁。让我们把汉尼拔驻军的营地卖了吧。
我们有信念，我们还怕什么呢？
思想并不比江河有更多倒退的余地。
可是不要未来的人应当多想想。他们不要进步，其实他们所否认的并不是未来，而只是他们自己。他们甘愿害暗疾，他们把过去的种种当作疫苗来给自己接种。只有一个办法可以拒绝明天，那便是死去。
因此，不要死亡，躯体的死亡越迟越好，灵魂永不要死亡，这便是我们的愿望。
是的，谜底终将被揭开，斯芬克司终将说话，问题终将得到解决。是的，人民在十八世纪已经受了启蒙教育，他们必将成熟于十九世纪。对此，只有白痴才怀疑！普遍的美好的生活，在将来，在不久的将来，一定会象鲜花那样遍地开放，这一前景是天经地义，必然会到来的。
各方无限巨大的推力一同操纵着人间的事物，在一定时期使它们一一合乎逻辑，也就是说，平衡，也就是说，到达平等。一种由天地合成的力量来自人道并统治着人类，那种力量是创造奇迹的能手，对它来说，巧妙地排除困难并不比安排剧情的非常转变更棘手些。在来自人间的科学和来自上方的机缘这两者的帮助下，它对被提出的问题里一些可能会使庸人感到无法解决的矛盾是不怎么惊讶的。它从各种思想的综合分析中找到的解决方法的能力，并不低于从各种事态的综合分析中得出的教训，从进步的这种神秘威力中人可以期望一切，有朝一日，进步将使东方和西方在坟墓的底里相对，将使伊玛目①和波拿巴在大金字塔的内部对话。
目前，在这洋洋大观的思想长征中，我们不要止步，不要游移，不要有停顿的时间。社会哲学主要是和平哲学。它的目标，它应有的效果，是从研究敌对的动机中消除愤怒。它调查，它探讨，它分析，随后，它重新组合。它通过切削的办法进行工作，它把一切方面的仇恨全都切除。
人们不止一次看到一个社会会在一阵风暴中消失，历史中有不少民族和帝国惨遭灭顶，有不少习俗、法律、宗教，在一天之内被一阵突然袭来的飓风全部摧毁。印度、迦勒底、波斯、亚述、埃及的文明都先后消失了。为什么？我们不知道。这些灾难的根源何在？我们不了解。这些社会，在当时竟是无从拯救的吗？这中间有没有它们自身的过失呢？它们是不是曾在某种必然带来不幸的罪恶方面坚持错误，以致自取灭亡呢？在一个国家和一个民族的这种可怕的绝灭中，自杀的因素应占多大比重呢？这些问题，都无从回答。覆盖在这些消逝了的文明上面的，是一片黑暗。既然它们漏水，它们就被吞没了，再没有什么可说的。我们回溯已往的若干世纪，有如注视汪洋大海中的滔天巨浪，看见一艘艘特大的船：巴比伦、尼尼微、塔尔苏斯②、底比斯、罗马，在黑风恶浪的狂冲猛袭中，一一沉入海底，不禁意夺神骇。但是，那边黑暗，这边光明。我们不懂古代文明的病害，却知道自己文明的疾患。我们处处都有权利把它拿到阳光下来照照，我们瞻仰它的美丽，也要赤裸裸地揭露它的丑恶。它哪里不对劲，我们便在哪里诊治，一旦查明病情便可研究病因，对症下药。我们的文明是二十个世纪的成果，它既奇形怪状，但也绚烂不凡，它是值得救护的。也一定能得救。救助它，那已经不坏，开导它，就更好。现代社会哲学的一切活动都应集中于这一目标。今天的思想家负有一个重大的职责，那便是对文明进行听诊。 
①伊玛目（iman），伊斯兰教清真寺的教长。
②塔尔苏斯（Tarse，即Tarsus），土耳其城市，在阿达纳之西。　　
我们要反复指出，这种听诊是能鼓舞人心的，也正是为了加强这种鼓舞作用，我们才在一个悲惨故事中插进这几页严肃的题外话。社会可以消亡，人类却不会毁灭。地球不会因这儿那儿有了些象伤口那样的火山口，象癣疥那样的硫质喷气孔，也不会因有座象流脓血那样喷射着的火山而死去。人民的疾病杀不了人。
虽然如此，对社会进行临床诊断的人，谁也会有摇头的时候。最刚强、最柔和、最讲逻辑的人有时也会迷惘。
未来果真会来到吗？人们被眼前的黑暗吓住时，几乎会对自己提出这样的问题。自私的人和贫苦的人的会见是阴惨的。在自私的人方面，有种种成见，那种发家致富教育的毒害，越吃越馋的胃口，财迷心窍的丧心病狂，对受苦的惧怕，有些竟恶化到了对受苦人的厌恶，毫不容情地要满足自己的欲念，自负到了精神闭塞的状态；在贫苦的人方面，有羡慕心、嫉妒心、见别人快乐而起的愤恨、因追求满足而发自内心深处的兽性冲动、充满了迷雾的心、忧愁、希求、怨命、不洁而又单纯的无知。
应当继续仰望天空吗？我们见到的天边的那个光点，是不是那些在熄灭中的天体之一呢？理想，高悬在遥远的天边，是那样微小，孤独，难以觉察，闪着亮光，看去令人心寒，在它四周，还围绕着堆叠如山的险阻危难和恶风黑影，然而它并不比云边的星星更处于危险之中。
Part 4 Book 8 Chapter 1 Full Light
The reader has probably understood that Eponine, having recognized through the gate, the inhabitant of that Rue Plumet whither Magnon had sent her, had begun by keeping the ruffians away from the Rue Plumet, and had then conducted Marius thither, and that, after many days spent in ecstasy before that gate, Marius, drawn on by that force which draws the iron to the magnet and a lover towards the stones of which is built the house of her whom he loves, had finally entered Cosette's garden as Romeo entered the garden of Juliet. This had even proved easier for him than for Romeo; Romeo was obliged to scale a wall, Marius had only to use a little force on one of the bars of the decrepit gate which vacillated in its rusty recess, after the fashion of old people's teeth. Marius was slender and readily passed through.
As there was never any one in the street, and as Marius never entered the garden except at night, he ran no risk of being seen. 
Beginning with that blessed and holy hour when a kiss betrothed these two souls, Marius was there every evening. If, at that period of her existence, Cosette had fallen in love with a man in the least unscrupulous or debauched, she would have been lost; for there are generous natures which yield themselves, and Cosette was one of them. One of woman's magnanimities is to yield. Love, at the height where it is absolute, is complicated with some indescribably celestial blindness of modesty. But what dangers you run, O noble souls! Often you give the heart, and we take the body. Your heart remains with you, you gaze upon it in the gloom with a shudder. Love has no middle course; it either ruins or it saves. All human destiny lies in this dilemma. This dilemma, ruin, or safety, is set forth no more inexorably by any fatality than by love. Love is life, if it is not death. Cradle; also coffin. The same sentiment says "yes" and "no" in the human heart. Of all the things that God has made, the human heart is the one which sheds the most light, alas! and the most darkness.
God willed that Cosette's love should encounter one of the loves which save.
Throughout the whole of the month of May of that year 1832, there were there, in every night, in that poor, neglected garden, beneath that thicket which grew thicker and more fragrant day by day, two beings composed of all chastity, all innocence, overflowing with all the felicity of heaven, nearer to the archangels than to mankind, pure, honest, intoxicated, radiant, who shone for each other amid the shadows. It seemed to Cosette that Marius had a crown, and to Marius that Cosette had a nimbus. They touched each other, they gazed at each other, they clasped each other's hands, they pressed close to each other; but there was a distance which they did not pass. Not that they respected it; they did not know of its existence. Marius was conscious of a barrier, Cosette's innocence; and Cosette of a support, Marius' loyalty. The first kiss had also been the last. Marius, since that time, had not gone further than to touch Cosette's hand, or her kerchief, or a lock of her hair, with his lips. For him, Cosette was a perfume and not a woman. He inhaled her. She refused nothing, and he asked nothing. Cosette was happy, and Marius was satisfied. They lived in this ecstatic state which can be described as the dazzling of one soul by another soul. It was the ineffable first embrace of two maiden souls in the ideal. Two swans meeting on the Jungfrau. 
At that hour of love, an hour when voluptuousness is absolutely mute, beneath the omnipotence of ecstasy, Marius, the pure and seraphic Marius, would rather have gone to a woman of the town than have raised Cosette's robe to the height of her ankle. Once, in the moonlight, Cosette stooped to pick up something on the ground, her bodice fell apart and permitted a glimpse of the beginning of her throat. Marius turned away his eyes. 
What took place between these two beings? Nothing. They adored each other.
At night, when they were there, that garden seemed a living and a sacred spot. All flowers unfolded around them and sent them incense; and they opened their souls and scattered them over the flowers. The wanton and vigorous vegetation quivered, full of strength and intoxication, around these two innocents, and they uttered words of love which set the trees to trembling. 
What words were these? Breaths. Nothing more. These breaths sufficed to trouble and to touch all nature round about. Magic power which we should find it difficult to understand were we to read in a book these conversations which are made to be borne away and dispersed like smoke wreaths by the breeze beneath the leaves. Take from those murmurs of two lovers that melody which proceeds from the soul and which accompanies them like a lyre, and what remains is nothing more than a shade; you say: "What! is that all!" eh! yes, childish prattle, repetitions, laughter at nothing, nonsense, everything that is deepest and most sublime in the world! The only things which are worth the trouble of saying and hearing! 
The man who has never heard, the man who has never uttered these absurdities, these paltry remarks, is an imbecile and a malicious fellow. Cosette said to Marius:--
"Dost thou know?--"
[In all this and athwart this celestial maidenliness, and without either of them being able to say how it had come about, they had begun to call each other thou.]
"Dost thou know? My name is Euphrasie."
"Euphrasie? Why, no, thy name is Cosette."
"Oh! Cosette is a very ugly name that was given to me when I was a little thing. But my real name is Euphrasie. Dost thou like that name--Euphrasie?"
"Yes. But Cosette is not ugly."
"Do you like it better than Euphrasie?"
"Why, yes."
"Then I like it better too.Truly, it is pretty, Cosette.Call me Cosette."
And the smile that she added made of this dialogue an idyl worthy of a grove situated in heaven.On another occasion she gazed intently at him and exclaimed:--
"Monsieur, you are handsome, you are good-looking, you are witty, you are not at all stupid, you are much more learned than I am, but I bid you defiance with this word: I love you!"
And Marius, in the very heavens, thought he heard a strain sung by a star.
Or she bestowed on him a gentle tap because he coughed, and she said to him:--
"Don't cough, sir; I will not have people cough on my domain without my permission. It's very naughty to cough and to disturb me. I want you to be well, because, in the first place, if you were not well, I should be very unhappy. What should I do then?"
And this was simply divine.
Once Marius said to Cosette:--
"Just imagine, I thought at one time that your name was Ursule." 
This made both of them laugh the whole evening.
In the middle of another conversation, he chanced to exclaim:--
"Oh! One day, at the Luxembourg, I had a good mind to finish breaking up a veteran!" But he stopped short, and went no further.He would have been obliged to speak to Cosette of her garter, and that was impossible. This bordered on a strange theme, the flesh, before which that immense and innocent love recoiled with a sort of sacred fright.
Marius pictured life with Cosette to himself like this, without anything else; to come every evening to the Rue Plumet, to displace the old and accommodating bar of the chief-justice's gate, to sit elbow to elbow on that bench, to gaze through the trees at the scintillation of the on-coming night, to fit a fold of the knee of his trousers into the ample fall of Cosette's gown, to caress her thumb-nail, to call her thou, to smell of the same flower, one after the other, forever, indefinitely. During this time, clouds passed above their heads. Every time that the wind blows it bears with it more of the dreams of men than of the clouds of heaven.
This chaste, almost shy love was not devoid of gallantry, by any means. To pay compliments to the woman whom a man loves is the first method of bestowing caresses, and he is half audacious who tries it. A compliment is something like a kiss through a veil. Voluptuousness mingles there with its sweet tiny point, while it hides itself. The heart draws back before voluptuousness only to love the more. Marius' blandishments, all saturated with fancy, were, so to speak, of azure hue. The birds when they fly up yonder, in the direction of the angels, must hear such words. There were mingled with them, nevertheless, life, humanity, all the positiveness of which Marius was capable. It was what is said in the bower, a prelude to what will be said in the chamber; a lyrical effusion, strophe and sonnet intermingled, pleasing hyperboles of cooing, all the refinements of adoration arranged in a bouquet and exhaling a celestial perfume, an ineffable twitter of heart to heart.
"Oh!" murmured Marius, "how beautiful you are! I dare not look at you. It is all over with me when I contemplate you. You are a grace. I know not what is the matter with me. The hem of your gown, when the tip of your shoe peeps from beneath, upsets me. And then, what an enchanted gleam when you open your thought even but a little! You talk astonishingly good sense. It seems to me at times that you are a dream. Speak, I listen, I admire. Oh Cosette! How strange it is and how charming! I am really beside myself. You are adorable, Mademoiselle. I study your feet with the microscope and your soul with the telescope."
And Cosette answered:--
"I have been loving a little more all the time that has passed since this morning."
Questions and replies took care of themselves in this dialogue, which always turned with mutual consent upon love, as the little pith figures always turn on their peg.
Cosette's whole person was ingenuousness, ingenuity, transparency, whiteness, candor, radiance. It might have been said of Cosette that she was clear. She produced on those who saw her the sensation of April and dawn. There was dew in her eyes. Cosette was a condensation of the auroral light in the form of a woman.
It was quite simple that Marius should admire her, since he adored her. But the truth is, that this little school-girl, fresh from the convent, talked with exquisite penetration and uttered, at times, all sorts of true and delicate sayings. Her prattle was conversation. She never made a mistake about anything, and she saw things justly. The woman feels and speaks with the tender instinct of the heart, which is infallible. 
No one understands so well as a woman, how to say things that are, at once, both sweet and deep. Sweetness and depth, they are the whole of woman; in them lies the whole of heaven.
In this full felicity, tears welled up to their eyes every instant. A crushed lady-bug, a feather fallen from a nest, a branch of hawthorn broken, aroused their pity, and their ecstasy, sweetly mingled with melancholy, seemed to ask nothing better than to weep. The most sovereign symptom of love is a tenderness that is, at times,almost unbearable.
And, in addition to this,--all these contradictions are the lightning play of love,--they were fond of laughing, they laughed readily and with a delicious freedom, and so familiarly that they sometimes presented the air of two boys.
Still, though unknown to hearts intoxicated with purity, nature is always present and will not be forgotten. She is there with her brutal and sublime object; and however great may be the innocence of souls, one feels in the most modest private interview, the adorable and mysterious shade which separates a couple of lovers from a pair of friends.
They idolized each other.
The permanent and the immutable are persistent. People live, they smile, they laugh, they make little grimaces with the tips of their lips, they interlace their fingers, they call each other thou, and that does not prevent eternity.
Two lovers hide themselves in the evening, in the twilight, in the invisible, with the birds, with the roses; they fascinate each other in the darkness with their hearts which they throw into their eyes, they murmur, they whisper, and in the meantime, immense librations of the planets fill the infinite universe.
读者已经懂了，爱潘妮在马侬的授意下，曾去卜吕梅街认清了住在那铁栏门里的女子，并立即挡住了那伙匪徒，随后，她把马吕斯引到那里。马吕斯，如醉如痴地在那铁栏门外张望了几天以后，被那种把铁屑引向磁石、把有情人引向意中人所住房屋门墙的力量所推动，终于仿照罗密欧与朱丽叶的故事，钻进了珂赛特的园子，罗密欧当日还得翻过一道围墙，马吕斯却只要稍微用点力，把铁栏门上年久失修、象老年人的牙齿那样、在锈了的门框上摇晃的铁条从臼里移出一根，他那瘦长的身躯便很容易通过了。
那条街上从没有人走过，马吕斯又只在天黑以后才进那园子，因此他没有被人发现的危险。
自从他俩在那幸福和神圣的时刻一吻订终身以后，马吕斯便没有一天不去那里。假使珂赛特在她生命的这一关头遇到的是个不检点的放荡男子的爱，她也就完了，因为和善大方的人儿往往轻易顺从，而珂赛特正属于这种性格。女性宽宏大量的一种表现便是让步。爱情，当它到了它的绝对高度时，常搀和着一种使人莫名其妙把贞操观念抛向九霄云外只一味盲从的感情。可是，高贵的人儿，你得闯过多少危险啊！常常，你捧出的是一片真心，别人取的却是肉体。心还是你的心，你在暗地里望着它发抖。爱情绝不走中间路线，它不护助人便陷害人。人的整个命运便是这两端论。这个非祸即福的两端论在人的命运中，没有什么比爱情奉行得更冷酷无情的了。爱就是生命，如果它不是死亡。是摇篮，也是棺木。同一种感情可以在人的心中作出两种完全相反的决定。在上帝创造的万物中，放出最大光明的是人心，不幸的是，制造最深黑暗的也是人心。
上帝要珂赛特遇到的爱是那种护助人的爱。
一八三二那年整个五月的每天夜晚，在那荒芜的小小园子里，在那些日益芬芳茂盛的繁枝杂草丛中，总有那两人在黑暗中相互辉映，他们无比贞洁，无比天真，心中洋溢着齐天幸福，虽是人间情侣却更似天仙，纯洁，忠实，心醉神迷，容光焕发。珂赛特仿佛觉得马吕斯戴着一顶王冠，马吕斯也仿佛觉得珂赛特顶着一圈光轮。他们相偎相望，手握着手，一个挨紧一个，但他们间有一定距离是他们所不曾越过的。他们不是不敢越过，而是从不曾想过。马吕斯感到一道栅栏：珂赛特的贞洁，珂赛特也感到有所依附：马吕斯的忠诚。最初的一吻也就是最后的一吻。马吕斯，从那次以后，也只限于用嘴唇轻轻接触一下珂赛特的手，或是她的围巾、她的一圈头发。对他来说，珂赛特是一种香气，而不是一个女性。他呼吸着她。她无所拒，他也无所求。珂赛特感到快乐，马吕斯感到满足。他们生活在这种幸福无边的状态中棗这种状态也许可以称为一个灵魂对一个灵魂的赞叹吧。那是两颗童贞的心在理想境界中的无可名状的初次燃烧。是两只天鹅在室女星座的相逢。
在那相爱的时刻，欲念已在景仰亲慕的巨大威力下绝对沉寂的时刻，马吕斯，纯洁如仙童的马吕斯，也许能找一个妓女，但决不会把珂赛特的裙袍边掀起到她踝骨的高度的。一次，在月光下，珂赛特弯腰去拾地上的什么东西，她的衣领开大了一点，开始露出她的颈窝，马吕斯便把眼睛转向别处。
在这两人之间发生了什么事呢？什么也没有。他们互相爱慕罢了。
到了夜晚，每当他们在一起时，那园子好象成了个生气勃勃的圣地。所有的花都在他们的周围开放，向他们献出香气，他们，也展开各自的灵魂，撒向花丛。四周的植物，正在精力旺盛、汁液饱满的时节，面对着这两个喁喁私语的天真人儿，也不免感到醉意撩人，春心荡漾。
他们谈的是些什么呢？只不过是些声息。再没有旁的。这些声息已够使整个自然界骚动兴奋了。我们从书本中读到这类谈话，总会感到那是只能让风吹散的枝叶下的烟雾，而里面的巨大魔力却是难于理解的。你从两个情人的窃窃私语中，去掉那些有如竖琴的伴奏、发自灵魂深处的旋律，剩下的便只是一团黑影，你说，怎么！就这么点东西！可不是，只是一些孩子话，人人说了又说的话，毫无意义的开玩笑的话，毫无益处的废话，傻话，但也是人间最卓绝最深刻的话！唯一值得一述也值得一听的话！
这些傻话，这些浅薄的语言。凡是从来没有听说过的人，从来没有亲自说过的人，都是蠢材和恶人。
当时珂赛特对马吕斯说：
“你知道吗？……”
（他俩既然都怀着那种绝无浊念的童贞情感，在这一切的谈话中，又怎能随意以“你”相称，这是他和她都说不清楚的。）
“你知道吗？我的名字是欧福拉吉。”
“欧福拉吉？不会吧，你叫珂赛特。”
“呵！珂赛特，这名字多难听，是我小时人家随便叫出来的。我的真名是欧福拉吉。你不喜欢这名字吗，欧福拉吉？”
“当然喜欢……但是珂赛特并不难听。”
“你觉得珂赛特比欧福拉吉好些吗？”
“呃……是的。”
“那么我也觉得珂赛特好些。没有错，珂赛特确是好听。你就叫我珂赛特吧。”
她脸上还漾起一阵笑容，使这些对话可以和天国林园中牧童牧女的语言媲美。
另一次，她定定地望着他，喊道：
“先生，您生得美，生得漂亮，您聪明，一点也不笨，您的知识比我渊博多了，但是我敢说，说到‘我爱你’这三个字，您的体会却比不上我！”
马吕斯，在这时候，神游太空，仿佛听到了星星唱出的一首恋歌。
或者，她轻轻拍着他，因为他咳了一声嗽，她对他说：
“请不要咳嗽，先生。我不许人家在我家里不先得到我的同意就咳嗽。咳嗽是很不对的，并且叫我担忧。我要你身体健康，因为，首先，我，假使你身体不好，我就太痛苦了。你叫我怎么办呀！”
这种话地地道道是只应天上才有的。
一次，马吕斯向珂赛特说：
“你想想，有一段时间，我还以为你叫玉秀儿呢。”
他们为这话笑了一整夜。
在另一次谈话中，他偶然想起，大声说道：
“呵！有一天，在卢森堡公园，我险些儿没把一个老伤兵的骨头砸碎。”
但是他立即停了下来没往下说。要不，他便得谈到珂赛特的吊袜带，那在他是不可能的。这里有一道无形的堤岸，一涉及到肉体问题，自有一种神圣的畏惧心使这天真豪迈的情人向后退缩。在马吕斯的想象中，他和珂赛特的生活，只应是这样而不应有旁的：他每晚来到卜吕梅街，把那法院院长铁栏门上的一根肯成人之美的老铁条挪动一下，并肩坐在石凳上，仰望傍晚时分树枝中间的闪闪星光，让他裤腿膝头上的褶纹和珂赛特的宽大的裙袍挨在一起，摸抚她的指甲，对她说“你”，轮番嗅一朵鲜花……天长地久，了无尽期。这时，朵朵白云在他们的头上浮过。微风吹走的人间梦幻常多于天上的白云。
难道在这种近乎朴拙的纯爱中，绝对没有承颜献媚的表现吗？不。向意中人“说奉承话”，这是温存爱抚的最初形式，是试探性的半进攻。奉承，具有隔着面纱亲吻的意味。在其中，狎昵的意念已遮遮掩掩地伸出了它温柔的指尖。在狎昵念意的跟前，心，为了更好地爱，后退了。马吕斯的甜言蜜语是充满了遐想的，可以说，具有碧空的颜色。天上的鸟儿，当它们和天使比翼双飞时，应当听到这些话的。但这里也杂有生活、人情、马吕斯大大的坚强的自信心。那是岩洞里的语言，来日洞房情话的前奏，是真情的婉转披露，歌与诗的合流，鹧鸪咕咕求偶声的亲切夸张，是表达崇拜心情的一切美如花团锦簇、吐放馥郁天香的绮文丽藻，是两心交唤声中无可名状的嘤嘤啼唱。
“呵！”马吕斯低声说，“你多么美！我不敢看你。因此我只是向往你。你是一种美的形态。我不知道我是怎么搞的。只要你的鞋子尖儿从你裙袍下伸出来，我便会心慌意乱。并且当你让我猜着你的思想时，我便看见一种多么耀眼的光！你说的话有惊人的说服力。有时我会觉得你只是幻境中的人。你说话吧，我听你说，我敬佩你。呵珂赛特！这是多么奇特，多么迷人，我确实要疯了。你是可敬爱的，小姐。我用显微镜研究你的脚，用望远镜研究你的灵魂。”
珂赛特回答说：
“从今早到现在，我一刻比一刻越来越爱你了。”在这种对话中，一问一答，漫无目标，随心所欲，最后总象乳水交融，情投意合。
珂赛特处处显得天真、淳朴、赤诚、白洁、坦率、光明。我们可以说她是明亮的。她让见到她的人仿佛感到如见春光，如见晓色。她眼睛里有露水。珂赛特是曙光凝聚起来的妇女形体。马吕斯既崇拜她，便钦佩她，这是极自然的。但事实是，这个新从修院里打磨出来的小寄读生，谈起话来，确有美妙的洞察力，有时也谈得合情合理，体贴入微。她那孩子话未必尽是孩子气。她啥也不会搞错，并且看得准。妇女是凭着她心中的温柔的天性棗那种不犯错误的本能棗来领悟和交谈的。谁也不会象妇女那样把话说得既甜美又深刻。甜美和深刻，整个女性也就在这里了，全部禀赋也就在这里了。
在这种美满的时刻，他们随时都会感到眼里泪水汪汪。一个被踏死的金龟子，一片从鸟巢里落下的羽毛，一根被折断的山楂枝，都会使他们伤感，望着发怔，沉浸在轻微的惆怅中，恨不得哭它一场。爱的最主要症状便是一种有时几乎无法按捺的感伤情绪。
与此同时棗这些矛盾现象都是爱情的闪电游戏棗他们又常会放声大笑，无拘无束。笑得怪有趣的，有时几乎象是两个男孩子。但是，尽管沉醉了的童心已无顾虑，天生的性别观念总还是难忘的。它依然存在于他俩的心中，既能使人粗俗，也能使人高尚。无论他俩的灵魂如何皎洁无邪，在这种最贞洁的促膝密谈中，仍能感到把一对情人和两个朋友区别开来的那种可敬的和神秘的分寸。
他们互敬互爱，如对神明。
永恒不变的事物依然存在。他们相爱，相对微笑，撅起嘴来做小丑脸，相互交叉着手指，说话“你”来“你”去，这并不妨碍时间无尽期地推移。夜晚，两个情人和鸟雀、玫瑰一同躲在昏暗隐秘处，把满腔心事倾注在各自的眼睛里，在黑暗中相互吸引注视，这时，太空中充满着巨大天体的运行。
Part 4 Book 8 Chapter 2 The Bewilderment of Perfect Happiness
They existed vaguely, frightened at their happiness. They did not notice the cholera which decimated Paris precisely during that very month. They had confided in each other as far as possible, but this had not extended much further than their names. Marius had told Cosette that he was an orphan, that his name was Marius Pontmercy, that he was a lawyer, that he lived by writing things for publishers, that his father had been a colonel, that the latter had been a hero, and that he, Marius, was on bad terms with his grandfather who was rich. He had also hinted at being a baron, but this had produced no effect on Cosette. She did not know the meaning of the word. Marius was Marius. On her side, she had confided to him that she had been brought up at the Petit-Picpus convent, that her mother, like his own, was dead, that her father's name was M. Fauchelevent, that he was very good, that he gave a great deal to the poor, but that he was poor himself, and that he denied himself everything though he denied her nothing.
Strange to say, in the sort of symphony which Marius had lived since he had been in the habit of seeing Cosette, the past, even the most recent past, had become so confused and distant to him, that what Cosette told him satisfied him completely. It did not even occur to him to tell her about the nocturnal adventure in the hovel, about Thenardier, about the burn, and about the strange attitude and singular flight of her father. Marius had momentarily forgotten all this; in the evening he did not even know that there had been a morning, what he had done,where he had breakfasted, nor who had spoken to him; he had songs in his ears which rendered him deaf to every other thought; he only existed at the hours when he saw Cosette. Then, as he was in heaven, it was quite natural that he should forget earth. Both bore languidly the indefinable burden of immaterial pleasures. Thus lived these somnambulists who are called lovers.
Alas! Who is there who has not felt all these things? Why does there come an hour when one emerges from this azure, and why does life go on afterwards?
Loving almost takes the place of thinking. Love is an ardent forgetfulness of all the rest. Then ask logic of passion if you will. There is no more absolute logical sequence in the human heart than there is a perfect geometrical figure in the celestial mechanism. For Cosette and Marius nothing existed except Marius and Cosette. The universe around them had fallen into a hole. They lived in a golden minute. There was nothing before them, nothing behind. It hardly occurred to Marius that Cosette had a father. His brain was dazzled and obliterated. Of what did these lovers talk then? We have seen, of the flowers, and the swallows, the setting sun and the rising moon, and all sorts of important things. They had told each other everything except everything. The everything of lovers is nothing. But the father, the realities, that lair, the ruffians, that adventure, to what purpose? And was he very sure that this nightmare had actually existed? They were two, and they adored each other, and beyond that there was nothing. Nothing else existed. It is probable that this vanishing of hell in our rear is inherent to the arrival of paradise. Have we beheld demons? Are there any? Have we trembled? Have we suffered? We no longer know. A rosy cloud hangs over it.
So these two beings lived in this manner, high aloft, with all that improbability which is in nature; neither at the nadir nor at the zenith, between man and seraphim, above the mire, below the ether, in the clouds; hardly flesh and blood, soul and ecstasy from head to foot; already too sublime to walk the earth, still too heavily charged with humanity to disappear in the blue, suspended like atoms which are waiting to be precipitated; apparently beyond the bounds of destiny; ignorant of that rut; yesterday, to-day, to-morrow; amazed, rapturous, floating, soaring; at times so light that they could take their flight out into the infinite; almost prepared to soar away to all eternity. They slept wide-awake, thus sweetly lulled. Oh! splendid lethargy of the real overwhelmed by the ideal. 
Sometimes, beautiful as Cosette was, Marius shut his eyes in her presence. The best way to look at the soul is through closed eyes. 
Marius and Cosette never asked themselves whither this was to lead them. They considered that they had already arrived. It is a strange claim on man's part to wish that love should lead to something.
他们被幸福冲昏了头脑，在稀里胡涂地过日子。那个月里，霍乱正在巴黎流行，死亡惨重，他们全不在意。他们互相倾诉衷情，尽量使对方了解自己，而这一切从来没有远离各自的身世。马吕斯告诉珂赛特，说他是孤儿，他叫马吕斯·彭眉胥，他是律师，靠替几个书店编写资料过活，他父亲当初是个上校，是个英雄，而他，马吕斯，却和他那有钱的外祖父闹翻了。他也多少谈了一下他是男爵；但是这对珂赛特一点也没发生影响。马吕斯男爵？她没有听懂。她不知道那是什么意思。马吕斯就是马吕斯。从她那方面，她向他说她是在小比克布斯修院里长大的，她的母亲，和他的一样，已经死了，她的父亲叫割风先生，还说他为人非常之好，他大量周济穷人，而他自己并没有钱，他节省自己的费用，却要保证她什么也不缺。
说也奇怪，马吕斯自从遇见了珂赛特以后，在他所过的那种交响音乐似的生活中，过去的事，甚至是过去不久的事，对他来说都已变得那样模糊遥远，以致珂赛特对他谈的一切完全可以满足他。他甚至没有想到要把那天夜晚在德纳第穷窟里发生的事，他父亲怎样烧伤自己的胳膊，他那奇怪的态度，机灵的脱险等等经过说给她听。马吕斯一时把那些全忘了，他甚至一到天黑，便想不起自己在上午干了些什么，是在什么地方吃的午饭，有谁和他说过话，他耳朵里经常有歌声，使他接触不到任何其他思想，他只是在看见珂赛特时才活过来。因此，他既是生活在天堂里，当然想不起尘世的事了。他俩昏昏沉沉地承受着这种非物质的快感的无限重压。这两个所谓情人的梦游病患者便是这样过活的。
唉！谁又没有经受过这一切考验？为什么好事总会多磨？
为什么以后生命还要延续下去？
爱几乎取代思想：爱是健忘的，它使人忘掉一切。你去同狂热的爱情谈逻辑吧。人心中的绝对逻辑联系并不多于宇宙机构中的规则几何形。对珂赛特和马吕斯来说，世上除了马吕斯和珂赛特以外，便不再有旁的什么了。他们周围的宇宙已落到一个洞里去了。他们生活在黄金的片刻里。前面无所有，后面也无所有。马吕斯几乎没有想过珂赛特有个父亲。在他的脑子里，只是一片耀眼的彩光，把什么都遮没了。这一对情人谈了些什么呢？我们已经知道，谈花、燕子、落山的太阳、初升的月亮，所有这一类重要的东西。他们什么都谈到了，什么也没有谈到。情人的一切，是一切皆空。那个父亲、那些真人真事、那个穷窟，那些绑匪、那种惊险事，这有什么可谈的？那种恶梦似情景，是真有过的吗？他们是两个人，他们彼此相爱，这已是一切了。其他全是不存在的。也许是这样：地狱在我们背后的陷落原是和进入天堂连在一起的。谁看见过魔鬼呀？真有魔鬼吗？真有人发过抖吗？确有人受过苦吗？什么全不知道了。在那上面，只有一朵玫瑰色的彩云。
那两个人便是这样过活的，高洁绝伦，世上少有，他们既不在天底点，也不在天顶点，是在人与高级天使之间，在污泥之上，清霄之下，云雾之中；几乎没有了骨和肉，从头到脚全是灵魂和憧憬；着地已感固体太少，升空又嫌人味太重，仿佛是在原子将落未落的悬浮状态中；看来已超越于生死之外，不知有昨日、今日、明日这样乏味的轮转，陶陶然，醺醺然，飘飘然，有时，轻盈得可以一举升入太虚，几乎能够一去不复返。
他们便这样睁着眼睛沉睡在温柔乡中。呵，现实被幻想麻醉了的绝妙昏睡症！
有时，尽管珂赛特是那样美，马吕斯却在她跟前闭上了眼睛。闭眼是观望灵魂的最好方法。
马吕斯和珂赛特都不曾想过这样将把他们引向什么地方，他们认为这便是他们最后归宿了。想要爱情把人导向某处，那是人们的一种奇怪的奢望。
Part 4 Book 8 Chapter 3 The Beginning of Shadow
Jean Valjean suspected nothing.
Cosette, who was rather less dreamy than Marius, was gay, and that sufficed for Jean Valjean's happiness. The thoughts which Cosette cherished, her tender preoccupations, Marius' image which filled her heart, took away nothing from the incomparable purity of her beautiful, chaste, and smiling brow. She was at the age when the virgin bears her love as the angel his lily. So Jean Valjean was at ease. And then, when two lovers have come to an understanding, things always go well; the third party who might disturb their love is kept in a state of perfect blindness by a restricted number of precautions which are always the same in the case of all lovers. Thus, Cosette never objected to any of Jean Valjean's proposals. Did she want to take a walk? "Yes, dear little father." Did she want to stay at home? Very good. Did he wish to pass the evening with Cosette? She was delighted. As he always went to bed at ten o'clock, Marius did not come to the garden on such occasions until after that hour, when, from the street, he heard Cosette open the long glass door on the veranda. Of course, no one ever met Marius in the daytime. Jean Valjean never even dreamed any longer that Marius was in existence. Only once, one morning, he chanced to say to Cosette: "Why, you have whitewash on your back!" On the previous evening, Marius, in a transport, had pushed Cosette against the wall. 
Old Toussaint, who retired early, thought of nothing but her sleep, and was as ignorant of the whole matter as Jean Valjean.
Marius never set foot in the house. When he was with Cosette,
they hid themselves in a recess near the steps, in order that they might neither be seen nor heard from the street, and there they sat, frequently contenting themselves, by way of conversation, with pressing each other's hands twenty times a minute as they gazed at the branches of the trees. At such times, a thunderbolt might have fallen thirty paces from them, and they would not have noticed it, so deeply was the revery of the one absorbed and sunk in the revery of the other.
Limpid purity. Hours wholly white; almost all alike.This sort of love is a recollection of lily petals and the plumage of the dove. 
The whole extent of the garden lay between them and the street. Every time that Marius entered and left, he carefully adjusted the bar of the gate in such a manner that no displacement was visible.
He usually went away about midnight, and returned to Courfeyrac's lodgings. Courfeyrac said to Bahorel:-- 
"Would you believe it? Marius comes home nowadays at one o'clock in the morning."
Bahorel replied:-- 
"What do you expect? There's always a petard in a seminary fellow."
At times, Courfeyrac folded his arms, assumed a serious air, and said to Marius:--
"You are getting irregular in your habits, young man."
Courfeyrac, being a practical man, did not take in good part this reflection of an invisible paradise upon Marius; he was not much in the habit of concealed passions; it made him impatient, and now and then he called upon Marius to come back to reality.
One morning, he threw him this admonition:--
"My dear fellow, you produce upon me the effect of being located in the moon, the realm of dreams, the province of illusions, capital, soap-bubble. Come, be a good boy, what's her name?"
But nothing could induce Marius "to talk." They might have torn out his nails before one of the two sacred syllables of which that ineffable name, Cosette, was composed. True love is as luminous as the dawn and as silent as the tomb. Only, Courfeyrac saw this change in Marius, that his taciturnity was of the beaming order.
During this sweet month of May, Marius and Cosette learned to know these immense delights. To dispute and to say you for thou, simply that they might say thou the better afterwards. To talk at great length with very minute details, of persons in whom they took not the slightest interest in the world; another proof that in that ravishing opera called love, the libretto counts for almost nothing;
For Marius,to listen to Cosette discussing finery; 
For Cosette,to listen to Marius talk in politics;
To listen, knee pressed to knee, to the carriages rolling along the Rue de Babylone;
To gaze upon the same planet in space, or at the same glowworm gleaming in the grass;
To hold their peace together; a still greater delight than conversation; 
Etc., etc.
In the meantime, divers complications were approaching.
One evening, Marius was on his way to the rendezvous, by way of the Boulevard des Invalides. He habitually walked with drooping head. As he was on the point of turning the corner of the Rue Plumet, he heard some one quite close to him say:--"Good evening, Monsieur Marius."
He raised his head and recognized Eponine.
This produced a singular effect upon him. He had not thought of that girl a single time since the day when she had conducted him to the Rue Plumet, he had not seen her again, and she had gone completely out of his mind. He had no reasons for anything but gratitude towards her, he owed her his happiness, and yet, it was embarrassing to him to meet her.
It is an error to think that passion, when it is pure and happy, leads man to a state of perfection; it simply leads him, as we have noted, to a state of oblivion. In this situation, man forgets to be bad, but he also forgets to be good. Gratitude, duty, matters essential and important to be remembered, vanish. At any other time, Marius would have behaved quite differently to Eponine. Absorbed in Cosette, he had not even clearly put it to himself that this Eponine was named Eponine Thenardier, and that she bore the name inscribed in his father's will, that name, for which, but a few months before, he would have so ardently sacrificed himself. We show Marius as he was. His father himself was fading out of his soul to some extent, under the splendor of his love. 
He replied with some embarrassment:--
"Ah! so it's you, Eponine?"
"Why do you call me you? Have I done anything to you?"
"No," he answered.
Certainly, he had nothing against her. Far from it. Only, he felt that he could not do otherwise, now that he used thou to Cosette, than say you to Eponine.
As he remained silent, she exclaimed:--
"Say--"
Then she paused. It seemed as though words failed that creature formerly so heedless and so bold. She tried to smile and could not. Then she resumed:--
"Well?"
Then she paused again, and remained with downcast eyes.
"Good evening, Mr. Marius," said she suddenly and abruptly; and away she went.
冉阿让什么也没有感觉到。
珂赛特不象马吕斯那样神魂颠倒，她比较心情轻快，这样已够使冉阿让快乐了。珂赛特虽有她的心事，她那甜滋滋的忧虑，脑子里充满了马吕斯的形象，但她那无比纯洁美好的面貌，和原先一样，仍是天真烂熳，笑盈盈的。她正处在意贞圣女怀抱爱神、天使怀抱百合花的年龄。因此，冉阿让是心境舒坦的。并且，当两个情人一经商妥以后，事情总能进行得很顺利，企图干扰他们美梦的第三者往往被一些惯用的手法棗每个有情人都照例采用的那些办法棗蒙蔽过去。因而珂赛特对冉阿让百依百顺。他要出去散步吗？好，我的小爸爸。他要留在家里吗？好极了。他要和珂赛特一同度过这一晚吗？她再高兴没有。由于他总在夜间十点钟上床睡觉，这一天，马吕斯便要到十点过后，从街上听到珂赛特把台阶上的长窗门开了以后，他才跨进园子。不用说，马吕斯白天是从不露面的。冉阿让甚至早已不想到还有马吕斯这么一个人了。只是有一次，一天早晨，他忽然对珂赛特说：“怎么搞的，你背上一背的石灰！”马吕斯在前一天晚上，一时激动，竟把珂赛特挤压在墙上。
那个老杜桑，睡得早，家务一干完，便只想睡觉，和冉阿让一样，是被蒙在鼓里的。
马吕斯从来不进那屋子。当他和珂赛特一道时，他俩便藏在台阶附近的一个凹角里，免得被街上的人看见或听见，坐在那里，说是谈心吗？往往只不过是彼此紧捏着手，每分钟捏上二十次，呆呆地望着树枝。在这种时刻，这一个的梦幻是那么深渺，那么深入到另一个的梦幻，即使天雷落在他们身边三十步以内，也不会惊动他们的。
通明透澈的纯洁。共度的时辰，几乎都一样纯净。这种爱情是一种百合花瓣和白鸽羽毛的收藏。
整个园子是在他们和街道之间。马吕斯每次进出，总要把铁栏门上被移动了的铁条重新摆好，不让露出丝毫痕迹。
他经常要到夜半十二点才离开，回到古费拉克家里。古费拉克对巴阿雷说：
“你信不信？马吕斯现在要到凌晨一时才回家！”
巴阿雷回答说：
“你有什么办法？年轻人总是要闹笑话的。”
有时，古费拉克交叉着手臂，摆出一副严肃面孔，对马吕斯说：
“小伙子，你也未免太辛苦一点了吧！”
古费拉克是个讲实际的人，他不欣赏那种由无形的天堂映在马吕斯身上的光辉，他不习惯那些未公开表现的热情，他不耐烦了，不时对马吕斯发出警告，想把他拉回到现实中来。
一天早晨，他这样数落了他一次：
“我的亲爱的，看你这副模样，我觉得你现在是在月球、梦国、幻省、肥皂泡京城里。谈谈吧，做个好孩子，她叫什么名字？”
但是马吕斯怎么也不走漏一点消息。他宁肯让人家拔掉他的指甲，也不会说出构成珂赛特这个不当泄露的神圣名字的那三个音节中的一个。爱情是和黎明一样光耀，和坟墓一样沉寂的。不过古费拉克从马吕斯身上看出这样一种改变：他虽不说话，却是喜气洋洋的。
在这明媚的五月中，马吕斯和珂赛特尝到了这样一些天大的幸福：
争吵并以“您”相称，仅仅是为了过一会儿能更好地说“你”；
没完没了、尽量仔细地谈论一些和他们毫不相干的人，又一次证明：在爱情这种动人的歌剧里，脚本几乎是无用的；
对马吕斯来说，听珂赛特谈衣服；
对珂赛特来说，听马吕斯谈政治；
膝头碰着膝头，听巴比伦街上的马车驶过；
凝望天空的同一颗行星或草丛中的同一只萤火虫；
静静地坐在一起默不作声，比聊天有更大的乐趣；
等等，等等。
可是各种各样麻烦事儿正在逼来。
一天晚上，马吕斯走过残废军人院街去赴约会，他一贯是低着头走路的，他正要拐进卜吕梅街，听到有人在他身边喊他：
“晚上好，马吕斯先生。”
他抬起头，认出了是爱潘妮。
这给了他一种奇特的感受。自从那天，这姑娘把他引到卜吕梅街以后，他一次也没有想到过她，也从来没有再见过她，他已经完全把她忘了。他对她原只怀着感激的心情，他今天的幸福是从她那里得来的，可是遇见她总不免有些尴尬。
如果认为幸福和纯洁的感情可以使人进入完善的境界，那是错误的。我们已经见到，专一的感情只能使人健忘。在这种情况下，人会忘记做坏事，但也会忘记做好事。感激的心情、责任感、不应疏忽的和讨人厌的回忆都会消逝。在另外一种时刻，马吕斯对爱潘妮的态度也许会完全两样。自从他被珂赛特吸引以后，他甚至没有明确地意识到这个爱潘妮的全名是爱潘妮·德纳第，而德纳第这个姓是写在他父亲的遗嘱里的，几个月以前，他对这个姓还是那么强烈爱戴的。我们如实地写出马吕斯的心情。连他父亲的形象，在他灵魂中也多少消失在他爱情的光辉中了。
他带点为难的样子回答说：
“啊！是您吗，爱潘妮？”
“您为什么要对我说‘您’？难道我在什么地方得罪了您吗？”
“哪里的话。”他回答说。
当然，他对她丝毫没有什么不满。远不是那样。不过，他现在已对珂赛特说“你”了，便只能对爱潘妮说“您”，再没有别的办法。
她看见他不再说话，便嚷道：
“喂，您……”
她又停住了。这姑娘在从前原是那样随便，那样大胆的，这时却好象找不出话来说了。她想装出笑脸，但是不成。她接着说：
“那么……”
她又不说下去了，低着眼睛站在那里。
“晚安，马吕斯先生。”她忽然急促地说，随即转身走了。
Part 4 Book 8 Chapter 4 A Cab runs in English and barks in Slang
The following day was the 3d of June, 1832, a date which it is necessary to indicate on account of the grave events which at that epoch hung on the horizon of Paris in the state of lightning-charged clouds. Marius, at nightfall, was pursuing the same road as on the preceding evening, with the same thoughts of delight in his heart, when he caught sight of Eponine approaching, through the trees of the boulevard. Two days in succession-- this was too much. He turned hastily aside, quitted the boulevard, changed his course and went to the Rue Plumet through the Rue Monsieur.
This caused Eponine to follow him to the Rue Plumet, a thing which she had not yet done. Up to that time, she had contented herself with watching him on his passage along the boulevard without ever seeking to encounter him. It was only on the evening before that she had attempted to address him.
So Eponine followed him, without his suspecting the fact. She saw him displace the bar and slip into the garden. 
She approached the railing, felt of the bars one after the other, and readily recognized the one which Marius had moved. 
She murmured in a low voice and in gloomy accents:-- 
"None of that, Lisette!" 
She seated herself on the underpinning of the railing, close beside the bar, as though she were guarding it.It was precisely at the point where the railing touched the neighboring wall. There was a dim nook there, in which Eponine was entirely concealed.
She remained thus for more than an hour, without stirring and without breathing, a prey to her thoughts. 
Towards ten o'clock in the evening, one of the two or three persons who passed through the Rue Plumet, an old, belated bourgeois who was making haste to escape from this deserted spot of evil repute, as he skirted the garden railings and reached the angle which it made with the wall, heard a dull and threatening voice saying:--
"I'm no longer surprised that he comes here every evening." 
The passer-by cast a glance around him, saw no one, dared not peer into the black niche, and was greatly alarmed. He redoubled his pace. 
This passer-by had reason to make haste, for a very few instants later, six men, who were marching separately and at some distance from each other, along the wall,and who might have been taken for a gray patrol, entered the Rue Plumet.
The first to arrive at the garden railing halted, and waited for the others; a second later, all six were reunited. 
These men began to talk in a low voice.
"This is the place," said one of them.
"Is there a cab [dog] in the garden?" asked another.
"I don't know. In any case, I have fetched a ball that we'll make him eat."
"Have you some putty to break the pane with?"
"Yes."
"The railing is old," interpolated a fifth, who had the voice of a ventriloquist.
"So much the better," said the second who had spoken. "It won't screech under the saw, and it won't be hard to cut."
The sixth, who had not yet opened his lips, now began to inspect the gate, as Eponine had done an hour earlier, grasping each bar in succession, and shaking them cautiously.
Thus he came to the bar which Marius had loosened. As he was on the point of grasping this bar, a hand emerged abruptly from the darkness, fell upon his arm; he felt himself vigorously thrust aside by a push in the middle of his breast, and a hoarse voice said to him, but not loudly:--
"There's a dog."
At the same moment, he perceived a pale girl standing before him.
The man underwent that shock which the unexpected always brings. He bristled up in hideous wise; nothing is so formidable to behold as ferocious beasts who are uneasy; their terrified air evokes terror.
He recoiled and stammered:--
"What jade is this?"
"Your daughter."
It was, in fact, Eponine, who had addressed Thenardier.
At the apparition of Eponine, the other five, that is to say, Claquesous, Guelemer, Babet, Brujon, and Montparnasse had noiselessly drawn near, without precipitation, without uttering a word, with the sinister slowness peculiar to these men of the night.
Some indescribable but hideous tools were visible in their hands. Guelemer held one of those pairs of curved pincers which prowlers call fanchons.
"Ah, see here, what are you about there? What do you want with us? Are you crazy?" exclaimed Thenardier, as loudly as one can exclaim and still speak low; "what have you come here to hinder our work for?" 
Eponine burst out laughing, and threw herself on his neck.
"I am here, little father, because I am here. Isn't a person allowed to sit on the stones nowadays? It's you who ought not to be here. What have you come here for, since it's a biscuit? I told Magnon so. There's nothing to be done here. But embrace me, my good little father! It's a long time since I've seen you! So you're out?"
Thenardier tried to disentangle himself from Eponine's arms, and grumbled:--
"That's good. You've embraced me. Yes, I'm out. I'm not in. Now, get away with you."
But Eponine did not release her hold, and redoubled her caresses.
"But how did you manage it, little pa? You must have been very clever to get out of that. Tell me about it! And my mother? Where is mother? Tell me about mamma."
Thenardier replied:--
"She's well. I don't know, let me alone, and be off, I tell you. 
"I won't go, so there now," pouted Eponine like a spoiled child; "you send me off, and it's four months since I saw you, and I've hardly had time to kiss you."
And she caught her father round the neck again. 
"Come, now, this is stupid!" said Babet. 
"Make haste!" said Guelemer, "the cops may pass."
The ventriloquist's voice repeated his distich:--
"Nous n' sommes pas le jour de l'an, "This isn't New Year's day A becoter papa, maman." To peck at pa and ma."
Eponine turned to the five ruffians.
"Why, it's Monsieur Brujon. Good day, Monsieur Babet. Good day, Monsieur Claquesous. Don't you know me, Monsieur Guelemer? How goes it, Montparnasse?"
"Yes, they know you!" ejaculated Thenardier. "But good day, good evening, sheer off! leave us alone!" 
"It's the hour for foxes, not for chickens," said Montparnasse.
"You see the job we have on hand here," added Babet.
Eponine caught Montparnasse's hand.
"Take care," said he, "you'll cut yourself, I've a knife open." 
"My little Montparnasse," responded Eponine very gently, "you must have confidence in people. I am the daughter of my father, perhaps. Monsieur Babet, Monsieur Guelemer, I'm the person who was charged to investigate this matter."
It is remarkable that Eponine did not talk slang. That frightful 
tongue had become impossible to her since she had known Marius.
She pressed in her hand, small, bony, and feeble as that of a skeleton, Guelemer's huge, coarse fingers, and continued:-- 
"You know well that I'm no fool. Ordinarily, I am believed. I have rendered you service on various occasions. Well, I have made inquiries; you will expose yourselves to no purpose, you see. I swear to you that there is nothing in this house."
"There are lone women," said Guelemer.
"No, the persons have moved away."
"The candles haven't, anyway!" ejaculated Babet.
And he pointed out to Eponine, across the tops of the trees, a light which was wandering about in the mansard roof of the pavilion. It was Toussaint, who had stayed up to spread out some linen to dry.
Eponine made a final effort.
"Well," said she, "they're very poor folks, and it's a hovel where there isn't a sou."
"Go to the devil!" cried Thenardier. "When we've turned the house upside down and put the cellar at the top and the attic below, we'll tell you what there is inside, and whether it's francs or sous or half-farthings."
And he pushed her aside with the intention of entering. 
"My good friend, Mr. Montparnasse," said Eponine, "I entreat you, you are a good fellow, don't enter." 
"Take care, you'll cut yourself," replied Montparnasse.
Thenardier resumed in his decided tone:--
"Decamp, my girl, and leave men to their own affairs!"
Eponine released Montparnasse's hand, which she had grasped again, and said:--
"So you mean to enter this house?"
"Rather!" grinned the ventriloquist.
Then she set her back against the gate, faced the six ruffians who were armed to the teeth, and to whom the night lent the visages of demons, and said in a firm, low voice:-- 
"Well, I don't mean that you shall." 
They halted in amazement. The ventriloquist, however, finished his grin. She went on:--
"Friends! Listen well. This is not what you want. Now I'm talking. In the first place, if you enter this garden, if you lay a hand on this gate, I'll scream, I'll beat on the door, I'll rouse everybody, I'll have the whole six of you seized, I'll call the police."
"She'd do it, too," said Thenardier in a low tone to Brujon and the ventriloquist.
She shook her head and added:--
"Beginning with my father!"
Thenardier stepped nearer.
"Not so close, my good man!" said she.
He retreated, growling between his teeth:--
"Why, what's the matter with her?"
And he added:--
"Bitch!"
She began to laugh in a terrible way:--
"As you like, but you shall not enter here. I'm not the daughter of a dog, since I'm the daughter of a wolf. There are six of you, what matters that to me? You are men. Well, I'm a woman. You don't frighten me. I tell you that you shan't enter this house, because it doesn't suit me. If you approach, I'll bark. I told you, I'm the dog, and I don't care a straw for you. Go your way, you bore me! Go where you please, but don't come here, I forbid it! You can use your knives. I'll use kicks; it's all the same to me, come on!"
She advanced a pace nearer the ruffians, she was terrible, she burst out laughing:--
"Pardine! I'm not afraid. I shall be hungry this summer, and I shall be cold this winter. Aren't they ridiculous, these ninnies of men, to think they can scare a girl! What! Scare? Oh, yes, much! Because you have finical poppets of mistresses who hide under the bed when you put on a big voice, forsooth! I ain't afraid of anything, that I ain't!"
She fastened her intent gaze upon Thenardier and said:--
"Not even of you, father!"
Then she continued, as she cast her blood-shot, spectre-like eyes upon the ruffians in turn:-- 
"What do I care if I'm picked up to-morrow morning on the pavement of the Rue Plumet, killed by the blows of my father's club, or whether I'm found a year from now in the nets at Saint-Cloud or the Isle of Swans in the midst of rotten old corks and drowned dogs?"
She was forced to pause; she was seized by a dry cough, her breath came from her weak and narrow chest like the death-rattle. 
She resumed:--
"I have only to cry out, and people will come, and then slap, bang! There are six of you; I represent the whole world."
Thenardier made a movement towards her. 
"Don't approach!" she cried.
He halted, and said gently:--
"Well, no; I won't approach, but don't speak so loud. So you intend to hinder us in our work, my daughter? But we must earn our living all the same. Have you no longer any kind feeling for your father?" 
"You bother me," said Eponine.
"But we must live, we must eat--"
"Burst!"
So saying, she seated herself on the underpinning of the fence and hummed:--
"Mon bras si dodu, "My arm so plump, Ma jambe bien faite My leg well formed, Et le temps perdu." And time wasted."
She had set her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and she swung her foot with an air of indifference. Her tattered gown permitted a view of her thin shoulder-blades.The neighboring street lantern illuminated her profile and her attitude. Nothing more resolute and more surprising could be seen.
The six rascals, speechless and gloomy at being held in check by a girl, retreated beneath the shadow cast by the lantern, and held counsel with furious and humiliated shrugs. 
In the meantime she stared at them with a stern but peaceful air.
"There's something the matter with her," said Babet. "A reason. Is she in love with the dog? It's a shame to miss this, anyway. Two women, an old fellow who lodges in the back-yard, and curtains that ain't so bad at the windows. The old cove must be a Jew. I think the job's a good one."
"Well, go in, then, the rest of you," exclaimed Montparnasse. "Do the job. I'll stay here with the girl, and if she fails us--" 
He flashed the knife, which he held open in his hand, in the light of the lantern.
Thenardier said not a word, and seemed ready for whatever the rest pleased.
Brujon, who was somewhat of an oracle, and who had, as the reader knows, "put up the job," had not as yet spoken. He seemed thoughtful. He had the reputation of not sticking at anything, and it was known that he had plundered a police post simply out of bravado. Besides this he made verses and songs, which gave him great authority. 
Babet interrogated him:--
"You say nothing, Brujon?"
Brujon remained silent an instant longer, then he shook his head in various ways, and finally concluded to speak:-- 
"See here; this morning I came across two sparrows fighting, this evening I jostled a woman who was quarrelling. All that's bad. Let's quit."
They went away.
As they went, Montparnasse muttered:--
"Never mind! If they had wanted, I'd have cut her throat."
Babet responded
"I wouldn't. I don't hit a lady."
At the corner of the street they halted and exchanged the following enigmatical dialogue in a low tone:--
"Where shall we go to sleep to-night?"
"Under Pantin [Paris]."
"Have you the key to the gate, Thenardier?"
"Pardi."
Eponine, who never took her eyes off of them, saw them retreat by the road by which they had come. She rose and began to creep after them along the walls and the houses. She followed them thus as far as the boulevard.
There they parted, and she saw these six men plunge into the gloom, where they appeared to melt away.
①cab在英语中是马车，在巴黎的黑话中是狗。　　
第二天是六月三日，一八三二年六月三日，这个日期是应当指出的，因为当时有些重大的事件，象雷雨云那样，压在巴黎的天边。这天，马吕斯在傍晚时，正顺着他昨晚走过的那条路往前走，心里想着那些常想的开心事，忽然看见爱潘妮在树林和大路之间向他走来。一连两天。太过分了。他连忙转身，离开大路，改变路线，穿过先生街去卜吕梅街。
爱潘妮跟着他直到卜吕梅街，这是她在过去没有做过的。在这以前，她一向满足于望着他穿过大路，从不想到要去和他打个照面。只是昨天傍晚，她才第一次想找他谈话。
爱潘妮跟着他，他却没有觉察。她看见他挪开铁栏门上的铁条，钻到园子里去。
“哟！”她说，“他到她家里去了。”
她走近铁栏门，逐根地摇撼那些铁条，很容易就找出了马吕斯挪动过的那根。
她带着阴森森的语调低声说：
“那可不成，丽赛特！”
她过去坐在铁栏门的石基上，紧靠着那根铁条，仿佛是在守护它。那正是在铁栏门和邻墙相接的地方，有一个黑暗的旮旯，爱潘妮躲在那里面，一点不现形。
她这样待在那里，足有一个多钟头，不动也不出气，完全被自己心里的事控制住了。
将近夜里十点钟的时候，有两个或三个行人走过卜吕梅街，其中一个是耽误了时间的老先生，匆匆忙忙走到这荒凉、名声不好的地段，挨着那园子的铁栏门，走到门和墙相接处的凹角跟前，忽然听见一个人的沙嗄凶狠的声音说道：
“怪不得他每晚要来！”
那过路人睁大眼睛四面望去，却看不见一个人，又不敢望那黑旮旯，心里好不害怕。他加快脚步走了。
这过路人幸亏赶快走了，因为不一会儿，有六个人，或前或后，彼此相隔一定距离，挨着围墙，看去好象是一队喝醉了的巡逻兵，走进了卜吕梅街。
第一个走到那园子的铁栏门前，停了下来，等待其余的几个，过了一会儿，六个人会齐了。
这些人开始低声说话。
“就是此地。”其中的一个说①。 
①这一段里，有许多匪徒的黑话，无法一一译出。　
“园子里有狗吗？”另一个问。
“我不知道。不用管那些，我带了一个团子给它吃。”
“你带了砸玻璃窗用的油灰吗？”
“带了。”
“这是一道老铁栏门。”第五个人说，那是个用肚子说话的人。
“再好没有，”先头第二个说话的人说，“它不会在锯子下面叫，也不会那么难切断。”
一直还没有开门的那第六个人，开始察看铁栏门，就象爱潘妮先头做过的那样，把那些铁条逐根抓住，仔细地一一摇撼。他摇到了马吕斯已经弄脱了臼的那根。他正要去抓那铁条，黑暗中突然伸过一只手，打在他的手臂上，他还觉得被人当胸猛推了一掌，同时听到一个人的嘶哑声音对他轻轻吼道：
“有狗。”
他看见一个面色蜡黄的姑娘站在他面前。
那人猝不及防，大吃一惊，他立即摆开凶猛的架势，猛兽吃惊时的模样是最可怕的，它那被吓的样子也是最吓人的。他退后一步，嘴里结结巴巴地说：
“这是个什么妖精？”
“你的女儿。”
那正是爱潘妮在对德纳第说话。
爱潘妮出现时，那五个人，就是说，铁牙、海嘴、巴伯、巴纳斯山和普吕戎，都无声无息，不慌不忙，没说一句话，带着夜晚活动的人所专有的那种慢而阴狠的稳劲，一齐走拢来了。
他们手里都带着奇形怪状的凶器。海嘴拿着一把强人们叫做“包头巾”的弯嘴铁钳。
“妈的，你在这儿干什么？你要怎么样，疯了吗？”德纳第尽量压低声音吼着说，“你干吗要来碍我们的事？”
爱潘妮笑了出来，跳上去抱住他的颈子。
“我在这儿，我的小爸爸，因为我在这儿。难道现在不许人家坐在石头上了吗？是你们不应当到这儿来。你们来这儿干什么？你们早知道是块饼干嘛。我也告诉过马侬了。一点办法也没有，这儿。但是，亲亲我吧，我的好爸爸，小爸爸！多久我没有看见您老人家了！您已经在外面了，看来？”
德纳第试图掰开爱潘妮的手臂，低声埋怨说：
“好了。你已经吻过我了。是的，我已经在外面了，我不在里面。现在，你走开。”
但是爱潘妮不松手，反而抱得更紧。
“我的小爸爸，您是怎么出来的？您费尽脑筋才逃了出来的吧。您说给我听听！还有我的妈呢？我妈在什么地方？把我妈的消息告诉我。”
德纳第回答说：
“她过得不坏。我不知道，不要缠我，去你的，听见了吗？”
“我就是不愿意走开，”爱潘妮装顽皮孩子撒娇的样子说，“您放着我不管，已经四个月了，我见不着您，也亲不着您。”
她又抱紧她父亲的颈子。
“够了，已经够傻的了！”巴伯说。
“快点！”海嘴说，“宪兵们要来了。”
那个用肚子说话的人念出了这两句诗：
我们不在过新年，
吻爹吻娘改一天。
爱潘妮转过身来对着那五个匪徒说：
“哟，普吕戎先生。您好，巴伯先生。您好，铁牙先生。您不认识我吗，海嘴先生？过得怎样，巴纳斯山？”
“认识的，大家都认识你！”德纳第说，“但是白天好，晚上好，靠边儿站！不要捣乱了。”
“这是狐狸活动的时候，不是母鸡活动的时候。”巴纳斯山说。
“你明明知道我们在此地有活干。”巴伯接着说。
爱潘妮抓住巴纳斯山的手。
“小心，”他说，“小心割了你的手，我拿着一把没有套上的刀子呢。”
“我的小巴纳斯山，”爱潘妮柔声柔气地回答说，“你们应当相信人。我是我父亲的女儿，也许。巴伯先生，海嘴先生，当初人家要了解这桩买卖的情况，那任务是交给我的。”
值得注意的是，爱潘妮不说黑话。自从她认识马吕斯后，这种丑恶的语言已不是她说得出口的了。
她用她那皮包骨头、全无力气的小手，紧捏着海嘴的粗壮的手指，继续说：
“您知道我不是傻子。大家平时都还信得过我。我也替你们办过一些事。这次，我已经调查过了，你们会白白地暴露你们自己，懂吗。我向您发誓，这宅子里弄不出一点名堂。”
“有几个单身的女人。”海嘴说。
“没有。人家已经搬走了。”
“那些蜡烛可没有搬走，总而言之！”巴伯说。
他还指给爱潘妮看，从树尖的上面，看得见在那凉亭的顶楼屋子里，有亮光在移动。那是杜桑夜里在晾洗好的衣服。
爱潘妮试作最后的努力。
“好吧，”她说，“这是些很穷的人，是个没有钱的破棚棚。”
“见你的鬼去！”德纳第吼着说，“等我们把这房子翻转过来了，等我们把地窖翻到了顶上，阁楼翻到了底下，我们再来告诉你那里究竟有的是法郎，是苏，还是小钱。”
他把她推过一边，要冲向前去。
“我的好朋友巴纳斯山先生，”爱潘妮说，“我求求您，您是好孩子，您不要进去！”
“小心，要割破你了！”巴纳斯山回答她说。
德纳第以他特有的那种坚决口吻接着说：
“滚开，小妖精，让我们男人干自己的活。”
爱潘妮放开巴纳斯山的手，说道：
“你们一定要进这宅子？”
“有点儿想。”那个用肚子说话的人半开玩笑地说。
她于是背靠着铁栏门，面对着那六个武装到牙齿、在黑影里露着一张鬼脸的匪徒，坚决地低声说：
“可是，我，我不愿意。”
那些匪徒全愣住了。用肚子说话的那人咧了咧嘴。她又说：
“朋友们！听我说。废话说够了。我说正经的。首先，你们如果跨进这园子，你们如果碰一下这铁栏门，我便喊出来，我便敲人家的大门，我把大家叫醒，我要他们把你们六个全抓起来，我叫警察。”
“她会干得出来的。”德纳第对着普吕戎和那用肚子说话的人低声说。
她晃了一下脑袋，并说：
“从我父亲开始！”
德纳第走近她。
“站远点，老家伙！”她说。
他朝后退，牙缝里叽叽咕咕埋怨说，“她究竟要什么？”并加上一句：
“母狗！”
她开始笑起来，叫人听了害怕。
“随便你们要什么，你们反正进不去了。我不是狗的女儿，因为我是狼的女儿。你们是六个，那和我有什么关系？你们全是男人。可我，是个女人。你们吓唬不了我，你们放心。我告诉你们，你们进不了这宅子，因为我不高兴让你们进去。你们如果走近我，我便叫起来。我已经关照过你们了，狗，就是我。你们这些人，我压根不把你们放在眼里。你们给我赶快走开，我见了你们就生气！你们去哪儿都行，就是不许到这儿来，我禁止你们来这儿！你们动刀子，我就用破鞋子揍你们，反正都一样，你们敢来试试！”
她向那伙匪徒跨上一步，气势好不吓人，她笑了出来。
“有鬼！我不怕。这个夏天，我要挨饿，冬天，我要挨冻。真是滑稽，这些男子汉以为他们吓唬得了一个女人！怕！怕什么！是呀，怕得很！就是因为你们有泼辣野婆娘，只要你们吼一声，她们就会躲到床底下去，不就是这样吗！我，我啥也不怕！”
她瞪着眼睛，定定地望着德纳第，说道：
“连你也不怕！”
接着她睁大那双血红的眼睛，对那伙匪徒扫去，继续说：
“我爹拿起刀子把我戳个稀巴烂，明天早晨人家把我从卜吕梅街的铺石路上拣起来，或者，一年过后，人家在圣克鲁或天鹅洲的河里，在用网子捞起腐烂了的瓶塞子和死狗堆时发现我的尸体，我都不在乎！”
她不得不停下来，一阵干咳堵住了她的嗓子，从她那狭小瘦弱的胸口里传出一串咯咯的喘气声。
她接着又说：
“我只要喊一声，人家就会来，全完蛋。你们是六个人，我是所有的人。”
德纳第朝她那边动了一下。
“不许靠近我！”她大声说。
他立即停了下来，和颜悦色地对她说：
“得，得。我不靠近你，但是说话小声点。我的女儿，你不让我们干活吗？可我们总得找活路。你对你爹就一点交情也没有吗？”
“你讨厌。”爱潘妮说。
“可我们总得活下去呀，总得有吃……”
“饿死活该。”
说过这话，她坐回铁栏门的石基上，嘴里低声唱着：
我的胳膊胖嘟嘟，
我的大腿肥呶呶，
日子过得可不如。
她把肘弯支在膝头上，掌心托着下巴颏，摇晃着一只脚，神气满不在乎。从有洞的裙袍里露出她的枯干的肩胛骨。附近一盏路灯照着她的侧影和神气，再没有比那显得更坚决，更惊人的了。
六个歹徒被这姑娘镇住了，垂头丧气，不知道怎么办，一齐走到路灯的阴影里去商量，又羞又恼，只耸肩膀。
这时，她带着平静而粗野的神气望着他们。
“她这里一定有玩意儿，”巴伯说，“有原因。难道她爱上了这里的狗不成？白白跑这一趟，太不合算了。两个女人，一个住在后院的老头，窗上的窗帘确实不坏。那老头一定是个犹太人。我认为这是一笔好买卖。”
“那么，进去就是，你们五个，”巴纳斯山说，“做好买卖。我留在这儿，看好这闺女，要是她动一动……”
他把藏在衣袖里的刀子拿出来在路灯光下亮了一下。
德纳第没吭声，好象准备听从大伙儿的意见。
普吕戎，多少有点权威性，并且，我们知道，这“买卖是他介绍的”，还没有开口。他好象是在深入思考。他一向是被认为不在任何困难面前退却的。大家都知道，有一天，仅仅是为了逞能，他洗劫过一个城区的警察哨所。此外，他还写诗和歌，这些都使他有相当高的威望。
巴伯问他：
“你不说话，普吕戎？”
普吕戎仍沉默了一会儿，接着，他用多种不同的方式摇晃了几次头，才提高嗓子说：
“是这样：今早我看见两个麻雀打架，今晚我又碰上一个吵吵闹闹的女人。这一切都不是好事。我们还是走吧。”
他们走了。
巴纳斯山，一面走，一面嘟囔：
“没关系，如果大家同意，我还是可以给她一脚尖。”
巴伯回答他说：
“我不同意。我从不打女人。”
走到街角上，他们停下来，交换了这么几句费解的话：
“今晚我们睡在哪儿？”
“巴黎下面。”
“你带了铁栏门的钥匙吧，德纳第？”
“还用说。”
爱潘妮的眼睛一直盯着他们，看见他们从先头来的那条路走了。她站起来，一路顺着围墙和房屋，跟在他们后面爬。她这样跟着他们一直到大路边。到了那里，他们便各自散了。她看见那六个人走进黑暗里，仿佛和黑暗溶合在一起。
Part 4 Book 8 Chapter 5 Things of the Night
After the departure of the ruffians, the Rue Plumet resumed its tranquil, nocturnal aspect. That which had just taken place in this street would not have astonished a forest. The lofty trees, the copses, the heaths, the branches rudely interlaced, the tall grass, exist in a sombre manner; the savage swar ming there catches glimpses of sudden apparitions of the invisible; that which is below man distinguishes, through the mists, that which is beyond man; and the things of which we living beings are ignorant there meet face to face in the night. Nature, bristling and wild, takes alarm at certain approaches in which she fancies that she feels the supernatural. The forces of the gloom know each other, and are strangely balanced by each other. Teeth and claws fear what they cannot grasp. Blood-drinking bestiality, voracious appetites, hunger in search of prey, the armed instincts of nails and jaws which have for source and aim the belly, glare and smell out uneasily the impassive spectral forms straying beneath a shroud, erect in its vague and shuddering robe, and which seem to them to live with a dead and terrible life. These brutalities, which are only matter, entertain a confused fear of having to deal with the immense obscurity condensed into an unknown being. A black figure barring the way stops the wild beast short. That which emerges from the cemetery intimidates and disconcerts that which emerges from the cave; the ferocious fear the sinister; wolves recoil when they encounter a ghoul.
匪徒们走了以后，卜吕梅街便恢复了它平静的夜间景色。
刚才在这条街上发生的事，如果发生在森林里，森林决不至于吃惊。那些大树，那些丛林，那些灌木，那些相互纠结的树枝，高深的草丛，形成一种幽晦的环境，荒野中蠕蠕攒动的生物在那里瞥见无形者的突然出现，在人之下者在那里透过一层迷雾，看见了在人之上者，我们生人所不知道的种种东西，夜间在那里会集。鬣毛直竖的野兽，在某种超自然力逼近时，感到惊愕失措。黑暗中的各种力量彼此相识，并且在它们之间，有着神秘的平衡。喝血的兽性，号饥觅食的饕餮，有爪有牙专为饱肚子而生存的本能，惊惊惶惶地望着嗅着那个在殓尸布下披着颤抖的宽大殓衣徘徊或伫立着的无表情的鬼脸，这些鬼脸看来好象在过一种可怕的阴间生活似的。这些纯物质的暴力似乎不敢和那种由广大的黑暗所凝聚而成的未知的实体打交道。一张拦住去路的黑脸断然制止那凶残的野兽。从坟墓里出来的使从洞窟里出来的感到胆怯和张皇失措，凶猛的怕阴险的，狼群在遇到吃尸鬼时退缩了。
Part 4 Book 8 Chapter 6 Marius becomes Practical once more to the Extent of Giving Cosette  his Addr
While this sort of a dog with a human face was mounting guard over the gate, and while the six ruffians were yielding to a girl, Marius was by Cosette's side.
Never had the sky been more studded with stars and more charming, the trees more trembling, the odor of the grass more penetrating; never had the birds fallen asleep among the leaves with a sweeter noise; never had all the harmonies of universal serenity responded more thoroughly to the inward music of love; never had Marius been more captivated, more happy, more ecstatic.
But he had found Cosette sad; Cosette had been weeping. Her eyes were red.
This was the first cloud in that wonderful dream. 
Marius' first word had been: "What is the matter?"
And she had replied: "This."
Then she had seated herself on the bench near the steps, and while he tremblingly took his place beside her, she had continued:-- 
"My father told me this morning to hold myself in readiness, because he has business, and we may go away from here."
Marius shivered from head to foot.
When one is at the end of one's life, to die means to go away; when one is at the beginning of it, to go away means to die. 
For the last six weeks, Marius had little by little, slowly, by degrees, taken possession of Cosette each day. As we have already explained, in the case of first love, the soul is taken long before the body; later on, one takes the body long before the soul; sometimes one does not take the soul at all; the Faublas and the Prudhommes add: "Because there is none"; but the sarcasm is, fortunately, a blasphemy. So Marius possessed Cosette, as spirits possess, but he enveloped her with all his soul, and seized her jealously with incredible conviction. He possessed her smile, her breath, her perfume, the profound radiance of her blue eyes, the sweetness of her skin when he touched her hand, the charming mark which she had on her neck, all her thoughts. Therefore, he possessed all Cosette's dreams.
He incessantly gazed at, and he sometimes touched lightly with his breath, the short locks on the nape of her neck, and he declared to himself that there was not one of those short hairs which did not belong to him, Marius. He gazed upon and adored the things that she wore, her knot of ribbon, her gloves, her sleeves, her shoes, her cuffs, as sacred objects of which he was the master. He dreamed that he was the lord of those pretty shell combs which she wore in her hair, and he even said to himself, in confused and suppressed stammerings of voluptuousness which did not make their way to the light, that there was not a ribbon of her gown, not a mesh in her stockings, not a fold in her bodice, which was not his. Beside Cosette he felt himself beside his own property, his own thing, his own despot and his slave. It seemed as though they had so intermingled their souls, that it would have been impossible to tell them apart had they wished to take them back again.--"This is mine." "No, it is mine." "I assure you that you are mistaken. This is my property." "What you are taking as your own is myself."-- Marius was something that made a part of Cosette, and Cosette was something which made a part of Marius. Marius felt Cosette within him. To have Cosette, to possess Cosette, this, to him, was not to be distinguished from breathing. It was in the midst of this faith, of this intoxication, of this virgin possession, unprecedented and absolute, of this sovereignty, that these words: "We are going away," fell suddenly, at a blow, and that the harsh voice of reality cried to him: "Cosette is not yours!"
Marius awoke. For six weeks Marius had been living, as we have said, outside of life; those words, going away! caused him to re-enter it harshly.
He found not a word to say. Cosette merely felt that his hand was very cold. She said to him in her turn: "What is the matter?" 
He replied in so low a tone that Cosette hardly heard him:--
"I did not understand what you said."
She began again:--
"This morning my father told me to settle all my little affairs and to hold myself in readiness, that he would give me his linen to put in a trunk, that he was obliged to go on a journey, that we were to go away, that it is necessary to have a large trunk for me and a small one for him, and that all is to be ready in a week from now, and that we might go to England." 
"But this is outrageous!" exclaimed Marius.
It is certain, that, at that moment, no abuse of power, no violence, not one of the abominations of the worst tyrants, no action of Busiris, of Tiberius, or of Henry VIII., could have equalled this in atrocity, in the opinion of Marius; M. Fauchelevent taking his daughter off to England because he had business there.
He demanded in a weak voice:--
"And when do you start?"
"He did not say when."
"And when shall you return?"
"He did not say when."
Marius rose and said coldly:--
"Cosette, shall you go?"
Cosette turned toward him her beautiful eyes, all filled with anguish, and replied in a sort of bewilderment:-- 
"Where?"
"To England. Shall you go?"
"Why do you say you to me?"
"I ask you whether you will go?"
"What do you expect me to do?" she said, clasping her hands.
"So, you will go?"
"If my father goes."
"So, you will go?"
Cosette took Marius' hand, and pressed it without replying.
"Very well," said Marius, "then I will go elsewhere."
Cosette felt rather than understood the meaning of these words. She turned so pale that her face shone white through the gloom. She stammered:--
"What do you mean?"
Marius looked at her, then raised his eyes to heaven, and answered: "Nothing."
When his eyes fell again, he saw Cosette smiling at him. The smile of a woman whom one loves possesses a visible radiance, even at night.
"How silly we are! Marius, I have an idea."
"What is it?"
"If we go away, do you go too! I will tell you where! Come and join me wherever I am."
Marius was now a thoroughly roused man. He had fallen back into reality. He cried to Cosette:--
"Go away with you! Are you mad? Why, I should have to have money, and I have none! Go to England? But I am in debt now, I owe, I don't know how much, more than ten louis to Courfeyrac, one of my friends with whom you are not acquainted! I have an old hat which is not worth three francs, I have a coat which lacks buttons in front, my shirt is all ragged, my elbows are torn, my boots let in the water; for the last six weeks I have not thought about it, and I have not told you about it. You only see me at night, and you give me your love; if you were to see me in the daytime, you would give me a sou! Go to England! Eh! I haven't enough to pay for a passport!"
He threw himself against a tree which was close at hand, erect, his brow pressed close to the bark, feeling neither the wood which flayed his skin, nor the fever which was throbbing in his temples, and there he stood motionless, on the point of falling, like the statue of despair.
He remained a long time thus. One could remain for eternity in such abysses. At last he turned round. He heard behind him a faint stifled noise, which was sweet yet sad. 
It was Cosette sobbing.
She had been weeping for more than two hours beside Marius as he meditated.
He came to her, fell at her knees, and slowly prostrating himself, he took the tip of her foot which peeped out from beneath her robe, and kissed it.
She let him have his way in silence. There are moments when a woman accepts, like a sombre and resigned goddess, the religion of love.
"Do not weep," he said.
She murmured:--
"Not when I may be going away, and you cannot come!"
He went on:--
"Do you love me?"
She replied, sobbing, by that word from paradise which is never more charming than amid tears:-- 
"I adore you!"
He continued in a tone which was an indescribable caress:--
"Do not weep. Tell me, will you do this for me, and cease to weep?"
"Do you love me?" said she.
He took her hand.
"Cosette, I have never given my word of honor to any one, because my word of honor terrifies me. I feel that my father is by my side. Well, I give you my most sacred word of honor, that if you go away I shall die."
In the tone with which he uttered these words there lay a melancholy so solemn and so tranquil, that Cosette trembled. She felt that chill which is produced by a true and gloomy thing as it passes by. The shock made her cease weeping.
"Now, listen," said he, "do not expect me to-morrow."
"Why?"
"Do not expect me until the day after to-morrow."
"Oh! Why?"
"You will see."
"A day without seeing you! But that is impossible!"
"Let us sacrifice one day in order to gain our whole lives, perhaps."
And Marius added in a low tone and in an aside:--
"He is a man who never changes his habits, and he has never received any one except in the evening."
"Of what man are you speaking?" asked Cosette.
"I? I said nothing."
"What do you hope, then?"
"Wait until the day after to-morrow."
"You wish it?"
"Yes, Cosette."
She took his head in both her hands, raising herself on tiptoe in order to be on a level with him, and tried to read his hope in his eyes.
Marius resumed:--
"Now that I think of it, you ought to know my address: something might happen, one never knows; I live with that friend named Courfeyrac, Rue de la Verrerie, No. 16."
He searched in his pocket, pulled out his penknife, and with the blade he wrote on the plaster of the wall:-- 
"16 Rue de la Verrerie."
In the meantime, Cosette had begun to gaze into his eyes once more.
"Tell me your thought, Marius; you have some idea. Tell it to me. Oh! tell me, so that I may pass a pleasant night."
"This is my idea: that it is impossible that God should mean to part us. Wait; expect me the day after to-morrow." 
"What shall I do until then?" said Cosette. "You are outside, you go, and come! How happy men are! I shall remain entirely alone! Oh! How sad I shall be! What is it that you are going to do to-morrow evening? tell me."
"I am going to try something."
"Then I will pray to God and I will think of you here, so that you may be successful. I will question you no further, since you do not wish it. You are my master. I shall pass the evening to-morrow in singing that music from Euryanthe that you love, and that you came one evening to listen to, outside my shutters. But day after to-morrow you will come early. I shall expect you at dusk, at nine o'clock precisely, I warn you. Mon Dieu! how sad it is that the days are so long! On the stroke of nine, do you understand, I shall be in the garden." 
"And I also."
And without having uttered it, moved by the same thought, impelled by those electric currents which place lovers in continual communication, both being intoxicated with delight even in their sorrow, they fell into each other's arms, without perceiving that their lips met while their uplifted eyes, overflowing with rapture and full of tears, gazed upon the stars.
When Marius went forth, the street was deserted. This was the moment when Eponine was following the ruffians to the boulevard. 
While Marius had been dreaming with his head pressed to the tree, an idea had crossed his mind; an idea, alas! that he himself judged to be senseless and impossible. He had come to a desperate decision.
正当那生着人脸的母狗坚守铁栏门，六个强人在一个姑娘眼前退却时，马吕斯恰在珂赛特的身旁。
天上的星星从没有那样晶莹动人，树也从不那样震颤，草也从没那么芬芳，枝头入睡小鸟的啁啾从没有那么甜蜜。天空明静，景物宜人，这与他俩当时心灵内部的音乐，不能唱答得更加和谐了。马吕斯从来没有那么钟情，那么幸福，那么兴高采烈。但是他发现珂赛特闷闷不乐。珂赛特哭过。她的眼睛还是红的。
这是初次出现在这场可喜的美梦中的阴霾。
马吕斯的第一句话是：
“你怎么了？”
她回答说：
“不怎么。”
随后，她坐在台阶旁边的凳上，正当他哆哆嗦嗦过去坐在她身旁时，她继续说：
“今天早晨，我父亲叫我作好准备，说他有要紧的事，我们也许要走了。”
马吕斯感到一阵寒噤，从头颤到脚。
人在生命结束时，死，叫做走；在开始时，走，却等于死。六个星期以来，马吕斯一点一点地、一步步、慢慢地、一天天地占有着珂赛特。完全是观念上的占有，但是是深入的占有。正如我们已经说过的，人在爱的初期，取灵魂远远先于肉体；到后来，取肉体又远远先于灵魂，有时甚至全不取灵魂；福布拉斯①和普律多姆②之流更补充说：“因为灵魂是不存在的。”但是这种刻薄话幸而只是一种亵渎。因而马吕斯占有珂赛特，有如精神的占有，但是他用了他的全部灵魂裹绕着她，并以一种难于想象的信念，满怀妒意地抓着她。他占有她的微笑、她的呼吸、她的香气、她那双蓝眼睛的澄澈的光辉、她皮肤的柔润（当他碰到她的手的时候）、她颈子上的那颗迷人的痣、她的全部思想。他们曾经约定：睡眠中必须彼此梦见，他们并且是说话算数的。因此他占有了珂赛特的每一场梦。他经常不停地望着她后颈窝里的那几根短头发，并用他的呼吸轻拂着它们，宣称那些短头发没有一根不是属于他马吕斯的。他景仰并崇拜她的穿着、她的缎带结、她的手套、她的花边袖口、她的短统靴，把这些都当作神圣的东西，而他是这些东西的主人。他常迷迷忽忽地想他自己是她头发里那把精致的玳瑁梳子的主权所有人，他甚至暗自思量（情欲初萌时的胡思乱想）：她裙袍上的每根线、她袜子上的每个网眼、她内衣上的每条皱纹，没有一样不是属于他的。他待在珂赛特的身旁，自以为是在他财产的旁边，在他所有物的旁边，在他的暴君和奴隶的旁边。他们好象已把各自的灵魂搀和在一起了，如果要想收回，已无法分清。“这个灵魂是我的。”“不对，是我的。”“我向你保证，你弄错了。肯定是我。”“你把它当作你，其实是我。”马吕斯已是珂赛特的某一部分，珂赛特已是马吕斯的某一部分。马吕斯感到珂赛特生活在他的体内。有珂赛特，占有珂赛特，对他来说，是和呼吸一样分不开的。正是在这种信念、这种迷恋、这种童贞和空前的绝对占有欲、这种主权观念的萦绕中，他突然听到“我们要走了”这几个字，突然听到现实的粗暴声音对他喊道：“珂赛特不是你的！” 
①福布拉斯（Faublas），一七八七年至一七九○年在法国出版的小说《德·福布拉斯骑士》一书之主角。
②普律多姆（Prudhomme），一八三○年前后漫画中之人物，一般指性情浮夸的人。　
马吕斯惊醒过来了。我们已经说过，六个星期以来，马吕斯是生活在生活之外的。走！这个字又狠狠地把他推进了现实。
他一句话也说不出。珂赛特只觉得他的手是冰冷的。现在轮到她来说了：
“你怎么了？”
他有气无力地回答，珂赛特几乎听不清，他说：
“我听不懂你说了些什么。”
她接着说：
“今天早晨我父亲要我把我的日用物品收拾起来准备好，说他就要把他的换洗衣服交给我放在大箱子里，他得出门去旅行一趟，我们不久就要走了，要我准备一个大箱子，替他准备一个小的，这一切都要在一个星期以内准备好，还说我们也许要去英国。”
“可是，这太可怕了！”马吕斯大声说。
毫无疑问，马吕斯这时的思想，认为任何滥用权力的事件、任何暴行，最荒谬的暴君的任何罪恶，布西利斯①、提比利乌斯或亨利八世的任何行为，都比不上这一举动的残酷性：割风先生要带女儿去英国，因为他有事要处理。 
①布西利斯（Busiris），传说中的古代埃及暴君。　
他声音微弱地问道：
“你什么时候动身？”
“他没有说什么时候。”
“你什么时候回来？”
“他没有说什么时候。”
马吕斯立了起来，冷冰冰地问道：
“珂赛特，您去不去呢？”
珂赛特把她两只凄惶欲绝的秀眼转过来望着他，不知所云地回答说：
“去哪儿？”
“英国，您去不去呢？”
“你为什么要对我说‘您’？”
“我问您，您去不去？”
“你要我怎么办？”她扭着自己的两只手说。
“那么，您是要去的了？”
“假使我父亲要去呢？”
“那么，您是要去的了？”
珂赛特抓住马吕斯的一只手，紧捏着它，没有回答。
“好吧，”马吕斯说，“那么，我就到别的地方去。”
珂赛特没有听懂他的话，但已觉得这句话的分量。她脸色顿时大变，在黑暗中显得惨白。她结结巴巴地说：
“你这话是什么意思？”
马吕斯望着她，随即慢慢地抬起眼睛，望着天空，回答说：
“没有什么。”
当他低下眼皮时，他看见珂赛特在对他微笑。女子对她爱人的微笑，在黑暗中有一种照人的光亮。
“我们多傻！马吕斯，我想出了一个办法。”
“什么办法？”
“我们走，你也走！回头我再告诉你去什么地方！你到我们要去的地方来找我！”
马吕斯现在是个完全清醒的人了。他又回到了现实。他对珂赛特大声说：
“和你们一道走！你疯了吗？得有钱呀，我没有钱！去英国吗？我现在还欠古费拉克，我不知道多少，至少十个路易。他是我的一个朋友，你不认识的。我有一顶旧帽子，值三个法郎，我有一件上衣，前面缺着几个扣子，我的衬衫稀烂，衣服袖子全破了，我的靴子吸水。六个星期以来，我全没想到这些，也没向你谈过。珂赛特！我是个穷小子。你只是在夜晚看见我，把你的爱给我了。要是你在白天看见我，你会给我一个苏！到英国去！嗨嗨！我连出国护照费也付不起！”
他一下冲过去立在旁边的一棵树跟前，手臂伸到头顶上，前额抵着树身，既不感到树在戳他的皮肉，也不觉得热血频频敲着他的太阳穴，他一动不动，只待倒下去，象个绝望的塑像。
他这样呆了许久。也许永远跳不出这个深渊了。最后，他转过头来。他听到从他后面传来一阵轻柔凄楚的抽噎声。
是珂赛特在痛哭。
他向她走去，跪在她跟前，又慢慢伏下去，抓住她露在裙袍边上的脚尖，吻着它。
她任他这样做，一声不响。妇女有时是会象一个悲悯忍从的女神那样，接受爱的礼拜的。
“不要哭了。”他说。
她低声地说：
“我也许就要离开此地了，你又不能跟来！”
他接着说：
“你爱我吗？”
她一面抽泣，一面回答，她回答的话，在含着眼泪说出来时，是格外惊心动魄的：
“我崇拜你！”
他用一种说不出有多温柔委婉的语声说：
“不要哭了。你说，你愿意吗，为了我，你就不要再哭了？”
“你爱我吗，你？”
他捏着她的手：
“珂赛特，我从来没有对谁发过誓，因为我怕发誓。我觉得我父亲在我身边。可是现在我可以向你发出最神圣的誓：如果你走，我就死。”
他说这些话时的声调有着一种庄严而平静的忧伤气息，使珂赛特听了为之战栗。她感到某种阴森而实在的东西经过时带来的冷气。由于恐惧，她停止了哭泣。
“现在，你听我说，”他说，“你明天不要等我。”
“为什么？”
“后天再等我。”
“呵！为什么？”
“你会知道的。”
“一整天见不着你！那是不可能的。”
“我们就牺牲一整天吧，也许能换来一辈子。”
马吕斯又低声对自己说：
“这人是从不改变他的习惯的，不到天黑从不会客。”
“你说的是谁呀？”珂赛特问。
“我吗？我什么也没有说。”
“那么你希望的是什么？”
“等到后天再说吧。”
“你一定要这样？”
“是的，珂赛特。”
她用她的两只手捧着他的头，踮起脚尖来达到他身体的高度，想从他的眼睛里猜出他的所谓希望。
马吕斯接着说：
“我想起来了，你应当知道我的住址，也许会发生什么事，谁也不知道。我住在那个叫古费拉克的朋友家里，玻璃厂街十六号。”
他从衣袋里摸出一把一折两的小刀，用刀尖在石灰墙上刻下了“玻璃厂街，十六号”。
珂赛特这时又开始观察他的眼睛。
“把你的想法说给我听。马吕斯，你在想着一件什么事。说给我听。呵！说给我听，让我好好睡一夜！”
“我的想法是这样：上帝不可能把我们分开。后天你等我吧。”
“后天，我怎样挨到后天呀？”珂赛特说。“你，你在外面，去去来来。男人们多快乐呀！我，我一个人待在家里。呵！好不愁人哟！明天晚上你要去干什么，你？”
“有件事，我要去试试。”
“那么我就祈祷上帝，让你成功，心里想着你，等你来。我不再问你什么了，你既然不要我问。你是我的主人。我明晚就待在家里唱《欧利安特》，那是你爱听的，是你有一天夜里在我板窗外面听过的。但是后天，你要早点来。我在夜里等你，九点正，预先告诉你。我的上帝！多么愁人，日子过得多么慢呵！
你听明白了，准九点，我就在园子里了。”
“我也一样。”
他俩在不知不觉中，被同一个思想所推动，被那种不断交驰于两个情人之间的电流所牵引，被并存于痛苦之中的欢情所陶醉，不约而同地相互投入了对方的怀抱，他们的嘴唇也于无意中相遇了，神魂飞越，泪水盈眶，共同仰望着夜空繁星点点。
马吕斯走出园子时，街上一个人也没有。爱潘妮这时正跟在那伙匪徒后面爬向大路。
当马吕斯把脑袋抵在那棵树上冥思苦想时，一个念头出现在他的脑子里，一个念头，是呀，只可惜在他本人看来，也是怪诞的和不可能的。他硬着头皮决定去试试。
Part 4 Book 8 Chapter 7 The Old Heart and the Young Heart in the Presence of Each Other
At that epoch, Father Gillenormand was well past his ninety-first birthday. He still lived with Mademoiselle Gillenormand in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the old house which he owned. He was, as the reader will remember, one of those antique old men who await death perfectly erect, whom age bears down without bending, and whom even sorrow cannot curve.
Still, his daughter had been saying for some time: "My father is sinking." He no longer boxed the maids' ears; he no longer thumped the landing-place so vigorously with his cane when Basque was slow in opening the door. The Revolution of July had exasperated him for the space of barely six months. He had viewed, almost tranquilly, that coupling of words, in the Moniteur: M. Humblot-Conte, peer of France. The fact is, that the old man was deeply dejected. He did not bend, he did not yield; this was no more a characteristic of his physical than of his moral nature, but he felt himself giving way internally. For four years he had been waiting for Marius, with his foot firmly planted, that is the exact word, in the conviction that that good-for-nothing young scamp would ring at his door some day or other; now he had reached the point, where, at certain gloomy hours, he said to himself, that if Marius made him wait much longer--It was not death that was insupportable to him; it was the idea that perhaps he should never see Marius again. The idea of never seeing Marius again had never entered his brain until that day; now the thought began to recur to him, and it chilled him. Absence, as is always the case in genuine and natural sentiments, had only served to augment the grandfather's love for the ungrateful child, who had gone off like a flash. It is during December nights, when the cold stands at ten degrees, that one thinks oftenest of the son.
M. Gillenormand was, or thought himself, above all things, incapable of taking a single step, he--the grandfather, towards his grandson; "I would die rather," he said to himself. He did not consider himself as the least to blame; but he thought of Marius only with profound tenderness, and the mute despair of an elderly, kindly old man who is about to vanish in the dark. 
He began to lose his teeth, which added to his sadness.
M. Gillenormand, without however acknowledging it to himself, for it would have rendered him furious and ashamed, had never loved a mistress as he loved Marius.
He had had placed in his chamber, opposite the head of his bed, so that it should be the first thing on which his eyes fell on waking, an old portrait of his other daughter, who was dead, Madame Pontmercy, a portrait which had been taken when she was eighteen. He gazed incessantly at that portrait. One day, he happened to say, as he gazed upon it:--
"I think the likeness is strong."
"To my sister?" inquired Mademoiselle Gillenormand. "Yes, certainly."
"The old man added:--
"And to him also."
Once as he sat with his knees pressed together, and his eyes almost closed, in a despondent attitude, his daughter ventured to say to him:--
"Father, are you as angry with him as ever?"
She paused, not daring to proceed further.
"With whom?" he demanded.
"With that poor Marius."
He raised his aged head, laid his withered and emaciated fist on the table, and exclaimed in his most irritated and vibrating tone:-- 
"Poor Marius, do you say! That gentleman is a knave, a wretched scoundrel, a vain little ingrate, a heartless, soulless, haughty, and wicked man!"
And he turned away so that his daughter might not see the tear that stood in his eye.
Three days later he broke a silence which had lasted four hours, to say to his daughter point-blank:-- 
"I had the honor to ask Mademoiselle Gillenormand never to mention him to me."
Aunt Gillenormand renounced every effort, and pronounced this acute diagnosis: "My father never cared very much for my sister after her folly. It is clear that he detests Marius." 
"After her folly" meant: "after she had married the colonel." 
However, as the reader has been able to conjecture, Mademoiselle Gillenormand had failed in her attempt to substitute her favorite, the officer of lancers, for Marius. The substitute, Theodule, had not been a success. M. Gillenormand had not accepted the quid pro quo. A vacancy in the heart does not accommodate itself to a stop-gap. Theodule, on his side, though he scented the inheritance, was disgusted at the task of pleasing. The goodman bored the lancer; and the lancer shocked the goodman. Lieutenant Theodule was gay, no doubt, but a chatter-box, frivolous, but vulgar; a high liver, but a frequenter of bad company; he had mistresses, it is true, and he had a great deal to say about them, it is true also; but he talked badly. All his good qualities had a defect. M. Gillenormand was worn out with hearing him tell about the love affairs that he had in the vicinity of the barracks in the Rue de Babylone. And then, Lieutenant Gillenormand sometimes came in his uniform, with the tricolored cockade. This rendered him downright intolerable. Finally, Father Gillenormand had said to his daughter: "I've had enough of that Theodule. I haven't much taste for warriors in time of peace. Receive him if you choose. I don't know but I prefer slashers to fellows that drag their swords. The clash of blades in battle is less dismal, after all, than the clank of the scabbard on the pavement. And then, throwing out your chest like a bully and lacing yourself like a girl, with stays under your cuirass, is doubly ridiculous. When one is a veritable man, one holds equally aloof from swagger and from affected airs. He is neither a blusterer nor a finnicky-hearted man. Keep your Theodule for yourself."
It was in vain that his daughter said to him: "But he is your grandnephew, nevertheless,"--it turned out that M. Gillenormand, who was a grandfather to the very finger-tips, was not in the least a grand-uncle.
In fact, as he had good sense, and as he had compared the two, Theodule had only served to make him regret Marius all the more.
One evening,--it was the 24th of June, which did not prevent Father Gillenormand having a rousing fire on the hearth,--he had dismissed his daughter, who was sewing in a neighboring apartment. He was alone in his chamber, amid its pastoral scenes, with his feet propped on the andirons, half enveloped in his huge screen of coromandel lacquer, with its nine leaves, with his elbow resting on a table where burned two candles under a green shade, engulfed in his tapestry armchair, and in his hand a book which he was not reading. He was dressed, according to his wont, like an incroyable, and resembled an antique portrait by Garat. This would have made people run after him in the street, had not his daughter covered him up, whenever he went out, in a vast bishop's wadded cloak, which concealed his attire. At home, he never wore a dressing gown,except when he rose and retired. "It gives one a look of age," said he.
Father Gillenormand was thinking of Marius lovingly and bitterly; and, as usual, bitterness predominated. His tenderness once soured always ended by boiling and turning to indignation. He had reached the point where a man tries to make up his mind and to accept that which rends his heart. He was explaining to himself that there was no longer any reason why Marius should return, that if he intended to return, he should have done it long ago, that he must renounce the idea. He was trying to accustom himself to the thought that all was over, and that he should die without having beheld "that gentleman" again. But his whole nature revolted; his aged paternity would not consent to this. "Well!" said he,-- this was his doleful refrain,--"he will not return!" His bald head had fallen upon his breast, and he fixed a melancholy and irritated gaze upon the ashes on his hearth.
In the very midst of his revery, his old servant Basque entered, and inquired:--
"Can Monsieur receive M. Marius?"
The old man sat up erect, pallid, and like a corpse which rises under the influence of a galvanic shock. All his blood had retreated to his heart. He stammered:--
"M. Marius what?"
"I don't know," replied Basque, intimidated and put out of countenance by his master's air; "I have not seen him. Nicolette came in and said to me:`There's a young man here; say that it is M. Marius.'"
Father Gillenormand stammered in a low voice:--
"Show him in."
And he remained in the same attitude, with shaking head, and his eyes fixed on the door. It opened once more. A young man entered. It was Marius.
Marius halted at the door, as though waiting to be bidden to enter.
His almost squalid attire was not perceptible in the obscurity caused by the shade. Nothing could be seen but his calm, grave, but strangely sad face.
It was several minutes before Father Gillenormand, dulled with amazement and joy, could see anything except a brightness as when one is in the presence of an apparition. He was on the point of swooning; he saw Marius through a dazzling light. It certainly was he, it certainly was Marius.
At last! After the lapse of four years! He grasped him entire, so to speak, in a single glance. He found him noble, handsome, distinguished, well-grown, a complete man, with a suitable mien and a charming air. He felt a desire to open his arms, to call him, to fling himself forward; his heart melted with rapture, affectionate words swelled and overflowed his breast; at length all his tenderness came to the light and reached his lips, and, by a contrast which constituted the very foundation of his nature, what came forth was harshness. He said abruptly:--
"What have you come here for?"
Marius replied with embarrassment:--
"Monsieur--"
M. Gillenormand would have liked to have Marius throw himself into his arms. He was displeased with Marius and with himself. He was conscious that he was brusque, and that Marius was cold. It caused the goodman unendurable and irritating anxiety to feel so tender and forlorn within, and only to be able to be hard outside. Bitterness returned. He interrupted Marius in a peevish tone:--
"Then why did you come?"
That "then" signified: If you do not come to embrace me. Marius looked at his grandfather, whose pallor gave him a face of marble.
"Monsieur--"
"Have you come to beg my pardon? Do you acknowledge your faults?"
He thought he was putting Marius on the right road, and that "the child" would yield. Marius shivered; it was the denial of his father that was required of him; he dropped his eyes and replied:-- 
"No, sir."
"Then," exclaimed the old man impetuously, with a grief that was poignant and full of wrath, "what do you want of me?" 
Marius clasped his hands, advanced a step, and said in a feeble and trembling voice:--
"Sir, have pity on me."
These words touched M. Gillenormand; uttered a little sooner, they would have rendered him tender, but they came too late. The grandfather rose; he supported himself with both hands on his cane; his lips were white, his brow wavered, but his lofty form towered above Marius as he bowed.
"Pity on you, sir! It is youth demanding pity of the old man of ninety-one! You are entering into life, I am leaving it; you go to the play, to balls, to the cafe, to the billiard-hall; you have wit, you please the women, you are a handsome fellow; as for me, I spit on my brands in the heart of summer; you are rich with the only riches that are really such, I possess all the poverty of age; infirmity, isolation! You have your thirty-two teeth, a good digestion, bright eyes, strength, appetite, health, gayety, a forest of black hair; I have no longer even white hair, I have lost my teeth, I am losing my legs, I am losing my memory; there are three names of streets that I confound incessantly, the Rue Charlot, the Rue du Chaume, and the Rue Saint-Claude, that is what I have come to; you have before you the whole future, full of sunshine, and I am beginning to lose my sight, so far am I advancing into the night; you are in love, that is a matter of course, I am beloved by no one in all the world; and you ask pity of me! Parbleu! Moliere forgot that. If that is the way you jest at the courthouse, Messieurs the lawyers, I sincerely compliment you. You are droll."
And the octogenarian went on in a grave and angry voice:--
"Come, now, what do you want of me?"
"Sir," said Marius, "I know that my presence is displeasing to you, but I have come merely to ask one thing of you, and then I shall go away immediately."
"You are a fool!" said the old man. "Who said that you were to go away?"
This was the translation of the tender words which lay at the bottom of his heart:--
"Ask my pardon! Throw yourself on my neck!"
M. Gillenormand felt that Marius would leave him in a few moments, that his harsh reception had repelled the lad, that his hardness was driving him away; he said all this to himself, and it augmented his grief; and as his grief was straightway converted into wrath, it increased his harshness. He would have liked to have Marius understand, and Marius did not understand, which made the goodman furious.
He began again:--
"What! you deserted me, your grandfather, you left my house to go no one knows whither, you drove your aunt to despair, you went off, it is easily guessed, to lead a bachelor life; it's more convenient, to play the dandy, to come in at all hours, to amuse yourself; you have given me no signs of life, you have contracted debts without even telling me to pay them, you have become a smasher of windows and a blusterer, and, at the end of four years, you come to me, and that is all you have to say to me!"
This violent fashion of driving a grandson to tenderness was productive only of silence on the part of Marius. M. Gillenormand folded his arms; a gesture which with him was peculiarly imperious, and apostrophized Marius bitterly:--
"Let us make an end of this. You have come to ask something of me, you say? Well, what? What is it? Speak!"
"Sir," said Marius, with the look of a man who feels that he is falling over a precipice, "I have come to ask your permission to marry." 
M. Gillenormand rang the bell. Basque opened the door half-way.
"Call my daughter."
A second later, the door was opened once more, Mademoiselle Gillenormand did not enter, but showed herself; Marius was standing, mute, with pendant arms and the face of a criminal; M. Gillenormand was pacing back and forth in the room. He turned to his daughter and said to her:--
"Nothing. It is Monsieur Marius. Say good day to him. Monsieur wishes to marry. That's all. Go away."
The curt, hoarse sound of the old man's voice announced a strange degree of excitement. The aunt gazed at Marius with a frightened air, hardly appeared to recognize him, did not allow a gesture or a syllable to escape her, and disappeared at her father's breath more swiftly than a straw before the hurricane.
In the meantime, Father Gillenormand had returned and placed his back against the chimney-piece once more. 
"You marry! At one and twenty! You have arranged that! You have only a permission to ask! a formality. Sit down, sir. Well, you have had a revolution since I had the honor to see you last. The Jacobins got the upper hand. You must have been delighted. Are you not a Republican since you are a Baron? You can make that agree. The Republic makes a good sauce for the barony. Are you one of those decorated by July? Have you taken the Louvre at all, sir? Quite near here, in the Rue Saint-Antoine, opposite the Rue des Nonamdieres, there is a cannon-ball incrusted in the wall of the third story of a house with this inscription: July 28th, 1830.' Go take a look at that. It produces a good effect. Ah! those friends of yours do pretty things. By the way, aren't they erecting a fountain in the place of the monument of M. le Duc de Berry? So you want to marry? Whom? Can one inquire without indiscretion?"
He paused, and, before Marius had time to answer, he added violently:--
"Come now, you have a profession? A fortune made? How much do you earn at your trade of lawyer?"
"Nothing," said Marius, with a sort of firmness and resolution that was almost fierce.
"Nothing? Then all that you have to live upon is the twelve hundred livres that I allow you?"
Marius did not reply. M. Gillenormand continued:--
"Then I understand the girl is rich?"
"As rich as I am."
"What! No dowry?"
"No."
"Expectations?"
"I think not."
"Utterly naked! What's the father?"
"I don't know."
"And what's her name?"
"Mademoiselle Fauchelevent."
"Fauchewhat?"
"Fauchelevent."
"Pttt!" ejaculated the old gentleman.
"Sir!" exclaimed Marius.
M. Gillenormand interrupted him with the tone of a man who is speaking to himself:--
"That's right, one and twenty years of age, no profession, twelve hundred livres a year, Madame la Baronne de Pontmercy will go and purchase a couple of sous' worth of parsley from the fruiterer." 
"Sir," repeated Marius, in the despair at the last hope, which was vanishing, "I entreat you! I conjure you in the name of Heaven, with clasped hands, sir, I throw myself at your feet, permit me to marry her!"
The old man burst into a shout of strident and mournful laughter, coughing and laughing at the same time.
"Ah! ah! ah! You said to yourself:`Pardine! I'll go hunt up that old blockhead, that absurd numskull! What a shame that I'm not twenty-five! How I'd treat him to a nice respectful summons! How nicely I'd get along without him! It's nothing to me,I'd say to him: "You're only too happy to see me, you old idiot, I want to marry, I desire to wed Mamselle No-matter-whom, daughter of Monsieur No-matter-what, I have no shoes, she has no chemise, that just suits; I want to throw my career, my future, my youth, my life to the dogs; I wish to take a plunge into wretchedness with a woman around my neck, that's an idea, and you must consent to it!" and the old fossil will consent.' Go, my lad, do as you like, attach your paving-stone, marry your Pousselevent, your Coupelevent-- Never, sir, never!"
"Father--"
"Never!"
At the tone in which that "never" was uttered, Marius lost all hope. He traversed the chamber with slow steps, with bowed head, tottering and more like a dying man than like one merely taking his departure. M. Gillenormand followed him with his eyes, and at the moment when the door opened, and Marius was on the point of going out, he advanced four paces, with the senile vivacity of impetuous and spoiled old gentlemen, seized Marius by the collar, brought him back energetically into the room, flung him into an armchair and said to him:--
"Tell me all about it!"
"It was that single word "father" which had effected this revolution.
Marius stared at him in bewilderment. M. Gillenormand's mobile face was no longer expressive of anything but rough and ineffable good-nature. The grandsire had given way before the grandfather. 
"Come, see here, speak, tell me about your love affairs, jabber, tell me everything! Sapristi! How stupid young folks are!" 
"Father--" repeated Marius.
The old man's entire countenance lighted up with indescribable radiance.
"Yes, that's right, call me father, and you'll see!"
There was now something so kind, so gentle, so openhearted, and so paternal in this brusqueness, that Marius, in the sudden transition from discouragement to hope, was stunned and intoxicated by it, as it were. He was seated near the table, the light from the candles brought out the dilapidation of his costume, which Father Gillenormand regarded with amazement.
"Well, father--" said Marius.
"Ah, by the way," interrupted M. Gillenormand, "you really have not a penny then? You are dressed like a pickpocket." 
He rummaged in a drawer, drew forth a purse, which he laid on the table: "Here are a hundred louis, buy yourself a hat." 
"Father," pursued Marius, "my good father, if you only knew! I love her. You cannot imagine it; the first time I saw her was at the Luxembourg, she came there; in the beginning, I did not pay much heed to her, and then, I don't know how it came about, I fell in love with her. Oh! How unhappy that made me! Now, at last, I see her every day, at her own home, her father does not know it, just fancy, they are going away, it is in the garden that we meet, in the evening, her father means to take her to England, then I said to myself: `I'll go and see my grandfather and tell him all about the affair. I should go mad first, I should die, I should fall ill, I should throw myself into the water. I absolutely must marry her, since I should go mad otherwise.' This is the whole truth, and I do not think that I have omitted anything. She lives in a garden with an iron fence, in the Rue Plumet. It is in the neighborhood of the Invalides."
Father Gillenormand had seated himself, with a beaming countenance, beside Marius. As he listened to him and drank in the sound of his voice, he enjoyed at the same time a protracted pinch of snuff.At the words "Rue Plumet" he interrupted his inhalation and allowed the remainder of his snuff to fall upon his knees.
"The Rue Plumet, the Rue Plumet, did you say? --Let us see! --Are there not barracks in that vicinity?--Why, yes, that's it. Your cousin Theodule has spoken to me about it. The lancer, the officer. A gay girl, my good friend, a gay girl!--Pardieu, yes, the Rue Plumet. It is what used to be called the Rue Blomet.--It all comes back to me now. I have heard of that little girl of the iron railing in the Rue Plumet. In a garden, a Pamela. Your taste is not bad. She is said to be a very tidy creature. Between ourselves, I think that simpleton of a lancer has been courting her a bit. I don't know where he did it. However, that's not to the purpose. Besides, he is not to be believed. He brags, Marius! I think it quite proper that a young man like you should be in love. It's the right thing at your age. I like you better as a lover than as a Jacobin. I like you better in love with a petticoat, sapristi! With twenty petticoats, than with M. de Robespierre. For my part, I will do myself the justice to say, that in the line of sans-culottes, I have never loved any one but women. Pretty girls are pretty girls, the deuce! There's no objection to that. As for the little one, she receives you without her father's knowledge. That's in the established order of things. I have had adventures of that same sort myself. More than one. Do you know what is done then? One does not take the matter ferociously; one does not precipitate himself into the tragic; one does not make one's mind to marriage and M. le Maire with his scarf. One simply behaves like a fellow of spirit. One shows good sense. Slip along, mortals; don't marry. You come and look up your grandfather, who is a good-natured fellow at bottom, and who always has a few rolls of louis in an old drawer; you say to him: See here, grandfather.' And the grandfather says: That's a simple matter. Youth must amuse itself, and old age must wear out. I have been young, you will be old. Come, my boy, you shall pass it on to your grandson. Here are two hundred pistoles. Amuse yourself, deuce take it!' Nothing better! That's the way the affair should be treated. You don't marry, but that does no harm. You understand me?"
Marius, petrified and incapable of uttering a syllable, made a sign with his head that he did not. 
The old man burst out laughing, winked his aged eye, gave him a slap on the knee, stared him full in the face with a mysterious and beaming air, and said to him, with the tenderest of shrugs of the shoulder:--
"Booby! Make her your mistress."
Marius turned pale. He had understood nothing of what his grandfather had just said. This twaddle about the Rue Blomet, Pamela, the barracks, the lancer, had passed before Marius like a dissolving view. Nothing of all that could bear any reference to Cosette, who was a lily. The good man was wandering in his mind. But this wandering terminated in words which Marius did understand, and which were a mortal insult to Cosette. Those words, "make her your mistress," entered the heart of the strict young man like a sword. 
He rose, picked up his hat which lay on the floor, and walked to the door with a firm, assured step. There he turned round, bowed deeply to his grandfather, raised his head erect again, and said:--
"Five years ago you insulted my father; to-day you have insulted my wife. I ask nothing more of you, sir. Farewell." 
Father Gillenormand, utterly confounded, opened his mouth, extended his arms, tried to rise, and before he could utter a word, the door closed once more, and Marius had disappeared. 
The old man remained for several minutes motionless and as though struck by lightning, without the power to speak or breathe, as though a clenched fist grasped his throat. At last he tore himself from his arm-chair, ran, so far as a man can run at ninety-one, to the door, opened it, and cried:--
"Help! Help!"
His daughter made her appearance, then the domestics. He began again, with a pitiful rattle: "Run after him! Bring him back! What have I done to him? He is mad! He is going away! Ah! My God! Ah! My God! This time he will not come back!"
He went to the window which looked out on the street, threw it open with his aged and palsied hands, leaned out more than half-way, while Basque and Nicolette held him behind, and shouted:-- 
"Marius! Marius! Marius! Marius!"
But Marius could no longer hear him, for at that moment he was turning the corner of the Rue Saint-Louis. 
The octogenarian raised his hands to his temples two or three times with an expression of anguish, recoiled tottering, and fell back into an arm-chair, pulseless, voiceless, tearless, with quivering head and lips which moved with a stupid air, with nothing in his eyes and nothing any longer in his heart except a gloomy and profound something which resembled night.
吉诺曼公公这时早已满了九十一岁。他一直和吉诺曼姑娘住在受难修女街六号他自己的老房子里。我们记得，他是一个那种笔挺地立着等死、年龄压不倒、苦恼也折磨不了的老古董。
可是不久前，她的女儿常说：“我父亲瘪下去了。”他已不再打女仆的嘴巴，当巴斯克替他开门开得太慢时，他提起手杖跺楼梯板，也没有从前的那股狠劲了。七月革命的那六个月，没怎么惹他激怒。他几乎是无动于衷地望着《通报》中这样联起来的字句：“安布洛－孔泰先生，法兰西世卿。”其实这老人的苦恼大得很。无论从体质方面或精神方面说，他都能做到遇事不屈服，不让步，但是他感到他的心力日渐衰竭了。四年来，他时时都在盼着马吕斯，自以为万无一失，正如人们常说的，深信这小坏蛋迟早总有一天要来拉他的门铃的，但到后来，在心情颓丧的时刻，他常对自己说，要是马吕斯再迟迟不来……他受不了的不是死的威胁，而是也许不会再和马吕斯相见这个念头。不再和马吕斯相见，这在以前，是他脑子里从来不曾想过的事；现在他却经常被这一念头侵扰，感到心寒。出自自然和真挚情感的离愁别恨，只能增加外公对那不知感恩、随意离他而去的孩子的爱。在零下十度的十二月夜晚，人们最思念太阳。吉诺曼先生认为，他作为长辈，是无论如何不可能向外孙迈出一步的。“我宁愿死去。”他说。他认为自己没有错，但是只要一想到马吕斯，他心里总会泛起一个行将入墓的老人所有的那种深厚的慈爱心肠和无可奈何的失望情绪。
他的牙已开始脱落，这使他的心情更加沉重。
吉诺曼先生一生从来没有象他爱马吕斯那样爱过一个情妇，这却是他不敢对自己承认的，因为他感到那样会使自己狂怒，也会觉得惭愧。
他叫人在他卧室的床头，挂一幅画像，使他醒来第一眼就能看见，那是他另一个女儿，死了的那个女儿，彭眉胥夫人十八岁时的旧画像。他常对着这画像看个不停。一天，他一面看，一面说出了这样一句话：
“我看，他很象她。”
“象我妹妹吗？”吉诺曼姑娘跟着说。“可不是。”
老头儿补上一句：
“也象他。”
一次，他正两膝相靠坐着，眼睛半闭，一副泄气样子，他女儿壮着胆子对他说：
“父亲，您还在生他的气吗？……”
她停住了，不敢说下去。
“生谁的气？”他问。
“那可怜的马吕斯？”
他一下抬起他上了年纪的头，把他那枯皱的拳头放在桌子上，以极端暴躁洪亮的声音吼道：
“可怜的马吕斯，您说！这位先生是个怪物，是个无赖，是个没天良爱虚荣的小子，没有良心，没有灵魂，是个骄横恶劣的家伙！”
同时他把头转了过去，免得女儿看见他眼睛里的满眶老泪。
三天过后，一连四个小时没说一句话，他突然对着他的女儿说：
“我早已有过荣幸请求吉诺曼小姐永远不要向我提到他。”
吉诺曼姑娘放弃了一切意图，并作出了这一深刻的诊断：“自从我妹子干了她那件蠢事后，我父亲也就不怎么爱她了。
很明显，他厌恶马吕斯。”
所谓“自从她干了她那件蠢事”的含义就是自从她和那上校结了婚。
此外，正如人们所猜测的，吉诺曼姑娘曾试图把她宠爱的那个长矛兵军官拿来顶替马吕斯，但是没有成功。顶替人忒阿杜勒完全失败了。吉诺曼先生不同意以伪乱真。心头的空位子，不能让阿猫阿狗随便坐。在忒阿杜勒那方面，他尽管对那份遗产感兴趣，却又不喜欢曲意奉承。长矛兵见了老头，感到腻味，老头见了长矛兵，也看不顺眼。忒阿杜勒中尉当然是个快活人，不过话也多，轻佻，而且庸俗，自奉颇丰，但是交友不慎，他有不少情妇，那不假，但是吹得太多，那也不假，并且吹得不高明。所有这些优点，都各有缺点。吉诺曼先生听他大谈他在巴比伦街兵营附近的种种艳遇，连脑袋也听胀了。并且那位忒阿杜勒中尉有时还穿上军装，戴上三色帽徽来探望他。这就干脆使他无法容忍。吉诺曼公公不得不对他的女儿说：“这个忒阿杜勒已叫我受够了，要是你乐意，还是你去接待他吧。我在和平时期，不大爱见打仗的人。我不知道我究竟是喜欢耍指挥刀的人还是喜欢拖指挥刀的人。战场上刀剑的对劈声总比较不那么可怜，总而言之，总比指挥刀的套子在石板地上拖得一片响来得动听一点。并且，把胸脯鼓得象个绿林好汉，却又把腰身捆得象个小娘们儿，铁甲下穿一件女人的紧身衣，这简直是存心要闹双料笑话。当一个人是一个真正的人的时候，他就应当在大言不惭和矫揉造作之间保持相等的距离。既不夸夸其谈，也不扭捏取宠。把你那忒阿杜勒留给你自己吧。”他女儿妄费心机，还去对他说：“可他总是您的侄孙呀。”看来这吉诺曼先生，虽然从头到指甲尖都地地道道是个外祖父，却一点也不象是个叔祖父。
实际情况是，由于他有点才智，并善于比较，忒阿杜勒所起的作用，只使他更加想念马吕斯。
一天晚上，正是六月四日，这并不妨碍吉诺曼公公仍在他的壁炉里燃起一炉极好的火，他已把他的女儿打发走了，她退到隔壁屋子里去做针线活。他独自待在他那间满壁牧羊图景的卧室里，两只脚伸在炉边的铁栏上，被围在一道展成半圆形的科罗曼德尔九折大屏风的中间，深深地坐在一把锦缎大围椅里，肘弯放在桌子上（桌上的绿色遮光罩下燃着两支蜡烛），手里拿着一本书，但不在阅读。
他身上，依照他的癖好，穿一身“荒唐少年”的服装，活象加拉①的古老画像。他如果这样上街，一定会被许多人跟着起哄，因此每次出门，他女儿总给他加上一件主教穿的那种宽大的外套，把他的服装掩盖起来。他在自己家里，除了早晚起床和上床以外，从来不穿睡袍。“穿了显老。”他说。 
①加拉（Garat），路易十六的司法大臣，他是督政府时期时髦人物的代表。　
吉诺曼公公怀着满腔的慈爱和苦水，思念着马吕斯，但经常是苦味占上风。他那被激怒了的怨慕心情，最后总是要沸腾并转为愤慨的。他已到了准备固执到底，安心承受折磨的地步了。他这时正在对自己说，到现在，已没有理由再指望马吕斯回来，如果他要回来，早已回来了，还是死了这条心吧。他常勉强自己习惯于这个想法：一切已成泡影，此生此世不会再见“那位小爷”了。但是他的五脏六腑全造反，古老的骨肉之情也不能同意。“怎么！”他说，这是他痛苦时的口头禅，“他不回来了！”他的秃头落在胸前，眼睛迷迷矇矇地望着炉膛里的柴灰，神情忧伤而郁忿。
他正深深陷在这种梦想中时，他的老仆人巴斯克走进来问道：
“先生，能接见马吕斯先生吗？”
老人面色苍白，象个受到电击的死尸那样，突然一下，坐得直挺挺的。全身的血都回到了心房，他结结巴巴地说：
“是姓什么的马吕斯先生？”
“我不知道，”被主人的神气搞得心慌意乱的巴斯克说，“我没有看见他。刚才是妮珂莱特告诉我的，她说‘那儿有个年轻人，您就说是马吕斯先生好了。’”
吉诺曼公公低声嘟囔着：
“让他进来。”
他照原样坐着，脑袋微微颤抖，眼睛盯着房门。门又开了。
一个青年走进来。正是马吕斯。
马吕斯走到房门口，便停了下来，仿佛在等待人家叫他进去。
他的衣服，几乎破得不成样子，幸而是在遮光罩的黑影里，看不出来。人家只看见他的脸是安静严肃的，但显得异样地忧郁。
吉诺曼公公又惊又喜，傻傻地望了半晌还只能看见一团光，正如人们遇见了鬼魂那样。他几乎晕了过去，只见马吕斯周围五颜六色的光彩。那确实是他，确实是马吕斯！
终于盼到了！盼了足足四年！他现在抓着他了，可以这样说，一眨眼便把他整个儿抓住了。他觉得他美，高贵，出众，长大了，成人了，体态不凡，翩翩风度。他原想张开手臂，喊他，向他冲去，他的心融化在欢天喜地中了，多少体己话在胸中汹涌澎湃，这满腔的慈爱，却如昙花一现，话已到了唇边，但他的本性，与此格格不入，表现出来的只是冷峻无情。他粗声大气地问道：
“您来此地干什么？”
马吕斯尴尬地回答说：
“先生……”
吉诺曼先生恨不得看见马吕斯冲上来拥抱他。他恨马吕斯，也恨他自己。他感到自己粗暴，也感到马吕斯冷淡。这老人觉得自己内心是那么和善，那么愁苦，而外表却又不得不板起面孔，确是一件使人难受也使人冒火的苦恼事。他又回到苦恼中。他不待马吕斯把话说完，便以郁闷的声音问道：
“那么您为什么要来？”
这“那么”两个字的意思是“如果您不是要来拥抱我的话”。马吕斯望着他的外祖父，只见他的脸苍白得象一块云石。
“先生……”
老人仍是以严厉的声音说：
“您是来请求我原谅您的吗？您已认识您的过错了吗？”
他自以为这样能把他的心愿暗示给马吕斯，能使这“孩子”向他屈服。马吕斯浑身寒战，人家指望他的是要他否定自己的父亲，他低着眼睛回答说：
“不是，先生。”
“既然不是，您又来找我干什么？”老人声色俱厉，悲痛极了。
马吕斯扭着自己的两只手，上前一步，以微弱颤抖的声音说：
“先生，可怜我。”
这话感动了吉诺曼先生。如果早点说，这话也许能使他软下来，但是说得太迟了。老公公立了起来，双手支在手杖上，嘴唇苍白，额头颤动，但是他的高大身材高出于低着头的马吕斯。
“可怜您，先生！年纪轻轻，要一个九十一岁的老头可怜您！您刚进入人生，而我即将退出，您进戏院，赴舞会，进咖啡馆，打弹子，您有才华，您能讨女人喜欢，您是美少年，我吗，在盛夏我对着炉火吐痰，您享尽了世上的清福，我受尽了老年的活罪，病痛，孤苦！您有您的三十二颗牙、好的肠胃、明亮的眼睛、力气、胃口、健康、兴致、一头的黑发，我，我连白发也没有了，我丢了我的牙，我失去了我的腿劲，我失去了我的记忆力，有三条街的名字我老搞不清：沙洛街、麦茬街和圣克洛德街，我已到了这种地步。您有阳光灿烂的前程在您前头，我，我已开始什么也看不清了，我已进入黑暗，您在追女人，那不用说，而我，全世界没有一个人爱我了，您却要我可怜您！老天爷，莫里哀也没有想到过这一点。律师先生们，假使你们在法庭上是这样开玩笑的，我真要向你们致以衷心的祝贺。您好滑稽。”
接着，这九旬老人又以愤怒严峻的声音说：
“您究竟要我干什么？”
“先生，”马吕斯说，“我知道我来会使您不高兴，但是我来只是为了向您要求一件事，说完马上就走。”
“您是个傻瓜！”老人说。“谁说要您走呀？”
这话是他心坎上这样一句体己话的另一说法：“请我原谅就是了！快来抱住我的颈子吧！”吉诺曼先生感到马吕斯不一会儿就要离开他走了，是他的不友好的接待扫了他的兴，是他的僵硬态度在撵他走，他心里想到这一切，他的痛苦随着增加起来，他的痛苦立即又转为愤怒，他就更加硬邦邦的了。他要马吕斯领会他的意思，而马吕斯偏偏不能领会，这就使老人怒火直冒。他又说：
“怎么！您离开了我，我，您的外公，您离开了我的家，到谁知道是什么地方去，您害您那姨妈好不牵挂，您在外面，可以想象得到，那样方便多了，过单身汉的生活，吃、喝、玩、乐，要几时回家就几时回家，自己寻开心，死活都不告诉我一声，欠了债，也不叫我还，您要做个调皮捣蛋、砸人家玻璃的顽童，过了四年，您来到我家里，可又只有那么两句话跟我说！”
这种促使外孙回心转意的粗暴办法只能使马吕斯无从开口。吉诺曼先生叉起两条胳膊，他的这一姿势是特别威风凛凛的，他对马吕斯毫不留情地吼道：
“赶快结束。您来向我要求一件事，您是这样说的吧？那么，好，是什么？什么事？快说。”
“先生，”马吕斯说，他那眼神活象一个感到自己即将掉下悬崖绝壁的人，“我来请求您允许我结婚。”
吉诺曼先生打铃。巴斯克走来把房门推开了一条缝。
“把我姑娘找来。”
一秒钟过后，门又开了，吉诺曼姑娘没有进来，只是立在门口。马吕斯站着，没有说话，两手下垂，一张罪犯的脸，吉诺曼先生在屋子里来回走动。他转身对着他的女儿，向她说：
“没什么。这是马吕斯先生。向他问好。他要结婚。就是这些。你走吧。”
老人的话说得简短急促，声音嘶哑，说明他的激动达到了少见的剧烈程度。姨母神色慌张，向马吕斯望了一眼，好象不大认识他似的，没有做一个手势，也没有说一个音节，便在她父亲的叱咤声中溜走了，比狂飙吹走麦秸还快。
这时，吉诺曼公公又回到壁炉边，背靠着壁炉说道：
“您要结婚！二十一岁结婚！这是您安排好的！您只要得到许可就可以了！一个手续问题。请坐下，先生。自从我没这荣幸见到你以来，您进行了一场革命。雅各宾派占了上风。您应当感到满意了。您不是已具有男爵头衔成了共和党人吗？左右逢源，您有办法。以共和为男爵爵位的调味品。您在七月革命中得了勋章吧？您在卢浮宫里多少还吃得开吧，先生？在此地附近，两步路的地方，对着诺南迪埃街的那条圣安东尼街上，在一所房子的三层楼的墙上，嵌着一个圆炮弹，题铭上写着：一八三○年七月二十八日。您不妨去看看。效果很好。啊！他们干了不少漂亮事，您的那些朋友！还有，原来立着贝里公爵先生塑像的那个广场上，他们不是修了个喷泉吗？您说您要结婚？同谁结婚啊？请问一声同谁结婚，这不能算是冒昧吧？”
他停住了。马吕斯还没有来得及回答，他又狠巴巴地说：
“请问，您有职业了吗？您有了财产吗？在您那当律师的行业里，您能赚多少钱？”
“一文也没有，”马吕斯说，语气干脆坚定、几乎是放肆的。
“一文也没有？您就靠我给您的那一千二百利弗过活吗？”
马吕斯没有回答。吉诺曼先生接着又说：
“啊，我懂了，是因为那姑娘有钱吗？”
“她和我一样。”
“怎么！没有陪嫁的财产？”
“没有。”
“有财产继承权吗？”
“不见得有。”
“光身一个！她父亲是干什么的？”
“我不清楚。”
“她姓什么？”
“割风姑娘。”
“割什么？”
“割风。”
“呸！”老头儿说。
“先生！”马吕斯大声说。
吉诺曼先生以自言自语的声调打断了他的话。
“对，二十一岁，没有职业，每年一千二百利弗，彭眉胥男爵夫人每天到蔬菜摊上去买两个苏的香菜。”
“先生，”马吕斯眼看最后的希望也将幻灭，惊慌失措地说，“我恳切地请求您！祈求您，祈求天上的神，合着手掌，先生，我跪在您跟前，请允许我娶她，结为夫妇。”
老头儿放声狂笑，笑声尖锐凄厉，边笑边咳地说：
“哈！哈！哈！您一定对您自己说过：‘见鬼，我去找那老祖宗，那个荒谬的老糊涂！可惜我还没有满二十五岁！不然的话，我只要好好地扔给他一份征求意见书①！我就可以不管他了！没有关系，我会对他说，老呆子，我来看你，你太幸福了，我要结婚，我要娶不管是什么小姐，不管是什么人的女儿做老婆，我没有鞋子，她没有衬衣，不管，我决计把我的事业、我的前程、我的青春、我的一生全抛到水里去，颈子上挂个女人，扑通跳进苦海，这是我的志愿，你必须同意！’那个老顽固是会同意的。好嘛，我的孩子，就照你的意思办吧，拴上你的石块，去娶你那个什么吹风，什么砍风吧……不行，先生！不行！” 
①按十九世纪法国法律，男子二十五岁，女子二十一岁，结婚不用家长同意，但须通过公证人正式通知家长，名为征求意见，实即通知。
“我的父亲①！”
“不行！” 
①原文如此。因马吕斯是吉诺曼先生抚养大的，故书中屡次称吉诺曼先生为“父亲”。　
听到他说“不行”那两个字的气势，马吕斯知道一切希望全完了。他低着脑袋，踌躇不决，慢慢儿一步一步穿过房间，好象是要离开，但更象是要死去。吉诺曼先生的眼睛一直跟着他，正在房门已开，马吕斯要出去时，他连忙以躁急任性的衰龄老人的矫健步伐向前跨上四步，一把抓住马吕斯的衣领，使尽力气，把他拖回房间，甩在一张围椅里，对他说：
“把一切经过和我谈谈。”
是马吕斯脱口而出的“我的父亲”这个词使当时形势发生了变化。
马吕斯呆呆地望着他。这时表现在吉诺曼先生那张变幻无常的脸上的，只是一种粗涩的淳厚神情。严峻的老祖宗变成慈祥的外祖父了。
“来吧，让我们看看，你说吧，把你的风流故事讲给我听听，不用拘束，全抖出来！活见鬼！年轻人全不是好东西！”
“我的父亲。”马吕斯又说。
老人的脸顿时容光焕发，说不出地满脸堆笑。
“对，没有错儿！叫我你的父亲，回头你再瞧吧。”
在当时的那种急躁气氛中，现在出现了某些现象，是那么好，那么甜，那么开朗，那么慈祥，以致处在忽然从绝望转为有望的急剧变化中的马吕斯，感到有些迷惑不解，而又欣喜若狂。他正好坐在桌子旁边，桌上的烛光，照着他那身破旧的衣服，吉诺曼先生见了，好不惊奇。
“好吧，我的父亲。”马吕斯说。
“啊呀，”吉诺曼先生打断他的话说，“难道你真的没有钱吗？你穿得象个小偷。”
他翻他的抽屉，掏出一个钱包，把它放在桌上：
“瞧，这儿有一百路易，拿去买顶帽子。”
“我的父亲，”马吕斯紧接着说，“我的好父亲，您知道我多么爱她就好了。您想不到，我第一次遇见她，是在卢森堡公园，她常去那地方，起初我并不怎么注意，随后不知怎么搞的，我竟爱上她了。呵！使我十分苦恼！现在我每天和她见面，在她家里，她父亲不知道，您想，他们就要走了；我们是在那花园里相见，天黑了以后。她父亲要把她带到英国去，这样，我才想到：‘我要去看我外公，把这事说给他听。’我首先会变成疯子，我会死，我会得一种病，我会跳水自杀。我绝对需要和她结婚，否则我会发疯。整个真实情况就是这样，我想我没有忘记什么。她住在一个花园里，有一道铁栏门，卜吕梅街。靠残废军人院那面。”
吉诺曼公公喜笑颜开地坐在马吕斯旁边。他一面听他说，欣赏他说话的声音，同时，深深地吸了一撮鼻烟。听到卜吕梅街这几个字的时候，他忽然停止吸气，让剩下的鼻烟屑落在膝头上。
“卜吕梅街！你不是说卜吕梅街吗？让我想想！靠那边不是有个兵营吗？是呀，不错，你表哥忒阿杜勒和我说过的，那个长矛兵，那个军官。一个小姑娘，我的好朋友，是个小姑娘。一点不错，卜吕梅街。从前叫做卜洛梅街。现在我完全想起来了。卜吕梅街，一道铁栏门里的一个小姑娘，我听说过的。在一个花园里。一个小家碧玉。你的眼力不错。听说她生得干干净净的。说句私话，那个傻小子长矛兵多少还对她献过殷勤呢。我不知道他进行到什么程度了。那没有多大关系。并且他的话不一定可靠。他爱吹，马吕斯！我觉得这非常好，象你这样一个青年会爱上一个姑娘。这是你这种年纪的人常有的事。我情愿你爱上一个女人，总比去当一个雅各宾派强些。我情愿你爱上一条短布裙，见他妈的鬼！哪怕二十条短布裙也好，却不希望你爱上罗伯斯庇尔。在我这方面，我说句公道话，作为无套裤汉，我唯一的爱好，只是女人。漂亮姑娘总是漂亮姑娘，还有什么可说的！不可能有反对意见。至于那个小姑娘，她瞒着她爸爸接待你。这是正当办法。我也有过这类故事，我自己。不止一次。你知道怎么办吗？做这种事，不能操之过急，不能一头栽进悲剧里去，不要谈结婚问题，不要去找斜挎着佩带的市长先生。只要傻头傻脑地做个聪明孩子。我们是有常识的人。做人要滑，不要结婚。你来找外公，外公其实是个好好先生，经常有几卷路易藏在一个老抽屉里。你对他说：‘外公，如此这般。’外公就说：‘这很简单。’青年人要过，老年人要破。我有过青年时期，你也将进入老年。好吧，我的孩子，你把这还给你的孙子就是。这里是两百皮斯托尔。寻开心去吧，好好干！再好没有了！事情是应当这样应付的。不要结婚，那还不是一样。你懂我的意思吗？”
马吕斯象个石头人，失去了说话的能力，连连摇头表示反对。
老头放声大笑，挤弄着一只老眼，在他的膝头上拍了一下，直直地望着他的眼睛，极轻微地耸着肩膀，对他说：
“傻孩子！收她做你的情妇。”
马吕斯面无人色。外祖父刚才说的那一套，他全没有听懂。他罗罗嗦嗦说到的什么卜洛梅街、小家碧玉、兵营、长矛兵，象一串幢幢黑影似的在马吕斯的眼前掠过。在这一切中，没有一件能和珂赛特扯得上，珂赛特是一朵百合花。那老头是在胡说八道。而这些胡言乱语归结到一句话，是马吕斯听懂了的，并且是对珂赛特的极尽恶毒的侮辱。“收她做你的情妇”这句话，象一把剑似的，插进了这严肃的青年人的心中。
他站起来，从地上拾起他的帽子，以坚定稳重的步伐走向房门口。到了那里，他转身向着他的外祖父，对他深深一鞠躬，昂着头，说道：
“五年前，您侮辱了我的父亲，今天，您侮辱了我的爱人。
我什么也不向您要求了，先生。从此永诀。”
吉诺曼公公被吓呆了，张着嘴，伸着手臂，想站起来，还没有来得及开口，房门已经关上，马吕斯也不见了。
老头儿好象被雷击似的，半晌动弹不得，说不出话，也不能呼吸，象有个拳头紧紧顶着他的喉咙。后来，他才使出全力从围椅里立起来，以一个九十一岁老人所能有的速度，奔向房门，开了门，放声吼道：
“救人啊！救人啊！”
他的女儿来了，跟着，仆人们也来了。他悲伤惨痛地嚎着：“快去追他！抓住他！我对他干了什么？他疯了！他走了！啊！我的天主！啊！我的天主！这一下，他不会再回来了！”
他跑向临街的那扇窗子，用他两只哆哆嗦嗦的老手开了窗，大半个身体伸到窗口外面，巴斯克和妮珂莱特从后面拖住他，他喊道：
“马吕斯！马吕斯！马吕斯！马吕斯！”
但是马吕斯已经听不见了，他在这时正转进圣路易街的拐角处。
这个年过九十的老人两次或三次把他的双手举向鬓边，神情沮丧，蹒跚后退，瘫在一张围椅里，脉搏没有了，声音没有了，眼泪没有了，脑袋摇着，嘴唇发抖，活象个呆子，在他的眼里和心里，只剩下了一些阴沉、幽远、类似黑夜的东西。
Part 4 Book 9 Chapter 1 Jean Valjean
That same day, towards four o'clock in the afternoon, Jean Valjean was sitting alone on the back side of one of the most solitary slopes in the Champ-de-Mars. Either from prudence, or from a desire to meditate, or simply in consequence of one of those insensible changes of habit which gradually introduce themselves into the existence of every one, he now rarely went out with Cosette. He had on his workman's waistcoat, and trousers of gray linen; and his long-visored cap concealed his countenance.
He was calm and happy now beside Cosette; that which had, for a time, alarmed and troubled him had been dissipated; but for the last week or two, anxieties of another nature had come up. One day, while walking on the boulevard, he had caught sight of Thenardier; thanks to his disguise, Thenardier had not recognized him; but since that day, Jean Valjean had seen him repeatedly, and he was now certain that Thenardier was prowling about in their neighborhood. 
This had been sufficient to make him come to a decision.
Moreover, Paris was not tranquil: political troubles presented this inconvenient feature, for any one who had anything to conceal in his life, that the police had grown very uneasy and very suspicious, and that while seeking to ferret out a man like Pepin or Morey, they might very readily discover a man like Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean had made up his mind to quit Paris, and even France, and go over to England.
He had warned Cosette. He wished to set out before the end of the week.
He had seated himself on the slope in the Champ-de-Mars, turning over all sorts of thoughts in his mind,--Thenardier, the police, the journey, and the difficulty of procuring a passport. 
He was troubled from all these points of view.
Last of all, an inexplicable circumstance which had just attracted his attention, and from which he had not yet recovered, had added to his state of alarm.
On the morning of that very day, when he alone of the household was stirring, while strolling in the garden before Cosette's shutters were open, he had suddenly perceived on the wall, the following line, engraved, probably with a nail:--
16 Rue de la Verrerie.
This was perfectly fresh, the grooves in the ancient black mortar were white, a tuft of nettles at the foot of the wall was powdered with the fine, fresh plaster.
This had probably been written on the preceding night.
What was this? A signal for others? A warning for himself?
In any case, it was evident that the garden had been violated, and that strangers had made their way into it. 
He recalled the odd incidents which had already alarmed the household.
His mind was now filling in this canvas.
He took good care not to speak to Cosette of the line written on the wall, for fear of alarming her.
In the midst of his preoccupations, he perceived, from a shadow cast by the sun, that some one had halted on the crest of the slope immediately behind him.
He was on the point of turning round, when a paper folded in four fell upon his knees as though a hand had dropped it over his head.
He took the paper, unfolded it, and read these words written in large characters, with a pencil:-- 
"MOVE AWAY FROM YOUR HOUSE."
Jean Valjean sprang hastily to his feet; there was no one on the slope; he gazed all around him and perceived a creature larger than a child, not so large as a man, clad in a gray blouse and trousers of dust-colored cotton velvet, who was jumping over the parapet and who slipped into the moat of the Champde-Mars.
Jean Valjean returned home at once, in a very thoughtful mood.
在那同一天下午，将近四点时，冉阿让独自一人坐在马尔斯广场上一条最清静的斜坡上。他现在已很少和珂赛特一道上街，这也许是出于谨慎，也许是出于潜心静养的愿望，也许只是出于人人都有的那种习惯上的逐渐改变。他穿着一件工人的褂子，一条灰色帆布长裤，戴一顶帽舌突出的便帽，遮着自己的面部。他现在对珂赛特方面的事是心情安静的，甚至是快乐的，前些日子，使他提心吊胆的那些疑惧已经消逝，但最近一两个星期以来，他却有了另一种性质的忧虑。一天，他在大路上散步时，忽然望见德纳第，幸而他改了装，德纳第一点没认出他来；但是，从那以后，冉阿让又多次遇见他，现在他可以肯定，德纳第常在那一带游荡。这已够使他要下决心认真对待。德纳第的出现，意味着说不尽的后患。
另外，当时巴黎不平静，政治上的动乱，对那些隐瞒身世的人来说，带来这样一种麻烦，那就是警察已变得非常紧张，非常多疑，他们在搜寻象佩潘或莫雷①那样一个人时，是很可能会发现象冉阿让这样的人的。 
①佩潘和莫雷是菲埃斯基的同伙。　　
由于这些原因，他已是心事重重了。
新近又发生件不可解的事，使惊魂初定的他重新受到一次震动，因而他更加警惕起来。在那同一天的早上，他第一个起床，到园里散步时，珂赛特的板窗还没有开，他忽然发现有人在墙上刻了这样一行字，也许是用钉子刻的：
玻璃厂街十六号。
这是最近发生的事。那堵墙上的石灰原已年久发黑，而刻出的字迹是雪白的。墙脚边的一丛荨麻叶子上，还铺着一层新近落上去的细白粉。这也许是昨晚刚刻的。这究竟是什么？是个通信地址吗？是为别人留下的暗号吗？是给他的警告吗？无论如何，这园子显然已被一些来历不明的人偷偷摸进来过了。他回忆起前不久把他一家人搞得惶惑不安的那些奇怪事情。他的脑子老向这些方面转。他绝不把发现墙上有人用钉子刻了一行字的这件事告诉珂赛特，怕她受惊。
对这一切经过思考，经过权衡以后，冉阿让决计离开巴黎，甚至法国，到英国去待上一段时间。他已向珂赛特提过，要在八天以内起程。现在他坐在马尔斯广场的斜坡上，脑子里反复想着这些事：德纳第、警察、刻在墙上的那一行字、这次的远行以及搞一份出国护照的困难。
他正在这样思前想后，忽然看见太阳把刚刚来到斜坡顶上紧挨着他背后的一个人的影子投射在他的眼前。他正要转过头去看，一张一折四的纸落在他的膝头上，好象是由伸在他头顶上的一只手扔下来的。他拾起那张纸，展开来看，那上面有几个用粗铅笔写的大字：
快搬家。
冉阿让立即站了起来，斜坡上一个人也没有，他向四面寻找，只见一个比孩子稍大又比成年人稍小的人，穿一件灰色布褂和一条土色的灯芯绒长裤，正跨过矮墙，向马尔斯广场的沟里滑下去。
冉阿让赶忙回家。心情沉重。
Part 4 Book 9 Chapter 1 Marius
Marius had left M. Gillenormand in despair. He had entered the house with very little hope, and quitted it with immense despair.
However, and those who have observed the depths of the human heart will understand this, the officer, the lancer, the ninny, Cousin Theodule, had left no trace in his mind.Not the slightest.The dramatic poet might, apparently, expect some complications from this revelation made point-blank by the grandfather to the grandson. But what the drama would gain thereby, truth would lose. Marius was at an age when one believes nothing in the line of evil; later on comes the age when one believes everything. Suspicions are nothing else than wrinkles. Early youth has none of them. That which overwhelmed Othello glides innocuous over Candide.Suspect Cosette! There are hosts of crimes which Marius could sooner have committed.
He began to wander about the streets, the resource of those who suffer. He thought of nothing, so far as he could afterwards remember. At two o'clock in the morning he returned to Courfeyrac's quarters and flung himself, without undressing, on his mattress. The sun was shining brightly when he sank into that frightful leaden slumber which permits ideas to go and come in the brain. When he awoke,he saw Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Combeferre standing in the room with their hats on and all ready to go out.
Courfeyrac said to him:--
"Are you coming to General Lamarque's funeral?"
It seemed to him that Courfeyrac was speaking Chinese.
He went out some time after them. He put in his pocket the pistols which Javert had given him at the time of the adventure on the 3d of February, and which had remained in his hands. These pistols were still loaded. It would be difficult to say what vague thought he had in his mind when he took them with him.
All day long he prowled about, without knowing where he was going; it rained at times, he did not perceive it; for his dinner, he purchased a penny roll at a baker's, put it in his pocket and forgot it. It appears that he took a bath in the Seine without being aware of it. There are moments when a man has a furnace within his skull. Marius was passing through one of those moments. He no longer hoped for anything; this step he had taken since the preceding evening. He waited for night with feverish impatience, he had but one idea clearly before his mind;--this was, that at nine o'clock he should see Cosette. This last happiness now constituted his whole future; after that, gloom. At intervals, as he roamed through the most deserted boulevards, it seemed to him that he heard strange noises in Paris. He thrust his head out of his revery and said: "Is there fighting on hand?"
At nightfall, at nine o'clock precisely, as he had promised Cosette, he was in the Rue Plumet. When he approached the grating he forgot everything. It was forty-eight hours since he had seen Cosette; he was about to behold her once more; every other thought was effaced, and he felt only a profound and unheard-of joy. Those minutes in which one lives centuries always have this sovereign and wonderful property, that at the moment when they are passing they fill the heart completely.
Marius displaced the bar, and rushed headlong into the garden. Cosette was not at the spot where she ordinarily waited for him. He traversed the thicket, and approached the recess near the flight of steps: "She is waiting for me there," said he. Cosette was not there. He raised his eyes, and saw that the shutters of the house were closed. He made the tour of the garden, the garden was deserted. Then he returned to the house, and, rendered senseless by love, intoxicated, terrified, exasperated with grief and uneasiness, like a master who returns home at an evil hour, he tapped on the shutters. He knocked and knocked again, at the risk of seeing the window open, and her father's gloomy face make its appearance, and demand: "What do you want?" This was nothing in comparison with what he dimly caught a glimpse of. When he had rapped, he lifted up his voice and called Cosette.--"Cosette!" he cried; "Cosette!" he repeated imperiously. There was no reply. All was over. No one in the garden; no one in the house. 
Marius fixed his despairing eyes on that dismal house, which was as black and as silent as a tomb and far more empty. He gazed at the stone seat on which he had passed so many adorable hours with Cosette. Then he seated himself on the flight of steps, his heart filled with sweetness and resolution, he blessed his love in the depths of his thought, and he said to himself that, since Cosette was gone, all that there was left for him was to die. 
All at once he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the street, and which was calling to him through the trees:--
"Mr. Marius!"
He started to his feet.
"Hey?" said he.
"Mr.Marius, are you there?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Marius," went on the voice, "your friends are waiting for you at the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie."
This voice was not wholly unfamiliar to him. It resembled the hoarse, rough voice of Eponine. Marius hastened to the gate, thrust aside the movable bar, passed his head through the aperture, and saw some one who appeared to him to be a young man, disappearing at a run into the gloom.
马吕斯怀着沮丧的心情离开了吉诺曼先生的家。他进去时，原只抱着极小的一点希望，出来时，失望却是大极了。
此外，凡是对人的心性从头观察过的人，对他必能理解。外祖父向外孙当面胡诌了一些什么长矛兵、军官、傻小子、表哥忒阿杜勒，这都没留下一点阴影在他心里。绝对没有。写剧本的诗人从表面看来也许会在外祖父对外孙的泄露里使情况突然复杂化，但是增加戏剧性会损害真实性。马吕斯正在绝不相信人能做坏事的年龄，但还没有到轻信一切的年龄。疑心有如皮上的皱纹。青年的早期没有这种皱纹。能使奥赛罗心慌意乱的，不能触动老实人①。猜疑珂赛特！马吕斯也许可以犯种种罪行，却不至于猜疑珂赛特。 
①奥赛罗（Othello），莎士比亚同名悲剧中的主人公，一般指轻信的人。老实人（Candide），伏尔泰小说《老实人》中的主人公。
他在街上走个不停，这是苦恼人的常态。他能回忆起的一切他全不去想。凌晨两点，他回到了古费拉克的住所，不脱衣服便一头倒在他的褥子上。当他矇眬入睡时天早已大亮了。他昏昏沉沉地睡着，脑子仍在胡思乱想。他醒来时，看见古费拉克、安灼拉、弗以伊和公白飞都站在屋子里，戴上帽子，非常忙乱，正准备上街。
古费拉克对他说：
“你去不去送拉马克将军①入葬？”
他听起来以为古费拉克在说中国话。
他们走后不久，他也出去了。二月三日发生那次事件时，沙威曾交给他两支手枪，枪还一直留在他手中。他上街时，把这两支枪揣在衣袋里。枪里的子弹原封不动。很难说清他心里有什么隐秘的想法要揣上这两支枪。
他在街上毫无目的地荡了一整天，有时下着雨，他也全不觉得，他在一家面包铺里买了一个面包卷，准备当作晚餐，面包一经放进衣袋，便完全把它忘了。据说他在塞纳河里洗了一个澡，他自己却没有一点印象。有时脑子里是会有火炉的②。马吕斯正是在这种时刻。他什么也不再指望，什么也无所畏惧，从昨晚起，他已迈出了这一步。他象热锅上的蚂蚁，等着天黑，他也只剩下一个清晰的念头：九点他将和珂赛特见面。这最后的幸福将成为他的整个前程，此后，便是茫茫一片黑暗。他在最荒僻的大路上走时，不时听到在巴黎方面有些奇特的声音。他振作精神，伸着脑袋细听，说道：“是不是打起来了？” 
①拉马克（Maximilien　Lamarque，1770?832），法国将军，复辟时期和七月王朝时期自由主义反对派的著名活动家之一。
②“脑子里是会有火炉的”，指思想斗争激烈。　
天刚黑，九点正，他遵守向珂赛特作出的诺言，来到了卜吕梅街。当他走近那铁栏门时，什么都忘了。他已有四十八小时不曾和珂赛特见面，他即将看见她，任何其他的想法全消失了，他目前只有这一件空前深刻的称心事。这种以几个世纪的渴望换来的几分钟，总有那么一种胜于一切和美不胜收的感受，它一经到来，便把整个心灵全占了去。
马吕斯挪动那根铁条，溜进园子。珂赛特却不在她平时等待他的地方。他穿过草丛，走到台阶旁边的凹角里。“她一定是在那里等着我。”他说。珂赛特也不在那里。他抬起眼睛，望见房子各处的板窗全是闭着的。他在园里寻了一圈，园子是空的。他又回到房子的前面，一心要找出他的爱侣，急得心惊肉跳，满腹疑惑，心里乱作一团，痛苦万分，象个回家回得不是时候的家长似的，在各处板窗上一顿乱捶。捶了一阵，又捶一阵，也顾不得是否会看见她父亲忽然推开窗子，伸出头来，狠巴巴地问他干什么。在他这时的心中，即使发生了这种事，这和他猜想的情形相比，也算不了一回事。他捶过以后，又提高嗓子喊珂赛特。“珂赛特！”他喊。“珂赛特！”他喊得更急迫。没有人应声。完了。园子里没有人，屋子里也没有人。
马吕斯大失所望，呆呆地盯着那所阴沉沉、和坟墓一般黑一般寂静因而更加空旷的房子。他望着石凳，在那上面，他和珂赛特曾一同度过多少美好的时刻啊！接着他坐在台阶的石级上，心里充满了温情和决心，他在思想深处为他的爱侣祝福，并对自己说：“珂赛特既然走了，他只有一死。”
忽然他听见一个声音穿过树木在街上喊道：
“马吕斯先生！”
他立了起来。
“嗳！”他说。
“马吕斯先生，是您吗？”
“是我。”
“马吕斯先生，”那声音又说，“您的那些朋友在麻厂街的街垒里等您。”
这人的声音对他并不是完全陌生的，象是爱潘妮嘶哑粗糙的声音。马吕斯跑向铁栏门，移开那根活动铁条，把头伸过去，看见一个人，好象是个小伙子，向着昏暗处跑去不见了。
Part 4 Book 9 Chapter 2 M. Mabeuf
Jean Valjean's purse was of no use to M. Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf, in his venerable, infantile austerity, had not accepted the gift of the stars; he had not admitted that a star could coin itself into louis d'or. He had not divined that what had fallen from heaven had come from Gavroche. He had taken the purse to the police commissioner of the quarter, as a lost article placed by the finder at the disposal of claimants. The purse was actually lost. It is unnecessary to say that no one claimed it, and that it did not succor M. Mabeuf.
Moreover, M. Mabeuf had continued his downward course.
His experiments on indigo had been no more successful in the Jardin des Plantes than in his garden at Austerlitz. The year before he had owed his housekeeper's wages; now, as we have seen, he owed three quarters of his rent. The pawnshop had sold the plates of his Flora after the expiration of thirteen months. Some coppersmith had made stewpans of them. His copper plates gone, and being unable to complete even the incomplete copies of his Flora which were in his possession, he had disposed of the text, at a miserable price, as waste paper, to a second-hand bookseller. Nothing now remained to him of his life's work. He set to work to eat up the money for these copies. When he saw that this wretched resource was becoming exhausted, he gave up his garden and allowed it to run to waste. Before this, a long time before, he had given up his two eggs and the morsel of beef which he ate from time to time. He dined on bread and potatoes. He had sold the last of his furniture, then all duplicates of his bedding,his clothing and his blankets, then his herbariums and prints; but he still retained his most precious books, many of which were of the greatest rarity, among others, Les Quadrins Historiques de la Bible, edition of 1560; La Concordance des Bibles, by Pierre de Besse; Les Marguerites de la Marguerite, of Jean de La Haye, with a dedication to the Queen of Navarre; the book de la Charge et Dignite de l'Ambassadeur, by the Sieur de Villiers Hotman; a Florilegium Rabbinicum of 1644; a Tibullus of 1567, with this magnificent inscription: Venetiis,in aedibus Manutianis; and lastly, a Diogenes Laertius, printed at Lyons in 1644, which contained the famous variant of the manuscript 411, thirteenth century, of the Vatican, and those of the two manuscripts of Venice, 393 and 394, consulted with such fruitful results by Henri Estienne, and all the passages in Doric dialect which are only found in the celebrated manuscript of the twelfth century belonging to the Naples Library. M. Mabeuf never had any fire in his chamber, and went to bed at sundown, in order not to consume any candles. It seemed as though he had no longer any neighbors: people avoided him when he went out; he perceived the fact. The wretchedness of a child interests a mother, the wretchedness of a young man interests a young girl,the wretchedness of an old man interests no one. It is, of all distresses, the coldest. Still, Father Mabeuf had not entirely lost his childlike serenity. His eyes acquired some vivacity when they rested on his books, and he smiled when he gazed at the Diogenes Laertius, which was a unique copy. His bookcase with glass doors was the only piece of furniture which he had kept beyond what was strictly indispensable.
One day, Mother Plutarque said to him:-- 
"I have no money to buy any dinner."
What she called dinner was a loaf of bread and four or five potatoes.
"On credit?" suggested M. Mabeuf.
"You know well that people refuse me."
M. Mabeuf opened his bookcase, took a long look at all his books, one after another, as a father obliged to decimate his children would gaze upon them before making a choice, then seized one hastily, put it in under his arm and went out. He returned two hours later, without anything under his arm, laid thirty sous on the table, and said:--
"You will get something for dinner."
From that moment forth, Mother Plutarque saw a sombre veil, which was never more lifted, descend over the old man's candid face. 
On the following day, on the day after, and on the day after that, it had to be done again.
M. Mabeuf went out with a book and returned with a coin. As the second-hand dealers perceived that he was forced to sell, they purchased of him for twenty sous that for which he had paid twenty francs, sometimes at those very shops. Volume by volume, the whole library went the same road. He said at times: "But I am eighty;" as though he cherished some secret hope that he should arrive at the end of his days before reaching the end of his books. His melancholy increased. Once, however, he had a pleasure. He had gone out with a Robert Estienne, which he had sold for thirty-five sous under the Quai Malaquais, and he returned with an Aldus which he had bought for forty sous in the Rue des Gres.--"I owe five sous," he said, beaming on Mother Plutarque. That day he had no dinner.
He belonged to the Horticultural Society. His destitution became known there. The president of the society came to see him, promised to speak to the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce about him, and did so.--"Why, what!" exclaimed the Minister, "I should think so! An old savant! A botanist! An inoffensive man! Something must be done for him!" On the following day, M. Mabeuf received an invitation to dine with the Minister. Trembling with joy, he showed the letter to Mother Plutarque. "We are saved!" said he. On the day appointed, he went to the Minister's house. He perceived that his ragged cravat, his long, square coat, and his waxed shoes astonished the ushers. No one spoke to him, not even the Minister. About ten o'clock in the evening, while he was still waiting for a word, he heard the Minister's wife, a beautiful woman in a low-necked gown whom he had not ventured to approach, inquire: "Who is that old gentleman?" He returned home on foot at midnight, in a driving rain-storm.He had sold an Elzevir to pay for a carriage in which to go thither.
He had acquired the habit of reading a few pages in his Diogenes Laertius every night, before he went to bed. He knew enough Greek to enjoy the peculiarities of the text which he owned. He had now no other enjoyment. Several weeks passed. All at once, Mother Plutarque fell ill. There is one thing sadder than having no money with which to buy bread at the baker's and that is having no money to purchase drugs at the apothecary's. One evening,the doctor had ordered a very expensive potion. And the malady was growing worse; a nurse was required. M. Mabeuf opened his bookcase; there was nothing there. The last volume had taken its departure. All that was left to him was Diogenes Laertius. He put this unique copy under his arm, and went out. It was the 4th of June, 1832; he went to the Porte Saint-Jacques, to Royal's successor, and returned with one hundred francs. He laid the pile of five-franc pieces on the old serving-woman's nightstand, and returned to his chamber without saying a word.
On the following morning, at dawn, he seated himself on the overturned post in his garden, and he could be seen over the top of the hedge, sitting the whole morning motionless, with drooping head, his eyes vaguely fixed on the withered flower-beds. It rained at intervals; the old man did not seem to perceive the fact.
In the afternoon, extraordinary noises broke out in Paris. They resembled shots and the clamors of a multitude. 
Father Mabeuf raised his head. He saw a gardener passing, and inquired:--
"What is it?"
The gardener, spade on back, replied in the most unconcerned tone:--
"It is the riots."
"What riots?"
"Yes, they are fighting."
"Why are they fighting?"
"Ah, good Heavens!" ejaculated the gardener.
"In what direction?" went on M. Mabeuf.
"In the neighborhood of the Arsenal."
Father Mabeuf went to his room, took his hat, mechanically sought for a book to place under his arm, found none, said: "Ah! Truly!" and went off with a bewildered air.
冉阿让的钱包对马白夫先生没起一点作用。可敬的马白夫先生，素来品行端正而饶有稚气，他绝不接受那份来自星星的礼物，他绝不同意星星能自己铸造金路易。他更不会想到从天上掉下来的东西来自伽弗洛什。他把钱包当作拾得的失物，交给了区上的警察哨所，让失主认领。这钱包便真成了件失物。不用说，谁也不曾去认领，它对马白夫先生也一点没有帮助。
在这期间，马白夫先生继续走着下坡路。
靛青的实验工作无论在植物园或在他那奥斯特里茨的园子里都没成功。上一年，他已付不出女管家的工资，现在，他又欠了几个季度的房租未付。那当铺，过了十三个月，便把他那套《植物图说》的铜版全卖了，几个铜匠拿去做了些平底锅。他原有若干册不成套的《植物图说》，现在铜版没有了，也就无法补印，便连那些插图和散页也当作残缺的废纸贱价卖给了一个旧书贩子。他毕生的著作到此已荡然无存。他专靠卖那几部存书度日。当他见到那一点微薄的财源也日渐枯竭时，他便任他的园子荒芜，不再照顾。从前，他也偶然吃上两个鸡蛋和一块牛肉，但是长期以来，连这也放弃了。他只吃一块面包和几个土豆。他把最后的几件木器也卖了，随后，凡属多余的铺盖、衣服、毛毯等物，以及植物标本和木刻图版，也全卖了；但是他还有些极珍贵的藏书，其中有些极为稀有的版本，如一五六○年出版的《历史上的圣经四行诗》，皮埃尔·德·贝斯写的《圣经编年史》，让·德·拉埃写的《漂亮的玛格丽特》，书中印有献给纳瓦尔王后的题词，贵人维里埃－荷特曼写的《使臣的职守和尊严》，一本一六四四年的《拉宾尼诗话》，一本一五六七年迪布尔的作品，上面印有这一卓越的题铭：“威尼斯，于曼奴香府”，还有一本一六四四年里昂印的第欧根尼·拉尔修①的作品，在这版本里，有十三世纪梵蒂冈第四一一号手抄本的著名异文以及威尼斯第三九三号和三九四号两种手抄本的著名异文，这些都是经亨利·埃斯蒂安②校阅并取得巨大成绩的，书中并有多利安方言的所有章节，这是只有那不勒斯图书馆十二世纪的驰名手抄本里才有的。马白夫先生的卧室里从来不生火，为了不点蜡烛，他不到天黑便上床睡觉。仿佛他已没有邻居，当他出门时，人家都及时避开，他也察觉到了。孩子的穷困能引起一个做母亲的妇女的同情，青年人的穷困能引起一个少女的同情，老年人的穷困得不到任何人的同情。这是一切穷困中最冷酷无情的穷困。可是马白夫公公没有全部丧失他那种富于孩子气的宁静。当他注视他那些书籍时，他的眼睛总是神采奕奕的，在端详那本第欧根尼·拉尔修的作品时，他总面带微笑。他的一个玻璃书柜是他保留下来的唯一不属于那些非有不可的家具之列的。 
①第欧根尼·拉尔修（Diogène，三世纪），古希腊哲学家，古代哲学家丛书的编纂者。
②亨利·埃斯蒂安（Henri　Estienne，1531?598），法国文字学家，以研究希腊古代文字和法国语言著称。
一天，普卢塔克妈妈对他说：
“我没有东西做晚餐了。”
她所说的晚餐，是一块面包和四五个土豆。
“赊欠呢？”马白夫先生说。
“您知道人家都不肯赊欠了。”
马白夫先生打开他的书柜，好象一个做父亲的，在被迫交出他的儿子去让人家砍头以前，不知选谁好，对着他的那些书，他望来望去，久久不决，继又狠心抓出一本，夹在胳膊下面，出去了。两个钟头过后回来时，胳膊下已没有东西，他把三十个苏放在桌上说：
“您拿去做点吃的吧。”
从这时起，普卢塔克妈妈看见一道阴暗的面纱落在那憨厚老人的脸上，不再撩起了。
第二天，第三天，每天，都得重演一次。马白夫先生带一本书出去，带一个银币回来。那些旧书贩子看见他非卖书不可了，只出二十个苏收买他当初花了二十法郎买来的书。有时，向他收购的书商也就是当日卖书给他的同一个人。一本接着一本，整套藏书就这样不见了。他有时对自己说：“不过我已年过八十了。”这好象是想说，在他的书卖完之前，他不知还会有什么希望。他的忧伤，不断加剧。不过有一次他却又特别高兴。他带着一本罗贝尔·埃斯蒂安①印的书去马拉盖河沿，卖了三十五个苏，却又在格雷街花四十个苏买了一本阿尔德②回家。“我还欠人家五个苏。”他兴致勃勃地告诉普卢塔克妈妈。 
①罗贝尔·埃斯蒂安（Robert　Estienne，1503?559），巴黎印书商，他出版的希伯来、希腊、拉丁文古籍，获得学术界广泛的信任。他是前面提到的亨利·埃斯蒂安的父亲。
②十六世纪威尼斯印书商阿尔德（Alde）印的书。　
这一天，他一点东西没有吃。
他是园艺学会的会员。学会中人知道他贫苦。会长去看他，向他表示要把他的情况告诉农商大臣，并且也这样做了。
“唉，怎么搞的！”大臣感慨地说，“当然啦！一位老科学家！一位植物学家！一个与人无争的老好人！应当替他想个办法！”第二天，马白夫先生收到一张请帖，邀他去大臣家吃饭。他高兴得发抖，把帖子拿给普卢塔克妈妈看。“我们得救了！”他说。到了约定日期，他去到大臣家里。他发现他那条破布筋似的领带，那身太肥大的老式方格礼服，用鸡蛋清擦过的皮鞋，叫看门人见了好不惊讶。没有一个人和他谈话，连大臣也不曾和他谈话。晚上快到十点了，他还在等一句话，忽然听到大臣夫人，一个袒胸露背，使他不敢接近的美人问道：“那位老先生是个什么人？”他走路回家，到家已是午夜，正下着大雨。他是卖掉一本埃尔泽维尔①去付马车费赴宴的。 
①埃尔泽维尔（Elzévir），十六、十七世纪荷兰的印书商，所印书籍以字体秀丽著称。
每晚上床以前，他总要拿出他的第欧根尼·拉尔修的作品来读上几页，这已成了他的习惯。他对希腊文有相当研究，因此能品味这本藏书的特点。现在他已没有其他的享受。这样又过了几个星期。忽然一天，普卢塔克妈妈病了。有比没有钱去面包铺买面包更恼人的事，那便是没有钱去药铺买药。有一天傍晚，医生开了一剂相当贵的药。并且病情也严重起来了，非有人看护不可。马白夫先生打开了他的书柜，里面全空了。最后一本书也不在了。剩下的只是那本第欧根尼·拉尔修的作品。
他把这孤本夹在胳膊下出去了，那正是一八三二年六月四日，他到圣雅克门找鲁瓦约尔书店的继承人，带了一百法郎回来了。他把那一摞五法郎的银币放在老妇人的床头柜上，没说一句话便回到他屋子里去了。
第二天，天刚明，他坐在园子里那块倒在地上的石碑上，从篱笆上人们可以看见他在那里整整坐了一个早晨，纹丝不动，两眼矇眬地望着那枯萎了的花畦。有时下着雨，老人似乎全不觉得。到了下午，巴黎各处都发出一些不寻常的声响。好象是枪声和人群的喧扰声。
马白夫公公抬起了头。他看见一个花匠走过，便问道：
“这是什么？”
花匠背着一把铁铲，以极平常的口吻回答说：
“暴动了。”
“怎么！暴动？”
“对。打起来了。”
“为什么要打？”
“啊！天知道！”花匠说。
“在哪一边？”马白夫又问。
“靠兵工厂那边。”
马白夫公公走进屋子，拿起帽子，机械地要找一本书夹在胳膊下面，找不到，便说道：“啊！对！”就恓恓惶惶地走出去了。
Part 4 Book 10 Chapter 1 The Surface of the Question
Of what is revolt composed? Of nothing and of everything. Of an electricity disengaged, little by little, of a flame suddenly darting forth, of a wandering force, of a passing breath. This breath encounters heads which speak, brains which dream, souls which suffer, passions which burn, wretchedness which howls, and bears them away.
Whither?
At random. Athwart the state, the laws, athwart prosperity and the insolence of others.
Irritated convictions, embittered enthusiasms, agitated indignations, instincts of war which have been repressed, youthful courage which has been exalted, generous blindness; curiosity, the taste for change, the thirst for the unexpected, the sentiment which causes one to take pleasure in reading the posters for the new play, and love, the prompter's whistle, at the theatre; the vague hatreds, rancors, disappointments, every vanity which thinks that destiny has bankrupted it; discomfort, empty dreams, ambitious that are hedged about, whoever hopes for a downfall, some outcome, in short, at the very bottom, the rabble, that mud which catches fire,-- such are the elements of revolt. That which is grandest and that which is basest; the beings who prowl outside of all bounds, awaiting an occasion, bohemians, vagrants, vagabonds of the cross-roads, those who sleep at night in a desert of hir bread from chance and not from toil, the unknown of poverty and nothingness, the bare-armed, the bare-ouses with no other roof than the cold clouds of heaven, those who, each day, demand thefooted, belong to revolt. Whoever cherishes in his soul a secret revolt against any deed whatever on the part of the state, of life or of fate, is ripe for riot, and, as soon as it makes its appearance, he begins to quiver, and to feel himself borne away with the whirlwind. 
Revolt is a sort of waterspout in the social atmosphere which forms suddenly in certain conditions of temperature, and which, as it eddies about, mounts, descends, thunders, tears, razes, crushes, demolishes, uproots, bearing with it great natures and small, the strong man and the feeble mind, the tree trunk and the stalk of straw. Woe to him whom it bears away as well as to him whom it strikes! It breaks the one against the other.
It communicates to those whom it seizes an indescribable and extraordinary power. It fills the first-comer with the force of events; it converts everything into projectiles. It makes a cannon-ball of a rough stone, and a general of a porter.
If we are to believe certain oracles of crafty political views, a little revolt is desirable from the point of view of power. System: revolt strengthens those governments which it does not overthrow. It puts the army to the test; it consecrates the bourgeoisie, it draws out the muscles of the police; it demonstrates the force of the social framework. It is an exercise in gymnastics; it is almost hygiene. Power is in better health after a revolt, as a man is after a good rubbing down.
Revolt, thirty years ago, was regarded from still other points of view.
There is for everything a theory, which proclaims itself "good sense"; Philintus against Alcestis; mediation offered between the false and the true; explanation, admonition, rather haughty extenuation which, because it is mingled with blame and excuse, thinks itself wisdom, and is often only pedantry. A whole political school called "the golden mean" has been the outcome of this. As between cold water and hot water, it is the lukewarm water party. This school with its false depth, all on the surface, which dissects effects without going back to first causes, chides from its height of a demi-science, the agitation of the public square.
If we listen to this school, "The riots which complicated the affair of 1830 deprived that great event of a portion of its purity. The Revolution of July had been a fine popular gale, abruptly followed by blue sky. They made the cloudy sky reappear. They caused that revolution, at first so remarkable for its unanimity, to degenerate into a quarrel. In the Revolution of July, as in all progress accomplished by fits and starts, there had been secret fractures; these riots rendered them perceptible. It might have been said: Ah! This is broken.' After the Revolution of July, one was sensible only of deliverance; after the riots, one was conscious of a catastrophe.
"All revolt closes the shops, depresses the funds, throws the Exchange into consternation, suspends commerce, clogs business, precipitates failures; no more money, private fortunes rendered uneasy, public credit shaken, industry disconcerted, capital withdrawing, work at a discount, fear everywhere; counter-shocks in every town. Hence gulfs. It has been calculated that the first day of a riot costs France twenty millions, the second day forty, the third sixty, a three days' uprising costs one hundred and twenty millions, that is to say, if only the financial result be taken into consideration, it is equivalent to a disaster, a shipwreck or a lost battle, which should annihilate a fleet of sixty ships of the line.
"No doubt, historically, uprisings have their beauty; the war of the pavements is no less grandiose, and no less pathetic, than the war of thickets: in the one there is the soul of forests, in the other the heart of cities; the one has Jean Chouan, the other has a Jeanne. Revolts have illuminated with a red glare all the most original points of the Parisian character, generosity, devotion, stormy gayety, students proving that bravery forms part of intelligence, the National Guard invincible, bivouacs of shopkeepers, fortresses of street urchins, contempt of death on the part of passers-by. Schools and legions clashed together. After all, between the combatants, there was only a difference of age; the race is the same; it is the same stoical men who died at the age of twenty for their ideas, at forty for their families. The army, always a sad thing in civil wars, opposed prudence to audacity. Uprisings, while proving popular intrepidity, also educated the courage of the bourgeois.
"This is well. But is all this worth the bloodshed? And to the bloodshed add the future darkness, progress compromised, uneasiness among the best men, honest liberals in despair, foreign absolutism happy in these wounds dealt to revolution by its own hand, the vanquished of 1830 triumphing and saying: We told you so!' Add Paris enlarged, possibly, but France most assuredly diminished. Add, for all must needs be told, the massacres which have too often dishonored the victory of order grown ferocious over liberty gone mad. To sum up all, uprisings have been disastrous."
Thus speaks that approximation to wisdom with which the bourgeoisie, that approximation to the people, so willingly contents itself. 
For our parts, we reject this word uprisings as too large, and consequently as too convenient. We make a distinction between one popular movement and another popular movement. We do not inquire whether an uprising costs as much as a battle. Why a battle, in the first place? Here the question of war comes up. Is war less of a scourge than an uprising is of a calamity? And then, are all uprisings calamities? And what if the revolt of July did cost a hundred and twenty millions? The establishment of Philip V. in Spain cost France two milliards. Even at the same price, we should prefer the 14th of July. However, we reject these figures, which appear to be reasons and which are only words. An uprising being given, we examine it by itself. In all that is said by the doctrinarian objection above presented, there is no question of anything but effect, we seek the cause.
We will be explicit.
暴动是什么东西构成的？一无所有，而又一切都有。一点一点放出的电，突然燃烧的火焰，飘游的力，流动的风。这风碰到有思想的头脑、虚幻的念头、痛苦的灵魂、炽烈的情感和呼号的苦难，并把这些一齐带走。
带到什么地方？
漫无目标。通过政府，通过法律，通过别人的豪华和横恣。
被激怒的信念，被挫伤的热忱，被煽动的怨愤，被压抑的斗志，狂热少年的勇敢，轻率慷慨的豪情，好奇心，见异思迁的习性，对新鲜事物的渴慕，使人爱看一场新剧的海报并喜欢在剧场里听布景人员吹哨子的那种心情；种种隐恨，宿怨，懊恼，一切怨天尤人自负不凡的意气；不自在，不着边际的梦想，困在重围绝境中的野心；希望在崩塌中寻得出路的人；还有，处于最底层的泥炭，那种能着火的污泥，这些都是暴动的成分。
最伟大的和最低微的，在一切之外闲游窥伺希图乘机一逞的人，流浪汉，游民，十字路口的群氓，夜间睡在人烟稀少的荒凉地段，以天上寒云为屋顶的人，从来不肯劳动专靠乞讨餬口的人，贫苦无告两手空空的光棍，赤膊，泥腿，都依附于暴动。
任何人，为地位、生活或命运等方面的任何一件事在灵魂中暗怀敌意，便已走到暴动的边缘，一旦发生暴动，他便会开始战栗，感到自己已被卷入漩涡。
暴动是社会大气中的一种龙卷风，在气温的某些条件下突然形成，并在它的旋转运动中奔腾轰劈，把高大个子和瘦小个子、坚强的人和软弱的人、树身和麦秆、一齐卷起，铲平，压碎，摧毁，连根拔起，裹走。
谁要是被它裹走，谁要是被它碰着，定遭不幸。它会把他们在相互的冲突中毁灭。
它把一种不知是什么样的非凡的威力输送给它所控制的人。它把时局造成的力量充实第一个碰到的人，它利用一切制造投射的利器。它使卵石变成炮弹，使脚夫成为将军。
某些阴险毒辣的政治权威认为，从政权的角度看，稍微来点暴动是可喜的。他们的理论是，推翻不了政府的暴动正可用以巩固政权。暴动考验军队，团结资产阶级，活动警察的肌肉，检查社会结构的力量。这是一种体操，几乎是一种清洁运动。
政权经过暴动会更健壮，正如人体经过按摩会更舒畅。
暴动在三十年前还有过另外一种看法。
对每件事都有一种自命为“正确思想”的理论，反对阿尔赛斯特的非兰德①，居于真理和谬论之间的折中主义，解释、劝告、既有谴责又有原谅的杂拌儿，自以为高人一等、代表哲理的中庸之道往往只是迂腐之见。一整套政治学说，所谓中庸之道便是从这里产生出来的。处于冷水和热水之间的是温水派。这个学派，貌似精深，实是浅薄，它只细查效果，不问起因，从一种半科学的高度它责骂公共广场上的骚动。 
①莫里哀戏剧《愤世者》里两个人物，阿尔赛斯特坚持是非观念，非兰德调和是非。　
这个学派说：“那几次暴动搅浑了一八三○年的成就，因而这一伟大事业的部分纯洁性消失了。七月革命是人民的一阵好风，好风过后，立即出现了晴朗的天。可是暴动又使天空阴云密布，使那次为人们一致欢庆的革命在争吵中大为减色。七月革命，和其他连连突击而得来的进步一样，造成不少潜在的骨折，暴动触痛了这些暗伤。人们可以说：‘啊！这里是断了的。’七月革命过后，人们只感到得了救，暴动过后，人们只觉得遭了殃。
“每次暴动，都使店铺关门，证券跌价，金融萎缩，市面萧条，事业停顿，破产纷至沓来，现金短缺，私人财产失去保障，公众的信用动摇，企业紊乱，资金回笼，劳力贬值，处处人心浮动，波及一切城市。因而险象环生。人们计算过，暴动的第一天使法国损耗了两千万，第二天四千万，第三天六千万。三天暴动就花了一亿二千万，这就是说，仅从财政的角度着眼，那等于遭受一场水旱灾害，或是打了一次败仗，一个有六十艘战舰的舰队被歼灭。
“当然，在历史上，暴动有它的美，用铺路石作武器的战争和以树枝木梃为武器的战争，两相比较，前者的宏伟悲壮并不亚于后者；一方面有森林的灵魂，另一方面有城市的肝胆；一方面有让·朱安，另一方面有贞德。暴动把巴黎性格中最有特色的部分照得鲜红而又壮丽：慷慨，忠诚，乐观，豪放，智勇兼备的大学生，绝不动摇的国民自卫军，店员的野营，流浪儿的堡垒，来往行人对死亡的蔑视。学校和兵团对峙。总之，战士与战士之间只有年龄的差别，种族相同，同是一些百折不回的人，有的二十岁为理想而死，有的四十岁为家庭而亡。军队在内战中心情总是沉重的，它以审慎回击果敢。暴动表现了人民的无畏精神，同时也锻炼了资产阶级的勇气。
“这很好。但是为了这一切，就值得流血吗？并且除了流血以外，你还得想想那暗淡下去的前途，被搅乱了的进步，最善良的人的不安，失望中的诚实自由派，因见到革命自己伤害自己而感到幸运的外国专制主义，一八三○年被击溃的人现在又趾高气扬起来了，他们还这样说：‘我们早说过了的！’再加上：‘巴黎壮大了，也许，但是法国肯定缩小了。’还得再加上：‘大规模的屠杀（我们应把话说透）固然是胜利地镇压了疯狂的自由，维持了治安，但是这种血腥的治安并不光荣。’总之，暴动是件祸国殃民的事。”
那伙近似高明的人棗资产阶级棗这样谈着，那伙近似的人，就很自然地感到满足了。
至于我们，我们摒弃那过于含糊，因而也过于方便的“暴动”一词。我们要区别对待一个民众运动和另一个民众运动。我们不过问一次暴动是否和一次战争花费同样多的钱。首先，为什么会有战争？这里，提出了一个战争问题。难道战争的祸害不大于暴动的灾难吗？其次，一切暴动全是灾难吗？假使七月十四日得花一亿二千万，那又怎样呢？把菲力浦五世安置在西班牙①，法国就花了二十亿。即使得花同样的代价，我们也宁愿花在七月十四日。并且，我们不爱用这些数字，数字好象很能说明问题，其实这只是些空话。既然要谈一次暴动，我们得就它本身加以剖析。在上面提到的那种教条主义的反对言论里，谈到的只是效果，而我们要找的是起因。
让我们来谈个清楚。 
①菲力浦五世是法国国王路易十四的孙子。十八世纪初，西班牙国王去世，路易十四乘机把菲力浦五世送去当西班牙国王，因而与英、奥、荷兰联军作战多年。 
Part 4 Book 10 Chapter 2 The Root of the Matter
There is such a thing as an uprising, and there is such a thing as insurrection; these are two separate phases of wrath; one is in the wrong, the other is in the right. In democratic states, the only ones which are founded on justice, it sometimes happens that the fraction usurps; then the whole rises and the necessary claim of its rights may proceed as far as resort to arms. In all questions which result from collective sovereignty, the war of the whole against the fraction is insurrection; the attack of the fraction against the whole is revolt; according as the Tuileries contain a king or the Convention, they are justly or unjustly attacked. The same cannon, pointed against the populace, is wrong on the 10th of August, and right on the 14th of Vendemiaire. Alike in appearance, fundamentally different in reality; the Swiss defend the false, Bonaparte defends the true. That which universal suffrage has effected in its liberty and in its sovereignty cannot be undone by the street. It is the same in things pertaining purely to civilization; the instinct of the masses, clear-sighted to-day, may be troubled to-morrow. The same fury legitimate when directed against Terray and absurd when directed against Turgot. The destruction of machines, the pillage of warehouses, the breaking of rails, the demolition of docks, the false routes of multitudes, the refusal by the people of justice to progress, Ramus assassinated by students, Rousseau driven out of Switzerland and stoned,--that is revolt. Israel against Moses, Athens against Phocian, Rome against Cicero,--that is an uprising; Paris against the Bastille,--that is insurrection. The soldiers against Alexander, the sailors against Christopher Columbus,-- this is the same revolt; impious revolt; why? Because Alexander is doing for Asia with the sword that which Christopher Columbus is doing for America with the compass; Alexander like Columbus, is finding a world. These gifts of a world to civilization are such augmentations of light, that all resistance in that case is culpable. Sometimes the populace counterfeits fidelity to itself. The masses are traitors to the people. Is there, for example, anything stranger than that long and bloody protest of dealers in contraband salt, a legitimate chronic revolt, which, at the decisive moment, on the day of salvation, at the very hour of popular victory, espouses the throne, turns into chouannerie, and, from having been an insurrection against, becomes an uprising for, sombre masterpieces of ignorance! The contraband salt dealer escapes the royal gibbets, and with a rope's end round his neck, mounts the white cockade. "Death to the salt duties," brings forth, "Long live the King!" The assassins of Saint-Barthelemy, the cut-throats of September, the manslaughterers of Avignon, the assassins of Coligny, the assassins of Madam Lamballe, the assassins of Brune, Miquelets, Verdets, Cadenettes, the companions of Jehu, the chevaliers of Brassard,-- behold an uprising. La Vendee is a grand, catholic uprising. The sound of right in movement is recognizable, it does not always proceed from the trembling of excited masses; there are mad rages, there are cracked bells, all tocsins do not give out the sound of bronze. The brawl of passions and ignorances is quite another thing from the shock of progress. Show me in what direction you are going. Rise, if you will, but let it be that you may grow great. There is no insurrection except in a forward direction. Any other sort of rising is bad; every violent step towards the rear is a revolt; to retreat is to commit a deed of violence against the human race. Insurrection is a fit of rage on the part of truth; the pavements which the uprising disturbs give forth the spark of right. These pavements bequeath to the uprising only their mud. Danton against Louis XIV. is insurrection; Hebert against Danton is revolt.
Hence it results that if insurrection in given cases may be, as Lafayette says, the most holy of duties, an uprising may be the most fatal of crimes.
There is also a difference in the intensity of heat; insurrection is often a volcano, revolt is often only a fire of straw. 
Revolt, as we have said, is sometimes found among those in power. Polignac is a rioter; Camille Desmoulins is one of the governing powers.
Insurrection is sometimes resurrection.
The solution of everything by universal suffrage being an absolutely modern fact, and all history anterior to this fact being, for the space of four thousand years, filled with violated right, and the suffering of peoples, each epoch of history brings with it that protest of which it is capable. Under the Caesars, there was no insurrection, but there was Juvenal.
The facit indignatio replaces the Gracchi.
Under the Caesars, there is the exile to Syene; there is also the man of the Annales. We do not speak of the immense exile of Patmos who, on his part also, overwhelms the real world with a protest in the name of the ideal world, who makes of his vision an enormous satire and casts on Rome-Nineveh, on Rome-Babylon, on Rome-Sodom, the flaming reflection of the Apocalypse. John on his rock is the sphinx on its pedestal; we may understand him, he is a Jew, and it is Hebrew; but the man who writes the Annales is of the Latin race, let us rather say he is a Roman.
As the Neros reign in a black way, they should be painted to match. The work of the graving-tool alone would be too pale; there must be poured into the channel a concentrated prose which bites. 
Despots count for something in the question of philosophers. A word that is chained is a terrible word. The writer doubles and trebles his style when silence is imposed on a nation by its master. From this silence there arises a certain mysterious plenitude which filters into thought and there congeals into bronze. The compression of history produces conciseness in the historian. The granite solidity of such and such a celebrated prose is nothing but the accumulation effected by the tyrant.
Tyranny constrains the writer to conditions of diameter which are augmentations of force. The Ciceronian period, which hardly sufficed for Verres, would be blunted on Caligula. The less spread of sail in the phrase, the more intensity in the blow. Tacitus thinks with all his might.
The honesty of a great heart, condensed in justice and truth, overwhelms as with lightning. 
Be it remarked, in passing, that Tacitus is not historically superposed upon Caesar. The Tiberii were reserved for him. Caesar and Tacitus are two successive phenomena, a meeting between whom seems to be mysteriously avoided, by the One who, when He sets the centuries on the stage, regulates the entrances and the exits. Caesar is great, Tacitus is great; God spares these two greatnesses by not allowing them to clash with one another. The guardian of justice, in striking Caesar, might strike too hard and be unjust. God does not will it. The great wars of Africa and Spain, the pirates of Sicily destroyed, civilization introduced into Gaul, into Britanny, into Germany,--all this glory covers the Rubicon. There is here a sort of delicacy of the divine justice, hesitating to let loose upon the illustrious usurper the formidable historian, sparing Caesar Tacitus, and according extenuating circumstances to genius.
Certainly, despotism remains despotism, even under the despot of genius. There is corruption under all illustrious tyrants, but the moral pest is still more hideous under infamous tyrants. In such reigns, nothing veils the shame; and those who make examples, Tacitus as well as Juvenal, slap this ignominy which cannot reply, in the face, more usefully in the presence of all humanity. 
Rome smells worse under Vitellius than under Sylla. Under Claudius and under Domitian, there is a deformity of baseness corresponding to the repulsiveness of the tyrant. The villainy of slaves is a direct product of the despot; a miasma exhales from these cowering consciences wherein the master is reflected; public powers are unclean; hearts are small; consciences are dull, souls are like vermin; thus it is under Caracalla, thus it is under Commodus, thus it is under Heliogabalus, while, from the Roman Senate, under Caesar,there comes nothing but the odor of the dung which is peculiar to the eyries of the eagles.
Hence the advent, apparently tardy, of the Tacituses and the Juvenals; it is in the hour for evidence, that the demonstrator makes his appearance.
But Juvenal and Tacitus, like Isaiah in Biblical times, like Dante in the Middle Ages, is man; riot and insurrection are the multitude, which is sometimes right and sometimes wrong. 
In the majority of cases, riot proceeds from a material fact; insurrection is always a moral phenomenon. Riot is Masaniello; insurrection, Spartacus.Insurrection borders on mind, riot on the stomach; Gaster grows irritated; but Gaster, assuredly, is not always in the wrong. In questions of famine, riot, Buzancais, for example, holds a true, pathetic, and just point of departure. Nevertheless, it remains a riot. Why? It is because, right at bottom, it was wrong in form. Shy although in the right, violent although strong, it struck at random; it walked like a blind elephant; it left behind it the corpses of old men, of women, and of children; it wished the blood of inoffensive and innocent persons without knowing why. The nourishment of the people is a good object; to massacre them is a bad means. 
All armed protests, even the most legitimate, even that of the 10th of August, even that of July 14th, begin with the same troubles. Before the right gets set free, there is foam and tumult. In the beginning, the insurrection is a riot, just as a river is a torrent. Ordinarily it ends in that ocean: revolution. Sometimes, however, coming from those lofty mountains which dominate the moral horizon, justice, wisdom, reason, right, formed of the pure snow of the ideal, after a long fall from rock to rock, after having reflected the sky in its transparency and increased by a hundred affluents in the majestic mien of triumph, insurrection is suddenly lost in some quagmire, as the Rhine is in a swamp.
All this is of the past, the future is another thing. Universal suffrage has this admirable property, that it dissolves riot in its inception, and, by giving the vote to insurrection, it deprives it of its arms. The disappearance of wars, of street wars as well as of wars on the frontiers, such is the inevitable progression. Whatever To-day may be, To-morrow will be peace. 
However, insurrection, riot, and points of difference between the former and the latter,--the bourgeois, properly speaking, knows nothing of such shades. In his mind, all is sedition, rebellion pure and simple, the revolt of the dog against his master, an attempt to bite whom must be punished by the chain and the kennel, barking, snapping, until such day as the head of the dog, suddenly enlarged, is outlined vaguely in the gloom face to face with the lion.
Then the bourgeois shouts: "Long live the people!"
This explanation given, what does the movement of June, 1832, signify, so far as history is concerned? Is it a revolt? Is it an insurrection? 
It may happen to us, in placing this formidable event on the stage, to say revolt now and then, but merely to distinguish superficial facts, and always preserving the distinction between revolt, the form, and insurrection, the foundation.
This movement of 1832 had, in its rapid outbreak and in its melancholy extinction, so much grandeur, that even those who see in it only an uprising, never refer to it otherwise than with respect. For them, it is like a relic of 1830. Excited imaginations, say they, are not to be calmed in a day. A revolution cannot be cut off short. It must needs undergo some undulations before it returns to a state of rest, like a mountain sinking into the plain. There are no Alps without their Jura, nor Pyrenees without the Asturias.
This pathetic crisis of contemporary history which the memory of Parisians calls "the epoch of the riots," is certainly a characteristic hour amid the stormy hours of this century. A last word, before we enter on the recital. 
The facts which we are about to relate belong to that d ramatic
and living reality, which the historian sometimes neglects for lack of time and space. There, nevertheless, we insist upon it, is life, palpitation, human tremor. Petty details, as we think we have already said, are, so to speak, the foliage of great events, and are lost in the distance of history. The epoch, surnamed "of the riots," abounds in details of this nature. Judicial inquiries have not revealed, and perhaps have not soundedthe depths, for another reason than history. We shall therefore bring to light, among the known and published peculiarities,things which have not heretofore been known, about facts over which have passed the forgetfulness of some, and the death of others. The majority of the actors in these gigantic scenes have disappeared; beginning with the very next day they held their peace; but of what we shall relate, we shall be able to say: "We have seen this." We alter a few names, for history relates and does not inform against, but the deed which we shall paint will be genuine. In accordance with the conditions of the book which we are now writing, we shall show only one side and one episode, and certainly, the least known at that, of the two days, the 5th and the 6th of June, 1832, but we shall do it in such wise that the reader may catch a glimpse, beneath the gloomy veil which we are about to lift, of the real form of this frightful public adventure.
有暴动也有起义，这是两种不同性质的愤怒，一种是错误，而另一种是权利。在唯一公平合理的民主政体中，一小部分人有时会篡取政权，于是全体人民站起来，为了恢复自身的权利，可以走上武装反抗的道路。在所有一切涉及集体的主权问题上，全体反对部分的战争是起义，部分反对全体的进攻是暴动；要看杜伊勒里宫接纳的是什么人，如果它接纳的是国王，对它进攻便是正义的，如果它接纳的是国民公会，对它进攻便是非正义的。同一架瞄准民众的大炮，在八月十日是错的，在葡月十四日②却是对的。外表相似，本质不同，瑞士雇佣军保护的是错误的，波拿巴保护的是正确的。 
①这里葡月十四日应为葡月十三日（公元一七九五年十月五日）。这天，保王党人在巴黎暴动，向国民公会所在地杜伊勒里宫武装进攻。拿破仑指挥军队击溃了保王党人。
普选在自由和自主的情况下所作的一切，不能由街道来改变。在纯属文明的事物中也是这样，群众的本能，昨天清晰，明天又可能糊涂。同一种狂怒，用以反对泰雷①是合法的，用以反对杜尔哥却是谬误的。破坏机器，抢劫仓库，掘起铁轨，拆毁船坞，聚众横行，不按照法律规定对待进步人士，学生杀害拉米斯②，用石头把卢梭赶出瑞士③，这些都是暴动。以色列反对摩西，雅典反对伏西翁，罗马反对西庇阿④，是暴动，巴黎反对巴士底，是起义。士兵反对亚历山大，海员反对哥伦布，是同样的反抗，狂妄的反抗。 
①泰雷（Terray），法王路易十五的财政总监，操纵全国粮食买卖，增加盐税，为人贪狠。
②拉米斯（Ramus），十六世纪法国学者，唯理论的倡导者，参加宗教改革运动，在巴托罗缪节大屠杀中被天主教徒杀害。
③一七六五年，卢梭在瑞士居住时，曾有一群反动青年，在教士的唆使下向他的住宅投掷石块。
④西庇阿（Scipion．又译齐比奥），罗马统帅，执政官，后为西班牙总督。　
为什么？因为亚历山大用剑为亚洲所做的事，也就是哥伦布用指南针为美洲所做的事，亚历山大和哥伦布一样，发现了一个大陆。向文明赠送一个大陆，这是光明的极大增长，因而对此的任何抗拒都是有罪的。有时人民对自己也变得不忠诚。群众成为人民的叛徒。比如私盐商贩的长期流血斗争，这一合法的慢性反抗，一旦到了关键时刻，到了安全的日子，人民胜利的日子，却忽然归附王朝，一变而为朱安暴乱，使反抗王室的起义，转为拥护王室的暴动！无知的悲惨杰作！私盐商贩们逃脱了王室的绞刑架，颈子上的绞索还没有解下来，便又戴上白帽微。“打倒食盐专卖政①策”，忽又变成“国王万岁”。真是咄咄怪事！圣巴托罗缪节的杀人者、九月的扼杀者②、杀害科里尼的凶手、杀害德·朗巴尔夫人③的凶手、杀害布律纳的凶手、米克雷④、绿徽党⑤、辫子兵⑥、热胡帮⑦、铁臂骑士⑧，这些都是暴动。旺代是天主教的一次大暴动。人权发动的声音是可以辨别的，它不一定出自群众奔突冲撞的杂沓声，有失去理智的暴怒，有坼裂的铜钟，号召武装反抗的钟不一定全发出青铜声。狂热和无知的骚乱不同于前进中的动荡。站起来，可以，但只应当是为了向上。请把你选择的方向指给我看。起义只能是向前的。其他一切的“起来”都不好。一切向后的强烈步伐都是暴动，倒退对人类是一种暴行。起义是真理的怒火的突发。为起义而掘起的铺路石迸发着人权的火花。这些石块留给暴动的只是它们的泥渣。丹东反对路易十六是起义，阿贝尔反对丹东是暴动。 
①圣巴托罗缪节的杀人者，一五七二年八月二十四日夜，亨利二世之妻，太后卡特琳，利用纳瓦尔的亨利与国王姐姐的婚礼，在首都集会之际，突然对胡格诺派教徒进行大屠杀，海军上将科里尼（胡格诺派）等均遭害。
②九月的扼杀者，即本书第三部856页所指的“九月暴徒”。
③德·朗巴尔夫人（deLamballe，1749?792），路易十六王后安东尼特的密友，一七九二年九月被处死。
④米克雷（Miqeulets），原为受招安的西班牙匪帮，参加西班牙军队。拿破仑在一八○八年创建法国的米克雷军团，用以镇压西班牙。
⑤绿徽党（Verdets），在王朝复辟的恐怖时期，保王分子佩带绿色帽徽。
⑥辫子兵（cadenettes），原系掷弹兵及轻骑兵之发式，两颊旁垂小辫，后成为一七九四年热月政变后年轻保王派的发式。
⑦热胡帮（compagnonsdejéhu），热月政变时法国南方的热月派。
⑧铁臂骑士，这里是雨果对昂古莱姆公爵的党徒讽刺性的称呼，因他们在左臂佩带绿色袖章。
因此，正如拉斐德所说，在某种情况下，如果起义能是最神圣的义务，暴动也可以是无可挽回的罪行。
在热能的强度方面也有所区别，起义是火山，暴动是草火。
我们说过，反抗有时发生在政权的内部。波林尼雅克搞的是暴动，卡米尔·德穆兰治理国家。
有时，起义就是起死回生。
用普选来解决一切问题还是个崭新的方法，以前的四千年历史充满了人权被蹂躏和人民遭灾难的事实，每个历史时期都带来了适用于当时的抗议形式。在恺撒的统治时期，不曾有过起义，但有尤维纳利斯。
愤怒代替了格拉古兄弟的悲剧。
在恺撒时代有流放赛伊尼①的犯人，也有历史年表里的人物。
我们在这里不谈论巴特莫斯②的巨大放逐，这件事也引起理想世界对现实世界的强烈抗议，使成为大规模的讽刺，使尼尼微的罗马、巴比伦的罗马和所多玛的罗马作出《启示录》的光辉启示。
约翰③站在山石上就象斯芬克司蹲在底座上，人们可能不理解他，他是犹太人，写的是希伯来语④，但写《编年史》的是拉丁人，说得更恰当一些，他是罗马人。 
①赛伊尼（Syène），埃及地名，即今阿斯旺地区。
②巴特莫斯（Patmos），爱琴海斯波拉泽斯群岛之一。
③约翰（Jean），耶稣十二门徒中四大门徒之一，晚年被流放。
④希伯来语，指难懂的文字。
那些尼禄们的黑暗统治，应同样被描绘出来，仅以刻刀雕琢是平淡无味的，应使刻痕具有简练而辛辣的文风。
暴君有助于思想家的观察，接二连三的言论是猛烈的言论。当某一主宰剥夺群众的言论自由时，作者就要再三加强他的语气。沉默会产生神秘的威力，使思想经过筛滤如青铜般坚硬，历史上的压制造成了历史家的精确性。某些文章象花岗石一样坚固，实际上是暴君的压力形成的。
暴君制度迫使作者把叙述的范围缩小了，也就增添了力最，在罗马的西塞罗时代，对韦雷斯①的评论多少有些力量，可是对卡利古拉就逊色了。词句简练而加强了打击力，塔西佗的思想是强有力的。 
①韦雷斯（Verrès），古罗马地方总督，在西西里岛贪污，为当时政治家西塞罗所批判。
一个伟人的正义感是由公正和真理凝合而成的，遇事给予雷霆般的打击。
顺便谈一谈，应当注意到塔西佗不是在历史上压倒了恺撒。罗马王族是保留给他的。恺撒和塔西佗是相继出现的两个非凡人物。他们的相遇是神秘地不予安排，在世纪的舞台上规定了他们的入场和出场。恺撒是伟大的，塔西佗是伟大的，上帝免去了这两个伟人相遇。裁判官在打击恺撒时可能过火了，因而成为不公正。上帝并不愿意如此。非洲和西班牙的战争，西西里岛上的海盗被消灭，把文化引进到高卢、布列塔尼以及日耳曼地区，这些光荣遮蔽了鲁比肯①事变。这正是神圣正义的微妙表示，不批判著名篡位者的令人生畏的历史学家在犹豫不决，于是使恺撒得到塔西佗的宽恕，这样就给予英才一些可减轻罪行的情况。
当然，专制政治总是专制政治，就是在有才能的专制君主统治之下，在有名的暴君之下，也有腐化和堕落，但是在一些丧失廉耻的暴君的统治之下道义方面的灾害是更丑恶的。在这些朝代里耻辱是不加遮盖的，塔西佗和尤维纳利斯这些表率人物，在人类面前有益地批颊痛斥这些无可辩解的耻辱。
罗马在维特利乌斯②统治时期比西拉时代更坏。在克劳狄乌斯和多米齐安时代，其卑劣畸形是符合暴君的丑恶面貌的。奴隶们的卑鄙是由专制君主直接造成的，在这些沉沦的内心中散发出来的浊气反映了他们的主人。社会的权力是污浊的，人心狭窄，天良平凡，精神如臭虫。卡拉卡拉③时代是这样，康莫德④时代是这样，海利奥加巴尔⑤时代也是这样。可是在恺撒时代，在罗马元老院内只散发出一些鹰巢内本身的臭味。 
①鲁比肯（Rubicon），意大利和高卢边界的一条小河，为了避免冲突，双方相约不准越过此河，但恺撒没有遵守。
②维特利乌斯（Aulus　Vitellius，15?9），罗马国家活动家，六十年代为日耳曼行省总督，六九年一月被推为皇帝，在同年年底绵延不断的内战中战败被杀。
③卡拉卡拉（Caracalla，188?17），罗马皇帝（211?17），以夺权开始，以被刺结束，在位时扩大罗马民法。
④康莫德（Commode，161?92），罗马皇帝，马可·奥里略之子，以残酷著名，后被毒死。
⑤海利奥加巴尔或埃拉加巴尔（Héliogabale，204?22），罗马皇帝（218?22），他的名字成为挥霍、独裁和淫乱的代名词。　
从这时起出现了塔西佗和尤维纳利斯等人，看来似乎迟了一点，这时期明显地产生了示威运动者。
如尤维纳利斯和塔西佗，同样如《圣经》时代的以赛亚以及中古时代的但丁，都是个人，可是暴动和起义是群众，有时是错误的，有时是正义的。
一般的情况，暴动由物质现实所引起，而起义总是一种精神的现象，暴动就如马赞尼洛①，而起义是斯巴达克。起义是局限在思想领域里，而暴动属于饥饿方面。加斯特②冒火了，加斯特未必总是缺理的。在饥荒问题上，暴动，例如比尚赛③事件，出发点是正确的，悲壮和正确，为什么还只是暴动呢？因为它实质上虽然有理，但在形式上是错误的。虽有权力，但行动横蛮，虽然强大，但残暴不堪，乱打一阵，象一只瞎了眼的象，在前进中摧残一切，在后面留下一批老幼妇女的尸体，他们不知不觉牺牲了那些天真无辜者的鲜血。哺养人民是一个好愿望，而残杀他们是一个坏方法。 
①马赞尼洛（Masaniello，1620?647），托马佐·安尼洛（Tomaso　Aniello）的绰号，渔民，一六四七年那不勒斯反对西班牙统治的人民起义领袖。
②加斯特（Gaster），法国古小说中人物，此词的意义是肚子或胃。
③比尚赛（Buzānsais）事件是指法国国王路易十五的一个情妇，挑动国王去领导军队。　
一切武装起义，包括合法的，如八月十日和七月十四日，在开始时都有同样的混乱。在法定权力被解放以前总有些骚动和糟粕，起义的前奏是暴动，同样一条河流是由急流开始的，通常起义是归纳到革命的海洋中。有时起义从高山出发，那里是正义、明智、公理，民权的天地，理想纯洁如白雪，经过岩石到岩石的长距离倾泻，并在它明镜似的流水中反映了蔚蓝的天空之后，就成为壮大的百条巨川，具有胜利的雄壮气概，突然，起义事业迷失在资产阶级的洼地中，象莱茵河那样流入了沼泽。
这些都是往事，未来则又不同。普选有这样可钦佩之处，它原则上消除暴动，当你给起义者以选举权，你就解除了他们的武装。战争就此消灭了，不论是街垒战或是国境战。这就是必然的进步。不问今天的情况如何，和平是明天的事。
总之，起义不同于暴动，可是真正的资产阶级，不能理解这种细微的差别。在他们看来，这一切都是民变，纯粹是叛乱，是看门狗的反抗，想咬主人；想咬人就得用铁链锁起来关在笼子里，狗用大声或小声狂吠着，直到狗头的形象突然变大的一天，暗中隐约出现了一只狮子的脸。
于是资产阶级就喊起来：“人民万岁！”
经过这样的解释，根据历史的观点，一八三二年六月的运动是什么？是暴动？还是起义？
这是一场起义。
从这场可怕事变的舞台布置，我们可能把它说成暴动，但这仅是表面现象，同时我们要具有区分暴动的形式和起义的实质的能力。
这次一八三二年的事变，在它爆发的速度和它悲惨的熄灭中都表现出无限伟大，就是那些只认为它是暴动的人也不能不以尊重的态度来谈论它。在他们看来这仅是一八三○年事件的余波。他们说，被激动的思想不会在一日之内平静下去。一切革命不能一刀把它垂直地切断。在回到平静时期之前必须经过一段波折，好象高山慢慢达到平原一样，好比没有汝拉山区就没有阿尔卑斯山脉，没有阿斯图里亚斯，就没有比利牛斯山脉。
在近代史中，这次感动人心的危局，在巴黎人的记忆中称之谓“暴动时期”，这肯定是本世纪风暴中最突出的一个时期。
在言归正传之前再来谈件事。
下面我要谈的是件活生生的戏剧性的事，历史家由于缺少时间和机会而把它忽略了，可是，我们要特别指出，在这件事里有生活，使人忐忑不安和发颤，我们好象以前曾讲过，有些细节，好象巨大事变中的一些小枝叶，已在遥远的历史里消失了。在所谓的暴动时期有许多这类琐事。有些司法部门的调查，由于其他原因而不是为了历史，没有把一切都揭发出来，也可能没有深入了解。在已经公布的众所周知的一些特殊情况里，还有些事，或是因为遗忘，或因当事人已死，没有流传下来，我们因而来揭露一些。这些宏伟场景中的大多数演员已经不在了，相隔一日，他们已经沉默。而我们在下面要讲的，可以说是我们亲眼见到的。我们更改了一些人名，因为历史是叙述而不是揭发，但是我们描写的是真实的情节。我们写这本书时的条件只能显示某一事件的某一方面，当然是一八三二年六月五、六两天中最没有被人注意到的情节。我们要做到使读者在我们揭起暗淡的帷幕后，能约略见到这次可怕的群众事变的真实面貌。
Part 4 Book 10 Chapter 3 A Burial; an Occasion to be born again
In the spring of 1832, although the cholera had been chilling all minds for the last three months and had cast over their agitation an indescribable and gloomy pacification, Paris had already long been ripe for commotion. As we have said, the great city resembles a piece of artillery; when it is loaded, it suffices for a spark to fall, and the shot is discharged.In June, 1832, the spark was the death of General Lamarque.
Lamarque was a man of renown and of action. He had had in succession, under the Empire and under the Restoration, the sorts of bravery requisite for the two epochs, the bravery of the battle-field and the bravery of the tribune. He was as eloquent as he had been valiant; a sword was discernible in his speech. Like Foy, his predecessor, after upholding the command, he upheld liberty; he sat between the left and the extreme left, beloved of the people because he accepted the chances of the future, beloved of the populace because he had served the Emperor well; he was, in company with Comtes Gerard and Drouet, one of Napoleon's marshals in petto. The treaties of 1815 removed him as a personal offence. He hated Wellington with a downright hatred which pleased the multitude; and, for seventeen years, he majestically preserved the sadness of Waterloo, paying hardly any attention to intervening events. In his death agony, at his last hour, he clasped to his breast a sword which had been presented to him by the officers of the Hundred Days. Napoleon had died uttering the word army, Lamarque uttering the word country.
His death, which was expected, was dreaded by the people as a loss, and by the government as an occasion. This death was an affliction. Like everything that is bitter, affliction may turn to revolt. This is what took place.
On the preceding evening, and on the morning of the 5th of June, the day appointed for Lamarque's burial, the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, which the procession was to touch at, assumed a formidable aspect. This tumultuous network of streets was filled with rumors. They armed themselves as best they might. Joiners carried off door-weights of their establishment "to break down doors." One of them had made himself a dagger of a stocking-weaver's hook by breaking off the hook and sharpening the stump. Another, who was in a fever "to attack," slept wholly dressed for three days. A carpenter named Lombier met a comrade, who asked him: "Whither are you going?" "Eh! well, I have no weapons." "What then?" "I'm going to my timber-yard to get my compasses." "What for?" "I don't know," said Lombier. A certain Jacqueline, an expeditious man, accosted some passing artisans: "Come here, you!" He treated them to ten sous' worth of wine and said: "Have you work?" "No." "Go to Filspierre, between the Barriere Charonne and the Barriere Montreuil, and you will find work." At Filspierre's they found cartridges and arms. Certain well-known leaders were going the rounds, that is to say,running from one house to another, to collect their men. At Barthelemy's, near the Barriere du Trone, at Capel's, near the Petit-Chapeau, the drinkers accosted each other with a grave air. They were heard to say: "Have you your pistol?" "Under my blouse." "And you?" "Under my shirt." In the Rue Traversiere, in front of the Bland workshop, and in the yard of the Maison-Brulee, in front of tool-maker Bernier's, groups whispered together. Among them was observed a certain Mavot, who never remained more than a week in one shop, as the masters always discharged him "because they were obliged to dispute with him every day." Mavot was killed on the following day at the barricade of the Rue Menilmontant. Pretot, who was destined to perish also in the struggle, seconded Mavot, and to the question: "What is your object?" he replied: "Insurrection." Workmen assembled at the corner of the Rue de Bercy, waited for a certain Lemarin, the revolutionary agent for the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Watchwords were exchanged almost publicly.
On the 5th of June, accordingly, a day of mingled rain and sun, General Lamarque's funeral procession traversed Paris with official military pomp, somewhat augmented through precaution. Two battalions,with draped drums and reversed arms, ten thousand National Guards, with their swords at their sides, escorted the coffin. The hearse was drawn by young men. The officers of the Invalides came immediately behind it, bearing laurel branches. Then came an innumerable, strange, agitated multitude, the sectionaries of the Friends of the People, the Law School, the Medical School, refugees of all nationalities, and Spanish, Italian, German, and Polish flags, tricolored horizontal banners, every possible sort of banner, children waving green boughs, stone-cutters and carpenters who were on strike at the moment, printers who were recognizable by their paper caps, marching two by two, three by three, uttering cries, nearly all of them brandishing sticks, some brandishing sabres, without order and yet with a single soul, now a tumultuous rout, again a column. Squads chose themselves leaders; a man armed with a pair of pistols in full view, seemed to pass the host in review, and the files separated before him. On the side alleys of the boulevards, in the branches of the trees, on balconies, in windows, on the roofs, swarmed the heads of men, women, and children; all eyes were filled with anxiety. An armed throng was passing, and a terrified throng looked on.
The Government, on its side, was taking observations. It observed with its hand on its sword. Four squadrons of carabineers could be seen in the Place Louis XV. In their saddles, with their trumpets at their head, cartridge-boxes filled and muskets loaded, all in readiness to march; in the Latin country and at the Jardin des Plantes, the Municipal Guard echelonned from street to street; at the Halle-aux-Vins, a squadron of dragoons; at the Greve half of the 12th Light Infantry, the other half being at the Bastille;the 6th Dragoons at the Celestins; and the courtyard of the Louvre full of artillery. The remainder of the troops were confined to their barracks, without reckoning the regiments of the environs of Paris. Power being uneasy, held suspended over the menacing multitude twenty-four thousand soldiers in the city and thirty thousand in the banlieue.
Divers reports were in circulation in the cortege. Legitimist tricks were hinted at; they spoke of the Duc de Reichstadt, whom God had marked out for death at that very moment when the populace were designating him for the Empire. One personage, whose name has remained unknown, announced that at a given hour two overseers who had been won over, would throw open the doors of a factory of arms to the people. That which predominated on the uncovered brows of the majority of those present was enthusiasm mingled with dejection. Here and there, also, in that multitude given over to such violent but noble emotions, there were visible genuine visages of criminals and ignoble mouths which said: "Let us plunder!" There are certain agitations which stir up the bottoms of marshes and make clouds of mud rise through the water. A phenomenon to which "well drilled" policemen are no strangers.
The procession proceeded, with feverish slowness, from the house of the deceased, by way of the boulevards as far as the Bastille. It rained from time to time; the rain mattered nothing to that throng. Many incidents, the coffin borne round the Vendome column, stones thrown at the Duc de Fitz-James, who was seen on a balcony with his hat on his head, the Gallic cock torn from a popular flag and dragged in the mire, a policeman wounded with a blow from a sword at the Porte Saint-Martin, an officer of the 12th Light Infantry saying aloud:"I am a Republican," the Polytechnic School coming up unexpectedly against orders to remain at home, the shouts of: "Long live the Polytechnique! Long live the Republic!" marked the passage of the funeral train. At the Bastille, long files of curious and formidable people who descended from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, effected a junction with the procession, and a certain terrible seething began to agitate the throng. One man was heard to say to another: "Do you see that fellow with a red beard, he's the one who will give the word when we are to fire." It appears that this red beard was present, at another riot, the Quenisset affair, entrusted with this same function.
The hearse passed the Bastille, traversed the small bridge, and reached the esplanade of the bridge of Austerlitz. There it halted. The crowd, surveyed at that moment with a bird'seye view, would have presented the aspect of a comet whose head was on the esplanade and whose tail spread out over the Quai Bourdon, covered the Bastille, and was prolonged on the boulevard as far as the Porte Saint-Martin. A circle was traced around the hearse. The vast rout held their peace. Lafayette spoke and bade Lamarque farewell. This was a touching and august instant, all heads uncovered, all hearts beat high. 
All at once, a man on horseback, clad in black, made his appearance in the middle of the group with a red flag, others say, with a pike surmounted with a red liberty-cap. Lafayette turned aside his head. Exelmans quitted the procession.
This red flag raised a storm, and disappeared in the midst of it. From the Boulevard Bourdon to the bridge of Austerlitz one of those clamors which resemble billows stirred the multitude. Two prodigious shouts went up: "Lamarque to the Pantheon!-- Lafayette to the Town-hall!" Some young men, amid the declamations of the throng, harnessed themselves and began to drag Lamarque in the hearse across the bridge of Austerlitz and Lafayette in a hackney-coach along the Quai Morland.
In the crowd which surrounded and cheered Lafayette, it was noticed that a German showed himself named Ludwig Snyder, who died a centenarian afterwards, who had also been in the war of 1776, and who had fought at Trenton under Washington, and at Brandywine under Lafayette.
In the meantime, the municipal cavalry on the left bank had been set in motion, and came to bar the bridge, on the right bank the dragoons emerged from the Celestins and deployed along the Quai Morland. The men who were dragging Lafayette suddenly caught sight of them at the corner of the quay and shouted: "The dragoons!" The dragoons advanced at a walk, in silence, with their pistols in their holsters, their swords in their scabbards, their guns slung in their leather sockets, with an air of gloomy expectation. 
They halted two hundred paces from the little bridge. The carriage in which sat Lafayette advanced to them, their ranks opened and allowed it to pass, and then closed behind it. At that moment the dragoons and the crowd touched. The women fled in terror. What took place during that fatal minute? No one can say. It is the dark moment when two clouds come together. Some declare that a blast of trumpets sounding the charge was heard in the direction of the Arsenal others that a blow from a dagger was given by a child to a dragoon. The fact is, that three shots were suddenly discharged: the first killed Cholet, chief of the squadron, the second killed an old deaf woman who was in the act of closing her window, the third singed the shoulder of an officer; a woman screamed: "They are beginning too soon!" and all at once, a squadron of dragoons which had remained in the barracks up to this time, was seen to debouch at a gallop with bared swords, through the Rue Bassompierre and the Boulevard Bourdon, sweeping all before them. 
Then all is said, the tempest is loosed, stones rain down, a fusillade breaks forth, many precipitate themselves to the bottom of the bank, and pass the small arm of the Seine, now filled in, the timber-yards of the Isle Louviers, that vast citadel ready to hand, bristle with combatants, stakes are torn up, pistol-shots fired, a barricade begun, the young men who are thrust back pass the Austerlitz bridge with the hearse at a run, and the municipal guard, the carabineers rush up, the dragoons ply their swords, the crowd disperses in all directions, a rumor of war flies to all four quarters of Paris, men shout: "To arms!" they run, tumble down, flee, resist. Wrath spreads abroad the riot as wind spreads a fire.
一八三二年春，尽管三个月以来的霍乱已使人们精神活动停止，并在他们激动心情上蒙上一层说不上是什么的阴沉的死气，巴黎仍处于长期以来就有的那种一触即发的情绪中。正如我们先前说过的，这个大城市就象一尊大炮，火药已经装上，只待一粒火星落下便会爆炸。在一八三二年六月，那粒火星便是拉马克将军之死。
拉马克将军是个有声望也有作为的人。他在帝国时期和王朝复辟时期先后表现了那两个时期所需要的勇敢：战场上的勇敢和讲坛上的勇敢。他那雄辩的口才不亚于当年的骁勇，人们感到他的语言中有一把利剑。正如他那老一辈的富瓦一样，他在高举令旗以后，又高举着自由的旗帜。他坐在左与极左之间，人民爱他，因为他接受未来提供的机会，群众爱他，因为他曾效忠于皇上。当初和热拉尔伯爵和德鲁埃伯爵一道，他是拿破仑的那几个小元帅之一。一八一五年的条约把他气得七窍生烟，如同受了个人的侮辱。他把威灵顿恨之入骨，因而为群众所喜爱，十七年来他几乎不过问这其间的多次事件，他岿然不动地把滑铁卢的痛史铭刻心中。他在弥留时，在那最后一刻，把百日帝政时期一些军官赠给他的一把剑紧抱在胸前。拿破仑在临终时说的是“军队”，拉马克临终时说的是“祖国”。
他的死，原是预料中的，人民把他的死当作一种损失而怕他死，政府把他的死当作一种危机而怕他死。这种死，是一种哀伤。象任何苦痛一样，哀伤可以转化为反抗。当日发生的情形正是这样。
六月五日是拉马克安葬的预定日期，在那天的前夕和早晨，殡仪行列要挨边路过的圣安东尼郊区沸腾起来了。这个街道纵横交错的杂乱地区，处处人声鼎沸。人们尽可能地把自己武装起来。有些细木工带上他们工作台上的铁夹“去撬门”。他们中的一个用一个鞋匠用来引线的铁钩，去掉钩子，磨尖钱柄，做了一把匕首。另一个，急于要“动手”，一连和衣躺了三夜。一个叫龙比埃的木工，遇见一个同行问他：“你去哪儿？”
“我呀！我还没有武器。”“咋办呢？”“我到工地上去取我的两脚规。”“干什么？”“不知道。”龙比埃说。一个叫雅克林的送货工人，遇见任何一个工人便和他谈：“你跟我来。”他买十个苏的酒，还说：“你有活计吗？”“没有。”“到费斯比埃家里去，他住在蒙特勒伊便门和夏罗纳便门之间，你在那里能找到活计。”费斯比埃家里有些子弹和武器。某些知名的头头，“搞着串连”，就是说，从这家跑到那家，集合他们的队伍。在宝座便门附近的巴泰勒米的店里和卡佩尔的小帽酒店里，那些喝酒的人，个个面容严肃，聚在一起密谈。有人听到他们说：“你的手枪在哪里？”“在我的褂子里。你呢？”“在我的衬衣里。”在横街的罗兰作坊前面，在一座着过火的房子的院里，工具工人贝尼埃的车间前，一堆堆的人在低声谈论。在那群人里有个最激烈的人，叫马福，他从来没有在同一个车间里做上一个星期，所有的老板都不留他，“因为每天都得和他争吵。”马福第二天便死在梅尼孟丹街的街垒里。在同一次战斗中被打死的卜雷托，是马福的助手，有人问他：“你的目的是什么？”他回答说：“起义。”有些工人聚集在贝尔西街的角上，等候一个叫勒马兰的人，圣马尔索郊区的革命工作人员。口令几乎是公开传达的。
六月五日那天，时而下雨，时而放晴，拉马克将军的殡葬行列，配备了正式的陆军仪仗队，穿过巴黎，那行列是为了预防不测而稍微加强了的。两个营，鼓上蒙着黑纱，倒背着枪，一万国民自卫军，腰上挂着刀，国民自卫军的炮队伴随着棺材。柩车由一队青年牵引着。残废军人院的军官们紧跟在柩车后面，手里握着桂树枝。随后跟着的是无穷无尽的人群，神情急躁，形状奇特，人民之友社的社员们、法学院、医学院、一切国家的流亡者，西班牙、意大利、德国、波兰的国旗，横条三色旗，各色各样的旗帜，应有尽有，孩子们挥动着青树枝，正在罢工的石匠和木工，有些人头上戴着纸帽，一望而知是印刷工人，两个一排，三个一排地走着，他们大声叫喊，几乎每个人都挥舞着棍棒，有些挥舞着指挥刀，没有秩序，可是万众一心，有时混乱，有时成行。有些小队推选他们的领头人，有一个人，毫不隐讳地佩着两支手枪，好象是在检阅他的队伍，那队人便在他前面离开了送葬行列。在大路的横街里、树枝上、阳台上、窗口上、屋顶上，人头象蚂蚁一样攒动，男人、妇女、小孩，眼睛里充满了不安的神情。一群带着武器的人走过去，大家惊惊慌慌地望着。
政府从旁注视着。它手按在剑柄上注视着。人们可以望见，在路易十五广场上，有四个卡宾枪连，长枪短铳，子弹全上了膛，弹盒饱满，人人骑在鞍上，军号领头，一切准备就绪，待命行动；在拉丁区和植物园一带，保安警察队从一条街到一条街，分段站岗守卫着；在酒市有一中队龙骑兵，格雷沃广场有第十二轻骑联队的一半，另一半在巴士底，第六龙骑联队在则助斯定，卢浮宫的大院里全是炮队。其余的军队在军营里，巴黎四周的联队还没计算在内。提心吊胆的政府，在市区把二万四千士兵，在郊区把三万士兵，压在横眉怒目的群众头上。
送葬行列里流传着种种不同的小道消息。有的谈着正统派的阴谋；有的谈到雷希施塔特公爵①，正当人民大众指望他起来重建帝国时，上帝却一定要他死去。一个没有暴露姓名的人传播消息说，到了一定时候有两个被争取过来的工头，会把一个武器工厂的大门向人民开放。最突出的是，在这行列中，大多数人的脸上都已流露出一种既兴奋又颓丧的神情。这一大群人已激动到了急于要干出些什么暴烈而高尚的行动来，其中也偶尔搀杂着几张出言粗鄙、确象歹徒的嘴脸，他们在说着：“抢！”某些骚动可以搅浑一池清水，从池底搅起一阵泥浆。这种现象，对“办得好”的警署来说，是一点也不会感到奇怪的。 
①雷希施塔特公爵（Reichstadt），拿破仑之子，即罗马王，又称拿破仑第二，病死于一八三二年。　
送葬行列从死者的府邸，以激动而沉重的步伐，经过几条大路，慢慢走到了巴士底广场。天不时下着雨，人们全不介意。发生了几件意外的事：柩车绕过旺多姆纪念碑时，有人发现费茨·詹姆斯公爵①站在一个阳台上，戴着帽子，便向他扔了不少石块；有一根旗杆上的高卢雄鸡②被人拔了下来，在污泥里被拖着走；在圣马尔丹门，有个宪兵被人用剑刺伤；第十二轻骑联队的一个军官用很大的声音说“我是个共和党人”，综合工科学校的学生，在强制留校不许外出之后突然出现，人们高呼：“万岁！共和万岁！”这是发生在送葬行列行进中的一些花絮。气势汹汹的赶热闹的人群，象江河的洪流，后浪推前浪，从圣安东尼郊区走下来，走到巴士底，便和送葬队伍汇合起来，一种翻腾震荡的骇人声势开始把人群搞得更加激动了。 
①费茨·詹姆斯公爵（Fitz－James，1776?838），法兰西世卿及极端保王派。
②法国在资产阶级大革命时期，旗杆顶上装一只雄鸡，名为高卢雄鸡，这种装饰，到拿破仑帝国时期被取消了，到一八三○年菲力浦王朝时期又被采用。
人们听到一个人对另一个说：“你看见那个下巴下有一小撮红胡子的人吧，等会儿告诉大家应在什么时候开枪的人便是他。”据说后来在引起另一次暴动的凯尼赛事件中，担任同一任务的也是这个小红胡子。
柩车经过了巴士底，沿着运河，穿过小桥，到达了奥斯特里茨桥头广场。它在这里停下来了。这时，那股人流，如果从空中鸟瞰，就活象彗星，头在桥头广场，尾从布尔东河沿开始扩展，盖满巴士底广场，再顺着林荫大道一直延伸到圣马尔丹门。柩车的四周围着一大群人。哗乱的人群忽然静了下来。拉斐德致词，向拉马克告别。那是一种动人心弦的庄严时刻，所有的人都脱下帽子，所有的心都在怦怦跳动。突然有个穿黑衣骑在马上的人出现在人群中，手里擎着一面红旗，有些人说是一根长矛，矛尖顶着一顶红帽子。拉斐德转过头来。埃格泽尔芒①离开了队伍。 
①埃格泽尔芒（Exelmans，1775B1852），法国元帅。　
这面红旗掀起了一阵风暴，随即不见了。从布尔东林荫大道到奥斯特里茨桥，人声鼓噪有如海潮咆哮，人群动荡起来了。两声特别高亢的叫喊腾空而起：“拉马克去先贤祠！拉斐德去市政府！”一群青年，在大片叫好声中，立即动手将柩车里的拉马克推向奥斯特里茨桥，挽着拉斐德的马车顺着莫尔朗河沿走去。
在围着拉斐德欢呼的人群中，人们发现一个叫路德维希·斯尼代尔的德国人，并把他指给大家看，那人参加过一七七六年的战争，在特伦顿在华盛顿的指挥下作战，在布朗蒂温，在拉斐德的指挥下作战，后来活到一百岁。
这时在河的左岸，市政府的马队赶到桥头挡住去路，在右岸龙骑兵从则肋斯定开出来，顺着莫尔朗河沿散开。挽着拉斐德的人群在河沿拐弯处，突然看见他们，便喊道：“龙骑兵！龙骑兵！”龙骑兵缓步前进，一声不响，手枪插在皮套里，马刀插在鞘里，短枪插在枪托套里，神色阴沉地观望着。
离开小桥两百步的地方，他们停下来了。拉斐德坐的马车直到他们面前，他们向两旁让出一条路，让马车通过，继又合拢。这时龙骑兵和群众就面对面了。妇女们惊慌失措地逃散了。
在这危急时刻发生了什么事呢？谁也搞不清楚。那是两朵乌云相遇的阴暗时刻。有人说听到在兵工厂那边响起了冲锋号，也有人说是有个孩子给一个龙骑兵一匕首。事实是突然连响三枪，第一枪打死了中队长灼雷，第二枪打死了孔特斯卡尔浦街上一个正在关窗的聋老妇，第三枪擦坏了一个军官的肩章。有个妇人喊道：“动手太早了！”人们忽然看见一中队龙骑兵从莫尔朗河沿对面的兵营里冲了出来，举着马刀，经过巴松比尔街和布尔东林荫大道，横扫一切。
到此，风暴大作，事已无可挽回。石块乱飞，枪声四起，许多人跳到河岸下，绕过现已填塞了的那段塞纳河湾，卢维耶岛，那个现成的巨大堡垒上聚满了战士，有的拔木桩，有的开手枪，一个街垒便形成了，被撵回的那些青年，挽着柩车，一路飞跑，穿过奥斯特里茨桥，向着保安警察队冲去，卡宾枪连冲来了，龙骑兵逢人便砍，群众向四面八方逃散，巴黎的四面八方都响起了投入战斗的吼声，人人喊着：“拿起武器！”人们跑着，冲撞着，逃着，抵抗着。怒火鼓起了暴动，正如大风煽扬着烈火。
Part 4 Book 10 Chapter 4 The Ebullitions of Former Days
Nothing is more extraordinary than the first breaking out of a riot. Everything bursts forth everywhere at once. Was it foreseen? Yes. Was it prepared? No. Whence comes it? From the pavements. Whence falls it? From the clouds. Here insurrection assumes the character of a plot; there of an improvisation. The first comer seizes a current of the throng and leads it whither he wills. A beginning full of terror, in which is mingled a sort of formidable gayety. First come clamors, the shops are closed, the displays of the merchants disappear; then come isolated shots; people flee; blows from gun-stocks beat against portes cocheres, servants can be heard laughing in the courtyards of houses and saying: "There's going to be a row!"
A quarter of an hour had not elapsed when this is what was taking place at twenty different spots in Paris at once.
In the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie, twenty young men, bearded and with long hair, entered a dram-shop and emerged a moment later, carrying a horizontal tricolored flag covered with crape, and having at their head three men armed, one with a sword, one with a gun, and the third with a pike.
In the Rue des Nonaindieres, a very well-dressed bourgeois, who had a prominent belly, a sonorous voice, a bald head, a lofty brow, a black beard, and one of these stiff mustaches which will not lie flat, offered cartridges publicly to passers-by.
In the Rue Saint-Pierre-Montmartre, men with bare arms carried about a black flag, on which could be read in white letters this inscription: "Republic or Death!" In the Rue des Jeuneurs, Rue du Cadran, Rue Montorgueil, Rue Mandar, groups appeared waving flags on which could be distinguished in gold letters, the word section with a number. One of these flags was red and blue with an almost imperceptible stripe of white between.
They pillaged a factory of small-arms on the Boulevard Saint-Martin, and three armorers' shops, the first in the Rue Beaubourg, the second in the Rue Michel-le-Comte, the other in the Rue du Temple. In a few minutes, the thousand hands of the crowd had seized and carried off two hundred and thirty guns, nearly all double-barrelled, sixty-four swords, and eighty-three pistols. In order to provide more arms, one man took the gun, the other the bayonet. 
Opposite the Quai de la Greve, young men armed with muskets installed themselves in the houses of some women for the purpose of firing. One of them had a flint-lock. They rang, entered, and set about making cartridges. One of these women relates: "I did not know what cartridges were; it was my husband who told me."
One cluster broke into a curiosity shop in the Rue des Vielles Haudriettes, and seized yataghans and Turkish arms.
The body of a mason who had been killed by a gun-shot lay in the Rue de la Perle.
And then on the right bank, the left bank, on the quays, on the boulevards, in the Latin country, in the quarter of the Halles, panting men, artisans, students, members of sections read proclamations and shouted: "To arms!" broke street lanterns, unharnessed carriages, unpaved the streets, broke in the doors of houses, uprooted trees, rummaged cellars, rolled out hogsheads, heaped up paving-stones, rough slabs, furniture and planks, and made barricades.
They forced the bourgeois to assist them in this. They entered the dwellings of women, they forced them to hand over the swords and guns of their absent husbands, and they wrote on the door, with whiting: "The arms have been delivered"; some signed "their names" to receipts for the guns and swords and said: "Send for them to-morrow at the Mayor's office." They disarmed isolated sentinels and National Guardsmen in the streets on their way to the Townhall. They tore the epaulets from officers. In the Rue du Cimitiere-Saint-Nicholas, an officer of the National Guard, on being pursued by a crowd armed with clubs and foils, took refuge with difficulty in a house, whence he was only able to emerge at nightfall and in disguise.
In the Quartier Saint-Jacques, the students swarmed out of their hotels and ascended the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe to the Cafe du Progress, or descended to the Cafe des Sept-Billards, in the Rue des Mathurins. There, in front of the door, young men mounted on the stone corner-posts, distributed arms. They plundered the timber-yard in the Rue Transnonain in order to obtain material for barricades. On a single point the inhabitants resisted, at the corner of the Rue Sainte-Avoye and the Rue Simon-Le-Franc, where they destroyed the barricade with their own hands. At a single point the insurgents yielded; they abandoned a barricade begun in the Rue de Temple after having fired on a detachment of the National Guard, and fled through the Rue de la Corderie. The detachment picked up in the barricade a red flag, a package of cartridges, and three hundred pistol-balls. The National Guardsmen tore up the flag, and carried off its tattered remains on the points of their bayonets.
All that we are here relating slowly and successively took place simultaneously at all points of the city in the midst of a vast tumult, like a mass of tongues of lightning in one clap of thunder. In less than an hour, twenty-seven barricades sprang out of the earth in the quarter of the Halles alone. In the centre was that famous house No. 50, which was the fortress of Jeanne and her six hundred companions, and which, flanked on the one hand by a barricade at Saint-Merry, and on the other by a barricade of the Rue Maubuee, commanded three streets, the Rue des Arcis, the Rue Saint-Martin, and the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, which it faced. The barricades at right angles fell back, the one of the Rue Montorgueil on the Grande-Truanderie, the other of the Rue Geoffroy-Langevin on the Rue Sainte-Avoye. Without reckoning innumerable barricades in twenty other quarters of Paris, in the Marais, at Mont-Sainte-Genevieve; one in the Rue Menilmontant, where was visible a porte cochere torn from its hinges; another near the little bridge of the Hotel-Dieu made with an "ecossais," which had been unharnessed and overthrown, three hundred paces from the Prefecture of Police.
At the barricade of the Rue des Menetriers, a well-dressed man distributed money to the workmen. At the barricade of the Rue Grenetat, a horseman made his appearance and handed to the one who seemed to be the commander of the barricade what had the appearance of a roll of silver. "Here," said he, "this is to pay expenses, wine, et caetera." A light-haired young man, without a cravat, went from barricade to barricade, carrying pass-words. Another, with a naked sword, a blue police cap on his head, placed sentinels. In the interior, beyond the barricades, the wine-shops and porters' lodges were converted into guard-houses. Otherwise the riot was conducted after the most scientific military tactics. The narrow, uneven, sinuous streets, full of angles and turns, were admirably chosen; the neighborhood of the Halles, in particular, a network of streets more intricate than a forest. The Society of the Friends of the People had, it was said, undertaken to direct the insurrection in the Quartier Sainte-Avoye. A man killed in the Rue du Ponceau who was searched had on his person a plan of Paris.
That which had really undertaken the direction of the uprising was a sort of strange impetuosity which was in the air. The insurrection had abruptly built barricades with one hand, and with the other seized nearly all the posts of the garrison. In less than three hours, like a train of powder catching fire, the insurgents had invaded and occupied, on the right bank, the Arsenal, the Mayoralty of the Place Royale, the whole of the Marais, the Popincourt arms manufactory, la Galiote, the Chateau-d'Eau, and all the streets near the Halles; on the left bank, the barracks of the Veterans, Sainte-Pelagie, the Place Maubert, the powder magazine of the Deux-Moulins, and all the barriers. At five o'clock in the evening, they were masters of the Bastille, of the Lingerie, of the Blancs-Manteaux; their scouts had reached the Place des Victoires, and menaced the Bank, the Petits-Peres barracks, and the Post-Office. A third of Paris was in the hands of the rioters.
The conflict had been begun on a gigantic scale at all points;and, as a result of the disarming domiciliary visits, and armorers' shops hastily invaded, was, that the combat which had begun with the throwing of stones was continued with gun-shots.
About six o'clock in the evening, the Passage du Saumon became the field of battle. The uprising was at one end, the troops were at the other. They fired from one gate to the other. An observer, a dreamer, the author of this book, who had gone to get a near view of this volcano, found himself in the passage between the two fires. All that he had to protect him from the bullets was the swell of the two half-columns which separate the shops; he remained in this delicate situation for nearly half an hour.
Meanwhile the call to arms was beaten, the National Guard armed in haste, the legions emerged from the Mayoralities, the regiments from their barracks. Opposite the passage de l'Ancre a drummer received a blow from a dagger. Another, in the Rue du Cygne, was assailed by thirty young men who broke his instrument, and took away his sword. Another was killed in the Rue Grenier-Saint-Lazare. In the Rue-Michelle-Comte, three officers fell dead one after the other. Many of the Municipal Guards, on being wounded, in the Rue des Lombards, retreated. 
In front of the Cour-Batave, a detachment of National Guards found a red flag bearing the following inscription: Republican revolution, No. 127. Was this a revolution, in fact?
The insurrection had made of the centre of Paris a sort of inextricable, tortuous, colossal citadel. 
There was the hearth; there, evidently, was the question. All the rest was nothing but skirmishes. The proof that all would be decided there lay in the fact that there was no fighting going on there as yet.
In some regiments, the soldiers were uncertain, which added to the fearful uncertainty of the crisis. They recalled the popular ovation which had greeted the neutrality of the 53d of the Line in July, 1830. Two intrepid men, tried in great wars, the Marshal Lobau and General Bugeaud, were in command, Bugeaud under Lobau. Enormous patrols, composed of battalions of the Line, enclosed in entire companies of the National Guard, and preceded by a commissary of police wearing his scarf of office, went to reconnoitre the streets in rebellion. The insurgents, on their side, placed videttes at the corners of all open spaces, and audaciously sent their patrols outside the barricades. Each side was watching the other. The Government, with an army in its hand, hesitated; the night was almost upon them, and the Saint-Merry tocsin began to make itself heard. The Minister of War at that time, Marshal Soult, who had seen Austerlitz, regarded this with a gloomy air. 
These old sailors, accustomed to correct manoeuvres and having as resource and guide only tactics, that compass of battles, are utterly disconcerted in the presence of that immense foam which is called public wrath.
The National Guards of the suburbs rushed up in haste and disorder. A battalion of the 12th Light came at a run from Saint-Denis,the 14th of the Line arrived from Courbevoie, the batteries of the Military School had taken up their position on the Carrousel; cannons were descending from Vincennes. 
Solitude was formed around the Tuileries. Louis Philippe was perfectly serene.
没有什么比暴动的最初骚乱更奇特的了。一切同时全面爆发。这是预见到的？是的。这是准备好的？不是。从什么地方发生的？街心。从什么地方落下来的？云端。在这一处起义有着密谋的性质，而在另一处又是临时发动的。第一个见到的人可以抓住群众的共同趋势并牵着他们跟他一道走。开始时人们心中充满了惊恐，同时也搀杂着一种骇人的得意劲头。最初，喧嚣鼓噪，店铺关门，陈列的商品失踪；接着，零散的枪声，行人奔窜，枪托冲击大车门的声音，人们听到一些女仆在大门后的院子里笑着说：“这一下可热闹了。”
不到一刻钟，在巴黎二十个不同的地方就几乎同时发生了这些事：
圣十字架街，二十来个留着胡须和长发的青年走进一间咖啡馆，随即又出来，举着一面横条三色旗，旗上结一块黑纱，他们的三个领头人都带着武器，一个有指挥刀，一个有步枪，一个有长矛。
诺南第耶尔街，有个衣服相当整洁的资产阶级，腆着肚子，声音洪亮，光头高额，黑胡须硬邦邦地向左右奓开，公开地把枪弹散发给过路行人。
圣彼得蒙马特尔街，有些光着胳膊的人举着一面黑旗在街上走，黑旗上写着这么几个白字：“共和或死亡！”绝食人街、钟面街、骄山街、曼达街，都出现一群群的人挥动着旗子，上面的金字是“区分部”①，并且还有一个编号。其中的一面，红蓝两色之间夹着一窄条白色，窄到教人瞧不见。 
①一七九○年，制宪议会把巴黎划分为四十八个行政区，设立区分部，行政人员由选举产生，以代替从前的教会辖区。
圣马尔丹林荫大道的一个武器工厂被抢，还有三个武器商店也被抢，第一个在波布尔街，第二个在米歇尔伯爵街，另一个，在大庙街。群众的千百只手在几分钟之内便抓走了二百三十支步枪，几乎全是两响的，六十四把指挥刀，八十三支手枪。为了武装较多的人，便一个人拿步枪，一个人拿刺刀。
在格雷沃河沿对面，有些青年拿着短枪从一些妇女的屋里对外发射。其中的一个有一支转轮短枪。他们拉动门铃，走进去，在里面做子弹①。这些妇女中的一个叙述说：“我从前还不知道子弹是什么东西，我的丈夫告诉了我才知道。” 
①当时的子弹壳是纸做的，装有底火，这部分由武器厂完成。“做子弹”就是把弹药装进子弹壳。
老奥德里耶特街上的一家古玩铺被一群人冲破门，拿走了几把弯背刀和一些土耳其武器。
一个被步枪打死的泥水匠的尸体躺在珍珠街。
接着，在右岸、左岸、河沿、林荫大道、拉丁区、菜市场区，无数气喘吁吁的人、工人、大学生、区的工作人员读着告示，高呼：“武装起来！”他们砸破路灯，解下驾车的马匹，挖起铺路的石块，撬下房屋的门板，拔树，搜地窖，滚酒桶，堆砌石块、石子、家具、木板，建造街垒。
人们强迫资产阶级一同动手。人们走进妇女的住处，要她们把不在家的丈夫的刀枪交出来，并在门上用白粉写上“武器已交”。有些还在刀枪的收据上签上“他们的名字”，并说道：“明天到市政府去取。”街上单独的哨兵和回到区公所去的国民自卫军被人解除了武装。军官们的肩章被扯掉。在圣尼古拉公墓街上，有个国民自卫军军官被一群拿着棍棒和花剑的人追赶着，好不容易才躲进一所房子，直到夜里才改了装出来。
在圣雅克区，一群群大学生从他们的旅馆里涌出来，向上走到圣亚森特街上的进步咖啡馆，或向下走到马蒂兰街的七球台咖啡馆。在那里，有些青年立在大门前的墙角石上分发武器。人们抢劫了特兰斯诺南街上的建筑工场去建立街垒。只有一处，在圣阿瓦街和西蒙·勒弗朗街的转角处，居民起来反抗，自己动手拆毁街垒。只有一处，起义的人退却了，他们已在大庙街开始建立一座街垒，在和国民自卫军的一个排交火以后便放弃了那街垒，从制绳街逃走了。那个排在街垒里拾得一面红旗、一包弹药和三百粒手枪子弹。那些国民自卫军把那红旗撕成条条，挂在他们的枪刺尖上。
我们在此一件件慢慢叙述的一切，在当年却是那城市在每一点上同时发出的喧嚣咆哮，有如无数道闪电汇合成的一阵霹雷滚滚声。
不到一个钟头，仅仅在那菜市场区，便平地造起了二十七座街垒。中心是那座著名的第五十号房子，也就是从前让娜和她一百零六位战友的堡垒，在它的两旁，一面是圣美里教堂的街垒，一面是莫布埃街的街垒，这三座街垒控制着三条街，阿尔西街、圣马尔丹街和正对面的奥白利屠夫街。两座曲尺形的街垒，一座由骄山街折向大化子窝，一座由热奥弗瓦－朗之万街折向圣阿瓦街。巴黎其他的二十个区，沼泽区、圣热纳维埃夫山的无数个街垒没有计算在内，梅尼孟丹街上的一座，有一扇从门臼里拔出来的车马大门，另一座，在天主医院的小桥附近，是用一辆卸了马的苏格兰大车翻过来建造的，离警署才三百步。
在游乡提琴手街的街垒里，有个穿得相当好的人向工人们发钱。在格尔内塔街的街垒里出现一个骑马的人，向那好象是街垒头目的人交了一卷东西，象是一卷钱币，并说道：“喏，这是作开销用的，葡萄酒，等等。”一个白净的年轻人，没有结领带，从一个街垒到一个街垒传达口令。另外一个，握着一把指挥刀，头上戴一顶警察的蓝帽子，在派人放哨。在一些街垒的内部，那些酒厅和门房都变成了警卫室。并且暴动是按最高明的陆军战术进行的。令人折服地选择了那些狭窄、不平整、弯曲、凸凹、转拐的街道，特别是菜市场那一带，有着象森林一样紊乱的街道网。据说，在圣阿瓦区指挥那次起义的是人民之友社。一个人在朋索街被杀死，有人在他身上搜出了一张巴黎地图。
真正指挥暴动的，是空气中一种说不出的躁急情绪。那次起义，突然一手建起了街垒，一手几乎全部抓住了驻军的据点。不到三个钟头，象一长串火药连续在延烧，起义的人便侵占了右岸的兵工厂、王宫广场、整个沼泽区、波邦古武器制造厂、加利奥特、水塔、菜市场附近的每一条街道，左岸的老军营、圣佩拉吉、莫贝尔广场、双磨火药库和所有的便门。到傍晚五点，他们已是巴士底、内衣商店、白大衣商店的主人，他们的侦察兵已接近胜利广场，威胁着银行、小神父兵营、邮车旅馆。
巴黎的三分之一已在暴动中。
在每一处斗争都是大规模进行的，加以解除武装，搜查住宅，积极抢夺武器商店，结果以石块开始的战斗变成了火器交锋。
傍晚六点前后，鲑鱼通道成了战场。暴动者在一头，军队在另一头。大家从一道铁栏门对着另一道铁栏门对射。一个观察者，一个梦游人，本书的作者，曾去就近观望火山，被两头的火力夹在那过道里。为了躲避枪弹，他只得待在店与店之间的那种半圆柱子旁边，他在这种危殆的处境中几乎待了半个小时。
这时敲起了集合鼓，国民自卫军连忙穿上制服，拿起武器，宪兵走出了区公所，联队走出了兵营。在铁锚通道的对面，一个鼓手挨了一匕首。另外一个，在天鹅街，受到了三十来个青年的围攻，他们捅穿了他的鼓，夺走了他的刀。另一个在圣辣匝禄麦仓街被杀死。米歇尔伯爵街上，有三个军官，一个接着一个地倒在地上死了。好几个国民自卫军在伦巴第街受伤，退了回去。
在巴塔夫院子前，国民自卫军的一个支队发现了一面红旗，旗上有这样的字：“共和革命，第一二七号。”难道那真是一次革命吗？
那次的起义把巴黎的中心地带变成了一种曲折错乱、叫人摸不清道路的巨大寨子。
那地方便是病灶，显然是问题的所在。在其余的一切地方都只是小冲突。能证明一切都取决于那地方的，是那里还一直没有打起来。
在少数几个联队里士兵是不稳的，这更使人因不明危机的结局而更加惊恐。人们还记得在一八三○年七月人民对第五十三联队保持中立的欢呼声。两个经受过历次大战考验的猛将，罗博元帅和毕若将军，掌握着指挥权，以罗博为主，毕若为副。由几个加强营组成的巡逻队，在国民自卫军几个连的全体官兵护卫和一个斜挎着绶带的警务长官的率领下，到起义地区的街道上去进行视察。起义的人也在一些岔路口的路角上布置了哨兵，并大胆地派遣了巡逻队到街垒外面去巡逻。双方互相监视着。政府手里有着军队，却还在犹豫不决，天快黑了，人们开始听到圣美里的警钟。当时的陆军大臣，参加过奥斯特里茨战役的苏尔特元帅，带着阴郁的神情注视着这一切。
这些年老的军人，素来只习惯于作正确的战争部署，他们的力量的源泉和行动的指导只限于作战的谋略，面对着这种汪洋大海似的所谓人民公愤，竟到了不辨方向的程度。革命的风向是难于捉摸的。
郊区的国民自卫军匆匆忙忙乱哄哄地赶来了。第十二轻骑联队的一个营也从圣德尼跑到了，第十四联队从弯道赶到，陆军学校的炮队已经进入崇武门阵地，不少大炮从万塞纳下来。
杜伊勒里宫一带冷冷清清。路易－菲力浦泰然自若。
Part 4 Book 10 Chapter 5 Originality of Paris
During the last two years, as we have said, Paris had witnessed more than one insurrection. Nothing is, generally, more singularly calm than the physiognomy of Paris during an uprising beyond the bounds of the rebellious quarters. Paris very speedily accustoms herself to anything,--it is only a riot,--and Paris has so many affairs on hand, that she does not put herself out for so small a matter. These colossal cities alone can offer such spectacles. These immense enclosures alone can contain at the same time civil war and an odd and indescribable tranquillity. Ordinarily, when an insurrection commences, when the shop-keeper hears the drum, the call to arms, the general alarm, he contents himself with the remark:-- 
"There appears to be a squabble in the Rue Saint-Martin."
Or:--
"In the Faubourg Saint-Antoine."
Often he adds carelessly:--
"Or somewhere in that direction."
Later on, when the heart-rending and mournful hubbub of musketry and firing by platoons becomes audible, the shopkeeper says:-- 
"It's getting hot! Hullo, it's getting hot!" 
A moment later, the riot approaches and gains in force, he shuts up his shop precipitately, hastily dons his uniform, that is to say, he places his merchandise in safety and risks his own person. 
Men fire in a square, in a passage, in a blind alley; they take and re-take the barricade; blood flows, the grape-shot riddles the fronts of the houses, the balls kill people in their beds, corpses encumber the streets. A few streets away, the shock of billiard-balls can be heard in the cafes.
The theatres open their doors and present vaudevilles; the curious laugh and chat a couple of paces distant from these streets filled with war. Hackney-carriages go their way; passers-by are going to a dinner somewhere in town. Sometimes in the very quarter where the fighting is going on.
In 1831, a fusillade was stopped to allow a wedding party to pass. 
At the time of the insurrection of 1839, in the Rue Saint-Martin a little, infirm old man, pushing a hand-cart surmounted by a tricolored rag, in which he had carafes filled with some sort of liquid, went and came from barricade to troops and from troops to the barricade, offering his glasses of cocoa impartially,--now to the Government, now to anarchy.
Nothing can be stranger; and this is the peculiar character of uprisings in Paris, which cannot be found in any other capital. To this end, two things are requisite, the size of Paris and its gayety. The city of Voltaire and Napoleon is necessary.
On this occasion, however, in the resort to arms of June 25th, 1832, the great city felt something which was, perhaps, stronger than itself. It was afraid.
Closed doors, windows, and shutters were to be seen everywhere, in the most distant and most "disinterested" quarters. The courageous took to arms, the poltroons hid. The busy and heedless passer-by disappeared. Many streets were empty at four o'clock in the morning. 
Alarming details were hawked about, fatal news was disseminated,-- that they were masters of the Bank;--that there were six hundred of them in the Cloister of Saint-Merry alone, entrenched and embattled in the church; that the line was not to be depended on; that Armand Carrel had been to see Marshal Clausel and that the Marshal had said: "Get a regiment first"; that Lafayette was ill, but that he had said to them, nevertheless: "I am with you. I will follow you wherever there is room for a chair"; that one must be on one's guard; that at night there would be people pillaging isolated dwellings in the deserted corners of Paris (there the imagination of the police, that Anne Radcliffe mixed up with the Government was recognizable); that a battery had been established in the Rue Aubry le Boucher; that Lobau and Bugeaud were putting their heads together, and that, at midnight, or at daybreak at latest, four columns would march simultaneously on the centre of the uprising, the first coming from the Bastille, the second from the Porte Saint-Martin, the third from the Greve, the fourth from the Halles; that perhaps, also, the troops would evacuate Paris and withdraw to the Champ-de-Mars; that no one knew what would happen, but that this time, it certainly was serious.
People busied themselves over Marshal Soult's hesitations. Why did not he attack at once? It is certain that he was profoundly absorbed. The old lion seemed to scent an unknown monster in that gloom.
Evening came, the theatres did not open; the patrols circulated with an air of irritation; passers-by were searched; suspicious persons were arrested. By nine o'clock, more than eight hundred persons had been arrested, the Prefecture of Police was encumbered with them, so was the Conciergerie, so was La Force.
At the Conciergerie in particular, the long vault which is called the Rue de Paris was littered with trusses of straw upon which lay a heap of prisoners, whom the man of Lyons, Lagrange, harangued valiantly. All that straw rustled by all these men, produced the sound of a heavy shower. Elsewhere prisoners slept in the open air in the meadows, piled on top of each other. 
Anxiety reigned everywhere, and a certain tremor which was not habitual with Paris.
People barricaded themselves in their houses; wives and mothers were uneasy; nothing was to be heard but this: "Ah! my God! He has not come home!" There was hardly even the distant rumble of a vehicle to be heard.
People listened on their thresholds, to the rumors, the shouts, the tumult, the dull and indistinct sounds, to the things that were said: "It is cavalry," or: "Those are the caissons galloping," to the trumpets, the drums, the firing, and, above all, to that lamentable alarm peal from Saint-Merry.
They waited for the first cannon-shot. Men sprang up at the corners of the streets and disappeared, shouting: "Go home!" And people made haste to bolt their doors. They said: "How will all this end?" From moment to moment, in proportion as the darkness descended, Paris seemed to take on a more mournful hue from the formidable flaming of the revolt.
两年以来，我们已提到过，巴黎见过的起义不止一次。除了起义的地区以外，巴黎在暴动时期的面貌一般总是平静到出奇的。巴黎能很快习惯一切；那不过是一场暴动，并且巴黎有那么多事要做，它不会为那一点点事而大惊小怪。这些庞大的城市单凭自己就可以提供种种表演。这些广阔的城市单凭自己就可同时容纳内战和那种说不上是种什么样的奇怪的宁静。每当起义开始，人们听到集合或告警的鼓声时，店铺的老板照例只说一声：
“圣马尔丹街好象又在闹事了。”
或者说：
“圣安东尼郊区。”
常常，他漫不经心地加上一句：
“就在那一带。”
过后，当人们听到那种阴惨到令人心碎的稀疏或密集的枪声时，那老板又说：
“认起真来了吗？是啊，认起真来了！”
再过一阵，如果暴动到了近处，势头也更大了，他便连忙关上店门，赶快穿上制服，这就是说，保障他货物的安全，拿他自己去冒险。
人们在十字路口、通道上、死胡同里相互射击，街垒被占领，被夺回，又被占领；血流遍地，房屋的门墙被机枪扫射得弹痕累累，睡在床上的人被流弹打死，尸体布满街心。在相隔几条街的地方，人们却能听到咖啡馆里有象牙球在球台上撞击的声音。
好奇的人在离这些战火横飞的街道两步远的地方谈笑风生，戏院都敞开大门，演着闹剧。出租马车穿梭来往，过路的人进城宴饮，有时就在交火的地区。一八三一年，有一处射击忽然停了下来，让一对新婚夫妇和他们的亲友越过火线。
在一八三九年五月十二日的那次起义中，圣马尔丹街上有个残废的小老头，拉着一辆手推车，车上载着一些盛满某种饮料的瓶子，上面盖着一块三色破布，从街垒走向军队，又从军队走向街垒，一视同仁地来回供应着一杯又一杯的椰子汁，时而供给政府，时而供给无政府主义。
再没有什么比这更奇特的了，而这就是巴黎暴动所独具的特征，是任何其他都城所没有的。为此，必须具备两件东西：
巴黎的伟大和它的豪兴。必须是伏尔泰和拿破仑的城市。
可是在一八三二年六月五日的这次武装反抗中，这个大城市感到了某种也许比它自己更强大的东西。它害了怕。人们看见，在那些最远和最“无动于衷”的区里，门、窗以及板窗在大白天也都关上了。勇敢的拿起了武器，胆小的躲了起来。街上已见不到那种不闻不问、单为自己奔忙的行人。许多街道都象早晨四点钟那样，不见人影。大家都唠唠叨叨地谈着一些惊人的新闻，大家都散播着一些生死攸关的消息，说什么“他们已是国家银行的主人”，“仅仅在圣美里修院，他们就有六百人，在教堂里挖了战壕并筑了工事”，“防线是不牢固的”，“阿尔芒·加莱尔①去见克洛塞尔②元帅，元帅说：‘您首先要调一个联队来’”，“拉斐德在害病，然而他对他们说：‘我和你们在一起。我会跟着你们去任何地方，只要那里有摆一张椅子的地方’”，“应随时准备好，晚上会有人在巴黎的荒僻角落里抢劫那些孤零零的人家（在此我们领教了警察的想象，这位和政府混在一起的安娜·拉德克利夫③）”，“奥白利屠夫街设了炮兵阵地”，“罗博和毕若已商量好，午夜或至迟到黎明，就会有四个纵队同时向暴动的中心进攻，第一队来自巴士底，第二队来自圣马尔丹门，第三队来自格雷沃，第四队来自菜市场区；军队也许会从巴黎撤走，退到马尔斯广场；谁也不知道会发生什么事，但是，这一次，肯定是严重的”，“大家对苏尔特元帅的犹豫不决都很关心”，“他为什么不立即进攻？”“肯定他是高深莫测的。这头老狮子好象在黑暗中嗅到了一只无名的怪兽”。 
①阿尔芒·加莱尔（ArmandCarrel，1800?836），法国资产阶级政论家，自由派，《国民报》的创办人之一和编辑。
②克洛塞尔（BertrandClausel，1772?842），伯爵，法国将军，一八三一年起是元帅，一八○九年至一八一四年参加比利牛斯半岛战争，后任阿尔及利亚总督（1830?831和1835?837）。
③安娜·拉德克利夫（AnneRadcliffe，1764?823），英国女作家，著有一些描写秘密罪行的小说。
傍晚时分到了，戏院都不开门，巡逻队，神情郁怒，在街上来回巡视，行人被搜查，形迹可疑的遭逮捕。九点钟已经逮捕了八百人，警署监狱人满，刑部监狱人满，拉弗尔斯监狱人满。特别是在刑部监狱，在人们称为巴黎街的那条长地道里铺满了麦秆，躺在那上面的囚犯挤成了堆，那个里昂人，拉格朗日①，正对着囚犯们大胆地发表演说。这些人躺在这些麦秆上，一动起来，就发出一阵下大雨的声音。其他监狱里的囚犯，都一个压着一个，睡在敞开的堂屋里。处处空气紧张，人心浮动，这在巴黎是少有的。 
①拉格朗日（CharlesLagrange），在里昂建立“进步社”，一八三四年他领导里昂工人起义。
在自己的家里人也都采取了防御措施。做母亲的，做妻子的，都惴惴不安，只听见她们说：“啊，我的天主！他还没有回来！”难得听到一辆车子在远处滚动。人们立在大门口听着那些隐隐传来的、不清晰的鼓噪、叫喊、嘈杂的声音，他们说：“这是马队走过。”或者说：“这是装弹药箱的马车在跑。”他们听到军号声、鼓声、枪声，最揪心的是圣美里的警钟声。人们等待着第一声炮响。一些拿着武器的人忽然出现在街角，喊道：“回家去，你们！”随即又不见了。大家赶紧推上门闩说道：“几时才闹得完啊？”随着夜色的逐渐加深，巴黎暴动的火焰好象也越来越显得阴惨骇人了。
Part 4 Book 11 Chapter 1 The Influence of an Academician on this Poetry
At the instant when the insurrection, arising from the shock of the populace and the military in front of the Arsenal, started a movement in advance and towards the rear in the multitude which was following the hearse and which, through the whole length of the boulevards, weighed, so to speak, on the head of the procession, there arose a frightful ebb. The rout was shaken, their ranks were broken, all ran, fled, made their escape, some with shouts of attack, others with the pallor of flight. The great river which covered the boulevards divided in a twinkling, overflowed to right and left, and spread in torrents over two hundred streets at once with the roar of a sewer that has broken loose.
At that moment, a ragged child who was coming down through the Rue Menilmontant, holding in his hand a branch of blossoming laburnum which he had just plucked on the heights of Belleville, caught sight of an old holster-pistol in the show-window of a bric-a-brac merchant's shop. 
"Mother What's-your-name, I'm going to borrow your machine."
And off he ran with the pistol.
Two minutes later, a flood of frightened bourgeois who were fleeing through the Rue Amelot and the Rue Basse, encountered the lad brandishing his pistol and singing:--
La nuit on ne voit rien, Le jour on voit tres bien, D'un ecrit apocrypha Le bourgeois s'ebouriffe, Pratiquez la vertu, Tutu, chapeau pointu![44]
[44] At night one sees nothing, by day one sees very well; the bourgeois gets flurried over an apocryphal scrawl, practice virtue, tutu, pointed hat!
It was little Gavroche on his way to the wars.
On the boulevard he noticed that the pistol had no trigger.
Who was the author of that couplet which served to punctuate his march, and of all the other songs which he was fond of singing on occasion? We know not. Who does know? Himself, perhaps. However, Gavroche was well up in all the popular tunes in circulation, and he mingled with them his own chirpings. An observing urchin and a rogue, he made a potpourri of the voices of nature and the voices of Paris. He combined the repertory of the birds with the repertory of the workshops. He was acquainted with thieves, a tribe contiguous to his own. He had, it appears, been for three months apprenticed to a printer. He had one day executed a commission for M. Baour-Lormian, one of the Forty. Gavroche was a gamin of letters.
Moreover, Gavroche had no suspicion of the fact that when hehad offered the hospitality of his elephant to two brats on that villainously rainy night, it was to his own brothers that he had played the part of Providence. His brothers in the evening, his father in the morning; that is what his night had been like. On quitting the Rue des Ballets at daybreak, he had returned in haste to the elephant, had artistically extracted from it the two brats,had shared with them some sort of breakfast which he had invented, and had then gone away, confiding them to that good mother, the street, who had brought him up, almost entirely. On leaving them, he had appointed to meet them at the same spot in the evening, and had left them this discourse by way of a farewell: "I break a cane, otherwise expressed, I cut my stick, or, as they say at the court, I file off. If you don't find papa and mamma, young 'uns, come back here this evening. I'll scramble you up some supper, and I'll give you a shakedown." The two children, picked up by some policeman and placed in the refuge, or stolen by some mountebank, or having simply strayed off in that immense Chinese puzzle of a Paris, did not return. The lowest depths of the actual social world are full of these lost traces. Gavroche did not see them again. Ten or twelve weeks had elapsed since that night. More than once he had scratched the back of his head and said: "Where the devil are my two children?"
In the meantime, he had arrived, pistol in hand, in the Rue du Pont-aux-Choux. He noticed that there was but one shop open in that street, and, a matter worthy of reflection, that was a pastry-cook's shop. This presented a providential occasion to eat another apple-turnover before entering the unknown. Gavroche halted, fumbled in his fob, turned his pocket inside out, found nothing, not even a sou, and began to shout: "Help!" 
It is hard to miss the last cake.
Nevertheless, Gavroche pursued his way.
Two minutes later he was in the Rue Saint-Louis. While traversing the Rue du Parc-Royal, he felt called upon to make good the loss of the apple-turnover which had been impossible, and he indulged himself in the immense delight of tearing down the theatre posters in broad daylight.
A little further on, on catching sight of a group of comfortable-looking persons, who seemed to be landed proprietors, he shrugged his shoulders and spit out at random before him this mouthful of philosophical bile as they passed: 
"How fat those moneyed men are! They're drunk! They just wallow in good dinners. Ask 'em what they do with their money. They don't know. They eat it, that's what they do! As much as their bellies will hold."
人民和军队在兵工厂前发生冲突以后，跟在柩车后紧压着（不妨这样说）送葬行列的头部的人群，这时已不得不折回往后退，前面挤后面，这样一来，连续几条林荫大道上的队伍顿时一片混乱，有如退潮时的骇人情景。人流激荡，行列瓦解，人人奔跑，溃散，躲藏，有的高声叫喊向前冲击，有的面色苍白各自逃窜。林荫大道上的人群有如江河的水，一转瞬间，向左右两岸冲决泛滥，象开了闸门似的，同时注入那二百条大街小巷。这时，有个衣服破烂的男孩，从梅尼孟丹街走下来，手里捏着一枝刚从贝尔维尔坡上采来的盛开的金链花，走到一个卖破烂妇人的店门前，一眼瞧见了柜台上的长管手枪，便把手里的花枝扔在街上，叫道：
“我说，大娘，您这玩意儿，我借去用用。”
他抓起那手枪便逃。
两分钟过后，一大群涌向阿麦洛街和巴斯街的吓破了胆往前奔窜的资产阶级，碰到这孩子一面挥动着手枪，一面唱着：
晚上一点看不见，
白天处处阳光照。
先生收到匿名信，
乱抓头发心烦躁。
你们应当修修德，
芙蓉裙子尖尖帽。
这男孩便是小伽弗洛什。他正要去投入战斗。
走到林荫大道上，他发现那手枪没有撞针。
他用来调节步伐的这首歌和他信口唱出的其他一切曲子，是谁编的？我们答不上。谁知道？也许就是他编的。伽弗洛什原就熟悉民间流行的种种歌谣，他又常配上自己的腔调。他是小精灵和小淘气，他常把天籁之音和巴黎的声调和成一锅大杂烩。他把鸣禽的节目和车间的节目组合起来。他认识几个学画的小伙子，这是和他意气相投的一伙。据说他当过三个月的印刷业学徒。有一天他还替法兰西学院的院士巴乌尔－洛尔米安办过一件事。伽弗洛什是个有文学修养的野孩子。
在那凄风苦雨的夜晚，伽弗洛什把两个小把戏留宿在大象里，却没料到他所接待的正是他的亲兄弟，他替老天爷行了一件善事。他在晚上救了他的两个兄弟，早上又救了他的父亲，他便是这样过了那一夜的。天刚亮时他离开了芭蕾舞街，赶忙回到他那大象里，轻轻巧巧地把两个孩子从象肚子里取出来，和他们一同分享了一顿不三不四由他自己创造出来的早餐，随即和他们分了手，把他们交给了那位叫做街道的好妈妈，也就是从前多少教养过他自己的那位好妈妈。和他们分手时，他和他们约好晚上在原处相会，并向他们作了这样一段临别的讲演：“我要折断手杖了，换句话说，我要开小差了，或者，按照王宫里的说法，我要溜之大吉了。小乖乖们，要是你们找不着爹妈，今晚便回到这里来。我请你们吃夜宵，还留你们过夜。”那两个孩子，也许是被什么警察收留关进拘留所了，或是被什么江湖艺人拐走了，或者压根儿就是迷失在这个无边无际的巴黎迷宫里了，他们没有回来。今日社会的底层是充满了这种失踪事件的。伽弗洛什不曾和他们再见过面。从那一夜起，过了十个或十二个星期，他还不时搔着头说：“我那两个孩子究竟到哪儿去了？”
这时，他手里捏着那支手枪，走到了白菜桥街。他注意到这条街上只剩下一间商店是开着门的，并且，值得令人深思的是，那是一间糕饼店。真是上苍安排的一个好机会，要他在进入茫茫宇宙之前再吃一个苹果饺。伽弗洛什停下来，摸摸自己的裤口袋，搜遍了背心口袋，翻过了褂子口袋，什么也没有找出来，一个钱也没有，他只得大声喊道：“救命啊！”
人生最后的一个饼，却吃不到嘴，这确是难受的。
伽弗洛什却不因此而中止前进。
两分钟过后，他到了圣路易街。在穿过御花园街时，他感到需要补偿一下那个无法得到的苹果饺，便怀着无比欢畅的心情，趁着天色还亮，把那些剧场的海报一张张撕了个痛快。
再远一点，他望见一群红光满面财主模样的人打他眼前走过，他耸了耸肩，随口吐出了这样一嘴富有哲理的苦水：“这些吃利息的，养得好肥啊！这些家伙，有吃有喝，天天埋在酒肉堆里。你去问问他们，他们的钱是怎么花去的。他们准答不上。他们把钱吞了，这还不简单！全在他们的肚子里。”
Part 4 Book 11 Chapter 2 Gavroche on the March
The brandishing of a triggerless pistol, grasped in one's hand in the open street, is so much of a public function that Gavroche felt his fervor increasing with every moment. Amid the scraps of the Marseillaise which he was singing, he shouted:--
"All goes well. I suffer a great deal in my left paw, I'm all broken up with rheumatism, but I'm satisfied, citizens. All that the bourgeois have to do is to bear themselves well, I'll sneeze them out subversive couplets. What are the police spies? Dogs. And I'd just like to have one of them at the end of my pistol. I'm just from the boulevard, my friends. It's getting hot there, it's getting into a little boil, it's simmering. It's time to skim the pot. Forward march, men! Let an impure blood inundate the furrows! I give my days to my country, I shall never see my concubine more, Nini, finished, yes, Nini? But never mind! Long live joy! Let's fight, crebleu! I've had enough of despotism." 
At that moment, the horse of a lancer of the National Guard having fallen, Gavroche laid his pistol on the pavement, and picked up the man, then he assisted in raising the horse. After which he picked up his pistol and resumed his way. In the Rue de Thorigny, all was peace and silence. This apathy, peculiar to the Marais, presented a contrast with the vast surrounding uproar. Four gossips were chatting in a doorway.
Scotland has trios of witches, Paris has quartettes of old gossiping hags; and the "Thou shalt be King" could be quite as mournfully hurled at Bonaparte in the Carrefour Baudoyer as at Macbeth on the heath of Armuyr. The croak would be almost identical.
The gossips of the Rue de Thorigny busied themselves only with their own concerns. Three of them were portresses, and the fourth was a rag-picker with her basket on her back.
All four of them seemed to be standing at the four corners of old age, which are decrepitude, decay, ruin, and sadness. 
The rag-picker was humble. In this open-air society, it is the rag-picker who salutes and the portress who patronizes. This is caused by the corner for refuse, which is fat or lean, according to the will of the portresses, and after the fancy of the one who makes the heap. There may be kindness in the broom. 
This rag-picker was a grateful creature, and she smiled, with what a smile! On the three portresses. Things of this nature were said:-- 
"Ah, by the way, is your cat still cross?"
"Good gracious, cats are naturally the enemies of dogs, you know. It's the dogs who complain."
"And people also."
"But the fleas from a cat don't go after people."
"That's not the trouble, dogs are dangerous. I remember one year when there were so many dogs that it was necessary to put it in the newspapers. That was at the time when there were at the Tuileries great sheep that drew the little carriage of the King of Rome. Do you remember the King of Rome?"
"I liked the Duc de Bordeau better."
"I knew Louis XVIII. I prefer Louis XVIII."
"Meat is awfully dear, isn't it, Mother Patagon?"
"Ah! don't mention it, the butcher's shop is a horror. A horrible horror--one can't afford anything but the poor cuts nowadays." 
Here the rag-picker interposed:--
"Ladies, business is dull. The refuse heaps are miserable. No one throws anything away any more. They eat everything." 
"There are poorer people than you, la Vargouleme."
"Ah, that's true," replied the rag-picker, with deference, "I have a profession."
A pause succeeded, and the rag-picker, yielding to that necessity for boasting which lies at the bottom of man, added:--
"In the morning, on my return home, I pick over my basket, I sort my things. This makes heaps in my room. I put the rags in a basket, the cores and stalks in a bucket, the linen in my cupboard, the woollen stuff in my commode, the old papers in the corner of the window, the things that are good to eat in my bowl, the bits of glass in my fireplace, the old shoes behind my door, and the bones under my bed."
Gavroche had stopped behind her and was listening.
"Old ladies," said he, "what do you mean by talking politics?"
He was assailed by a broadside, composed of a quadruple howl.
"Here's another rascal."
"What's that he's got in his paddle? A pistol?"
"Well, I'd like to know what sort of a beggar's brat this is?"
"That sort of animal is never easy unless he's overturning the authorities."
Gavroche disdainfully contented himself, by way of reprisal, with elevating the tip of his nose with his thumb and opening his hand wide.
The rag-picker cried:--
"You malicious, bare-pawed little wretch!"
The one who answered to the name of Patagon clapped her hands together in horror.
"There's going to be evil doings, that's certain. The errand-boy next door has a little pointed beard, I have seen him pass every day with a young person in a pink bonnet on his arm; to-day I saw him pass, and he had a gun on his arm. Mame Bacheux says, that last week there was a revolution at--at--at--where's the calf!--at Pontoise. And then, there you see him, that horrid scamp, with his pistol! It seems that the Celestins are full of pistols. What do you suppose the Government can do with good-for-nothings who don't know how to do anything but contrive ways of upsetting the world, when we had just begun to get a little quiet after all the misfortunes that have happened, good Lord! To that poor queen whom I saw pass in the tumbril! And all this is going to make tobacco dearer. It's infamous! And I shall certainly go to see him beheaded on the guillotine, the wretch!"
"You've got the sniffles, old lady," said Gavroche. "Blow your promontory."
And he passed on. When he was in the Rue Pavee, the rag-picker occurred to his mind, and he indulged in this soliloquy:-- 
"You're in the wrong to insult the revolutionists, Mother Dust-Heap-Corner.This pistol is in your interests. It's so that you may have more good things to eat in your basket." 
All at once, he heard a shout behind him; it was the portress Patagon who had followed him, and who was shaking her fist at him in the distance and crying:--
"You're nothing but a bastard."
"Oh! Come now," said Gavroche, "I don't care a brass farthing for that!"
Shortly afterwards, he passed the Hotel Lamoignon. There he uttered this appeal:--
"Forward march to the battle!" 
And he was seized with a fit of melancholy. He gazed at his pistol with an air of reproach which seemed an attempt to appease it:--
"I'm going off, said he, "but you won't go off!"
One dog may distract the attention from another dog.[45] A very gaunt poodle came along at the moment. Gavroche felt compassion for him. 
[45] Chien, dog, trigger.
"My poor doggy," said he, "you must have gone and swallowed a cask, for all the hoops are visible."
Then he directed his course towards l'Orme-Saint-Gervais.
捏着一支手枪，一路招摇过市，尽管它没有撞针，这对官家来说总还是件大事，因此伽弗洛什越走越带劲。他大喊大叫，同时还支离破碎地唱着《马赛曲》：
“全都好。我的左蹄痛得惨。我的风湿毁了我，但是，公民们，我高兴。资产阶级只要稳得住，我来替他们哼点拆台歌。特务是什么？是群狗。狗杂种！我们对狗一定要恭敬。如果我这枪也有一条狗①，那又多么好。我的朋友们，我从大路来，锅子已烧烫，肉汤已翻滚，就要沸腾了，清除渣滓的时候已来到。前进，好样的！让那肮脏的血浇灌我们的田亩！为祖国，我献出我的生命，我不会再见我的小老婆了，呢，呢，完蛋了，是的，妮妮！这算什么，欢乐万岁！战斗，他妈的！专制主义，我够了。” 
①法语中，狗和撞针是同一个字（chien）。
这时，国民自卫军的一个长矛兵骑着马走来，马摔倒了，伽弗洛什把手枪放在地上，扶起那人，继又帮他扶起那匹马。
这之后他拾起手枪往前走。
托里尼街，一切平静。这种麻痹状态是沼泽区所特有的，和四周一大片喧杂人声恰成对比。四个老婆子聚在一家大门口聊天。苏格兰有巫婆三重唱，巴黎却有老妈妈四重唱。在阿尔木伊的荒原上，有人向麦克白①说：“你将做国王。”这句话也许又有人在博多瓦耶岔路口阴森森地向波拿巴②说过了。 
①据莎士比亚的同名戏剧，苏格兰爵士麦克白在出征归国途中，遇见三个巫婆，说他将做国王。他便谋害国王，自立为王，但得不到臣民的拥护，死在战场上。
②指拿破仑第三。　
这几乎是同样一种老鸦叫。
托里尼街的这伙老婆子只关心她们自己的事。其中的三个是看门的。另一个是拾破烂的，她背上背个筐，手里提着一根带钩的棍。
她们四个仿佛是在人生晚年的枯竭、凋残、衰颓、愁惨这四只角上，各占一角。
那拾破烂的妇人，态度谦恭，在这伙立在风中的妇人里，拾破烂的问安问好，看大门的关怀照顾。这是由于墙角里的破烂堆由门房支配，或肥或瘦，取决于堆积人一时的心情。扫帚下也大有出入。
那个背筐拾破烂的妇人识得好歹，她对那三个看门婆微笑，何等的微笑！她们谈着这样一些事：
“可了不得，您的猫儿还是那么凶吗？”
“我的天主，猫儿，您知道，生来就是狗的对头。叫苦的倒是那些狗呢。”
“人也一样叫苦呢。”
“可猫的跳蚤不跟人走。”
“这倒不用说它了。狗，总是危险的。我记得有一年，狗太多了。报纸上便不得不把这事报导出来。那时，杜伊勒里宫还有许多大绵羊拉着罗马王的小车子，您还记得罗马王吗？”
“我觉得波尔多公爵更讨人喜欢些。”
“我，我看见过路易十七。我比较喜欢路易十七。”
“肉又涨价了，巴塔贡妈！”
“啊！不用提了。提到肉，真是糟透了。糟到顶了。除了一点筋筋拉拉的肉渣以外，啥也买不到了。”
谈到这儿，那拾破烂的妇人抢着说：
“各位大姐，我这活计才不好干呢。垃圾堆也全是干巴巴的了。谁也不再丢什么，全吃下去了。”
“也还有比我们更穷的呢，瓦古莱姆妈。”
“是啊，这是真话，”那拾破烂的妇人谦卑地说，“我总算还有个职业。”
谈话停了一下。那拾破烂的妇人被想夸张的人类本性所驱使，接着又说：
“早上回家，我便理这筐子，我做经理工作（大概是想说清理工作）。我屋里摆满一堆又一堆的东西。我把碎布放在篮子里，水果心子、菜帮子放在木盆里，汗衣汗裤放在我的壁橱里，毛织品放在我的五斗柜里，废纸放在窗角上，那些能吃的东西放在我的瓢里，碎玻璃放在壁炉里，破鞋破袜放在门背后，骨头放在我的床底下。”
伽弗洛什正立在她们背后听。
“老婆子们，”他说，“你们为什么谈政治？”
四张嘴，象一阵排炮，齐向他射来。
“又来了一个短命鬼。”
“他那鬼爪子里抓个啥玩意儿？一支手枪！”
“真不象话，你这小化子！”
“这些家伙不推翻官府便安顿不下来。”
伽弗洛什满不在乎，作为反击，只用大拇指掀起鼻尖，并张开手掌。
拾破烂的妇人嚷起来：
“光着脚的坏蛋！”
刚才代表巴塔贡妈答话的那老婆子，没好气，拍着双手说：
“准出倒霉事，没错。那边那个留一撮小胡子的小坏种，我每天早上都看见他搂着一个戴粉红帽子的姑娘的胳膊打这儿走过，今天我又看见他走过，可他搂着一支步枪。巴舍妈说上星期发生了一场革命，在……在……在……一下想不起来了！在蓬图瓦兹。而这一下你们又瞧见这个叫人作呕的小鬼拿着一支手枪！我听人说，则肋斯定全架起大炮。我们已吃过许多苦头，现在总算能过稍微安顿一点的日子了，这些坏种却又要惹麻烦，您叫政府怎么办？慈悲的天主，那位可怜巴巴坐在囚车里打我面前走过的王后！这一切又得抬高烟叶的价钱。真不要脸！总有一天，我会看见你上断头台的，坏蛋！”
“你在用鼻子吸气，我的老相好，”伽弗洛什说，“擤擤你那烟囱管吧。”①他接着就走开了。 
①擤鼻子，在法语中又解释为“少管闲事”。　
走到铺石街，他又想起了那拾破烂的婆子，独自说了这样一段话：
“你侮辱革命的人，你想错了，扒墙角旮旯的妈妈。这手枪，对你是有好处的。是为了让你能在那背萝里多装点好吃的东西。”
他忽然听到背后有声音，那看门的妇人，巴塔贡，跟了上来，在远处举起一个拳头喊着说：
“你只是个杂种！”
“那，”伽弗洛什说，“我深深感到不用我操心。”
不久，他走过拉莫瓦尼翁公馆，在那门前发出了这一号召：
“出发去战斗！”
他随即又受到一阵凄切心情的侵扰。他带着惋惜的神情望着那支手枪，象要去打动它似的。他对它说：
“我已出发了，而你却发不出。”
这条狗可以使人忘掉那条狗。迎面走来一条皮包骨头的卷毛狗。伽弗洛什心里一阵难受。
“我可怜的嘟嘟，”他对那瘦狗说，“你吞了一个大酒桶吧？
你浑身是桶箍。”
随后，他向圣热尔韦榆树走去。
Part 4 Book 11 Chapter 3 Just Indignation of a Hair-dresser
The worthy hair-dresser who had chased from his shop the two little fellows to whom Gavroche had opened the paternal interior of the elephant was at that moment in his shop engaged in shaving an old soldier of the legion who had served under the Empire. They were talking. The hair-dresser had, naturally, spoken to the veteran of the riot, then of General Lamarque, and from Lamarque they had passed to the Emperor. Thence sprang up a conversation between barber and soldier which Prudhomme, had he been present, would have enriched with arabesques, and which he would have entitled: "Dialogue between the razor and the sword."
"How did the Emperor ride, sir?" said the barber.
"Badly. He did not know how to fall--so he never fell."
"Did he have fine horses? He must have had fine horses!"
"On the day when he gave me my cross, I noticed his beast. It was a racing mare, perfectly white. Her ears were very wide apart, her saddle deep, a fine head marked with a black star, a very long neck, strongly articulated knees, prominent ribs, oblique shoulders and a powerful crupper. A little more than fifteen hands in height." 
"A pretty horse," remarked the hair-dresser.
"It was His Majesty's beast."
The hair-dresser felt, that after this observation, a short silence would be fitting, so he conformed himself to it, and then went on:-- 
"The Emperor was never wounded but once, was he, sir?"
The old soldier replied with the calm and sovereign tone of a man who had been there:--
"In the heel. At Ratisbon. I never saw him so well dressed as on that day. He was as neat as a new sou."
"And you, Mr. Veteran, you must have been often wounded?"
"I?" said the soldier, "ah! Not to amount to anything. At Marengo, I received two sabre-blows on the back of my neck, a bullet in the right arm at Austerlitz, another in the left hip at Jena. At Friedland, a thrust from a bayonet, there,--at the Moskowa seven or eight lance-thrusts, no matter where, at Lutzen a splinter of a shell crushed one of my fingers. Ah! And then at Waterloo, a ball from a biscaien in the thigh, that's all.""How fine that is!" exclaimed the hair-dresser, in Pindaric accents, "to die on the field of battle! On my word of honor, rather than die in bed, of an illness, slowly, a bit by bit each day, with drugs, cataplasms, syringes, medicines, I should prefer to receive a cannon-ball in my belly!"
"You're not over fastidious," said the soldier.
He had hardly spoken when a fearful crash shook the shop. The show-window had suddenly been fractured.
The wig-maker turned pale. 
"Ah, good God!" he exclaimed, "it's one of them!"
"What?"
"A cannon-ball."
"Here it is," said the soldier.
And he picked up something that was rolling about the floor. It was a pebble.
The hair-dresser ran to the broken window and beheld Gavroche fleeing at the full speed, towards the Marche Saint-Jean. As he passed the hair-dresser's shop Gavroche, who had the two brats still in his mind, had not been able to resist the impulse to say good day to him, and had flung a stone through his panes.
"You see!" shrieked the hair-dresser, who from white had turned blue, "that fellow returns and does mischief for the pure pleasure of it. What has any one done to that gamin?"
从前撵走过伽弗洛什以慈父心肠收容在大象肚子里的那两个孩子的理发师，这时正在店里替一个曾在帝国时期服役的老军人刮胡子，他们同时也谈着话。理发师当然免不了向那老兵谈到这次起义，继又谈到拉马克将军，从拉马克将军又转到了皇帝。这是一个理发师和一个士兵的谈话。普律多姆当时如果在场，他一定会进行艺术加工，题为《剃刀与马刀的对话》。
“先生，”那理发师说，“皇上骑马的本领高明吧？”
“不高明。他不知道从马上下来。但也从没有跌下来过。”
“他有不少好马吧？他应当有不少好马吧？”
“他赐十字勋章给我的那天，我仔细看了看他那牲口。那是一匹雌的跑马，浑身全白。两只耳朵分得很开，脊梁凹。细长的头上有一颗黑星，脖子很长，膝骨非常突出，肋宽，肩斜，臀部壮大。比十五个巴尔姆①稍高一点。” 
①巴尔姆（palme），意大利民间的一种长度计算单位，随地区而异。　
“好漂亮的马。”理发师说。
“是皇帝陛下的牲口。”
理发师感到在听到这样的称号之后稍稍肃静一下是适当的。他这样做了以后，接着又说：
“皇上只受过一次伤，不是吗，先生？”
老军人以一个当时目击者所应有的平静庄严口吻回答说：
“脚跟上。在雷根斯堡战场。我从没有见过他穿得象那天那样讲究。他那天洁净得象个新的苏。
“您呢，退伍军人先生，您总免不了要常常挂点彩吧。”
“我，”那军人说，“啊！没有什么大了不起的。在马伦哥我脖子后给人砍了两刀，在奥斯特里茨右臂吃过一颗枪弹，在耶拿左边屁股也吃过一颗，在弗里德兰挨了一刺刀，刺在……这儿，在莫斯科河，胡乱挨了七、八下长矛，在吕岑一颗开花弹炸掉了我的一个手指……啊！还有，在滑铁卢，一统打在我的大腿上。就这些。”
“这有多好，”理发师带着铿锵的语调高声赞叹着，“死在战场上，有多好！我说句真心话，与其害病，吃药，贴膏药，灌肠，请医生，搞到身体一天不如一天，躺在一张破床上慢悠悠地死去，我宁肯在肚子上挨一炮弹！”
“您不怕难受。”那军人说。
他的话刚说完，一种爆破声，好不吓人，震撼着那店子。橱窗上的一大块玻璃突然开了花。
“啊，天主！”他喊着说，“当真就来了一颗！”
“一颗什么？”
“炮弹。”
“就在这儿。”那军人说。
他拾起一颗正在地上滚着的什么，是一颗圆石子。
理发师奔向碎了的玻璃，看见伽弗洛什正朝着圣约翰市场飞跑。他从理发店门前走过时心里正想着那两个小朋友，抑制不住要向他问好的愿望便朝着他的玻璃橱窗扔了块石头。
“您瞧见了！”那脸色已由白转青的理发师吼着说，“这家伙为作恶而作恶。难道是我惹了他，这野孩子？”
Part 4 Book 11 Chapter 4 The Child is amazed at the Old Man
In the meantime, in the Marche Saint-Jean, where the post had already been disarmed, Gavroche had just "effected a junction" with a band led by Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Feuilly. They were armed after a fashion. Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire had found them and swelled the group. Enjolras had a double-barrelled hunting-gun, Combeferre the gun of a National Guard bearing the number of his legion, and in his belt, two pistols which his unbuttoned coat allowed to be seen, Jean Prouvaire an old cavalry musket, Bahorel a rifle; Courfeyrac was brandishing an unsheathed sword-cane. Feuilly, with a naked sword in his hand, marched at their head shouting: "Long live Poland!"
They reached the Quai Morland. Cravatless, hatless, breathless, soaked by the rain, with lightning in their eyes. Gavroche accosted them calmly:--
"Where are we going?"
"Come along," said Courfeyrac.
Behind Feuilly marched, or rather bounded, Bahorel, who was like a fish in water in a riot. He wore a scarlet waistcoat, and indulged in the sort of words which break everything. His waistcoat astounded a passer-by, who cried in bewilderment:--
"Here are the reds!"
"The reds, the reds!" retorted Bahorel. "A queer kind of fear, bourgeois. For my part I don't tremble before a poppy, the little red hat inspires me with no alarm. Take my advice, bourgeois, let's leave fear of the red to horned cattle."
He caught sight of a corner of the wall on which was placarded the most peaceable sheet of paper in the world, a permission to eat eggs, a Lenten admonition addressed by the Archbishop of Paris to his "flock." 
Bahorel exclaimed:--
"`Flock'; a polite way of saying geese."
And he tore the charge from the nail. This conquered Gavroche. From that instant Gavroche set himself to study Bahorel. 
"Bahorel," observed Enjolras, "you are wrong. You should have let that charge alone, he is not the person with whom we have to deal, you are wasting your wrath to no purpose. Take care of your supply. One does not fire out of the ranks with the soul any more than with a gun."
"Each one in his own fashion, Enjolras," retorted Bahorel. "This bishop's prose shocks me; I want to eat eggs without being permitted. Your style is the hot and cold; I am amusing myself. Besides, I'm not wasting myself, I'm getting a start; and if I tore down that charge, Hercle! 'twas only to whet my appetite."
This word, Hercle, struck Gavroche. He sought all occasions for learning, and that tearer-down of posters possessed his esteem. He inquired of him:--
"What does Hercle mean?"
Bahorel answered:--
"It means cursed name of a dog, in Latin."
Here Bahorel recognized at a window a pale young man with a black beard who was watching them as they passed, probably a Friend of the A B C. He shouted to him:--
"Quick, cartridges, para bellum."
"A fine man! that's true," said Gavroche, who now understood Latin.
A tumultuous retinue accompanied them,--students, artists, young men affiliated to the Cougourde of Aix, artisans, longshoremen, armed with clubs and bayonets; some, like Combeferre, with pistols thrust into their trousers.
An old man, who appeared to be extremely aged, was walking in the band.
He had no arms, and he made great haste, so that he might not be left behind, although he had a thoughtful air. 
Gavroche caught sight of him:--
"Keksekca?" said he to Courfeyrac.
"He's an old duffer."
It was M. Mabeuf.
这时，圣约翰市场的据点已被缴械，伽弗洛什走来，正好和安灼拉、古费拉克、公白飞、弗以伊率领的人会了师。他们或多或少是武装了的。巴阿雷和让·勃鲁维尔也找到他们，便更壮大了那支队伍。安灼拉有一支双响猎枪，公白飞有一支国民自卫军编了番号的步枪，从他那件没有扣好的骑马服里还露出两支手枪，插在腰带上。让·勃鲁维尔有一支旧式马枪，巴阿雷是一支短枪，古费拉克挥动着一根去了套子的带剑的手杖。弗以伊握着一把出了鞘的马刀走在前面，喊着：“波兰万岁！”①他们走到了莫尔朗河沿，没有领带，没有帽子，喘着气，淋着雨，眼睛闪闪发光。伽弗洛什态度从容，和他们交谈起来。 
①当时波兰正全国起义，争取独立。
“我们去什么地方？”
“跟着我们走。”古费拉克说。
巴阿雷走在弗以伊的后面，象急流中的一条鱼，蹦蹦跳跳。他穿了一件鲜红的坎肩，说话全没忌讳。他那坎肩惊动了一个过路人，那人丧了胆似的大声说：
“红党来了！”
“红党，红党！”巴阿雷反击说，“怕得可笑，资产阶级。至于我，我在虞美人跟前一点也不发抖，小红帽①也不会引起我恐怖。资产阶级，相信我，把怕红病留给那些生角的动物②去害吧。”
他瞧见墙角上贴着一张布告，那是一张世界上最不碍事的纸，巴黎大主教准许在封斋节期间吃蛋类的文告，是给他的那些“羔羊”们看的。
巴阿雷大声说：
“羔羊，猪崽的文雅称号。”
他顺手把那文告从墙上撕下来。这一行动征服了伽弗洛什。从这时起，伽弗洛什开始注意巴阿雷了。
“巴阿雷，”安灼拉指出，“你不该这样。那布告，不动它也可以。我们今天的事不是针对它的，你把你的火气花得太不值得了。留点力气吧。不到时候不浪费力量，无论是人的精力还是枪的火力。”
“各人的脾胃不同，安灼拉，”巴阿雷反驳说，“主教的那篇文章叫我生气，我吃鸡蛋不用别人准许。你的性格是内热外冷的，我呢，爱图个痛快。我并没有消耗力量，我正来劲呢，我撕那布告，以赫拉克勒斯的名义③！正是要开开胃。” 
①小红帽是十七世纪法国作家贝洛写的一篇童话《小红帽》里的主角。
②头生角犹如说戴绿帽子。生角的动物也指牛，牛见了红色就激怒。
③赫拉克勒斯，希腊神话里的英雄，曾完成十二项艰巨的工作。
赫拉克勒斯这个词引起了伽弗洛什的注意。他素来喜欢随时寻找机会来丰富自己的知识，加以那位布告撕毁者是值得钦佩的。他问他说：
“赫拉克勒斯是什么意思？”
巴阿雷回答说：
“那是拉丁语里的该死。”
在这里，巴阿雷认出一个白净脸黑胡须的年轻小伙子在一个窗口望着他们走过，那也许是ABC社的一个朋友吧。他向他喊道：
“快，枪弹！para　bellum。”
“美男子！确是。”伽弗洛什说。他现在懂拉丁语了①。 
①Para　be11um，准备战斗，bellum（战斗）和法语bel　homme（美男子）发音相同。
一长列喧闹的人伴随着他们，大学生、艺术家、艾克斯苦古尔德社的社员们、工人、码头工人，有的拿着棍棒，有的拿着刺刀，有几个和公白飞一样，裤腰里插着手枪。夹在这一群人里往前走的还有一个老人，一个显得很老的老人。他什么武器也没有。他那神气仿佛是在想着什么，但却仍奋力前进，唯恐落在人后。伽弗洛什发现了他。
“这是什么？”他问公白飞。
“是个老人。”
这是马白夫先生。
Part 4 Book 11 Chapter 5 The Old Man
Let us recount what had taken place.
Enjolras and his friends had been on the Boulevard Bourdon, near the public storehouses, at the moment when the dragoons had made their charge. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre were among those who had taken to the Rue Bassompierre, shouting: "To the barricades!" In the Rue Lesdiguieres they had met an old man walking along. What had attracted their attention was that the goodman was walking in a zig-zag, as though he were intoxicated. Moreover, he had his hat in his hand, although it had been raining all the morning, and was raining pretty briskly at the very time. Courfeyrac had recognized Father Mabeuf. He knew him through having many times accompanied Marius as far as his door. As he was acquainted with the peaceful and more than timid habits of the old beadle-book-collector, and was amazed at the sight of him in the midst of that uproar, a couple of paces from the cavalry charges, almost in the midst of a fusillade, hatless in the rain, and strolling about among the bullets, he had accosted him, and the following dialogue had been exchanged between the rioter of fire and the octogenarian:-- 
"M. Mabeuf, go to your home."
"Why?"
"There's going to be a row."
"That's well."
"Thrusts with the sword and firing, M. Mabeuf."
"That is well."
"Firing from cannon."
"That is good. Where are the rest of you going?"
"We are going to fling the government to the earth."
"That is good."
And he had set out to follow them. From that moment forth he had not uttered a word. His step had suddenly become firm; artisans had offered him their arms; he had refused with a sign of the head. He advanced nearly to the front rank of the column, with the movement of a man who is marching and the countenance of a man who is sleeping.
"What a fierce old fellow!" muttered the students. The rumor spread through the troop that he was a former member of the Convention,-- an old regicide. The mob had turned in through the Rue de la Verrerie. 
Little Gavroche marched in front with that deafening song which made of him a sort of trumpet. 
He sang: "Voici la lune qui paratt, Quand irons-nous dans la foret? Demandait Charlot a Charlotte.
Tou tou tou Pour Chatou. Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un liard, et qu'une botte. 
"Pour avoir bu de grand matin La rosee a meme le thym, Deux moineaux etaient en ribotte. 
Zi zi zi Pour Passy. Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un liard, et qu'une botte.
"Et ces deux pauvres petits loups, Comme deux grives estaient souls; Une tigre en riait dans sa grotte. 
Don don don Pour Meudon. Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un liard, et qu'une botte.
"L'un jurait et l'autre sacrait. Quand irons nous dans la foret? Demandait Charlot a Charlotte.
Tin tin tin Pour Pantin. Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un liard, et qu'une botte."[46]
They directed their course towards Saint-Merry.
[46] Here is the morn appearing. When shall we go to the forest, Charlot asked Charlotte. Tou, tou, tou, for Chatou, I have but one God, one King, one half-farthing, and one boot. And these two poor little wolves were as tipsy as sparrows from having drunk dew and thyme very early in the morning. And these two poor little things were as drunk as thrushes in a vineyard; a tiger laughed at them in his cave. The one cursed, the other swore. When shall we go to the forest? Charlot asked Charlotte.
我们先谈谈经过。
当龙骑兵冲击时，安灼拉和他的朋友们正走到布尔东林荫大道的储备粮仓附近。安灼拉、古费拉克、公白飞和另外许多人，都沿着巴松比尔街一面走一面喊着：“到街垒去。”走到雷迪吉埃街时，他们遇见一个老人，也在走着。
引起他们注意的是那老人走起路来东倒西歪，象喝醉了酒似的。此外，尽管那天早晨总在下雨，而且也下得相当大，他却把帽子捏在手里。古费拉克认出了那是马白夫先生。他认识他，是因为他曾多次陪送马吕斯直到他的大门口。他早知道这个年老的有藏书癖的教会事务员，一贯爱好清静，胆小怕事，现在看见他在这嘈杂的环境中，离马队的冲击才两步路，几乎是在炮火中，在雨里脱掉帽子，走在流弹横飞的地区，不免大吃一惊。他向他打了个招呼。这二十五岁的起义战士便和那八十岁的老人作了这样一段对话：
“马白夫先生，您回家去吧。”
“为什么？”
“这儿会出乱子呢。”
“好嘛。”
“马刀对砍，步枪乱蹦呢。”
“好嘛。”
“大炮要轰。”
“好嘛。你们去什么地方，你们这些人？”
“我们去把政府推翻在地上。”
“好嘛。”
他立即跟着他们往前走。从这以后他一句话也没有说。他的步伐忽然稳健起来了，有些工人想搀着他的胳膊走。他摇摇头，拒绝了。他几乎是走在行列的最前列，他的动作是前进，他的神情却仿佛是睡着了。
“好一个硬骨头老家伙！”大学生们在窃窃私语。消息传遍了整个队伍，有人说，这人当过国民公会代表，也有人说，这老头投票判处国王死刑。
队伍走进了玻璃厂街。小伽弗洛什走在前面大声歌唱，用以代替进军的号角。他唱道：
月亮已经上来了，
我们几时去森林？
小查理问小查丽。
嘟，嘟，嘟，去沙图。
我只有一个上帝、一个国王、一文小钱、一只靴。
百里香上有朝露，
飞来两只小山雀，
喝了香露还要喝。
吱，吱，吱，去巴喜。
我只有一个上帝、一个国王、一文小钱、一只靴。
可怜两只小狼崽，
醉得象那画眉鸟，
老虎在洞里笑它们。
咚，咚，咚，去默东。
我只有一个上帝、一个国王、一文小钱、一只靴。
你发誓来我赌咒，
我们几时去森林？
小查理问小查丽。
噹，噹，噹，去庞坦。
我只有一个上帝、一个国王、一文小钱、一只靴。
他们朝着圣美里走去。
Part 4 Book 11 Chapter 6 Recruits
The band augmented every moment. Near the Rue des Billettes, a man of lofty stature, whose hair was turning gray, and whose bold and daring mien was remarked by Courfeyrac, Enjolras,and Combeferre, but whom none of them knew, joined them. Gavroche, who was occupied in singing, whistling, humming, running on ahead and pounding on the shutters of the shops with the butt of his triggerless pistol; paid no attention to this man.
It chanced that in the Rue de la Verrerie, they passed in front of Courfeyrac's door.
"This happens just right," said Courfeyrac, "I have forgotten my purse, and I have lost my hat."
He quitted the mob and ran up to his quarters at full speed. He seized an old hat and his purse. 
He also seized a large square coffer, of the dimensions of a large valise, which was concealed under his soiled linen. 
As he descended again at a run, the portress hailed him:--
"Monsieur de Courfeyrac!"
"What's your name, portress?"
The portress stood bewildered.
"Why, you know perfectly well, I'm the concierge; my name is Mother Veuvain."
"Well, if you call me Monsieur de Courfeyrac again, I shall call you Mother de Veuvain. Now speak, what's the matter? What do you want?"
"There is some one who wants to speak with you."
"Who is it?"
"I don't know."
"Where is he?"
"In my lodge."
"The devil!" ejaculated Courfeyrac.
"But the person has been waiting your return for over an hour," said the portress.
At the same time, a sort of pale, thin, small, freckled, and youthful artisan, clad in a tattered blouse and patched trousers of ribbed velvet, and who had rather the air of a girl accoutred as a man than of a man, emerged from the lodge and said to Courfeyrac in a voice which was not the least in the world like a woman's voice:--
"Monsieur Marius, if you please."
"He is not here."
"Will he return this evening?"
"I know nothing about it."
And Courfeyrac added:--
"For my part, I shall not return."
The young man gazed steadily at him and said:--
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Where are you going, then?"
"What business is that of yours?"
"Would you like to have me carry your coffer for you?"
"I am going to the barricades."
"Would you like to have me go with you?"
"If you like!" replied Courfeyrac. "The street is free, the pavements belong to every one." 
And he made his escape at a run to join his friends. When he had rejoined them, he gave the coffer to one of them to carry. It was only a quarter of an hour after this that he saw the young man, who had actually followed them.
A mob does not go precisely where it intends. We have explained that a gust of wind carries it away. They overshot Saint-Merry and found themselves, without precisely knowing how, in the Rue Saint-Denis.
 
队伍越走越壮大。到皮埃特街时，一个头发花白的高大个子加入了他们的行列，古费拉克、安灼拉、公白飞，都注意到他那粗犷大胆的容貌，但是没有人认识他。伽弗洛什忙着唱歌，吹口哨，哼调子，走在前面领路，并用他那支没有撞针的手枪的托子敲打那些商店的板窗，没有注意那个人。
进入玻璃厂街，他们从古费拉克的门前走过。
“正好，”古费拉克说，“我忘了带钱包，帽子也丢了。”
他离开队伍，三步当两步地跑到他楼上的屋子里。他拿了一顶旧帽子和他的钱包。他又从一些穿脏了的换洗衣服堆里拿出一只相当大的、有一只大提箱那么大的方匣子。他跑到楼下时，看门女人叫住他。
“德·古费拉克先生！”
“门房太太，您贵姓？”古费拉克顶撞她说。
一下把那看门女人搞傻了。
“您知道的嘛，我是看大门的，我叫富旺妈妈。”
“好，如果您再叫我做德·古费拉克先生，我就要叫您德·富旺妈妈。现在，您说吧，有什么事？有什么话要说？”
“有个人找您。”
“谁？”
“我不知道。”
“在哪儿？”
“在门房里。”
“见鬼！”古费拉克说。
这时，从门房里走出一个工人模样的小伙子，瘦小个子，皮色枯黄，还有斑点，穿一件有洞的布褂子，一条两旁都有补丁的灯芯绒裤子，不象男人，象个穿男孩衣服的女孩，说起话来，天晓得，一点也不象女人的声音。这小伙子问古费拉克说：
“请问马吕斯先生在吗？”
“不在。”
“今晚他会回来吗？”
“我不知道。”
古费拉克又加上一句：
“我是不会回来的了。”
那小伙子定定地望着他，问道：
“为什么？”
“因为。”
“您要去什么地方？”
“这和你有什么相干？”
“您肯让我给您背这匣子吗？”
“我要去街垒呢。”
“您能让我跟您一道去吗？”
“随你便，”古费拉克回答说，“街上谁都可以走。街面上的石块是大家的。”
他随即一溜烟跑去追他那些朋友了。赶上他们，他把匣子交给他们中的一个背着。足足过了一刻钟以后他果然发现那小伙子真跟在他们后面来了。
队伍不一定想去哪里就去哪里。我们已经说过，它是让一阵风吹着跑的。他们走过了圣美里，也不知怎么就走到了圣德尼街。
Part 4 Book 12 Chapter 1 History of Corinthe from its Foundation
The Parisians who nowadays on entering on the Rue Rambuteau at the end near the Halles, notice on their right, opposite the Rue Mondetour, a basket-maker's shop having for its sign a basket in the form of Napoleon the Great with this inscription:--
NAPOLEON IS MADE WHOLLY OF WILLOW, 
have no suspicion of the terrible scenes which this very spot witnessed hardly thirty years ago.
It was there that lay the Rue de la Chanvrerie, which ancient deeds spell Chanverrerie, and the celebrated public-house called Corinthe. 
The reader will remember all that has been said about the barricade effected at this point, and eclipsed, by the way, by the barricade Saint-Merry. It was on this famous barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, now fallen into profound obscurity, that we are about to shed a little light.
May we be permitted to recur, for the sake of clearness in the recital, to the simple means which we have already employed in the case of Waterloo. Persons who wish to picture to themselves in a tolerably exact manner the constitution of the houses which stood at that epoch near the Pointe Saint-Eustache, at the northeast angle of the Halles of Paris, where to-day lies the embouchure of the Rue Rambuteau, have only to imagine an N touching the Rue Saint-Denis with its summit and the Halles with its base, and whose two vertical bars should form the Rue de la Grande-Truanderie, and the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and whose transverse bar should be formed by the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The old Rue Mondetour cut the three strokes of the N at the most crooked angles. So that the labyrinthine confusion of these four streets sufficed to form, on a space three fathoms square, between the Halles and the Rue Saint-Denis on the one hand, and between the Rue du Cygne and the Rue des Precheurs on the other, seven islands of houses, oddly cut up, of varying sizes, placed crosswise and hap-hazard, and barely separated, like the blocks of stone in a dock, by narrow crannies. 
We say narrow crannies, and we can give no more just idea of those dark, contracted, many-angled alleys, lined with eight-story buildings. These buildings were so decrepit that, in the Rue de la Chanvrerie and the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie, the fronts were shored up with beams running from one house to another. The street was narrow and the gutter broad, the pedestrian there walked on a pavement that was always wet, skirting little stalls resembling cellars, big posts encircled with iron hoops, excessive heaps of refuse, and gates armed with enormous, century-old gratings. The Rue Rambuteau has devastated all that.
The name of Mondetour paints marvellously well the sinuosities of that whole set of streets. A little further on, they are found still better expressed by the Rue Pirouette, which ran into the Rue Mondetour. 
The passer-by who got entangled from the Rue Saint-Denis in the Rue de la Chanvrerie beheld it gradually close in before him as though he had entered an elongated funnel. At the end of this street, which was very short, he found further passage barred in the direction of the Halles by a tall row of houses, and he would have thought himself in a blind alley, had he not perceived on the right and left two dark cuts through which he could make his escape. This was the Rue Mondetour, which on one side ran into the Rue de Precheurs, and on the other into the Rue du Cygne and the Petite-Truanderie. At the bottom of this sort of cul-de-sac, at the angle of the cutting on the right, there was to be seen a house which was not so tall as the rest, and which formed a sort of cape in the street. It is in this house, of two stories only, that an illustrious wine-shop had been merrily installed three hundred years before. This tavern created a joyous noise in the very spot which old Theophilus described in the following couplet:--
La branle le squelette horrible D'un pauvre amant qui se pendit.[47]
[47] There swings the horrible skeleton of a poor lover who hung himself.
The situation was good, and tavern-keepers succeeded each other there, from father to son.
In the time of Mathurin Regnier, this cabaret was called the Pot-aux-Roses, and as the rebus was then in fashion, it had for its sign-board, a post (poteau) painted rose-color. In the last century, the worthy Natoire, one of the fantastic masters nowadays despised by the stiff school, having got drunk many times in this wine-shop at the very table where Regnier had drunk his fill, had painted, by way of gratitude, a bunch of Corinth grapes on the pink post. The keeper of the cabaret, in his joy, had changed his device and had caused to be placed in gilt letters beneath the bunch these words: "At the Bunch of Corinth Grapes" ("Au Raisin de Corinthe"). Hence the name of Corinthe. Nothing is more natural to drunken men than ellipses. The ellipsis is the zig-zag of the phrase. Corinthe gradually dethroned the Pot-aux-Roses. The last proprietor of the dynasty, Father Hucheloup, no longer acquainted even with the tradition, had the post painted blue. 
A room on the ground floor, where the bar was situated, one on the first floor containing a billiard-table, a wooden spiral staircase piercing the ceiling, wine on the tables, smoke on the walls, candles in broad daylight,--this was the style of this cabaret. A staircase with a trap-door in the lower room led to the cellar. On the second floor were the lodgings of the Hucheloup family. They were reached by a staircase which was a ladder rather than a staircase, and had for their entrance only a private door in the large room on the first floor. Under the roof, in two mansard attics, were the nests for the servants. The kitchen shared the ground-floor with the tap-room.
Father Hucheloup had, possibly, been born a chemist, but the fact is that he was a cook; people did not confine themselves to drinking alone in his wine-shop, they also ate there. Hucheloup had invented a capital thing which could be eaten nowhere but in his house, stuffed carps, which he called carpes au gras. These were eaten by the light of a tallow candle or of a lamp of the time of Louis XVI.On tables to which were nailed waxed cloths in lieu of table-cloths. People came thither from a distance.Hucheloup, one fine morning, had seen fit to notify passers-by of this "specialty"; he had dipped a brush in a pot of black paint, and as he was an orthographer on his own account, as well as a cook after his own fashion, he had improvised on his wall this remarkable inscription:-- 
CARPES HO GRAS.
One winter, the rain-storms and the showers had taken a fancy to obliterate the S which terminated the first word, and the G which began the third; this is what remained:-- 
CARPE HO RAS.
Time and rain assisting, a humble gastronomical announcement had become a profound piece of advice. 
In this way it came about, that though he knew no French, Father Hucheloup understood Latin, that he had evoked philosophy from his kitchen, and that, desirous simply of effacing Lent, he had equalled Horace. And the striking thing about it was, that that also meant: "Enter my wine-shop."
Nothing of all this is in existence now. The Mondetour labyrinth was disembowelled and widely opened in 1847, and probably no longer exists at the present moment. The Rue de la Chanvrerie and Corinthe have disappeared beneath the pavement of the Rue Rambuteau. 
As we have already said, Corinthe was the meeting-place if not the rallying-point, of Courfeyrac and his friends. It was Grantaire who had discovered Corinthe. He had entered it on account of the Carpe horas, and had returned thither on account of the Carpes au gras. There they drank, there they ate, there they shouted; they did not pay much, they paid badly, they did not pay at all, but they were always welcome. Father Hucheloup was a jovial host.
Hucheloup, that amiable man, as was just said, was a wine-shop-keeper with a mustache; an amusing variety. He always had an ill-tempered air, seemed to wish to intimidate his customers, grumbled at the people who entered his establishment, and had rather the mien of seeking a quarrel with them than of serving them with soup. And yet, we insist upon the word, people were always welcome there. This oddity had attracted customers to his shop, and brought him young men, who said to each other: "Come hear Father Hucheloup growl." He had been a fencing-master. All of a sudden, he would burst out laughing. A big voice, a good fellow. He had a comic foundation under a tragic exterior, he asked nothing better than to frighten you, very much like those snuff-boxes which are in the shape of a pistol. The detonation makes one sneeze.
Mother Hucheloup, his wife, was a bearded and a very homely creature.
About 1830, Father Hucheloup died. With him disappeared the secret of stuffed carps. His inconsolable widow continued to keep the wine-shop. But the cooking deteriorated, and became execrable; the wine, which had always been bad, became fearfully bad. Nevertheless, Courfeyrac and his friends continued to go to Corinthe,-- out of pity, as Bossuet said.
The Widow Hucheloup was breathless and misshapen and given to rustic recollections. She deprived them of their flatness by her pronunciation. She had a way of her own of saying things, which spiced her reminiscences of the village and of her springtime. It had formerly been her delight, so she affirmed, to hear the loups-de-gorge (rouges-gorges) chanter dans les ogrepines (aubepines)--to hear the redbreasts sing in the hawthorn-trees.
The hall on the first floor, where "the restaurant" was situated, was a large and long apartment encumbered with stools, chairs, benches, and tables, and with a crippled, lame, old billiard-table. It was reached by a spiral staircase which terminated in the corner of the room at a square hole like the hatchway of a ship.
This room, lighted by a single narrow window, and by a lamp that was always burning, had the air of a garret. All the four-footed furniture comported itself as though it had but three legs-- the whitewashed walls had for their only ornament the following quatrain in honor of Mame Hucheloup:--
Elle etonne a dix pas, elle epouvente a deux, Une verrue habite en son nez hasardeux; On tremble a chaque instant qu'elle ne vous la mouche Et qu'un beau jour son nez ne tombe dans sa bouche.[48]
[48] She astounds at ten paces, she frightens at two, a wart inhabits her hazardous nose; you tremble every instant lest she should blow it at you, and lest, some fine day, her nose should tumble into her mouth. 
This was scrawled in charcoal on the wall.
Mame Hucheloup, a good likeness, went and came from morning till night before this quatrain with the most perfect tranquillity. Two serving-maids, named Matelote and Gibelotte,[49] and who had never been known by any other names, helped Mame Hucheloup to set on the tables the jugs of poor wine, and the various broths which were served to the hungry patrons in earthenware bowls. Matelote, large, plump, redhaired, and noisy, the favorite ex-sultana of the defunct Hucheloup, was homelier than any mythological monster, be it what it may; still, as it becomes the servant to always keep in the rear of the mistress, she was less homely than Mame Hucheloup. Gibelotte, tall, delicate, white with a lymphatic pallor, with circles round her eyes, and drooping lids, always languid and weary, afflicted with what may be called chronic lassitude, the first up in the house and the last in bed, waited on every one, even the other maid, silently and gently, smiling through her fatigue with a vague and sleepy smile. 
[49] Matelote: a culinary preparation of various fishes. Gibelotte: stewed rabbits.
Before entering the restaurant room, the visitor read on the door the following line written there in chalk by Courfeyrac:--
Regale si tu peux et mange si tu l'oses.[50]
[50] Treat if you can, and eat if you dare.
现在的巴黎人，从菜市场这面走进朗比托街时，会发现在他的右边正对蒙德都街的地方，有一家编制筐篮等物的铺子，铺子的招牌是一个用柳条编的拿破仑大帝的模拟人像，上面写着：
拿破仑完全是个柳条人
过路的人未必料想得到这地方近三十年前所目击的惨状。
这就是当年的麻厂街，更古老的街名是Chanverrerie街，开设在那里的那家著名的酒店叫科林斯。
读者应当还记得，我们前面谈到过一个建立在这里并被圣美里街垒挡住了的街垒。今天这街垒在人们的记忆中已毫无影踪了。我们要瞻望的正是这麻厂街的街垒。
为了叙述方便，请允许我们采用一种简单方法，这方法是我们在叙述滑铁卢战争时采用过的。当时从圣厄斯塔什突角附近到巴黎菜市场的东北角，也就是今天朗比托街的入口处，这一带的房屋原是横七竖八极其紊乱的。对这里的街道，读者如果想有一个比较清晰的概念，不妨假设一个N字母，上从圣德尼街起，下到菜市场止，左右两竖是大化子窝街和麻厂街，两竖中间的斜道是小化子窝街，横穿过这三条街的是极尽弯曲迂回的蒙德都街。在这四条街纵横交错如迷宫似的地方，一方面由菜市场至圣德尼街，一方面由天鹅街至布道修士街，在这一块一百平方托阿斯的土地上，分割成奇形怪状、大小不同、方向各异的七个岛状住房群，正象那建筑工地上随意乱丢的七堆乱石，房屋与房屋之间都只留一条窄缝。
我们说窄缝，是因为我们对那些阴暗、狭窄、转弯抹角、两旁夹着倾斜破旧的九层楼房的小巷找不出更确切的表达方式。那些楼房已经破旧到如此程度，以致在麻厂街和小化子窝街上，两旁房屋的正面都是用大木料面对面互相支撑着的。街窄，但水沟宽，街心终年是湿的，行人得紧靠街边的店铺走，店铺暗到象地窨子，门前竖着打了铁箍的护墙石，垃圾成堆，街旁的小道口上，装有百年以上的古老粗大的铁栏门。这一切都已在修筑朗比托街时一扫而光了。
蒙德都①这名称，确已把这种街道迂回曲折的形象描绘得淋漓尽致。稍远一点，和蒙德都相接的陀螺街这个街名则更好地表达这弯曲形象。 
①蒙德都（Mondétour），意思是转弯抹角。
从圣德尼街走进麻厂街的行人，会发现他越朝前走，街面便越窄，好象自己钻进了一个管子延长的漏斗。到了这条相当短的街的尽头，他会看见一排高房子在靠菜市场一面挡住了他的去路，他如果没有看出左右两旁都各有一条走得通的黑巷子，还会认为自己陷了在死胡同里。这巷子便是蒙德都街了，一头通到布道修士街，一头通到天鹅街和小化子窝。在这种死胡同的底里，靠右边那条巷子的角上，有一幢不象其他房子那么高的房子，伸向街心，有如伸向海中的岬角。
正是在这幢只有三层的房子里，三百年来，欣欣向荣地开着一家大名鼎鼎的酒店。从这酒店里经常传出人的欢笑声，这里也是老泰奥菲尔①在这样两行诗里所指出的：
情郎痛绝悬梁死，
骸骨飘摇如逐人。
这是个好地方，那家酒店老板便世世代代在这里开着酒店。
在马蒂兰·雷尼埃②的时代，这酒店的店名是“玫瑰花盆”，当时的风尚是文字游戏，那店家便用一根漆成粉红色的柱子③作为招牌。在前一世纪，那位值得崇敬的纳托瓦尔④棗被今日的呆板学派所轻视的奇想派大师之一棗曾多次到这酒店里，坐在当年雷尼埃经常痛饮的那张桌子旁边醉酒，并曾在那粉红柱子上画了一串科林斯葡萄，以表谢意。店主人大为得意，便把旧招牌改了，在那串葡萄下面用金字写了“科林斯葡萄酒店”。这便是科林斯这名称的来历。酒徒们喜欢文字简略，原是很自然的。文字简略，有如步履踉跄。科林斯便渐渐取代了玫瑰花盆。最后那一代主人，人们称为于什鲁大爷的，已经不知道这些掌故，找人把那柱子漆成了蓝色。 
①泰奥菲尔（Théophile，1590?626），法国诗人。
②马蒂兰·雷尼埃（MathurinRegnier，1573?613），法国讽刺诗人。
③玫瑰花盆（PotBauxBRoses）和粉红色的柱子（poteau　rose）发音相同。
④纳托瓦尔（Natoire，1700?777），法国油画家和木刻家。　
楼下的一间厅里有账台，楼上的一间厅里有球台，一道螺旋式楼梯穿通楼板到楼上，桌上放着酒，墙上全是烟，白天点着蜡烛，这便是那酒店的概貌。楼下的厅里，地上有翻板活门，掀起便是通地窨子的梯子。三楼上是于什鲁一家的住房。二楼的大厅里有一扇暗门，通过楼梯棗与其说是楼梯，不如说是梯子棗上去，房顶下面有两间带小窗洞的顶楼，那是女仆的窝巢。厨房在楼下，和那间有账台的厅房分占着地面层。
于什鲁大爷也许生来便是个化学家，事实上，他是个厨师，人们不仅在他店里喝酒，还在那里吃饭。于什鲁发明了一道人们只能在他店里吃到的名菜，那就是在肚里塞上肉馅的鲤鱼，他称它为灌肉鲤鱼（carpes　au　gras）。人们坐在钉一块漆布以代台布的桌子前面，在一支脂烛或一盏路易十六时代的油灯的微光里吃着这东西。好些顾客并且是从远道来的。有天早晨，于什鲁忽然灵机一动，要把他这一“拿手好菜”给过路行人介绍一番，他拿起一管毛笔，在一个黑颜料钵里蘸上墨汁，由于他的拼写法和他的烹调法同样有他的独到之处，便在他的墙上信手涂写了这几个引人注目的大字：
CARPES　HO　GRAS①
有一年冬天，雨水和夹雪骤雨，出于兴之所至，把第一个词词尾的S和第三个词前面的G抹去了，
剩下的只是：
CARPE　HO　RAS② 
①Ho　gras是au　gras之误，但发音相同。
②念起来象是Carpe　au　rat（耗子肉烧鲤鱼）。　
为招引食客而写的这一微不足道的广告，在季节和雨水的帮助下竟成了一种有深远意义的劝告。
于是，这位于什鲁大爷，不懂法文竟懂了拉丁文，他从烹饪中悟出了哲理，并且，在要干脆取消封斋节这一想法上赶上了贺拉斯。尤其出奇的是，它还可以解释为：请光临我店。
所有这一切，到今天，都已不存在了。蒙德都迷宫从一八四七年起便已被剖腹，很大程度上被拆毁了，到现在也许已不存在了。麻厂街和科林斯都已消失在朗比托街的铺路石下面。
我们已经说过，科林斯是古费拉克和他的朋友们聚会地点之一，如果不是联系地点的话。发现科林斯的是格朗泰尔。他第一次进去，是为了那Carpe　Ho　ras，以后进去是为了Carpes　augras。他们在那里喝，吃，叫嚷；对账目他们有时少付，有时欠付，有时不付，但始终是受到欢迎的。于什鲁大爷原是个老好人。
于什鲁，老好人，我们刚才说过，是一个生着横胡子的小饭铺老板，一种引人发笑的类型。他的面部表情老是狠巴巴的，好象存心要把顾客吓跑，走进他店门的人都得看他的嘴脸，听他埋怨，忍受他那种随时准备吵架、不情愿开饭侍候的神气。但是，正如我们先头说过，顾客始终是受到欢迎的。这一怪现象使他的酒店生意兴隆，为他引来不少年轻主顾，他们常说：“还是去听于什鲁大爷发牢骚吧。”他原是个耍刀使棍的能手。他常突然放声大笑。笑声雄厚爽朗，足见他心地是光明的。那是一种外表愁苦而内心快活的性格。他最乐意看见你怕他，他有点象一种手枪形状的鼻烟盒，它能引起的爆炸只不过是个喷嚏。
他的老伴于什鲁大妈是个生着胡子模样儿怪丑的妇人。
一八三○年左右，于什鲁大爷死了。做灌肉鲤鱼的秘法也随着他的死去而失传。他的遗孀，得不到一点安慰，继续开着那店铺。但是烹调远不如前，坏到叫人难以下咽。酒，原来就不好，现在更不成了。古费拉克和他的朋友们却照旧去科林斯，“由于怀念故人。”博须埃常这样说。
寡妇于什鲁害着气喘病，她对从前的农村生活念念不忘，因而她语言乏味，发音也很奇特。乡下度过的青春时期她还有不完整的印象，她用她自己特有的方式来谈论这些，她回忆当年时常说“她从前的幸福便是听知根（更）鸟在三（山）楂树林里歌唱”。
楼上的厅房是“餐厅”，是一间长而大的房间，放满圆凳、方凳、靠椅、条凳和桌子，还有个瘸腿老球台。厅的角上有个方洞，正如轮船上的升降口，楼下的人，从一道螺旋式楼梯经过这方洞，到达楼上。
这厅房只靠一扇窄窗子进光，随时都点着一盏煤油灯，形象很是寒伧。凡是该有四只脚的家具好象都只有三只脚。用石灰浆刷过的墙上没有一点装饰，但却有这样一首献给于什鲁大妈的四行诗：
十步以外她惊人，两步以内她骇人。
有个肉瘤住在她那冒失的鼻孔里；
人们见了直哆嗦，怕她把瘤喷给你，
有朝一日那鼻子，总会落在她嘴里。
那是用木炭涂在墙上的。
于什鲁大妈和那形象很相象，从早到晚，若无其事，在那四行诗跟前走来又走去。两个女仆，一个叫马特洛特，一个叫吉布洛特①，人们从来不知道她们是否还有其他名字，帮着于什鲁大妈把盛劣酒的罐子放在每张桌子上，或是把各种喂饿鬼的杂碎汤舀在陶制的碗盏里。马特洛特是个胖子，周身浑圆，红头发，尖声尖气，奇丑，丑得比神话中的任何妖精还丑，是已故于什鲁大爷生前宠幸的苏丹妃子；可是，按习俗仆人总是立在主妇后面的，和于什鲁大妈比起来，她又丑得好一点。吉布洛特，瘦长，娇弱，白，淋巴质的白，蓝眼圈，眼皮老搭拉看，总是那么困倦，可以说她是在害着一种慢性疲乏症，她每天第一个起床，最后一个睡觉，侍候每一个人，连另一个女仆也归她侍候，从不吭声，百依百顺，脸上总挂着一种疲劳的微笑，好象是睡梦中的微笑。 
①马特洛特（matelote）的原义是葱、酒烹鱼。吉布洛特（gibelotte）的原义是酒烩兔肉。
在那账台上面还挂着一面镜子。
在进入餐厅的门上有这么两句话，是古费拉克用粉笔写的：
吃吧，只要你能；吞吧，只要你敢。
Part 4 Book 12 Chapter 2 Preliminary Gayeties
Laigle de Meaux, as the reader knows, lived more with Joly than elsewhere. He had a lodging, as a bird has one on a branch. The two friends lived together, ate together, slept together. They had everything in common, even Musichetta, to some extent. They were, what the subordinate monks who accompany monks are called, bini. On the morning of the 5th of June, they went to Corinthe to breakfast. Joly, who was all stuffed up, had a catarrh which Laigle was beginning to share. Laigle's coat was threadbare, but Joly was well dressed.
It was about nine o'clock in the morning, when they opened the door of Corinthe.
They ascended to the first floor.
Matelote and Gibelotte received them.
"Oysters, cheese, and ham," said Laigle.
And they seated themselves at a table.
The wine-shop was empty; there was no one there but themselves.
Gibelotte, knowing Joly and Laigle, set a bottle of wine on the table.
While they were busy with their first oysters, a head appeared at the hatchway of the staircase, and a voice said:-- 
"I am passing by. I smell from the street a delicious odor of Brie cheese. I enter." It was Grantaire.
Grantaire took a stool and drew up to the table.
At the sight of Grantaire, Gibelotte placed two bottles of wine on the table.
That made three.
"Are you going to drink those two bottles?" Laigle inquired of Grantaire.
Grantaire replied:--
"All are ingenious, thou alone art ingenuous. Two bottles never yet astonished a man."
The others had begun by eating, Grantaire began by drinking. Half a bottle was rapidly gulped down.
"So you have a hole in your stomach?" began Laigle again.
"You have one in your elbow," said Grantaire.
And after having emptied his glass, he added:--
"Ah, by the way, Laigle of the funeral oration, your coat is old."
"I should hope so," retorted Laigle. "That's why we get on well together, my coat and I. It has acquired all my folds, it does not bind me anywhere, it is moulded on my deformities, it falls in with all my movements, I am only conscious of it because it keeps me warm. Old coats are just like old friends."
"That's true," ejaculated Joly, striking into the dialogue, "an old goat is an old abi" (ami, friend). 
"Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed up," said Grantaire.
"Grantaire," demanded Laigle, "have you just come from the boulevard?"
"No."
"We have just seen the head of the procession pass, Joly and I."
"It's a marvellous sight," said Joly.
"How quiet this street is!" exclaimed Laigle. "Who would suspect that Paris was turned upside down? How plainly it is to be seen that in former days there were nothing but convents here! In this neighborhood! Du Breul and Sauval give a list of them, and so does the Abbe Lebeuf. They were all round here, they fairly swarmed, booted and barefooted, shaven, bearded, gray, black, white, Franciscans, Minims, Capuchins, Carmelites, Little Augustines, Great Augustines, old Augustines--there was no end of them." 
"Don't let's talk of monks," interrupted Grantaire, "it makes one want to scratch one's self." 
Then he exclaimed:-- 
"Bouh! I've just swallowed a bad oyster. Now hypochondria is taking possession of me again. The oysters are spoiled, the servants are ugly. I hate the human race. I just passed through the Rue Richelieu, in front of the big public library. That pile of oyster-shells which is called a library is disgusting even to think of. What paper! What ink! What scrawling! And all that has been written! What rascal was it who said that man was a featherless biped? [51] And then, I met a pretty girl of my acquaintance, who is as beautiful as the spring, worthy to be called Floreal, and who is delighted, enraptured, as happy as the angels, because a wretch yesterday, a frightful banker all spotted with small-pox, deigned to take a fancy to her! Alas! Woman keeps on the watch for a protector as much as for a lover; cats chase mice as well as birds. Two months ago that young woman was virtuous in an attic, she adjusted little brass rings in the eyelet-holes of corsets, what do you call it? She sewed, she had a camp bed, she dwelt beside a pot of flowers, she was contented. Now here she is a bankeress. This transformation took place last night. I met the victim this morning in high spirits. The hideous point about it is, that the jade is as pretty to-day as she was yesterday. Her financier did not show in her face. Roses have this advantage or disadvantage over women, that the traces left upon them by caterpillars are visible. Ah! There is no morality on earth. I call to witness the myrtle, the symbol of love, the laurel, the symbol of air, the olive, that ninny, the symbol of peace, the apple-tree which came nearest rangling Adam with its pips, and the fig-tree, the grandfather of petticoats. As for right, do you know what right is? The Gauls covet Clusium, Rome protects Clusium, and demands what wrong Clusium has done to them. Brennus answers: The wrong that Alba did to you, the wrong that Fidenae did to you, the wrong that the Eques, the Volsci, and the Sabines have done to you. They were your neighbors.The Clusians are ours. We understand neighborliness just as you do. You have stolen Alba, we shall take Clusium.' Rome said: You shall not take Clusium.' Brennus took Rome. Then he cried:Vae victis!' That is what right is. Ah! What beasts of prey there are in this world! What eagles! It makes my flesh creep."
[51] Bipede sans plume: biped without feathers--pen.
He held out his glass to Joly, who filled it, then he drank and went on, having hardly been interrupted by this glass of wine, of which no one, not even himself, had taken any notice:--
"Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker who takes the grisette is an eagle. There is no more modesty in the one case than in the other. So we believe in nothing. There is but one reality: drink. Whatever your opinion may be in favor of the lean cock, like the Canton of Uri, or in favor of the fat cock, like the Canton of Glaris, it matters little, drink. You talk to me of the boulevard, of that procession, et caetera, et caetera. Come now, is there going to be another revolution? This poverty of means on the part of the good God astounds me. He has to keep greasing the groove of events every moment. There is a hitch, it won't work. Quick, a revolution! The good God has his hands perpetually black with that cart-grease. If I were in his place, I'd be perfectly simple about it, I would not wind up my mechanism every minute, I'd lead the human race in a straightforward way, I'd weave matters mesh by mesh, without breaking the thread, I would have no provisional arrangements, I would have no extraordinary repertory. What the rest of you call progress advances by means of two motors, men and events. But, sad to say, from time to time, the exceptional becomes necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices neither for event nor for men: among men geniuses are required, among events revolutions. Great accidents are the law; the orderof things cannot do without them; and, judging from the apparition of comets, one would be tempted to think that Heaven itself finds actors needed for its performance. At the moment when one expects it the least, God placards a meteor on the wall of the firmament. Some queer star turns up, underlined by an enormous tail. And that causes the death of Caesar. Brutus deals him a blow with a knife, and God a blow with a comet. Crac, and behold an aurora borealis, behold a revolution, behold a great man; '93 in big letters, Napoleon on guard, the comet of 1811 at the head of the poster. Ah! What a beautiful blue theatre all studded with unexpected flashes! Boum! Boum! Extraordinary show! Raise your eyes, boobies. Everything is in disorder, the star as well as the drama. Good God, it is too much and not enough. These resources, gathered from exception,seem magnificence and poverty.My friends, Providence has come down to expedients. What does a revolution prove? That God is in a quandry. He effects a coup d'etat because he, God, has not been able to make both ends meet. In fact, this confirms me in my conjectures as to Jehovah's fortune; and when I see so much distress in heaven and on earth, from the bird who has not a grain of millet to myself without a hundred thousand livres of income, when I see human destiny, which is very badly worn, and even royal destiny, which is threadbare, witness the Prince de Conde hung, when I see winter, which is nothing but a rent in the zenith through which the wind blows, when I see so many rags even in the perfectly new purple of the morning on the crests of hills, when I see the drops of dew, those mock pearls, when I see the frost, that paste, when I see humanity ripped apart and events patched up, and so many spots on the sun and so many holes in the moon, when I see so much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is not rich. The appearance exists, it is true, but I feel that he is hard up. He gives a revolution as a tradesman whose money-box is emptygives a ball. God must not be judged from appearances. Beneath the gilding of heaven I perceive a poverty-stricken universe. Creation is bankrupt. That is why I am discontented. Here it is the 4th of June, it is almost night; ever since this morning I have been waiting for daylight to come; it has not come, and I bet that it won't come all day. This is the inexactness of an ill-paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits anything else, this old world is all warped, I take my stand on the opposition, everything goes awry; the universe is a tease. It's like children, those who want them have none, and those who don't want them have them. Total: I'm vexed. Besides, Laigle de Meaux, that bald-head, offends my sight. It humiliates me to think that I am of the same age as that baldy. However, I criticise, but I do not insult. The universe is what it is. I speak here without evil intent and to ease my conscience. Receive, Eternal Father, the assurance of my distinguished consideration. Ah! By all the saints of Olympus and by all the gods of paradise, I was not intended to be a Parisian, that is to say, to rebound forever, like a shuttlecock between two battledores, from the group of the loungers to the group of the roysterers. I was made to be a Turk, watching oriental houris all day long, executing those exquisite Egyptian dances, as sensuous as the dream of a chaste man, or a Beauceron peasant, or a Venetian gentleman surrounded by gentlewoman, or a petty German prince, furnishing the half of a foot-soldier to the Germanic confederation, and occupying his leisure with drying his breeches on his hedge, that is to say, his frontier. Those are the positions for which I was born! Yes, I have said a Turk, and I will not retract. I do not understand how people can habitually take Turks in bad part; Mohammed had his good points; respect for the inventor of seraglios with houris and paradises with odalisques! Let us not insult Mohammedanism, the only religion which is ornamented with a hen-roost! Now, I insist on a drink. The earth is a great piece of stupidity. And it appears that they are going to fight, all those imbeciles, and to break each other's profiles and to massacre each other in the heart of summer, in the month of June, when they might go off with a creature on their arm, to breathe the immense heaps of new-mown hay in the meadows! Really, people do commit altogether too many follies. An old broken lantern which I have just seen at a bric-a-brac merchant's suggests a reflection to my mind; it is time to enlighten the human race. Yes, behold me sad again. That's what comes of swallowing an oyster and a revolution the wrong way! I am growing melancholy once more. Oh! Frightful old world. People strive, turn each other out, prostitute themselves, kill each other, and get used to it!"
And Grantaire, after this fit of eloquence, had a fit of coughing, which was well earned. 
"A propos of revolution," said Joly, "it is decidedly abberent that Barius is in lub."
"Does any one know with whom?" demanded Laigle.
"Do."
"No?"
"Do! I tell you."
"Marius' love affairs!" exclaimed Grantaire. "I can imagine it. Marius is a fog, and he must have found a vapor. Marius is of the race of poets. He who says poet, says fool, madman, Tymbraeus Apollo. Marius and his Marie, or his Marion, or his Maria, or his Mariette. They must make a queer pair of lovers. I know just what it is like. Ecstasies in which they forget to kiss. Pure on earth, but joined in heaven. They are souls possessed of senses. They lie among the stars."
Grantaire was attacking his second bottle and, possibly, his second harangue, when a new personage emerged from the square aperture of the stairs. It was a boy less than ten years of age, ragged, very small, yellow, with an odd phiz, a vivacious eye, an enormous amount of hair drenched with rain, and wearing a contented air. 
The child unhesitatingly making his choice among the three, addressed himself to Laigle de Meaux. 
"Are you Monsieur Bossuet?"
"That is my nickname," replied Laigle. "What do you want with me?"
"This. A tall blonde fellow on the boulevard said to me: Do you know Mother Hucheloup?' I said:`Yes, Rue Chanvrerie, the old man's widow;' he said to me:`Go there. There you will find M. Bossuet. Tell him from me: "A B C".' It's a joke that they're playing on you, isn't it. He gave me ten sous."
"Joly, lend me ten sous," said Laigle; and, turning to Grantaire: "Grantaire, lend me ten sous."
This made twenty sous, which Laigle handed to the lad.
"Thank you, sir," said the urchin.
"What is your name?" inquired Laigle.
"Navet, Gavroche's friend."
"Stay with us," said Laigle.
"Breakfast with us," said Grantaire,
The child replied:--
"I can't, I belong in the procession, I'm the one to shout `Down with Polignac!'"
And executing a prolonged scrape of his foot behind him, which is the most respectful of all possible salutes, he took his departure. 
The child gone, Grantaire took the word:-- 
"That is the pure-bred gamin. There are a great many varieties of the gamin species. The notary's gamin is called Skip-the-Gutter, the cook's gamin is called a scullion, the baker's gamin is called a mitron, the lackey's gamin is called a groom, the marine gamin is called the cabin-boy, the soldier's gamin is called the drummer-boy, the painter's gamin is called paint-grinder, the tradesman's gamin is called an errand-boy, the courtesan gamin is called the minion, the kingly gamin is called the dauphin, the god gamin is called the bambino."
In the meantime, Laigle was engaged in reflection; he said half aloud:--
"A B C,that is to say: the burial of Lamarque."
"The tall blonde," remarked Grantaire, "is Enjolras, who is sending you a warning."
"Shall we go?" ejaculated Bossuet.
"It's raiding," said Joly. "I have sworn to go through fire, but not through water. I don't wand to ged a gold." "I shall stay here," said Grantaire. "I prefer a breakfast to a hearse."
"Conclusion: we remain," said Laigle. "Well, then, let us drink. Besides, we might miss the funeral without missing the riot."
"Ah! the riot, I am with you!" cried Joly.
Laigle rubbed his hands.
"Now we're going to touch up the revolution of 1830. As a matter of fact, it does hurt the people along the seams."
"I don't think much of your revolution," said Grantaire. "I don't execrate this Government. It is the crown tempered by the cotton night-cap. It is a sceptre ending in an umbrella. In fact, I think that to-day, with the present weather, Louis Philippe might utilize his royalty in two directions, he might extend the tip of the sceptre end against the people, and open the umbrella end against heaven."
The room was dark, large clouds had just finished the extinction of daylight. There was no one in the wine-shop, or in the street, every one having gone off "to watch events." 
"Is it mid-day or midnight?" cried Bossuet. "You can't see your hand before your face. Gibelotte, fetch a light."
Grantaire was drinking in a melancholy way.
"Enjolras disdains me," he muttered. "Enjolras said:`Joly is ill, Grantaire is drunk.' It was to Bossuet that he sent Navet. If he had come for me, I would have followed him. So much the worse for Enjolras! I won't go to his funeral."
This resolution once arrived at, Bossuet, Joly, and Grantaire did not stir from the wine-shop. By two o'clock in the afternoon, the table at which they sat was covered with empty bottles. Two candles were burning on it, one in a flat copper candlestick which was perfectly green, the other in the neck of a cracked carafe. Grantaire had seduced Joly and Bossuet to wine; Bossuet and Joly had conducted Grantaire back towards cheerfulness.
As for Grantaire, he had got beyond wine, that merely moderate inspirer of dreams, ever since mid-day. Wine enjoys only a conventional popularity with serious drinkers. There is, in fact, in the matter of inebriety, white magic and black magic; wine is only white magic. Grantaire was a daring drinker of dreams. The blackness of a terrible fit of drunkenness yawning before him, far from arresting him, attracted him. He had abandoned the bottle and taken to the beerglass. The beer-glass is the abyss. Having neither opium nor hashish on hand, and being desirous of filling his brain with twilight, he had had recourse to that fearful mixture of brandy, stout, absinthe, which produces the most terrible of lethargies. It is of these three vapors, beer, brandy, and absinthe, that the lead of the soul is composed. They are three grooms; the celestial butterfly is drowned in them; and there are formed there in a membranous smoke, vaguely condensed into the wing of the bat, three mute furies, Nightmare, Night, and Death, which hover about the slumbering Psyche.
Grantaire had not yet reached that lamentable phase; far from it. He was tremendously gay, and Bossuet and Joly retorted. They clinked glasses. Grantaire added to the eccentric accentuation of words and ideas, a peculiarity of gesture; he rested his left fist on his knee with dignity, his arm forming a right angle, and, with cravat untied, seated astride a stool, his full glass in his right hand, he hurled solemn words at the big maid-servant Matelote:-- 
"Let the doors of the palace be thrown open! Let every one be a member of the French Academy and have the right to embrace Madame Hucheloup. Let us drink."
And turning to Madame Hucheloup, he added:--
"Woman ancient and consecrated by use, draw near that I may contemplate thee!"
And Joly exclaimed:--
"Matelote and Gibelotte, dod't gib Grantaire anything more to drink. He has already devoured, since this bording, in wild prodigality, two francs and ninety-five centibes."
And Grantaire began again:--
"Who has been unhooking the stars without my permission, and putting them on the table in the guise of candles?"
Bossuet, though very drunk, preserved his equanimity.
He was seated on the sill of the open window, wetting his back in the falling rain, and gazing at his two friends.
All at once, he heard a tumult behind him, hurried footsteps, cries of "To arms!" He turned round and saw in the Rue Saint-Denis, at the end of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, Enjolras passing, gun in hand, and Gavroche with his pistol, Feuilly with his sword, Courfeyrac with his sword, and Jean Prouvaire with his blunderbuss, Combeferre with his gun, Bahorel with his gun, and the whole armed and stormy rabble which was following them. 
The Rue de la Chanvrerie was not more than a gunshot long. Bossuet improvised a speaking-trumpet from his two hands placed around his mouth, and shouted:--
"Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! Hohee!"
Courfeyrac heard the shout, caught sight of Bossuet, and advanced a few paces into the Rue de la Chanvrerie, shouting: "What do you want?" which crossed a "Where are you going?" 
"To make a barricade," replied Courfeyrac. 
"Well, here! This is a good place! Make it here!" 
"That's true, Aigle," said Courfeyrac.
And at a signal from Courfeyrac, the mob flung themselves into the Rue de la Chanvrerie.
我们知道，赖格尔·德·莫经常住在若李的宿舍里。他有一个住处，正如鸟儿有根树枝。两个朋友同吃，同住，同生活。对他们来说，一切都是共同的，无一例外。他们真是形影不离。六月五日的上午，他们到科林斯去吃午饭。若李正害着重伤风，鼻子不通，赖格尔也开始受到感染。赖格尔的衣服已很破旧，但是若李穿得好。
他们走到科林斯推门进去时，大致是早上九点钟。
他们上了楼。
马特洛特和吉布洛特接待他们。
“牡蛎、干酪和火腿。”赖格尔说。
他们选了一张桌子坐下。
那酒店还是空的，只有他们两个。
吉布洛特认识若李和赖格尔，往桌上放了一瓶葡萄酒。
他们正吃着开头几个牡蛎时，有个人头从那楼梯的升降口里伸出来，说道：
“我正走过这儿。我在街上闻到一阵布里干酪的香味，太美了。我便进来了。”
说这话的是格朗泰尔。
格朗泰尔选了一张圆凳，坐在桌子前面。
吉布洛特看见格朗泰尔来了，便往桌上放了两瓶葡萄酒。
这样就有了三个人。
“难道你打算喝掉这两瓶酒吗？”赖格尔问格朗泰尔。
格朗泰尔回答说：
“人人都是聪明的，唯有你是高明的。两瓶葡萄酒决吓不倒一个男子汉。”
那两个已经开始吃，格朗泰尔便也开始喝。一口气便喝了半瓶。
“你那胃上怕有个洞吧？”赖格尔说。
“你那衣袖上确也有一个。”格朗泰尔说。
接着，他又干了一杯，说道：
“说真的，祭文大师赖格尔，你那衣服也未免太旧了一点吧。”
“旧点好，”赖格尔回答说，“正因为旧，我的衣服和我才相安无事。它随着我伸屈，从不别扭，我是个什么怪样子，它就变个什么怪样子，我要做个什么动作，它也跟着我做个什么动作。我只是在热的时候，才感到有它。旧衣服真和老朋友一样能体贴人。”
“这话对，”开始加入谈话的若李大声说，“一件旧衣服就是一个老盆（朋）友。”
“特别是从一个鼻子堵塞的人的嘴里说出来。”格朗泰尔说。
“格朗泰尔，你刚才是从大路来的吗？”赖格尔问。
“不是。”
“刚才若李和我看见那送葬行列的头走过。”
“那是一种使人禁（惊）奇的场面。”若李说。
“这条街可真是清静！”赖格尔大声说，“谁会想到巴黎已是天翻地覆？足见这一带从前全是修道院！杜布厄尔和索瓦尔开列过清单，还有勒伯夫神甫①。这附近一带，从前满街都是教士，象一群群蚂蚁，有穿鞋的，有赤脚的，有剃光头的，有留胡子的，花白的，黑的，白的，方济各会的，小兄弟会②的，嘉布遣会的，加尔默罗会的，小奥古斯丁的，大奥古斯丁的，老奥古斯丁的……充满了街头。”
“不用和我们谈教士吧，”格朗泰尔插嘴说，“谈起教士就叫我一身搔痒。”
他接着又叫了起来：
“哇！我把一个坏了的牡蛎吞下去了。我的忧郁病又要发作了。这些牡蛎是臭了的，女招待又生得丑。我恨人类。我刚才在黎塞留街，在那大公共图书馆门前走过。那些图书，只不过是一大堆牡蛎壳，叫我想起就要吐。多少纸张！多少墨汁！多少乱七八糟的手稿！而那全是一笔一笔写出来的！是哪个坏蛋说过人是没有羽毛的两脚动物③呀？ 
①索瓦尔（Sauval，1623?676）和勒伯夫（Lebeuf，1687?760），都是法国历史学家，曾编写过巴黎的历史。
②小兄弟会（minimes），方济各会的一支，在方济各会各支中人数最少，故称“最小的”（minimes）。
③古代欧洲人写字的笔是用鹅毛管做的，因而笔和羽毛在法语中是同一个词（plume）。柏拉图说过人是没有羽毛的两脚动物。　
另外，我还遇见一个我认识的漂亮姑娘，生得象春天一样美，够得上被称为花神，欢欣鼓舞，快乐得象个天使，这倒霉的姑娘，因为昨天有个满脸麻皮、丑得可怕的银行老板看中了她。天哪！女人欣赏老财，决不亚于欣赏铃兰，猫儿追耗子，也追小鸟，这个轻佻的姑娘，不到两个月前她还乖乖地住在她那小阁楼里，把穿带子的小铜圈一个个缝上紧身衣，你们管那叫什么？做针线活。她有一张帆布榻，她待在一盆花前，她算是快乐的。一下子她变成银行老板娘了。这一转变是在昨晚完成的。我今早又遇见了这个欢天喜地的受害人。可怕的是，这个小娼妇今天还和昨天一样漂亮。从她脸上一点也看不出她那财神爷的丑行。蔷薇花和女人比起来就多这么一点长处，也可以说是少这么一点长处，这就是说，毛虫在蔷薇花上留下的痕迹是看得见的。啊！这世上无所谓道德。我用这些东西来证实：香桃木作为爱情的象征，桂树作为战争的象征，这愚蠢的橄榄树作为和平的象征，苹果树用它的核几乎梗死亚当，无花果树，裙子的老祖宗。至于法权，你们要知道法权是什么吗？高卢人想占领克鲁斯①，罗马保护克鲁斯，并质问他们克鲁斯对他们来说有什么错误？布雷努斯②回答说：‘犯了阿尔巴③的错误，犯了菲代纳④对你们所犯的错误，犯了埃克人、伏尔斯克人、沙宾人⑤对你们所犯的错误。他们和你们比邻而居。克鲁斯人和我们比邻而居，和你们一样我们和邻居和睦共处。你们抢了阿尔巴，我们要拿下克鲁斯。’罗马说：‘你们拿不了克鲁斯。’布雷努斯便攻占了罗马。他随后还喊道：‘VaVictis！’⑥这样便是法权。啊！在这世界上，有多少猛禽！多少雄鹰！我想到这些便起一身鸡皮疙瘩！” 
①克鲁斯（Cluse），在法国上萨瓦省境内，靠近日内瓦，古代为罗马与法国争夺之地。
②布雷努斯（Brennus），古高卢首领，三九○年入侵意大利，攻占罗马。
③阿尔巴（Albe），意大利古代城市之一。
④菲代纳（Fidène），意大利古国沙宾一城市。
⑤埃克人、伏尔斯克人、沙宾人，古意大利各地区人民。
⑥拉丁文，把不幸给战败者。　
他把玻璃杯递给若李，若李给他斟满，他随即喝一大口，接着又说，几乎没有让这杯酒隔断他的话，旁人没有察觉到，连他自己也没有察觉到：
“攻占罗马的布雷努斯是雄鹰，占有那花姑娘的银行老板也是雄鹰。这里无所谓羞耻，那里也无所谓羞耻。因此，什么也不要相信。只有一件事是可靠的：喝酒。不论你的见解如何，你们总应当象乌里地区那样对待瘦公鸡，或者象格拉里地区那样对待肥公鸡，关系不大，喝酒要紧。你们和我谈到林荫大道，谈到送殡行列等等。天知道，是不是又要来一次革命？慈悲上帝的这种穷办法确是叫我惊讶。他随时都要在事物的槽子里涂上滑润油。这里卡壳了，那里行不通了。快点，来一次革命。慈悲上帝的一双手老是让这种脏油膏弄黑了的。如果我处在他的地位，我就会简单些，我不会每时每刻都上紧发条，我会敏捷利索地引导人类，我会象编花边那样把人间事物一一安排妥帖，而不把纱线弄断，我不需要什么临时应急措施，我不会演什么特别节目。你们这些人所说的进步，它的运行依靠两个发动机：人和事变。但是，恼火的是，有时也得有些例外。对事变和人来说，平常的队伍不够，人中必得有天才，事变中必得有革命。重大的意外事件是规律，事物的顺序不可能省略，你们只须看看那些彗星的出现，就会相信天本身也需要有演员上台表演。正是在人最不注意时天主忽然在苍穹的壁上来颗巨星。好不奇怪的星，拖着一条其大无比的尾巴。恺撒正是因此而死的。布鲁图斯戳了他一刀子，上帝撂给他一颗彗星。突然出现了一片北极光，一场革命，一个大人物，用大字写出的九三年，不可一世的拿破仑，广告牌顶上的一八一一年的彗星。啊！多么美妙的天蓝色广告牌，布满了料想不到的火焰般的光芒！砰！砰！景象空前。抬起眼睛看吧，闲游浪荡的人们。天上的星，人间的戏剧，全是杂乱无章的。好上帝，这太过分了，但也还不够。这些采取的手段，看上去好象是富丽堂皇的，其实寒碜得很。我的朋友们，老天爷已经穷于应付了。一场革命，这究竟证明什么？证明上帝已经走投无路了。他便来他一次政变，因为在现在和将来之间需要连接，因为他，上帝，没有办法把两头连起来。事实证明我对耶和华的财富的估计是正确的，只要看看上界和下界有这么多的不自在，天上和地下有这么多的穷酸相，鄙吝的作风，贫陋的气派，窘困的境遇，只要从一只吃不到一粒粟米的小鸟看到我这个没有十万利弗年金的人，只要看看这疲敝不堪的人类的命运，甚至也看看拿着绳索的王亲贵族的命运棗孔代亲王便是吊死的，只要看看冬天，它不是什么旁的东西，它只是天顶上让冷风吹进来的一条裂缝，只要看看早上照着山冈的鲜艳无比的金光紫气中也有那么多的破衣烂衫，看看那些冒充珍珠的露水，仿效玉屑的霜雪，看看这四分五裂的人类和七拼八凑的情节，并且太阳有那么多的黑点，月球有那么多的窟窿，处处都是饥寒灾难，我怀疑，上帝不是富有的。他的外表不坏，这是真话，但是我觉得他不能应付自如。他便发起一次革命，正如一个钱柜空了的生意人举行一个跳舞会。不要从外表上去鉴别天神。在这金光灿烂的天空下我看见的只是一个贫穷的宇宙。在世界的创造中也有失败的地方。这就是为什么我心里感到不高兴。你们瞧，今天是六月五号，天也几乎黑了，从今早起，我便一直在等天亮。可直到现在天还不亮，我敢打赌，今天一整天也不会亮的了。一个低薪办事员把钟点弄错了。是呀，一切都是颠三倒四的，相互间什么也对不上，这个老世界已经完全残废了，我站在反对派这边。一切都是乱七八糟的。宇宙爱戏弄人，就象孩子们一样，他们要，但什么都得不到，他们不要，却样样都有。总之，我冒火了。另外，赖格尔·德·莫，这个光秃子，叫我见了就伤心。想到我和这孱头同年纪，我便感到难为情。但是，我只批评，我不侮辱。宇宙仍然是宇宙。我在这儿讲话，没有恶意，问心无愧。永生之父，请接受我崇高的敬意，此致敬礼。啊！我向奥林匹斯的每个圣者和天堂里的每位天神宣告，我原就不该做巴黎人的，就是说，永远象个羽毛球似的，在两个网拍间来去，一下落在吊儿郎当的人堆里，一下又落在调皮捣蛋的人堆里！我原应当做个土耳其人，象在道学先生的梦里那样，整天欣赏东方的娇娘玉女们表演埃及的那些绝妙的色情舞，或是做个博斯的农民，或是在贵妇人的簇拥中做个威尼斯的贵族，或是做个日耳曼的小亲王，把一半步兵供给日耳曼联邦，自己却优游自在地把袜子晾在篱笆上，就是说，晾在国境线上！这样才是我原来应有的命运！是呀！我说过，要做土耳其人，并且一点也不改口。我不懂为什么人们一提到土耳其人心里总不怀好意，穆罕默德有他好的一面，我们应当尊敬神仙洞府和美女乐园的创始人！不要侮辱伊斯兰教，这是唯一配备了天堂的宗教！说到这里，我坚决主张干杯。这个世界是件大蠢事。据说，所有这些蠢材又要打起来了，在这百花盛开的夏季，他们原可以挽着个美人儿到田野中刚割下的麦秸堆里去呼吸广阔天地中的茶香味，却偏要去互相厮杀，打到鼻青脸肿！真的，傻事儿干得太多了。我刚才在一个旧货店里看见一个破灯笼，它使我想起：该是照亮人类的时候了。是呀，我又悲伤起来了！囫囵吞下一个牡蛎和一场革命真不是味儿！我又要垂头丧气了，呵！这可怕的古老世界！人们在这世界上老是互相勾搭，互相倾轧，互相糟蹋，互相屠杀，真没办法！”
格朗泰尔咿里哇啦说了这一大阵子，接着就是一阵咳嗽，活该。
“说到革命，”若李说，“好象毫无疑问，巴（马）吕斯正在闹恋爱。”
“爱谁，你们知道吗？”赖格尔问。
“不知道。”
“不知道？”
“确实不知道。”
“马吕斯的爱情！”格朗泰尔大声说，“不难想象。马吕斯是一种雾气，他也许找到了一种水蒸气。马吕斯是个诗人类型的人。所谓诗人，就是疯子。天神阿波罗。马吕斯和他的玛丽，或是他的玛丽亚，或是他的玛丽叶特，或是他的玛丽容，那应当是一对怪有趣的情人。我能想象那是怎么回事。一往情深竟然忘了亲吻。在地球上玉洁冰清，在无极中成双成对。他们是两个能感觉的灵魂。他们双双在星星里就寝。”
格朗泰尔正准备喝他那第二瓶酒，也许还准备再唠叨几句，这时，从那楼梯口的方洞里，冒出一个陌生人。这是个不到十岁的男孩，一身破烂，个子很小，黄脸皮，突嘴巴，眼睛灵活，头发异常浓厚，浑身雨水淋漓，神情愉快。
这孩子显然是不认识那三个人的，但是他毫不迟疑，一上来便对着赖格尔·德·莫问道：
“您就是博须埃先生吧？”
“那是我的别名，”赖格尔回答说，“你找我干什么？”
“是这样，林荫大道上的一个黄毛高个子对我说：‘你认得于什鲁大妈吗？’我说：‘认得，麻厂街那个老头儿的寡妇。’他又对我说：‘你到那里去一趟，你到那里去找博须埃先生，对他说，我要你告诉他：ABC。’他这是存心和你开玩笑，不是吗？
他给了我十个苏。”
“若李，借给我十个苏，”赖格尔说，转过头来他又对格朗泰尔说：“格朗泰尔，借给我十个苏。”
赖格尔把借来的二十个苏给了那男孩。
“谢谢，先生。”那小孩说。
“你叫什么名字？”赖格尔说问。
“我叫小萝卜，我是伽弗洛什的朋友。”
“你就待在我们这儿吧。”赖格尔说。
“和我们一道吃午饭。”格朗泰尔说。
那孩子回答说：
“不成，我是游行队伍里的，归我喊打倒波林尼雅克。”
他把一只脚向后退一大步，这是行最高敬礼的姿势，转身走了。
孩子走了以后，格朗泰尔又开动话匣子：
“这是一个纯粹的野伢子。野伢子种类繁多。公证人的野伢子叫跳沟娃，厨师的野伢子叫沙锅，面包房的野伢子叫炉罩，侍从的野伢子叫小厮，海员的野伢子叫水鬼，士兵的野伢子叫小蹄子，油画家的野伢子叫小邋遢，商人的野伢子叫跑腿，侍臣的野伢子叫听差，国王的野伢子叫太子，神仙鬼怪的野伢子叫小精灵。”
这时，赖格尔若有所思，他低声说着：“ABC，那就是说，拉马克的安葬。”
“那个所谓黄毛高个子，一定是安灼拉，他派人来通知你了。”格朗泰尔说。
“我们去不去呢？”博须埃问。
“正在下雨，”若李说，“我发了誓的，跳大坑，有我，淋雨却不干。我不愿意伤风感报（冒）。”
“我就待在这儿，”格朗泰尔说，“我觉得吃午饭比送棺材来得有味些。”
“这么说，我们都留下，”赖格尔接着说，“好吧，我们继续喝酒。再说我们可以错过送葬，但不会错过暴动。”
“啊！暴动，有我一份。”若李喊着说。
赖格尔连连搓着两只手。
“我们一定要替一八三○年的革命补一堂课。那次革命确实叫人民不舒服。”
“你们的革命，在我看来，几乎是可有可无的，”格朗泰尔说，“我不厌恶现在这个政府。那是一顶用棉布小帽做衬里的王冠。这国王的权杖有一头是装了一把雨伞的。今天这样的天气使我想起，路易－菲力浦的权杖能起两种作用，他可以伸出代表王权的一头来反对老百姓，又可以把另一头的雨伞打开来反对天老爷。”
厅堂里黑咕隆咚，一阵乌云把光线全遮没了。酒店里，街上，都没有人，大家全“看热闹”去了。
“现在究竟是中午还是半夜？”博须埃喊着说，“啥也瞧不见。吉布洛特，拿灯来。”
格朗泰尔愁眉苦眼，只顾喝酒。
“安灼拉瞧不起我，”他嘴里念着说，“安灼拉捉摸过，若李病了，格朗泰尔醉了。他派小萝卜是来找博须埃的。要是他肯来找我，我是会跟他走的。安灼拉想错了，算他倒霉！我不会去送他的殡。”
这样决定以后，博须埃、若李和格朗泰尔便不再打算离开那酒店。将近下午两点时，他们伏着的那张桌子上放满了空酒瓶，还燃着两支蜡烛，一支插在一个完全绿了的铜烛台里，一支插在一个开裂的玻璃水瓶的瓶口里。格朗泰尔把若李和博须埃引向了杯中物，博须埃和若李把格朗泰尔引回到欢乐中。
中午以后格朗泰尔已经超出了葡萄酒的范围，葡萄酒固然能助人白日做梦，但是滋味平常。对那些严肃的酒客们来说，葡萄酒只会有益不会有害。使人酩酊酣睡的魔力有善恶之分，葡萄酒只有善的魔力。格朗泰尔是个不顾一切、贪恋醉乡的酒徒。当那凶猛迷魂的黑暗出现在他眼前时，他不但不能适可而止，反而一味屈从。他放下葡萄酒瓶，接着又拿起啤酒杯。啤酒杯是个无底洞。他手边没有鸦片烟，也没有大麻，而又要让自己的头脑进入那种昏沉入睡的状态，他便乞灵于那种由烧酒、烈性啤酒和苦艾酒混合起来的猛不可当的饮料，以致醉到神魂颠倒，人事不知。所谓灵魂的铅块便是由啤酒、烧酒、苦艾酒这三种酒的烈性构成的。这是三个不见天日的深潭，天庭的蝴蝶也曾淹死在那里，并在一层仿佛类似蝙蝠翅膀的薄膜状雾气中化为三个默不作声的疯妖：梦魇、夜魅、死神，盘旋在睡眠中的司魂天女的头上。
格朗泰尔还没有醉到如此程度，还差得远呢。他当时高兴得无以复加，博须埃和若李也从旁助兴。他们频频碰杯。格朗泰尔指手画脚，清晰有力地发挥他的奇想和怪论，他左手捏起拳头，神气十足地抵在膝头上，胳膊肘作曲尺形，解开了领结，两腿叉开骑在一个圆凳上，右手举着个酌满酒的玻璃杯，对着那粗壮的侍女马特洛特，发出这样庄严的指示：
“快把宫门通通打开！让每个人都进入法兰西学院，并享有拥抱于什鲁大妈的权利！干杯。”
转身对着于什鲁大妈，他又喊道：
“历代奉为神圣的古代妇人，请走过来，让我好好瞻仰你一番！”
若李也喊道：
“巴（马）特洛特，吉布洛特，不要再拿酒给格朗泰尔喝了。他吃下去的钱太多了。从今早起，他已经报报（冒冒）失失吞掉了两个法郎九十五生丁。”
格朗泰尔接着说：
“是谁，没有得到我的许可，便把天上的星星摘了下来，放在桌上冒充蜡烛？”
博须埃，醉得也不含糊，却还能保持镇静。
他坐在敞开的窗台上，让雨水淋湿他的背，睁眼望着他的两个朋友。
他忽然听到从他背后传来一阵鼓噪和奔跑的声音，有些人还大声喊着“武装起来！”他转过头去，看见在麻厂街口圣德尼街上，有一大群人正往前走，其中?j@!!!
l?瘃
? 7檅諤，古费拉克，拿把剑，让·勃鲁维尔，拿根短铳，公白飞，拿支步枪，巴阿雷，拿支卡宾枪，另外还有一大群带着武器气势汹汹的人跟在他们后面。
麻厂街的长度原不比卡宾枪的射程长多少。博须埃立即合起两只手，做个扩音筒，凑在嘴上，喊道：
“古费拉克！古费拉克！喂！”
古费拉克听到喊声，望见了博须埃，便向麻厂街走了几步，一面喊道：“你要什么？”这边回答：“你去哪儿？”
“去造街垒。”古费拉克回答说。
“来这儿！这地段好！就造在这儿吧！”
“这话不错，赖格尔。”古费拉克说。
古费拉克一挥手，那一伙全涌进了麻厂街。
Part 4 Book 12 Chapter 3 Night begins to descend upon Grantaire
The spot was, in fact, admirably adapted, the entrance to the street widened out, the other extremity narrowed together into a pocket without exit. Corinthe created an obstacle, the Rue Mondetour was easily barricaded on the right and the left, no attack was possible except from the Rue Saint-Denis, that is to say, in front, and in full sight. Bossuet had the comprehensive glance of a fasting Hannibal.
Terror had seized on the whole street at the irruption of the mob. There was not a passer-by who did not get out of sight. In the space of a flash of lightning, in the rear, to right and left, shops, stables, area-doors, windows, blinds, attic skylights, shutters of every description were closed, from the ground floor to the roof. A terrified old woman fixed a mattress in front of her window on two clothes-poles for drying linen, in order to deaden the effect of musketry. The wine-shop alone remained open; and that for a very good reason, that the mob had rushed into it.--"Ah my God! Ah my God!" sighed Mame Hucheloup.
Bossuet had gone down to meet Courfeyrac.
Joly, who had placed himself at the window, exclaimed:--
"Courfeyrac, you ought to have brought an umbrella. You will gatch gold."
In the meantime, in the space of a few minutes, twenty iron bars had been wrenched from the grated front of the wine-shop, ten fathoms of street had been unpaved; Gavroche and Bahorel had seized in its passage, and overturned,the dray of a lime-dealer named Anceau; this dray contained three barrels of lime, which they placed beneath the piles of paving-stones: Enjolras raised the cellar trap, and all the widow Hucheloup's empty casks were used to flank the barrels of lime; Feuilly, with his fingers skilled in painting the delicate sticks of fans, had backed up the barrels and the dray with two massive heaps of blocks of rough stone. Blocks which were improvised like the rest and procured no one knows where. The beams which served as props were torn from the neighboring house-fronts and laid on the casks. When Bossuet and Courfeyrac turned round, half the street was already barred with a rampart higher than a man. There is nothing like the hand of the populace for building everything that is built by demolishing. 
Matelote and Gibelotte had mingled with the workers. Gibelotte went and came loaded with rubbish. Her lassitude helped on the barricade. She served the barricade as she would have served wine, with a sleepy air.
An omnibus with two white horses passed the end of the street.
Bossuet strode over the paving-stones, ran to it, stopped the driver, made the passengers alight, offered his hand to "the ladies," 
dismissed the conductor, and returned, leading the vehicle and the horses by the bridle.
"Omnibuses," said he, "do not pass the Corinthe. Non licet omnibus adire Corinthum."
An instant later, the horses were unharnessed and went off at their will, through the Rue Mondetour, and the omnibus lying on its side completed the bar across the street.
Mame Hucheloup, quite upset, had taken refuge in the first story.
Her eyes were vague, and stared without seeing anything, and she cried in a low tone. Her terrified shrieks did not dare to emerge from her throat.
"The end of the world has come," she muttered.
Joly deposited a kiss on Mame Hucheloup's fat, red, wrinkled neck,and said to Grantaire: "My dear fellow, I have always regarded a woman's neck as an infinitely delicate thing." 
But Grantaire attained to the highest regions of dithryamb. Matelote had mounted to the first floor once more, Grantaire seized her round her waist, and gave vent to long bursts of laughter at the window.
"Matelote is homely!" he cried: "Matelote is of a dream of ugliness! Matelote is a chimaera. This is the secret of her birth: a Gothic Pygmalion, who was making gargoyles for cathedrals, fell in love with one of them, the most horrible, one fine morning. He besought Love to give it life, and this produced Matelote. Look at her, citizens! She has chromate-of-lead-colored hair, like Titian's mistress, and she is a good girl. I guarantee that she will fight well. Every good girl contains a hero. As for Mother Hucheloup, she's an old warrior. Look at her moustaches! She inherited them from her husband. A hussar indeed! She will fight too. These two alone will strike terror to the heart of the banlieue. Comrades, we shall overthrow the government as true as there are fifteen intermediary acids between margaric acid and formic acid; however, that is a matter of perfect indifference to me. Gentlemen, my father always detested me because I could not understand mathematics. I understand only love and liberty. I am Grantaire, the good fellow. Having never had any money, I never acquired the habit of it, and the result is that I have never lacked it; but, if I had been rich, there would have been no more poor people! You would have seen! Oh, if the kind hearts only had fat purses, how much better things would go! I picture myself Jesus Christ with Rothschild's fortune! How much good he would do! Matelote, embrace me! You are voluptuous and timid! You have cheeks which invite the kiss of a sister, and lips which claim the kiss of a lover."
"Hold your tongue, you cask!" said Courfeyrac.
Grantaire retorted:--
"I am the capitoul[52] and the master of the floral games!"
[52] Municipal officer of Toulouse.
Enjolras, who was standing on the crest of the barricade, gun in hand, raised his beautiful, austere face. Enjolras, as the reader knows, had something of the Spartan and of the Puritan in his composition. He would have perished at Thermopylae with Leonidas, and burned at Drogheda with Cromwell.
"Grantaire," he shouted, "go get rid of the fumes of your wine somewhere else than here. This is the place for enthusiasm, not for drunkenness. Don't disgrace the barricade!" 
This angry speech produced a singular effect on Grantaire. One would have said that he had had a glass of cold water flung in his face. He seemed to be rendered suddenly sober. 
He sat down, put his elbows on a table near the window, looked at Enjolras with indescribable gentleness, and said to him:-- 
"Let me sleep here." 
"Go and sleep somewhere else," cried Enjolras. 
But Grantaire, still keeping his tender and troubled eyes fixed on him, replied:--
"Let me sleep here,--until I die."
Enjolras regarded him with disdainful eyes:--
"Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying."
Grantaire replied in a grave tone:--
"You will see."
He stammered a few more unintelligible words, then his head fell heavily on the table, and, as is the usual effect of the second period of inebriety, into which Enjolras had roughly and abruptly thrust him, an instant later he had fallen asleep.
那一地段确是选得非常高明。街口宽，街身窄，街尾象条死胡同，科林斯控制着咽喉，左右两侧的蒙德都街街口都容易堵塞，攻击只能来自圣德尼街，也就是说，来自正面，并且是敞着的。喝醉了的博须埃的眼光不亚于饿着肚子的汉尼拔。
那一伙涌进来后整条街上的人全惊慌起来了。没有一个过路人不躲避。一眨眼工夫，街底、街右、街左、商店、铺面、巷口的栅栏、窗户、板帘、顶楼、大小板窗，从地面直到房顶全关上了。一个吓破了胆的老妇人，把一块厚床垫系在两根晾衣服的杆子上挂在窗口外面，用以阻挡流弹。只有那酒店还开着，原因是那一伙人都已进去了。“啊我的天主！啊我的天主！”于什鲁大妈边叹气边这样说。
博须埃下楼找古费拉克去了。
若李待在窗口，喊着说：
“古费拉克，你应当带把雨伞。你又要伤风感报（冒）了。”
同时，不到几分钟那酒店的铁栏门上的铁条便被拔走了二十根，二十来米长的街面上的石块也被挖走了。伽弗洛什和巴阿雷看见一个名叫安索的烧石灰商人的两轮马车，载着三满桶石灰从他们面前经过，他们便拦住那车子，把它推翻，把石灰垫在石块的下面。安灼拉掀开地窖的平板门，寡妇于什鲁所有的空酒桶全部拿去支住那些石灰桶了；弗以伊，为了固定那些木桶和那辆马车，用他那十个惯常为精巧扇页着色的手指，在桶和车子的旁边堆砌了高高的两大堆鹅卵石。鹅卵石和其他的东西都是临时收集起来，也没人知道是从什么地方弄来的。从临近的一所房子的外墙上拆下了好些支墙的木柱，用来铺在木桶的面上。当博须埃和古费拉克回来时，半条街已被一座一人多高的堡垒堵塞住了。再没有什么能象群众的双手那样去建造一切为破坏而建的东西。
马特洛特和吉布洛特也参加了大伙的工作。吉布洛特来回搬运石灰碴。她向街垒贡献了她的那种懒劲。她把铺路的石块递给大家，正象她平时给客人递酒瓶时的神态，睡眼惺忪。
两匹白马拖着一辆公共马车从那街口经过。
博须埃见了，便跨过石块奔向前去，叫那车夫停住，让旅客们全部下来，搀扶着“女士们”下了车，打发了售票员，便抓住缰绳，把车子和马一同带了回来。他说：
“公共马车不从科林斯门前过。”
一会儿过后，卸下来的那两匹马，从蒙德都街口溜走了，公共马车翻倒在街垒旁边，完成了那条街的堵塞工事。
于什鲁大妈心慌意乱，躲到楼上去了。
她眼睛模糊，看东西也看不见，一直在低声叫苦。但可怕的叫声不敢出喉咙。
“这是世界的末日。”她嘟囔着。
若李在于什鲁大妈的粗红颈子的皱皮上吻了一下，对格朗泰尔说：
“我的亲爱的，我还以为女人的颈子总是无比细腻的呢。”
但是格朗泰尔这时正进入酒神颂的最高潮。马特洛特回到楼上来时，格朗泰尔曾把她拦腰抱了一把，还在窗边狂笑不止。
“马特洛特真是丑！”他喊着说，“你做梦也不会想到马特洛特会那么丑！马特洛特是一头怪兽。她出生的秘密是这样的：有个塑造天主堂屋顶水沟瓦档上饕餮头像的哥特人，一天早晨，象皮格马利翁①那样，忽然爱上了那些塑像中最可怕的一个。他央求爱神赐给它生命。那饕餮便变成了马特洛特。公民们，请看！她的头发和提香②的情妇一样，都作铬酸铅的颜色。她是个心地善良的姑娘。我向你们保证，她能勇敢战斗。凡是善良的姑娘都有一颗英雄的心。于什鲁大妈也是一个老当益壮的妇人。你们看看她嘴上的胡子！那是从她丈夫那里继承下来的。一个乌萨③娘子兵，没有错！她也一定能勇敢作战。有了她们两个，准可以威震郊区。同志们，我们一定能够推翻这个政府，这是确切可靠的，确切可靠到正如在脂肪酸和蚁酸之间有十五种中介酸那样。这些事与我毫不相干。先生们，我的父亲从来就嫌弃我，因为我不懂数学。我只懂得爱和自由。我是好孩子格朗泰尔！我从来不曾有过钱，也没有找钱的习惯，因此我也从来不缺钱，但是，要是我有钱的话，世界上就不会再有穷苦人！那将是人人能看得到的！呵！假使好心肠都有大钱包，那可就好了！我常想，要是耶稣基督能象路特希尔德④那样阔气，他会做出多少好事！马特洛特，拥抱我！您呀，多情而腼腆！您有着招来姐妹亲吻的双颊，有着要求情人亲吻的双唇！” 
①据希腊神话，皮格马利翁（Pygmalion）对自己所塑造的一座美女像发生爱情，爱神维纳斯使那塑像成为活人。
②提香（Titien，1477?576），意大利画家，他有一张画题名是《提香的情妇》。
③乌萨，匈牙利骑兵。
④路特希尔德（Rothschild，1743?812），德国籍犹太银行家，巨富，这里代表最富有者。　
“不要闹了，酒桶！”古费拉克说。
格朗泰尔回答说：
“我是风流太守！我是品花大师！”
安灼拉，手里握着步枪，昂起他那俊美庄严的头，直立在街垒的顶上。我们知道，安灼拉象个斯巴达人和清教徒。他可以和莱翁尼达斯一起，战死在塞莫皮莱①，也可以和克伦威尔一起，焚烧德罗赫达②。 
①塞莫皮莱（Thermopyles），一译温泉关，在希腊。公元前四八○年，三百名斯巴达人在国王莱翁尼达斯率领下，在此奋战波斯大军，全部阵亡。
②德罗赫达（Drogheda），爱尔兰城市。　
“格朗泰尔，”他喊道，“你走开，到别处酗酒去。这儿是出生入死的地方，不是醉生梦死的地方。不要在此地丢街垒的脸！”
这些含着怒气的话在格朗泰尔的身上产生了一种奇特的效果。他好象让人家对他脸上泼了一杯冷水，忽然清醒过来了。他在窗子旁边，把手肘支在一张桌子上，坐了下来，带着一种说不出的和蔼神情望着安灼拉，对他说：
“你知道我信服你。”
“走开。”
“让我在此地睡唾。”
“到别处去睡。”安灼拉喊着说。
但是格朗泰尔的那双温和而尴尬的眼睛一直望着他，嘴里回答说：
“让我睡在这儿……直到我死在这儿。”
安灼拉带着藐视他的意味估量着他：
“格朗泰尔，你啥也不能，信仰，思想，志愿，生，死，你全不能。”
格朗泰尔以严肃的声音回答说：
“你走着瞧吧。”
他还结结巴巴说了几句听不清楚的话，便一头栽了在桌子上，这是酩酊状态的第二阶段，是常有的现象，安灼拉猛然一下把他送进了这阶段，不一会儿，他睡着了。
Part 4 Book 12 Chapter 4 An Attempt to console the Widow Hucheloup
Bahorel, in ecstasies over the barricade, shouted:--
"Here's the street in its low-necked dress! How well it looks!"
Courfeyrac, as he demolished the wine-shop to some extent, sought to console the widowed proprietress. 
"Mother Hucheloup, weren't you complaining the other day because you had had a notice served on you for infringing the law, because Gibelotte shook a counterpane out of your window?"
"Yes, my good Monsieur Courfeyrac. Ah! Good Heavens, are you going to put that table of mine in your horror, too? And it was for the counterpane, and also for a pot of flowers which fell from the attic window into the street, that the government collected a fine of a hundred francs. If that isn't an abomination, what is!"
"Well, Mother Hucheloup, we are avenging you."
Mother Hucheloup did not appear to understand very clearly the benefit which she was to derive from these reprisals made on her account. She was satisfied after the manner of that Arab woman, who, having received a box on the ear from her husband, went to complain to her father, and cried for vengeance, saying: "Father, you owe my husband affront for affront." The father asked: "On which cheek did you receive the blow?" "On the left cheek." The father slapped her right cheek and said: "Now you are satisfied. Go tell your husband that he boxed my daughter's ears, and that I have accordingly boxed his wife's."
The rain had ceased. Recruits had arrived. Workmen had brought under their blouses a barrel of powder, a basket containing bottles of vitriol, two or three carnival torches, and a basket filled with fire-pots, "left over from the King's festival." This festival was very recent, having taken place on the 1st of May. It was said that these munitions came from a grocer in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine named Pepin. They smashed the only street lantern in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the lantern corresponding to one in the Rue Saint-Denis, and all the lanterns in the surrounding streets, de Mondetour, du Cygne, des Precheurs, and de la Grande and de la Petite-Truanderie.
Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac directed everything. Two barricades were now in process of construction at once, both of them resting on the Corinthe house and forming a right angle; the larger shut off the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the other closed the Rue Mondetour, on the side of the Rue de Cygne. This last barricade, which was very narrow, was constructed only of casks and paving-stones. There were about fifty workers on it; thirty were armed with guns; for, on their way, they had effected a wholesale loan from an armorer's shop.
Nothing could be more bizarre and at the same time more motley than this troop. One had a round-jacket, a cavalry sabre, and two holster-pistols, another was in his shirt-sleeves, with a round hat, and a powder-horn slung at his side, a third wore a plastron of nine sheets of gray paper and was armed with a saddler's awl. There was one who was shouting: "Let us exterminate them to the last man and die at the point of our bayonet." This man had no bayonet. Another spread out over his coat the cross-belt and cartridge-box of a National Guardsman, the cover of the cartridge-box being ornamented with this inscription in red worsted: Public Order. There were a great many guns bearing the numbers of the legions, few hats, no cravats, many bare arms, some pikes. Add to this, all ages, all sorts of faces, small, pale young men, and bronzed longshoremen. All were in haste; and as they helped each other, they discussed the possible chances. That they would receive 
succor about three o'clock in the morning--that they were sure of one regiment, that Paris would rise. Terrible sayings with which was mingled a sort of cordial joviality. One would have pronounced them brothers, but they did not know each other's names. Great perils have this fine characteristic, that they bring to light the fraternity of strangers. A fire had been lighted in the kitchen, and there they were engaged in moulding into bullets, pewter mugs, spoons, forks, and all the brass table-ware of the establishment. In the midst of it all, they drank. Caps and buckshot were mixed pell-mell on the tables with glasses of wine. In the billiard-hall, Mame Hucheloup, Matelote, and Gibelotte, variously modified by terror, which had stupefied one, rendered another breathless, and roused the third, were tearing up old dish-cloths and making lint; three insurgents were assisting them, three bushy-haired, jolly blades with beards and moustaches, who plucked away at the linen with the fingers of seamstresses and who made them tremble.
The man of lofty stature whom Courfeyrac, Combefere, and Enjolras had observed at the moment when he joined the mob at the cornerof the Rue des Billettes, was at work on the smaller barricade and was making himself useful there. Gavroche was working on the larger one. As for the young man who had been waiting for Courfeyrac at his lodgings, and who had inquired for M. Marius, he had disappeared at about the time when the omnibus had been overturned. 
Gavroche, completely carried away and radiant, had undertaken to get everything in readiness. He went, came, mounted, descended, re-mounted, whistled, and sparkled. He seemed to be there for the encouragement of all. Had he any incentive? Yes, certainly, his poverty; had he wings? Yes, certainly, his joy. Gavroche was a whirlwind. He was constantly visible, he was incessantly audible. He filled the air, as he was everywhere at once. He was a sort of almost irritating ubiquity; no halt was possible with him. The enormous barricade felt him on its haunches. He troubled the loungers, he excited the idle, he reanimated the weary, he grew impatient over the thoughtful, he inspired gayety in some, and breath in others, wrath in others, movement in all, now pricking a student, now biting an artisan; he alighted, paused, flew off again, hovered over the tumult, and the effort, sprang from one party to another, murmuring and humming, and harassed the whole company; a fly on the immense revolutionary coach. 
Perpetual motion was in his little arms and perpetual clamor in his little lungs.
"Courage! More paving-stones! More casks! More machines! Where are you now? A hod of plaster for me to stop this hole with! Your barricade is very small. It must be carried up. Put everything on it, fling everything there, stick it all in. Break down the house. A barricade is Mother Gibou's tea. Hullo, here's a glass door."
This elicited an exclamation from the workers.
"A glass door? What do you expect us to do with a glass door, tubercle?"
"Hercules yourselves!" retorted Gavroche. "A glass door is an excellent thing in a barricade. It does not prevent an attack, but it prevents the enemy taking it. So you've never prigged apples over a wall where there were broken bottles? A glass door cuts the corns of the National Guard when they try to mount on the barricade. Pardi! Glass is a treacherous thing. Well, you haven't a very wildly lively imagination, comrades."
However, he was furious over his triggerless pistol. He went from one to another, demanding: "A gun, I want a gun! Why don't you give me a gun?"
"Give you a gun!" said Combeferre.
"Come now!" said Gavroche, "why not? I had one in 1830 when we had a dispute with Charles X."
Enjolras shrugged his shoulders.
"When there are enough for the men, we will give some to the children."
Gavroche wheeled round haughtily, and answered:--
"If you are killed before me, I shall take yours."
"Gamin!" said Enjolras.
"Greenhorn!" said Gavroche.
A dandy who had lost his way and who lounged past the end of the street created a diversion! Gavroche shouted to him:-- 
"Come with us, young fellow! Well now, don't we do anything for this old country of ours?"
The dandy fled.
巴阿雷望着那街垒出神，他喊道：
“这条街可以说是袒胸露背的了！好得很！”
古费拉克也多少把那酒店里的东西损坏了些，他同时试图安慰那当酒店女主人的寡妇。
“于什鲁大妈，那天您不是在诉苦，说吉布洛特在您的窗口抖了一条床毯，您便接到了通知并罚了款吗？”
“是啊，我的好古费拉克先生。啊！我的天主，您还要把我的那张桌子也堆到您那堆垃圾上去吗？为了那床毯，还为了从顶楼掉到街上的一盆花，政府便已罚了我一百法郎，你们还要这样来对待我的东西吗？太不象话了！”
“是啊！于什鲁大妈，我们是在替您报仇呢。”
于什鲁大妈听了这种解释，似乎不大能理解她究竟得到了什么补偿。从前有个阿拉伯妇人，被她的丈夫打了一记耳光，她走去向她的父亲告状，吵着要报仇，她说：“爸，我的丈夫侮辱了你，你应当报复才对。”她父亲问道：“他打了你哪一边的脸？”“左边。”她父亲便在她的右边脸上给了她一巴掌，说道：“你现在应当满意了。你去对你的丈夫说，他打了我的女儿，我便打了他的老婆。”于什鲁大妈这时感到的满足也无非如此。
雨已经停了。来了些新战士。有些工人把一些有用的东西，藏在布衫下带了来：一桶火药、一个盛着几瓶硫酸的篮子、两个或三个狂欢节用的火把、一筐三王来朝节剩下的纸灯笼。这节日最近在五月一日才度过。据说这些作战物资是由圣安东尼郊区一个名叫贝班的食品杂货店老板供给的。麻厂街唯一的一盏路灯，和圣德尼街上的路灯遥遥相对以及附近所有的街棗蒙德都街、天鹅街、布道修士街、大小化子窝街上的路灯，全被打掉了。
安灼拉、公白飞和古费拉克指挥一切。这时，人们在同时建造两座街垒，两座都靠着科林斯，构成一个曲尺形；大的那座堵住麻厂街，小的那座堵住靠天鹅街那面的蒙德都街。小的那座很窄，只是用一些木桶和铺路石构成的，里面有五十来个工人，其中三十来个有步枪，因为他们在来的路上，把一家武器店的武器全部借来了。
没有什么比这种队伍更奇特和光怪陆离的了。有一个穿件齐膝的短外衣，带一把马刀和两支长手枪，另一个穿件衬衫，戴一顶圆边帽，身旁挂个盛火药的葫芦形皮盒，第三个穿一件用九层牛皮纸做的护胸甲，带的武器是一把马具制造工人用的那种引绳锥。有一个大声喊道：“让我们把他们歼灭到最后一个！让我们死在我们的刺刀尖上！”这人并没有刺刀。另一个在他的骑马服外面系上一副国民自卫军用的那种皮带和一个盛子弹的方皮盒，盒盖上还有装饰，一块红毛呢，上面印了“公共秩序”几个字。好些步枪上都有部队的编号，帽子不多，领带绝对没有，许多光胳膊，几杆长矛。还得加上各种年龄和各种面貌的人，脸色苍白的青年，晒成了紫铜色的码头工。所有的人都在你追我赶，互相帮助，同时也在交谈，展望着可能的机会，说凌晨三点前后就会有援兵，说有个联队肯定会响应，说整个巴黎都会动起来的。惊险的话题却含有出自内心的喜悦。这些人亲如兄弟，而彼此都不知道姓名。巨大的危险有这么一种壮美：它能使互不相识的人之间的博爱精神焕发出来。
在厨房里燃起了一炉火。他们把酒店里的锡器：水罐、匙子、叉子等放在一个模子里，烧熔了做子弹。他们一面工作，一面喝酒。桌上乱七八糟地堆满了封瓶口的锡皮、铅弹和玻璃杯。于什鲁大妈、马特洛特和吉布洛特都因恐怖而有不同的反常状态，有的变傻了，有的喘不过气来，有的被吓醒了，她们待在有球台的厅堂里，在撕旧布巾做裹伤绷带，三个参加起义的人在帮着她们，那是三个留着长头发和胡须的快活人，他们用织布工人的手指拣起那些布条，并抖抻它们。
先头古费拉克、公白飞和安灼拉在皮埃特街转角处加入队伍时所注意到的那个高大个子，这时在小街垒工作，并且出了些力。伽弗洛什在大街垒工作。至于那个曾到古费拉克家门口去等待并问他关于马吕斯先生的年轻人，约在大家推翻公共马车时不见了。
伽弗洛什欢天喜地，振奋得要飞起来似的，他主动干着加油打气的鼓动工作。他去去来来，爬高落低，再爬高，响声一片，火星四射。他在那里好象是为了鼓励每一个人。他有指挥棒吗？有，肯定有：他的穷苦；他有翅膀吗？有，肯定有：他的欢乐。伽弗洛什是一股旋风。人们随时都见到他的形象，处处都听到他的声音。他满布空间，无时不在。他几乎是一种激奋的化身，有了他，便不可能有停顿。那庞大的街垒感到他坐镇在它的臀部。他使闲散的人感到局促不安，刺激懒惰的人，振奋疲倦的人，激励思前想后的人，让这一伙高兴起来，让那一伙紧张起来，让另一伙激动起来，让每个人都行动起来，对一个大学生戳一下，对一个工人咬一口，这里待一会，那里停一会，继又转到别处，在人声鼎沸、干劲冲天之上飞翔，从这一群人跳到那一群人，叨唠着，嗡嗡地飞着，驾驭着那整队人马，正象巨大的革命马车上的一只苍蝇。
那永恒的活动出自他那瘦小的臂膀，无休止的喧噪出自他那弱小的肺腔：
“加油干啦！还要石块！还要木桶！还要这玩意儿！哪儿有啊？弄一筐石灰碴来替我堵上这窟窿。太小了，你们的这街垒。还得垒高些。把所有的东西都搬上去，丢上去，甩上去。把那房子拆了。一座街垒，便是吉布妈妈的一场茶会。你们瞧，这儿有扇玻璃门。”
这话使那些工人都吼起来了。
“一扇玻璃门，你那玻璃门顶什么用啊，小土豆儿？”
“你们是大大的了不起！”伽弗洛什反驳说。“街垒里有扇玻璃门，用处可大呢。它当然不能防止人家进攻，但它能阻挡人家把它攻下。你们偷苹果的时候难道从来就没有爬过那种插了玻璃瓶底的围墙吗？有了一扇玻璃门，要是那些国民自卫军想登上街垒，他们脚上的老茧便会被划开。老天！玻璃是种阴险的东西。真是的，同志们，你们也太没有丰富的想象力了！”
此外，他想到他那没有撞针的手枪便冒火。他从这个问到那个，要求说：“一支步枪。我要一支步枪。你们为什么不给我一支步枪？”
“给你一支步枪！”古费拉克说。
“嘿！”伽弗洛什回驳说，“为什么不？一八三○年当我们和查理十世翻脸的时候，我便有过一支！”
安灼拉耸了耸肩头。
“要等到大人都有了，才分给孩子。”
伽弗洛什趾高气扬地转身对着他回答说：
“要是你比我先死，我便接你的枪。”
“野孩子！”安灼拉说。
“毛头小伙子！”伽弗洛什说。
一个在街头闲逛的花花公子转移了他们的注意力。
伽弗洛什对他喊道：
“来我们这儿，年轻人！怎么，对这古老的祖国你不打算出点力吗？”
花花公子连忙溜走了。
Part 4 Book 12 Chapter 5 Preparations
The journals of the day which said that that nearly impregnable structure, of the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, as they call it, reached to the level of the first floor, were mistaken. The fact is, that it did not exceed an average height of six or seven feet. It was built in such a manner that the combatants could, at their will, either disappear behind it or dominate the barrier and even scale its crest by means of a quadruple row of paving-stones placed on top of each other and arranged as steps in the interior. On the outside, the front of the barricade, composed of piles of paving-stones and casks bound together by beams and planks, which were entangled in the wheels of Anceau's dray and of the overturned omnibus, had a bristling and inextricable aspect. 
An aperture large enough to allow a man to pass through had been made between the wall of the houses and the extremity of the barricade which was furthest from the wine-shop, so that an exit was possible at this point. The pole of the omnibus was placed upright and held up with ropes, and a red flag, fastened to this pole, floated over the barricade. 
The little Mondetour barricade, hidden behind the wine-shop building, was not visible. The two barricades united formed a veritable redoubt. Enjolras and Courfeyrac had not thought fit to barricade the other fragment of the Rue Mondetour which opens through the Rue des Precheurs an issue into the Halles, wishing, no doubt, to preserve a possible communication with the outside, and not entertaining much fear of an attack through the dangerous and difficult street of the Rue des Precheurs.
With the exception of this issue which was left free, and which constituted what Folard in his strategical style would have termed a branch and taking into account, also, the narrow cutting arranged on the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the interior of the barricade, where the wine-shop formed a salient angle, presented an irregular square, closed on all sides. There existed an interval of twenty paces between the grand barrier and the lofty houses which formed the background of the street, so that one might say that the barricade rested on these houses, all inhabited, but closed from top to bottom.
All this work was performed without any hindrance, in less than an hour, and without this handful of bold men seeing a single bear-skin cap or a single bayonet make their appearance. The very bourgeois who still ventured at this hour of riot to enterthe Rue Saint-Denis cast a glance at the Rue de la Chanvrerie, caught sight of the barricade, and redoubled their pace. 
The two barricades being finished, and the flag run up, a table was dragged out of the wine-shop; and Courfeyrac mounted on the table. Enjolras brought the square coffer, and Courfeyrac opened it. This coffer was filled with cartridges. When the mob saw the cartridges, a tremor ran through the bravest, and a momentary silence ensued.
Courfeyrac distributed them with a smile. 
Each one received thirty cartridges. Many had powder, and set about making others with the bullets which they had run. As for the barrel of powder, it stood on a table on one side, near the door, and was held in reserve.
The alarm beat which ran through all Paris, did not cease, but it had finally come to be nothing more than a monotonous noise to which they no longer paid any attention. This noise retreated at times, and again drew near, with melancholy undulations.
They loaded the guns and carbines, all together, without haste, with solemn gravity. Enjolras went and stationed three sentinels outside the barricades, one in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the second in the Rue des Precheurs, the third at the corner of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie.
Then, the barricades having been built, the posts assigned, the guns loaded, the sentinels stationed, they waited, alone in those redoubtable streets through which no one passed any longer, surrounded by those dumb houses which seemed dead and in which no human movement palpitated, enveloped in the deepening shades of twilight which was drawing on, in the midst of that silence through which something could be felt advancing, and which had about it something tragic and terrifying, isolated, armed, determined, and tranquil.
当时的一些报纸曾报导麻厂街的街垒是一座“无法攻下的建筑”，他们的描绘是这样的。他们说它有一幢楼房那么高，这种说法错了。事实是它的平均高度没有超出六尺或七尺。它的建造设计是让战士能随意隐蔽在垒墙后面或在它上面居高临下，并可由一道砌在内部的四级石块阶梯登上墙脊，跨越出去。街垒的正面是由石块和木桶堆筑起来的，又用一些木柱和木板以及安索的那辆小马车和翻倒了的公共马车的轮子，纵横交错，连成一个整体，从外面看去，那形象是杈桠歧生、紊乱错杂的。街垒的一头紧接酒店，在另外那一头和对面房屋的墙壁之间，留了一个能容一人通过的缺口作为出路。公共马车的辕杆已用绳索绑扎，让它竖起来，杆端系了一面红旗，飘扬在街垒的上空。
蒙德都街的那座小街垒，隐在酒店房屋的背后，是瞧不见的。这两处街垒连在一道便构成一座真正的犄角堡。安灼拉和古费拉克曾认为不宜在布道修士街通往菜市场那一段蒙德都街上建造街垒，他们显然是要留一条可以通向外面的路，也不大怕敌人从那条危险和艰难的布道修士街攻进来。
这条未经阻塞留作通道的出路，也许就是福拉尔①兵法中所说的那种交通小道；如果这条小道和麻厂街的那条狭窄的缺口都不计算在内，这座街垒内部除了酒店所构成的突角以外，便象一个全部封闭了的不规则四边形。这座大街垒和街底的那排高房子，相隔不过二十来步，因此我们可以说，街垒是背靠着那排房子的。那几座房子全有人住，但从上到下全关上了门窗。 
①福拉尔（Folard，1669?752），法国军事学家。　
这一切工程是在不到一小时之内顺利完成了的，那一小伙胆大气壮的人没有见到一顶毛皮帽①或一把枪刺。偶尔也有几个资产阶级仍在这暴动时刻走过圣德尼街时，向麻厂街望了一眼，见了这街垒便加快了脚步。 
①十九世纪初，法国近卫军头戴高大的毛皮帽，此处泛指政府军。
两个街垒都已完成，红旗已经竖起，他们便从酒店里拖出一张桌子，古费拉克立在桌子上。安灼拉搬来了方匣子，古费拉克打开匣盖，里面盛满了枪弹。枪弹出现时最勇敢的人也起了一阵战栗，大家全静了下来。
古费拉克面带笑容，把枪弹分给大家。
每人得到三十发枪弹。好些人有火药，便开始用熔好的子弹头做更多的枪弹。至于那整桶火药，他们把它放在店门旁的另一张桌子上，保存起来。
集合军队的鼓角声响彻巴黎，迄今未止，但已成一种单调的声音，他们不再注意了。那种声音，时而由近及远，时而由远及近，来回飘荡，惨不忍闻。
后来街垒建成了，各人的岗位都指定了，枪弹进了膛，哨兵上了岗，行人已绝迹，四周房屋全是静悄悄的，死了似的，绝无一点人的声息，暮色开始加深，逐渐进入黑夜，他们孤孤单单地留在这种触目惊心的街巷中，黑暗和死寂的环境中，感到自己已和外面隔绝，向着他们逼来的是种说不出有多悲惨和骇人的事物，他们紧握手中武器，坚定，安闲，等待着。
Part 4 Book 12 Chapter 6 Waiting
During those hours of waiting, what did they do?
We must needs tell, since this is a matter of history.
While the men made bullets and the women lint, while a large saucepan of melted brass and lead, destined to the bullet-mould smoked over a glowing brazier, while the sentinels watched, weapon in hand, on the barricade, while Enjolras, whom it was impossible to divert, kept an eye on the sentinels, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and some others, sought each other out and united as in the most peaceful days of their conversations in their student life, and, in one corner of this wine-shop which had been converted into a casement, a couple of paces distant from the redoubt which they had built, with their carbines loaded and primed resting against the backs of their chairs, these fine young fellows, so close to a supreme hour, began to recite love verses. 
What verses? These:--
Vous rappelez-vous notre douce vie, Lorsque nous etions si jeunes tous deux, Et que nous n'avions au coeur d'autre envie Que d'etre bien mis et d'etre amoureux, 
Lorsqu'en ajoutant votre age a mon age, Nous ne comptions pas a deux quarante ans, Et que, dans notre humble et petit menage, Tout, meme l'hiver, nous etait printemps?
Beaux jours! Manuel etait fier et sage, Paris s'asseyait a de saints banquets, Foy lancait la foudre, et votre corsage Avait une epingle ou je me piquais.
Tout vous contemplait. Avocat sans causes, Quand je vous menais au Prado diner, Vous etiez jolie au point que les roses Me faisaient l'effet de se retourner. 
Je les entendais dire: Est elle belle! Comme elle sent bon! Quels cheveux a flots! Sous son mantelet elle cache une aile, Son bonnet charmant est a peine eclos. 
J'errais avec toi, pressant ton bras souple. Les passants crovaient que l'amour charme Avait marie, dans notre heureux couple, Le doux mois d'avril au beau mois de mai. 
Nous vivions caches, contents, porte close, Devorant l'amour, bon fruit defendu, Ma bouche n'avait pas dit une chose Que deja ton coeur avait repondu. 
La Sorbonne etait l'endroit bucolique Ou je t'adorais du soir au matin. C'est ainsi qu'une ame amoureuse applique La carte du Tendre au pays Latin. 
O place Maubert! o place Dauphine! Quand, dans le taudis frais et printanier, Tu tirais ton bas sur ton jambe fine, Je voyais un astre au fond du grenier. 
J'ai fort lu Platon, mais rien ne m'en reste; Mieux que Malebranche et que Lamennais, Tu me demontrais la bonte celeste Avec une fleur que tu me donnais. 
Je t'obeissais, tu m' etais soumise; O grenier dore! te lacer! te voir Aller et venir des l'aube en chemise, Mirant ton jeune front a ton vieux miroir.
Et qui done pourrait perde la memoire De ces temps d'aurore et de firmament, De rubans, de fleurs, de gaze et de moire, Ou l'amour begaye un argot charmant? 
Nos jardins etaient un pot de tulipe; Tu masquais la vitre avec un jupon; Je prenais le bol de terre de pipe, Et je te donnais le tasse en japon.
Et ces grands malheurs qui nous faisaient rire! Ton manchon brule, ton boa perdu! Et ce cher portrait du divin Shakespeare Qu'un soir pour souper nons avons vendu!
J'etais mendiant et toi charitable. Je baisais au vol tes bras frais et ronds. Dante in folio nous servait de table Pour manger gaiment un cent de marrons. 
La premiere fois qu'en mon joyeux bouge Je pris un baiser a ton levre en feu, Quand tu t'en allais decoiffee et rouge, Je restai tout pale et je crus en Dieu! 
Te rappelles-tu nos bonhe urs sans nombre, Et tous ces fichus changes en chiffons? Oh que de soupirs, de nos coeurs pleins d'ombre, Se sont envoles dans les cieux profonds![53]
[53] Do you remember our sweet life, when we were both so young, and when we had no other desire in our hearts than to be well dressed and in love? When, by adding your age to my age, we could not count forty years between us, and when, in our humble and tiny household, everything was spring to us even in winter. Fair days! Manuel was proud and wise, Paris sat at sacred banquets, Foy launched thunderbolts, and your corsage had a pin on which I pricked myself. Everything gazed upon you. A briefless lawyer, when I took you to the Prado to dine, you were so beautiful that the roses seemed to me to turn round, and I heard them say: Is she not beautiful! How good she smells! What billowing hair! Beneath her mantle she hides a wing. Her charming bonnet is hardly unfolded. I wandered with thee, pressing thy supple arm. The passers-by thought that love bewitched had wedded, in our happy couple, the gentle month of April to the fair month of May. We lived concealed, content, with closed doors, devouring love, that sweet forbidden fruit. My mouth had not uttered a thing when thy heart had already responded. The Sorbonne was the bucolic spot where I adored thee from eve till morn. 'Tis thus that an amorous soul applies the chart of the Tender to the Latin country. O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine! When in the fresh spring-like hut thou didst draw thy stocking on thy delicate leg, I saw a star in the depths of the garret. I have read a great deal of Plato, but nothing of it remains by me; better than Malebranche and then Lamennais thou didst demonstrate to me celestial goodness with a flower which thou gavest to me, I obeyed thee, thou didst submit to me; oh gilded garret! To lace thee! To behold thee going and coming from dawn in thy chemise, gazing at thy young brow in thine ancient mirror! And who, then, would forego the memory of those days of aurora and the firmament, of flowers, of gauze and of moire, when love stammers a charming slang? Our gardens consisted of a pot of tulips; thou didst mask the window with thy petticoat; I took the earthenware bowl and I gave thee the Japanese cup. And those great misfortunes which made us laugh! Thy cuff scorched, thy boa lost! And that dear portrait of the divine Shakespeare which we sold one evening that we might sup! I was a beggar and thou wert charitable. I kissed thy fresh round arms in haste. A folio Dante served us as a table on which to eat merrily a centime's worth of chestnuts. The first time that, in my joyous den, I snatched a kiss from thy fiery lip, when thou wentest forth, dishevelled and blushing, I turned deathly pale and I believed in God. Dost thou recall our innumerable joys, and all those fichus changed to rags? Oh! What sighs from our hearts full of gloom fluttered forth to the heavenly depths!
The hour, the spot, these souvenirs of youth recalled, a few stars which began to twinkle in the sky, the funeral repose of those deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable adventure, which was in preparation, gave a pathetic charm to these verses murmured in a low tone in the dusk by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a gentle poet. 
In the meantime, a lamp had been lighted in the small barricade, and in the large one, one of those wax torches such as are to be met with on Shrove-Tuesday in front of vehicles loaded with masks, on their way to la Courtille. These torches, as the reader has seen, came from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
The torch had been placed in a sort of cage of paving-stones closed on three sides to shelter it from the wind, and disposed in such a fashion that all the light fell on the flag. The street and the barricade remained sunk in gloom, and nothing was to be seen except the red flag formidably illuminated as by an enormous dark-lantern.
This light enhanced the scarlet of the flag, with an indescribable and terrible purple.
在等待的时候他们干些什么呢？
我们应当谈出来，因为这是历史。
当男人做枪弹，妇女做绷带时，当一口大铁锅还在烈火上冒气，里面盛满熔化了的锡和铅，正待注入弹头模子时，当哨兵端着武器立在街垒上守卫时，当安灼拉全神贯注，巡视各处岗哨时，公白飞、古费拉克、让·勃鲁维尔、弗以伊、博须埃、若李、巴阿雷，还有另外几个，互相邀集在一起，正如在平时平静的日子里，同学们促膝谈心那样，坐在那已成为避弹地窖的酒店的一个角落里，离他们建造的堡垒只两步路的地方，把他们上好子弹的枪支靠在他们的椅背上，这一伙壮美的年轻人，开始念一些情诗。
什么诗呢？这些：
你还记得我们的甜蜜生活吗？
当时我俩都年少，
我们一心向往的，
只是穿着入时，你我长相好。
在当时，你的年纪，我的年纪，
合在一起，四十也还到不了；
我们那简陋的小家庭，
即使在寒冬，也处处是春光好。
那些日子多美好哟！曼努埃尔豪迈而明智，
帕里斯正坐上圣餐筵席，
富瓦叱咤似惊雷，
我被戳痛在你汗衣的别针尖儿上。
人人都爱偷望你！我，一个无人过问的律师，
当我陪你去普拉多晚餐时，
你是多么俏丽！我暗自寻思：
蔷薇花儿见了你，也会转过脸儿背着你。
我听到他们说：她多美！她多香！
她的头发多么象波浪！
可惜她的短大衣，遮去了她的小翅膀；
她头戴玲珑小帽，好似蓓蕾初放。
我常挽着你温柔的手臂，漫步街头，
过往行人见了都认为：
爱神通过我俩这对幸福的情侣，
已把明媚的初夏许配给艳阳天。
我们掩上门，不见人，象偷啖天庭禁果，
饱尝爱的滋味，欢度美好光阴。
我还没有说出心中话，
你已先我表同心。
索邦真是个销魂处，在那里，
我温存崇拜你，从傍晚到天明。
多情种子就这样，
拉丁区里订鸳盟。
呵莫贝尔广场！呵太子妃广场！
在那春意盎然的小楼上，
当你把长袜穿到你秀美的大腿上，
我看见一颗明星出现在阁楼里。
我曾攻读柏拉图①，
但已完全无印象。
马勒伯朗士②和拉梅耐，也都不能和你比；
你给我的一朵花儿，
比他们更能显示上苍的美意。
我对你百依百顺，你对我有求必应；
呵金光闪耀的阁楼！我在那里搂抱你！
天欲晓，我见你，披睡衣，举旧镜，
来回移步床前，窥望镜中倩影。
晨曦，星夜，花间，飘带，绉纱，绫绮，
美景良辰，谁能忘记！
相对喁喁私语时，
村言俚语全无忌。
我们的花园是一钵郁金香，
你把你的衬裙当作窗帘挂。
我将白泥烟斗手中拿，
并把那日本瓷杯递给你。
还有那些常使我们笑话的灾难！
你的手笼烧着了！你的长围巾丢失了！
有一夜，为了同去吃一餐，
我们竟把诗圣莎士比亚的画像卖掉了！
我象个讨饭的化子，而你却乐善好施。
我常乘你不提防，偷吻你鲜润丰腴的臂膀。
把但丁的对开本拿来当作台子使，
我们快乐无边，同吃了一百个栗子。
当我第一次在那喜气洋洋的破楼里，
吻了你火热的嘴唇，
你头发散乱脸绯红，撇下我走了时，
我面色苍白竟至相信有上帝。
记取我们种种说不完的幸福，
还有那废弃了的无数丝巾绸帕！
呵！叹息声声，
从我们郁结的心头飞向寥廓天际！ 
①柏拉图（Platon，约前427?47），古希腊唯心主义哲学家，奴隶主贵族的思想家，自然经济的维护者。
②马勒伯朗士（Nicolas　Malebranche，1638?715），法国唯心主义哲学家，形而上学者。
那样的时刻，那样的环境，对青年时期种种往事的追忆，开始在天空闪烁的星星，荒凉死寂的街巷以及吉少凶多、迫在眉睫的严酷考验，都为让·勃鲁维尔这个温柔悱恻的诗人低声吟诵着的这些诗句，增添了一层凄迷的魅力。
这时在那小街垒里燃起了一盏彩色纸灯笼，大街垒里也燃起了浇了蜡的火炬。这种火炬，我们已经知道，来自圣安东尼郊区，每年油荤星期二①，人们戴着面具挤上马车向拉古尔第区进发时，点燃在马车前面的那种火炬。 
①按天主教教规，每年在三月前后的四十天中，教徒不吃肉不喝酒，是为封斋期。封斋期在一个星期三开始。斋期开始前举行狂欢节，大吃大喝大乐若干天，到封斋期前夕星期二晚，进入最高潮，是为油荤星期二。拉古尔第区在巴黎东郊，是狂欢活动最集中的地方。
那火炬被插在三面用石块挡住的避风笼子里，让火炬的光象盏聚光灯似的，全部射在那面红旗上。街道和街垒都仍处在黑暗中，人们只能看见那面亮得可怕的红旗。
火炬的光在旗子的朱红色上增添一种说不出多么骇人的紫红颜色。
Part 4 Book 12 Chapter 7 The Man recruited in the Rue des Billettes
Night was fully come, nothing made its appearance. All that they heard was confused noises, and at intervals, fusillades; but these were rare, badly sustained and distant. This respite, which was thus prolonged, was a sign that the Government was taking its time, and collecting its forces. These fifty men were waiting for sixty thousand.
Enjolras felt attacked by that impatience which seizes on strong souls on the threshold of redoubtable events. He went in search of Gavroche, who had set to making cartridges in the tap-room, by the dubious light of two candles placed on the counter by way of precaution, on account of the powder which was scattered on the tables. These two candles cast no gleam outside. The insurgents had, moreover, taken pains not to have any light in the upper stories. 
Gavroche was deeply preoccupied at that moment, but not precisely with his cartridges. The man of the Rue des Billettes had just entered the tap-room and had seated himself at the table which was the least lighted. A musket of large model had fallen to his share, and he held it between his legs. Gavroche, who had been, up to that moment, distracted by a hundred "amusing" things, had not even seen this man.
When he entered, Gavroche followed him mechanically with his eyes, admiring his gun; then, all at once, when the man was seated, the street urchin sprang to his feet. Any one who had spied upon that man up to that moment, would have seen that he was observing everything in the barricade and in the band of insurgents, with singular attention; but, from the moment when he had entered this room, he had fallen into a sort of brown study, and no longer seemed to see anything that was going on. The gamin approached this pensive personage, and began to step around him on tiptoe, as one walks in the vicinity of a person whom one is afraid of waking. At the same time, over his childish countenance which was, at once so impudent and so serious, so giddy and so profound, so gay and so heart-breaking, passed all those grimaces of an old man which signify: Ah bah! Impossible! My sight is bad! I am dreaming! Can this be? No, it is not! But yes! Why, No! Etc. Gavroche balanced on his heels, clenched both fists in his pockets, moved his neck around like a bird, expended in a gigantic pout all the sagacity of his lower lip. He was astounded, uncertain, incredulous, convinced, dazzled. He had the mien of the chief of the eunuchs in the slave mart, discovering a Venus among the blowsy females, and the air of an amateur recognizing a Raphael in a heap of daubs. His whole being was at work, the instinct which scents out, and the intelligence which combines. It was evident that a great event had happened in Gavroche's life.
It was at the most intense point of this preoccupation that Enjolras accosted him.
"You are small," said Enjolras, "you will not be seen. Go out of the barricade, slip along close to the houses, skirmish about a bit in the streets, and come back and tell me what is going on." 
Gavroche raised himself on his haunches.
"So the little chaps are good for something! That's very lucky! I'll go! In the meanwhile, trust to the little fellows, and distrust the big ones." And Gavroche, raising his head and lowering his voice, added, as he indicated the man of the Rue des Billettes: "Do you see that big fellow there?"
"Well?"
"He's a police spy."
"Are you sure of it?"
"It isn't two weeks since he pulled me off the cornice of the Port Royal, where I was taking the air, by my ear." 
Enjolras hastily quitted the urchin and murmured a few words in a very low tone to a longshoreman from the winedocks who chanced to be at hand. The man left the room, and returned almost immediately, accompanied by three others. The four men, four porters with broad shoulders, went and placed themselves without doing anything to attract his attention, behind the table on which the man of the Rue des Billettes was leaning with his elbows. They were evidently ready to hurl themselves upon him.
Then Enjolras approached the man and demanded of him:--
"Who are you?"
At this abrupt query, the man started. He plunged his gaze deep into Enjolras' clear eyes and appeared to grasp the latter's meaning. He smiled with a smile than which nothing more disdainful, more energetic, and more resolute could be seen in the world, and replied with haughty gravity:--
"I see what it is. Well, yes!"
"You are a police spy?"
"I am an agent of the authorities."
"And your name?"
"Javert."
Enjolras made a sign to the four men. In the twinkling of an eye, before Javert had time to turn round, he was collared, thrown down, pinioned and searched.
They found on him a little round card pasted between two pieces of glass, and bearing on one side the arms of France, engraved, and with this motto: Supervision and vigilance, and on the other this note: "JAVERT, inspector of police, aged fifty-two," and the signature of the Prefect of Police of that day, M. Gisquet.
Besides this, he had his watch and his purse, which contained several gold pieces. They left him his purse and his watch. Under the watch, at the bottom of his fob, they felt and seized a paper in an envelope, which Enjolras unfolded, and on which he read these five lines, written in the very hand of the Prefect of Police:--
"As soon as his political mission is accomplished, Inspector Javert will make sure, by special supervision, whether it is true that the malefactors have instituted intrigues on the right bank of the Seine, near the Jena bridge."
The search ended, they lifted Javert to his feet, bound his arms behind his back, and fastened him to that celebrated post in the middle of the room which had formerly given the wine-shop its name. 
Gavroche, who had looked on at the whole of this scene and had approved of everything with a silent toss of his head, stepped up to Javert and said to him:--
"It's the mouse who has caught the cat."
All this was so rapidly executed, that it was all over when those about the wine-shop noticed it. 
Javert had not uttered a single cry.
At the sight of Javert bound to the post, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Combeferre, and the men scattered over the two barricades came running up. 
Javert, with his back to the post, and so surrounded with ropes that he could not make a movement, raised his head with the intrepid serenity of the man who has never lied.
"He is a police spy," said Enjolras.
And turning to Javert: "You will be shot ten minutes before the barricade is taken."
Javert replied in his most imperious tone:--
"Why not at once?"
"We are saving our powder."
"Then finish the business with a blow from a knife."
"Spy," said the handsome Enjolras, "we are judges and not assassins."
Then he called Gavroche:--
"Here you! Go about your business! Do what I told you!"
"I'm going!" cried Gavroche.
And halting as he was on the point of setting out:--
"By the way, you will give me his gun!" and he added: "I leave you the musician, but I want the clarionet." 
The gamin made the military salute and passed gayly through the opening in the large barricade.
天已完全黑了，还没有发生任何事。人们只听到一些隐隐约约的鼓噪声，有时也听到远处传来的一些有气无力的零散枪声。这种漫长的沉寂状态说明政府正在从容不迫地集结力量。这五十个人在等待六万人。
在这时，正如那些面临险境性格顽强的人那样，安灼拉感到自己有些急躁。他走去找伽弗洛什，伽弗洛什正在楼下厅堂里的微弱烛光下做枪弹，那些桌子上都撒满了火药，为了安全，只在柜台上放两支蜡烛。烛光一点也不会照到外面。起义的人已注意不在楼上点灯。
伽弗洛什这时心神不定，并不完全是为那些枪弹。
来自皮埃特街的那个人刚走进厅堂，他走去坐在烛光最暗的那张桌子旁边，两腿夹着一支大型的军用步枪。伽弗洛什在这以前，一心想着种种“好玩的”事，一点没有注意那个人。
他走进来时，伽弗洛什的眼光机械地落在他的那支步枪上，心里好生羡慕，随后，当那人坐下去时，这野孩突然立了起来。如果有人在这以前侦察过那人的行动，便早已发现他曾以一种奇特的注意力察看过整个街垒和每一个起义的人。但自从他进入厅堂以后，他又好象陷入一种冥思苦想的状态，全不注意发生在他四周的事了。这野孩踮着脚走近那个潜心思索的人，绕着他兜圈子，怕惊醒了他似的。这时，在他那张既顽皮又严肃、既放肆又深沉、既高兴又担忧的孩儿脸上，出现了老人的种种奇形丑态，意思是说：“怎么！”“不可能吧！”“我眼花了吧！”“我在做梦吧！”“难道这会是个……”“不，不会的！”“肯定是的！”“肯定不是！”等等。伽弗洛什立在脚跟上左右摇晃，把两个拳头捏紧在他的衣袋里，象只小鸟似的转动着脑袋，用他下嘴唇表现的全部机敏做了一个其丑无比的撇嘴丑脸。他愣住了，没有把握，有所怀疑，有把握了，乐极了。他当时的神态就象一个阉奴总管在奴隶市场的大肚皮女人堆中发现一个维纳斯，在劣等油画堆中识别一幅拉斐尔真迹的鉴赏家。他全部的嗅觉和运筹的才智都活跃起来了。很明显，伽弗洛什正面临一件大事。
当安灼拉走来找他时，他正处在这种紧张状态的顶点。
“你个子小，”安灼拉说，“不容易被发现。你到街垒外面去走一趟，沿着房屋的墙壁溜到街上各处去看看，回头再来把外面的情况告诉我。”
伽弗洛什把两手叉在胯上，挺起胸膛说：
“小人儿也会有用处！这太好了！我这就去。可是，你信得过小人，也还得提防大人……”同时，伽弗洛什抬起头，瞄着皮埃特街上的那个人，低声说道：
“你看见那个大个子吗？”
“怎么呢？”
“那是个特务。”
“你有把握？”
“还不到半个月，我在王家桥石栏杆上乘凉，揪我耳朵把我从栏杆顶上提下来的便是他。”
安灼拉立即离开了那野孩，旁边正有一个酒码头的工人，他以极小的声音对那工人说了几句话。工人便走出厅堂，立即又领着三个人转回来。这四个人，四个宽肩大汉，绝不惊动那个来自皮埃特街的人，走去立在他的后面，那人仍以肘弯靠在桌上，坐着不动。那四个人显然是准备好了要向他扑上去的。
这时安灼拉走向那人，问他说：
“你是什么人？”
那人，经他这样突如其来地一问，大吃一惊。他把他的目光直射到安灼拉坦率的眸子底里，并显出他已猜出对方的思想。他面带笑容，那种极其傲慢坚定有力的笑容，以倨傲沉着的声音回答说：
“我懂了是怎么回事……要怎样便怎样吧！”
“你是暗探吗？”
“我是公职人员。”
“你叫什么名字？”
“沙威。”
安灼拉对那四个人递了个眼色。一眨眼，沙威还没有来得及转过头去望一眼，他已被揪住衣领，按倒在地，用绳索绑了起来，身上也被搜查了。
从他身上搜出一张粘在两片玻璃中间的小圆卡片，一面印有铜版雕刻的法兰西国徽和这样的铭文：“视察和警惕”；另一面有这些记载：沙威，警务侦察员，五十二岁；还有当时警署署长的签字“M．吉斯凯”。
另外，他有一只表和一个钱包，包里有几个金币。表和钱包都还给了他。在那表的下面口袋底里，摸出一张装在信封里的纸。安灼拉展开来看，上面有警署署长亲笔写的这几行字：
政治任务完毕以后，沙威侦察员应立即执行特殊任务，前往耶拿桥附近调查是否确有匪群在塞纳河右岸岸边进行活动。
搜查完毕以后，他们让沙威立起来，把他的两条臂膀反绑在背后，捆在厅堂中间当年酒店据以命名的那根有名的木柱上。
伽弗洛什目击这一切经过，他一直没有吭声，只暗暗点头表示赞许，这时，他走近沙威，对他说：
“这回是小老鼠逮着了猫儿。”
这件事办得非常迅速，直到完事以后，酒店四周的人才知道。沙威一声也没有叫喊。听说沙威已被绑在木柱上，古费拉克、博须埃、若李、公白飞以及散在两个街垒里的人都跑来看。
沙威背靠着木柱，身上缠了无数道绳子，一点也动弹不得，带着从不说谎的人那种无畏而泰然自若的神气，他昂着头。
“这是个特务。”安灼拉说。
又转过去对着沙威说：
“你将在这街垒攻陷以前两分钟被枪毙。”
沙威以极其大胆的语调回答说：
“为什么不立即动手？”
“我们要节省弹药。”
“那么，给我一刀子也就完了。”
“特务，”俊美的安灼拉说，“我们是法官，不是凶手。”
接着，他喊伽弗洛什。
“你！快去干你的事！照我刚才对你说的去干。”
“我这就去。”伽弗洛什大声说。
正要走时，他又停下来说：
“我说，你们得把他的步枪给我！”他还加上一句，“我把这音乐家留给你们，但是我要那单簧管。”
野孩行了个军礼，高高兴兴地从那大街垒的缺口跨出去了。
Part 4 Book 12 Chapter 8 Many Interrogation Points with Regard to a Certain Le Cabuc
The tragic picture which we have undertaken would not be complete, the reader would not see those grand moments of social birth-pangs in a revolutionary birth, which contain convulsion mingled with effort, in their exact and real relief, were we to omit, in the sketch here outlined, an incident full of epic and savage horror which occurred almost immediately after Gavroche's departure.
Mobs, as the reader knows, are like a snowball, and collect as they roll along, a throng of tumultuous men. These men do not ask each other whence they come. Among the passers-by who had joined the rabble led by Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, there had been a person wearing the jacket of a street porter, which was very threadbare on the shoulders, who gesticulated and vociferated, and who had the look of a drunken savage. This man, whose name or nickname was Le Cabuc, and who was, moreover, an utter stranger to those who pretended to know him, was very drunk, or assumed the appearance of being so, and had seated himself with several others at a table which they had dragged outside of the wine-shop. This Cabuc, while making those who vied with him drunk seemed to be examining with a thoughtful air the large house at the extremity of the barricade, whose five stories commanded the whole street and faced the Rue Saint-Denis. All at once he exclaimed:-- 
"Do you know, comrades, it is from that house yonder that we must fire. When we are at the windows, the deuce is in it if any one can advance into the street!"
"Yes, but the house is closed," said one of the drinkers.
"Let us knock!"
"They will not open."
"Let us break in the door!"
Le Cabuc runs to the door, which had a very massive knocker, and knocks. The door opens not. He strikes a second blow. No one answers. A third stroke. The same silence.
"Is there any one here?" shouts Cabuc.
Nothing stirs.
Then he seizes a gun and begins to batter the door with the butt end.
It was an ancient alley door, low, vaulted, narrow, solid, entirely of oak, lined on the inside with a sheet of iron and iron stays, a genuine prison postern. The blows from the butt end of the gun made the house tremble, but did not shake the door.
Nevertheless, it is probable that the inhabitants were disturbed, for a tiny, square window was finally seen to open on the third story, and at this aperture appeared the reverend and terrified face of a gray-haired old man, who was the porter, and who held a candle.
The man who was knocking paused.
"Gentlemen," said the porter, "what do you want?"
"Open!" said Cabuc.
"That cannot be, gentlemen."
"Open, nevertheless."
"Impossible, gentlemen."
Le Cabuc took his gun and aimed at the porter; but as he was below, and as it was very dark, the porter did not see him. 
"Will you open, yes or no?"
"No, gentlemen."
"Do you say no?"
"I say no, my goo--"
The porter did not finish. The shot was fired; the ball entered under his chin and came out at the nape of his neck, after traversing the jugular vein.
The old man fell back without a sigh. The candle fell and was extinguished, and nothing more was to be seen except a motionless head lying on the sill of the small window, and a little whitish smoke which floated off towards the roof.
"There!" said Le Cabuc, dropping the butt end of his gun to the pavement.
He had hardly uttered this word, when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder with the weight of an eagle's talon, and he heard a voice saying to him:--
"On your knees."
The murderer turned round and saw before him Enjolras' cold, white face.
Enjolras held a pistol in his hand.
He had hastened up at the sound of the discharge.
He had seized Cabuc's collar, blouse, shirt, and suspender with his left hand.
"On your knees!" he repeated.
And, with an imperious motion, the frail young man of twenty years bent the thickset and sturdy porter like a reed, and brought him to his knees in the mire.
Le Cabuc attempted to resist, but he seemed to have been seized by a superhuman hand.
Enjolras, pale, with bare neck and dishevelled hair, and his woman's face, had about him at that moment something of the antique Themis. His dilated nostrils, his downcast eyes, gave to his implacable Greek profile that expression of wrath and that expression of Chastity which, as the ancient world viewed the matter, befit Justice.
The whole barricade hastened up, then all ranged themselves in a circle at a distance, feeling that it was impossible to utter a word in the presence of the thing which they were about to behold. 
Le Cabuc, vanquished, no longer tried to struggle, and trembled in every limb.
Enjolras released him and drew out his watch.
"Collect yourself," said he. "Think or pray. You have one minute."
"Mercy!" murmured the murderer; then he dropped his head and stammered a few inarticulate oaths.
Enjolras never took his eyes off of him: he allowed a minute to pass, then he replaced his watch in his fob. That done, he grasped Le Cabuc by the hair, as the latter coiled himself into a ball at his knees and shrieked, and placed the muzzle of the pistol to his ear. Many of those intrepid men, who had so tranquilly entered upon the most terrible of adventures, turned aside their heads. 
An explosion was heard, the assassin fell to the pavement face downwards.
Enjolras straightened himself up, and cast a convinced and severe glance around him. Then he spurned the corpse with his foot and said:-- 
"Throw that outside."
Three men raised the body of the unhappy wretch, which was still agitated by the last mechanical convulsions of the life that had fled, and flung it over the little barricade into the Rue Mondetour. 
Enjolras was thoughtful. It is impossible to say what grandiose shadows slowly spread over his redoubtable serenity. All at once he raised his voice.
A silence fell upon them.
"Citizens," said Enjolras, "what that man did is frightful, what I have done is horrible. He killed, therefore I killed him. I had to do it, because insurrection must have its discipline. Assassination is even more of a crime here than elsewhere; we are under the eyes of the Revolution, we are the priests of the Republic, we are the victims of duty, and must not be possible to slander our combat. I have, therefore, tried that man, and condemned him to death. As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself."
Those who listened to him shuddered.
"We will share thy fate," cried Combeferre.
"So be it," replied Enjolras. "One word more. In executing this man, I have obeyed necessity; but necessity is a monster of the old world, necessity's name is Fatality. Now, the law of progress is, that monsters shall disappear before the angels, and that Fatality shall vanish before Fraternity. It is a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter, I do pronounce it. And I glorify it. Love, the future is thine. Death, I make use of thee, but I hate thee. Citizens, in the future there will be neither darkness nor thunderbolts; neither ferocious ignorance, nor bloody retaliation. As there will be no more Satan, there will be no more Michael. In the future no one will kill any one else, the earth will beam with radiance, the human race will love. The day will come, citizens, when all will be concord, harmony, light, joy and life; it will come, and it is in order that it may come that we are about to die."
Enjolras ceased. His virgin lips closed; and he remained for some time standing on the spot where he had shed blood, in marble immobility. His staring eye caused those about him to speak in low tones. 
Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre pressed each other's hands silently, and, leaning against each other in an angle of the barricade, they watched with an admiration in which there was some compassion,that grave young man, executioner and priest, composed of light, like crystal, and also of rock.
Let us say at once that later on, after the action, when the bodies were taken to the morgue and searched, a police agent's card was found on Le Cabuc. The author of this book had in his hands, in 1848, the special report on this subject made to the Prefect of Police in 1832.
We will add, that if we are to believe a tradition of the police, which is strange but probably well founded, Le Cabuc was Claquesous. The fact is, that dating from the death of Le Cabuc, there was no longer any question of Claquesous. Claquesous had nowhere left any trace of his disappearance; he would seem to have amalgamated himself with the invisible. His life had been all shadows, his end was night.
The whole insurgent group was still under the influence of the emotion of that tragic case which had been so quickly tried and so quickly terminated, when Courfeyrac again beheld on the barricade, the small young man who had inquired of him that morning for Marius.
This lad, who had a bold and reckless air, had come by night to join the insurgents.
伽弗洛什走了以后，紧接着便发生了一桩凶残而惊心动魄的骇人事件；我们在这儿既已试图描绘当时情况的轮廓，如果放弃这一事件的经过不谈，我们设计的画面便会不完整，在产生社会、产生革命的阵痛中发生惊厥的伟大时刻，读者会看不到它的确切真实的突出面。
那些人的组合，我们知道，是由一大群各色各样的人象滚雪球那样，汇集在一起的。他们并不相互询问各自的来历。在安灼拉、公白飞和古费拉克率领的那一群沿途聚集拢来的过路人当中，有一个，穿件搬运工人的布褂，两肩都已磨损，说话时指手画脚，粗声大气，面孔象个横蛮的醉汉。这人的名字或绰号，叫勒．卡布克，其实那些自称认识他的人也都不认识他，当时他已喝得大醉，或是伪装醉态，和另外几个人一同把那酒店里的一张桌子拖到外面，坐了下来。这个勒·卡布克，在向那些和他交谈的人频频举杯的同时，好象也在运用心思仔细端详那座矗立在街垒后面六层的高大楼房，凌驾在整条街上，面对着圣德尼街。他忽然喊着说：
“伙计们，你们知道吗？再开枪，就得到那房子里去。要是我们守住那些窗口，谁要走进这条街，活该他送命！”
“对，但是那房子关起来了。”另一个酒客说。
“我们去敲门！”
“不会有人开。”
“把门砸开！”
勒·卡布克跑到楼房门前，门上有个相当大的门锤，他提起便敲。没有人开门。他再敲。也没人应声。敲第三回。仍没人理睬。
“里面有没有人？”勒·卡布克叫了起来。
没有动静。
于是他抓起一支步枪，用枪托捅门。那是一扇古老的甬道大门，圆顶、矮窄、坚固，全部是栎木做的，里面还包了一层铁皮，装了整套铁件，是一扇真正的牢门。枪托的冲撞把那房子震得一片响，但是那扇门纹丝不动。
住在里面的人家肯定被惊动了，因为到后来，四层楼的一扇小方窗子里有了光，窗子也开了，窗口出现一支蜡烛和一个灰白头发的老头儿，满脸惊慌发呆，这是门房的头。
撞门的人停了下来。
“先生们，”门房问，“你们要什么？”
“开门！”勒·卡布克说。
“先生们，不能开。”
“要开！”
“不成，先生们！”
勒·卡布克端起步枪，瞄准了门房，但是由于他立在下面，天又非常黑，门房一点也看不见他。
“你到底开不开？”
“不开，先生们！”
“你说不开？”
“我说不开，我的好……”
门房还没说完那句话，枪已经响了，枪弹从他的下巴进去，经过咽喉，从后颈窝射出。老人一下便倒下去了，一声也没哼。蜡烛掉到下面，熄灭了。人们只见窗口边上有个不动的人头和一缕白烟升向屋顶。
“活该！”勒·卡布克说，重新把他的枪托放在地上。
他刚说完这话，便觉得有只手，象鹰爪似的，猛落在他的肩头上，并听到一个人对他说：
“跪下。”
那杀人犯转过头来，看见在他面前的是一张惨白冷峻的脸，安灼拉的脸。安灼拉手里捏着一支手枪。
他听到枪声，赶来了。
他用左手揪住勒·卡布克的衣领、布褂、衬衫和背带。
“跪下。”他又说了一次。
这个二十岁的娇弱青年以一种无比权威的气概，把那宽肩巨腰的强壮杠夫，象一根芦苇似的压下去，跪在泥淖里。勒·卡布克试图抗拒，但是他感到自己已被一只超人的巨掌抓住了。
安灼拉面色苍白，敞着衣领，头发散乱，他那张近似女性的脸，这时说不出多么象古代的忒弥斯①。他那鼓起的鼻孔，低垂的眼睛赋予他那铁面无私的希腊式侧影一种愤怒和贞静的表情，从古代社会的观点看，那是适合于司法的。 
①忒弥斯（Thémis），希腊神话中的司法女神。
　
整个街垒里的人全跑来了，他们远远地站成一个圈子，心里都感到自己对那即将见到的事无法进一言。
勒·卡布克垂头丧气，不再试图挣扎，只浑身发抖。安灼拉放了他，抽出自己的怀表。
“集中你的思想，”他说。“祷告或思考，随你便。给你一分钟。”
“开恩啊！”杀人犯吞吞吐吐地说，接着他低下头嘟囔了几句没说清楚的咒神骂鬼的话。
安灼拉的眼睛没离开他的表，他让那一分钟过去，便把那表放回他的背心口袋里。接着，他揪住抱着他两膝怪喊大叫的勒·卡布克的头发，把枪管抵在他的耳朵上面。在那些胆大无畏安安静静走来观看这场骇人事件的汉子中，好些人都把头转了过去。
大家听见了枪响，那凶手额头向前，倒在石块路面上。安灼拉抬起头来，张着他那双自信而严峻的眼睛向四周望了一转。
随后，他用脚踢着尸体说道：
“把这丢到外面去。”
那无赖的尸体仍在机械地作生命停止前的最后抽搐，三个汉子抬起它，从小街垒上丢到蒙德都巷子里去。
安灼拉若有所思地立着不动。谁也不知道在他那骇人的宁静中展开一幅什么样的五光十色的阴森景象。突然，他提高了嗓子。大家全静下来。
“公民们，”安灼拉说，“那个人干的事是残酷的，而我干的事是丑恶的。他杀了人，因此我杀了他。我应当这样做，因为起义应当有它的纪律。杀人的罪在此地应比在旁的地方更为严重，我们是在革命的眼光照射之下，我们是宣传共和的牧师，我们是体现神圣职责的卫士，我们不该让我们的战斗受到人们的诽谤。因此我进行了审判，并对那人判处死刑。至于我，我被迫不得不那样做，但又感到厌恶，我也审判了我自己，你们回头便能知道我是怎样判处我自己的。”
听到这话的人都毛骨悚然。
“我们和你共命运。”公白飞喊了起来。
“好吧，”安灼拉回答说，“我还要说几句。我处决了那个人，是由于服从需要；但是需要是旧世界的一种怪物，需要的名字叫做因果报应。而进步的法律要求怪物消失在天使面前，因果报应让位于博爱。现在不是提出爱字的恰当时候。没有关系，我还是要把它提出来，并且要颂扬它。爱，你就是未来。死，我利用你，但是我恨你。公民们，将来不会再有黑暗，不会再有雷击，不会再有野蛮的蒙昧，也不会再有流血的肉刑。魔鬼既不存在，也就不用除魔天使了。将来谁也不再杀害谁，大地上阳光灿烂，人类只知道爱。这一天是一定会到来的，公民们，到那时，处处都是友爱、和谐、光明、欢乐和生机，这一天是一定会到来的。也正是为了促使它早日到来我们才去死。”
安灼拉不说话了，他那处女般的嘴唇合上了，他还在那流过血的地方停留了一会儿，象个塑像似的，久立不动。他凝思注视的神情使他周围的人都低声议论起来。
让·勃鲁维尔和公白飞立在那街垒的角上，手握手，肩靠肩，怀着含有惋惜心情的敬意，对那既是行刑人又是牧师，明洁如水晶而又坚如岩石的冷峻青年，屏息凝神地伫视着。
让我们现在就谈谈日后发现的情况。当战事已成过去，尸体都被送到陈尸所受搜查时，人们在勒·卡布克身上搜出一张警务人员证。关于这件案子，本书的作者在一八四八年手中还有过一份一八三二年写给警署署长的专案调查报告。
还应当补充一点。当时警方有种奇怪的说法，也许有根据，要是可信的话，这勒·卡布克就是铁牙。事实是自从勒·卡布克死了以后便不再有人提到铁牙了。铁牙的下落毫无线索可寻，他好象一下子便和无形的鬼物合为一体了。他的生活暧昧不明，他的结局一团漆黑。
全体起义者对这件处理得如此迅速、结束得也如此迅速的惨案都还惊魂未定时，古费拉克看见早上到他家去探听马吕斯消息的那个小伙子又回到街垒里。
这孩子，好象既不畏惧，也无顾虑，深夜跑来找那些起义的人。
Part 4 Book 13 Chapter 1 From the Rue Plumet to the Quartier Saint-Denis
The voice which had summoned Marius through the twilight to the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, had produced on him the effect of the voice of destiny. He wished to die; the opportunity presented itself; he knocked at the door of the tomb, a hand in the darkness offered him the key. These melancholy openings which take place in the gloom before despair, are tempting. Marius thrust aside the bar which had so often allowed him to pass, emerged from the garden, and said: "I will go."
Mad with grief, no longer conscious of anything fixed or solid in his brain, incapable of accepting anything thenceforth of fate after those two months passed in the intoxication of youth and love, overwhelmed at once by all the reveries of despair, he had but one desire remaining, to make a speedy end of all.
He set out at rapid pace. He found himself most opportunely armed, as he had Javert's pistols with him. 
The young man of whom he thought that he had caught a glimpse, had vanished from his sight in the street.
Marius, who had emerged from the Rue Plumet by the boulevard, traversed the Esplanade and the bridge of the Invalides, the Champs Elysees, the Place Louis XV., and reached the Rue de Rivoli. The shops were open there, the gas was burning under the arcades, women were making their purchases in the stalls, people were eating ices in the Cafe Laiter, and nibbling small cakes at the English pastry-cook's shop. Only a few posting-chaises were setting out at a gallop from the Hotel des Princes and the Hotel Meurice. 
Marius entered the Rue Saint-Honore through the Passage Delorme. There the shops were closed, the merchants were chatting in front of their half-open doors, people were walking about, the street lanterns were lighted, beginning with the first floor, all the windows were lighted as usual. There was cavalry on the Place du Palais-Royal.
Marius followed the Rue Saint-Honore. In proportion as he left the Palais-Royal behind him, there were fewer lighted windows, the shops were fast shut, no one was chatting on the thresholds, the street grew sombre, and, at the same time, the crowd increased in density. For the passers-by now amounted to a crowd. No one could be seen to speak in this throng, and yet there arose from it a dull, deep murmur.
Near the fountain of the Arbre-Sec, there were "assemblages", motionless and gloomy groups which were to those who went and came as stones in the midst of running water.
At the entrance to the Rue des Prouvaires, the crowd no longer walked. It formed a resisting, massive, solid, compact, almost impenetrable block of people who were huddled together, and conversing in low tones. There were hardly any black coats or round hats now, but smock frocks, blouses, caps, and bristling and cadaverous heads. This multitude undulated confusedly in the nocturnal gloom. Its whisperings had the hoarse accent of a vibration. Although not one of them was walking, a dull trampling was audible in the mire. Beyond this dense portion of the throng, in the Rue du Roule, in the Rue des Prouvaires, and in the extension of the Rue Saint-Honore, there was no longer a single window in which a candle was burning. Only the solitary and diminishing rows of lanterns could be seen vanishing into the street in the distance. The lanterns of that date resembled large red stars, hanging to ropes, and shed upon the pavement a shadow which had the form of a huge spider. These streets were not deserted. There could be descried piles of guns, moving bayonets, and troops bivouacking. No curious observer passed that limit. There circulation ceased. There the rabble ended and the army began.
Marius willed with the will of a man who hopes no more. He had been summoned, he must go. He found a means to traverse the throng and to pass the bivouac of the troops, he shunned the patrols,he avoided the sentinels. He made a circuit, reached the Rue de Bethisy, and directed his course towards the Halles. At the corner of the Rue des Bourdonnais, there were no longer any lanterns.
After having passed the zone of the crowd, he had passed the limits of the troops; he found himself in something startling. There was no longer a passer-by, no longer a soldier, no longer a light, there was no one; solitude, silence, night, I know not what chill which seized hold upon one. Entering a street was like entering a cellar.
He continued to advance.
He took a few steps. Some one passed close to him at a run. Was it a man? Or a woman? Were there many of them? He could not have told. It had passed and vanished.
Proceeding from circuit to circuit, he reached a lane which he judged to be the Rue de la Poterie; near the middle of this street, he came in contact with an obstacle. He extended his hands. It was an overturned wagon; his foot recognized pools of water, gullies, and paving-stones scattered and piled up. A barricade had been begun there and abandoned. He climbed over the stones and found himself on the other side of the barrier. He walked very near the street-posts, and guided himself along the walls of the houses. A little beyond the barricade, it seemed to him that he could make out something white in front of him. He approached, it took on a form. It was two white horses; the horses of the omnibus harnessed by Bossuet in the morning, who had been straying at random all day from street to street, and had finally halted there, with the weary patience of brutes who no more understand the actions of men, than man understands the actions of Providence.
Marius left the horses behind him. As he was approaching a street which seemed to him to be the Rue du Contrat-Social, a shot coming no one knows whence, and traversing the darkness at random, whistled close by him, and the bullet pierced a brass shaving-dish suspended above his head over a hairdresser's shop. This pierced shaving-dish was still to be seen in 1848, in the Rue du Contrat-Social, at the corner of the pillars of the market. 
This shot still betokened life. From that instant forth he encountered nothing more.
The whole of this itinerary resembled a descent of black steps.
Nevertheless, Marius pressed forward.
先头在昏黄的暮色中喊马吕斯到麻厂街街垒去的那声音，对他来说，好象是出自司命神的召唤。他正求死不得，死的机会却自动找他来了，他正敲着墓门，而黑暗中有一只手把钥匙递给了他。出现在陷入黑暗的失意人眼前的阴森出路是具有吸引力的。马吕斯扒开那条曾让他多次通过的铁条，走出园子并说道：“我们一同去吧！”
马吕斯已经痛苦到发疯，不再有任何坚定的主见，经过这两个月来的青春和爱情的陶醉，他已完全失去了掌握自己命运的能力，已被失望中的种种妄想所压倒，他这时只有一个愿望：早日一死了之。
他拔步往前奔。刚好他身上带有武器，沙威的那两支手枪。
他自以为见过一眼的那个小伙子，到街上却不见了。
马吕斯离开了卜吕梅街，走上林荫大道，穿过残废军人院前的大广场和残废军人院桥、爱丽舍广场、路易十五广场，到了里沃利街。那里的商店都还开着，拱门下面点着煤气灯，妇女在商店里买东西，还有些人在莱泰咖啡馆里吃冰淇凌，在英国点心店里吃小酥饼。只有少数几辆邮车从亲王旅社和默里斯旅社奔驰出发。
马吕斯经过德乐姆通道进入圣奥诺雷街。那里的店铺都关了门，商人们在半掩的门前谈话，路上还有行人来往，路灯还亮着，每层楼的窗子里，和平时一样，都还有灯光。王宫广场上有马队。
马吕斯沿着圣奥诺雷街往前走。走过王宫，有光的窗口便逐渐稀少了，店铺已关紧了门，不再有人在门口聊天，街越来越暗，同时人却越来越多。因为路上行人现在已是成群结伙的了。在人群中没有人谈话，却能听到一片低沉的嗡嗡耳语声。在枯树喷泉附近，有些“聚会”，一伙一伙神情郁闷的人停在行人来往的路上不动，有如流水中的砥石。
到了勃鲁维尔街街口，人群已不再前进。那是结结实实一堆低声谈论着的群众，紧凑密集，无隙可通，推挤不动，几乎无法渗透。里面几乎没有穿黑衣服戴圆边帽的人。是些穿罩衫、布褂、戴鸭舌帽、头发蓬乱竖立、面如土色的人。这一大群人在夜雾中暗暗浮动。他们的耳语有如风雨声。虽然没有人走动却能听到脚踏泥浆的声音。在这一堆人更远一点的地方，在鲁尔街、勃鲁维尔街和圣奥诺雷街的尽头，只有一扇玻璃窗里还有烛光。在这些街道上，还可以看见一行行零零落落、逐渐稀少的灯笼。那个时代的灯笼就象是吊在绳子上的大红星，它的影子投射在街上象个大蜘蛛。在这几条街上，不是没有人。那儿有一簇簇架在一起的步枪，晃动的枪刺和露宿的士兵。谁也不敢越过这些地方去满足好奇心。那儿是交通停止，行人留步，军队开始的地方。
马吕斯无所希求，也就无所畏忌。有人来喊过他，他便应当去。他想尽办法，穿过那人群，穿过露宿的士兵，避开巡逻队，避开岗哨。他绕了一个圈子，到了贝迪西街，朝着菜市场走去。到布尔东内街转角处，已经没有灯笼了。
他穿过人群密集的地区，越过了军队布防的前线，他到了一个可怕的地方。没有一个过路的人，没有一个兵，没有一点光，啥也没有，孤零零，冷清清，夜深沉，使人好不心悸。走进一条街，就象走进一个地窖。
他继续往前走。
他走了几步。有人从他身边跑过。是个男人？是个女人？
是几个人？他答不上。跑了过去便不见了。
绕来绕去，他绕进了一条小胡同，他想那是陶器街，在这小胡同的中段，他撞在一个障碍物上。他伸手去摸，那是一辆翻倒了的小车；他的脚感到处处是泥浆、水坑、分散各处而又成堆的石块。那里有一座已经动手建立，随即又放弃了的街垒。他越过那些石块，到了垒址的另一边。他靠近墙角石，摸着房屋的墙壁往前走。在离废址不远的地方，他仿佛看见他面前有什么白色的东西。他走近去，才看清那东西的形状。原来是两匹白马，早上博须埃从公共马车上解下来的马，它们在街上游荡了一整天，结果到了这地方。这两匹马带着那种随遇而安、耐心等待的畜生性格，无目的地荡来荡去，它们不懂人的行动，正如人不懂上苍的行动一样。
马吕斯绕过那两匹马往前走。他走近一条街，他想是民约街，到那儿时，不知从什么地方飞来一颗枪弹，穿过黑暗的空间紧擦他的耳边，嘘的一声，把他身旁一家理发铺子门上挂在他头上方的一只刮胡子用的铜盘打了个窟窿。一八四六年，在民约街靠菜市场的那些柱子拐角的地方，人们还能看见这只被打穿了的铜盘。
有这一枪，总还说明那地方有人在活动。此后，他便什么也没有遇到了。
他走的这整条路线好象是一条在夜间摸黑下山的梯级。
马吕斯照样往前走。
Part 4 Book 13 Chapter 3 The Extreme Edge
Marius had reached the Halles.
There everything was still calmer, more obscure and more motionless than in the neighboring streets. One would have said that the glacial peace of the sepulchre had sprung forth from the earth and had spread over the heavens.
Nevertheless, a red glow brought out against this black background the lofty roofs of the houses which barred the Rue de la Chanvrerie on the Saint-Eustache side. It was the reflection of the torch which was burning in the Corinthe barricade. Marius directed his steps towards that red light. It had drawn him to the Marche-aux-Poirees, and he caught a glimpse of the dark mouth of the Rue des Precheurs. He entered it. The insurgents' sentinel, who was guarding the other end, did not see him. He felt that he was very close to that which he had come in search of, and he walked on tiptoe. In this manner he reached the elbow of that short section of the Rue Mondetour which was, as the reader will remember, the only communication which Enjolras had preserved with the outside world. At the corner of the last house, on his left, he thrust his head forward, and looked into the fragment of the Rue Mondetour. 
A little beyond the angle of the lane and the Rue de la Chanvrerie which cast a broad curtain of shadow, in which he was himself engulfed, he perceived some light on the pavement, a bit of the wine-shop, and beyond, a flickering lamp within a sort of shapeless wall, and men crouching down with guns on their knees. All this was ten fathoms distant from him. It was the interior of the barricade.
The houses which bordered the lane on the right concealed the rest of the wine-shop, the large barricade, and the flag from him. 
Marius had but a step more to take.
Then the unhappy young man seated himself on a post, folded his arms, and fell to thinking about his father. 
He thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercy, who had been so proud a soldier, who had guarded the frontier of France under the Republic, and had touched the frontier of Asia under Napoleon, who had beheld Genoa, Alexandria, Milan, Turin, Madrid, Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, Moscow, who had left on all the victorious battle-fields of Europe drops of that same blood, which he, Marius, had in his veins, who had grown gray before his time in discipline and command, who had lived with his sword-belt buckled, his epaulets falling on his breast, his cockade blackened with powder, his brow furrowed with his helmet, in barracks, in camp, in the bivouac, in ambulances, and who, at the expiration of twenty years, had returned from the great wars with a scarred cheek, a smiling countenance, tranquil, admirable, pure as a child, having done everything for France and nothing against her. 
He said to himself that his day had also come now, that his hour had struck, that following his father, he too was about to show himself brave, intrepid, bold, to run to meet the bullets, to offer his breast to bayonets, to shed his blood, to seek the enemy, to seek death, that he was about to wage war in his turn and descend to the field of battle, and that the field of battle upon which he was to descend was the street, and that the war in which he was about to engage was civil war!
He beheld civil war laid open like a gulf before him, and into this he was about to fall. Then he shuddered.
He thought of his father's sword, which his grandfather had sold to a second-hand dealer, and which he had so mournfully regretted. He said to himself that that chaste and valiant sword had done well to escape from him, and to depart in wrath into the gloom; that if it had thus fled, it was because it was intelligent and because it had foreseen the future; that it had had a presentiment of this rebellion, the war of the gutters, the war of the pavements, fusillades through cellar-windows, blows given and received in the rear; it was because, coming from Marengo and Friedland, it did not wish to go to the Rue de la Chanvrerie; it was because, after what it had done with the father, it did not wish to do this for the son! He told himself that if that sword were there, if after taking possession of it at his father's pillow, he had dared to take it and carry it off for this combat of darkness between Frenchmen in the streets, it would assuredly have scorched his hands and burst out aflame before his eyes, like the sword of the angel! He told himself that it was fortunate that it was not there and that it had disappeared, that that was well, that that was just, that his grandfather had been the true guardian of his father's glory, and that it was far better that the colonel's sword should be sold at auction, sold to the old-clothes man, thrown among the old junk, than that it should, to-day, wound the side of his country.
And then he fell to weeping bitterly. 
This was horrible. But what was he to do? Live without Cosette he could not. Since she was gone, he must needs die. Had he not given her his word of honor that he would die? She had gone knowing that; this meant that it pleased her that Marius should die. And then, it was clear that she no longer loved him, since she had departed thus without warning, without a word, without a letter, although she knew his address! What was the good of living, and why should he live now? And then, what! Should he retreat after going so far? Should he flee from danger after having approached it? Should he slip away after having come and peeped into the barricade? Slip away, all in a tremble, saying: "After all, I have had enough of it as it is. I have seen it, that suffices, this is civil war, and I shall take my leave!" Should he abandon his friends who were expecting him? Who were in need of him possibly! Who were a mere handful against an army! Should he be untrue at once to his love, to country, to his word? Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of patriotism? But this was impossible, and if the phantom of his father was there in the gloom, and beheld him retreating, he would beat him on the loins with the flat of his sword, and shout to him: "March on, you poltroon!"
Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, he dropped his head.
All at once he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification had just been effected in his mind. There is a widening of the sphere of thought which is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave; it makes one see clearly to be near death. The vision of the action into which he felt that he was, perhaps, on the point of entering, appeared to him no more as lamentable, but as superb. The war of the street was suddenly transfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, before the eye of his thought. All the tumultuous interrogation points of revery recurred to him in throngs, but without troubling him. He left none of them unanswered. 
Let us see, why should his father be indignant? Are there not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty? What was there that was degrading for the son of Colonel Pontmercy in the combat which was about to begin? It is no longer Montmirail nor Champaubert; it is something quite different. The question is no longer one of sacred territory,--but of a holy idea. The country wails, that may be, but humanity applauds. But is it true that the country does wail? France bleeds, but liberty smiles; and in the presence of liberty's smile, France forgets her wound. And then if we look at things from a still more lofty point of view, why do we speak of civil war? 
Civil war--what does that mean? Is there a foreign war? Is not all war between men war between brothers? War is qualified only by its object. There is no such thing as foreign or civil war; there is only just and unjust war. Until that day when the grand human agreement is concluded, war, that at least which is the effort of the future, which is hastening on against the past, which is lagging in the rear, may be necessary. What have we to reproach that war with? War does not become a disgrace, the sword does not become a disgrace, except when it is used for assassinating the right, progress, reason, civilization, truth. Then war, whether foreign or civil, is iniquitous; it is called crime. Outside the pale of that holy thing, justice, by what right does one form of man despise another? By what right should the sword of Washington disown the pike of Camille Desmoulins? Leonidas against the stranger, Timoleon against the tyrant, which is the greater? The one is the defender, the other the liberator. Shall we brand every appeal to arms within a city's limits without taking the object into a consideration? Then note the infamy of Brutus, Marcel, Arnould von Blankenheim, Coligny, Hedgerow war? War of the streets? Why not? That was the war of Ambiorix, of Artevelde, of Marnix, of Pelagius. But Ambiorix fought against Rome, Artevelde against France, Marnix against Spain, Pelagius against the Moors; all against the foreigner. Well, the monarchy is a foreigner; oppression is a stranger; the right divine is a stranger. Despotism violates the moral frontier, an invasion violates the geographical frontier. Driving out the tyrant or driving out the English, in both cases, regaining possession of one's own territory. There comes an hour when protestation no longer suffices; after philosophy, action is required; live force finishes what the idea has sketched out; Prometheus chained begins, Arostogeiton ends; the encyclopedia enlightens souls, the 10th of August electrifies them. After AEschylus, Thrasybulus; after Diderot, Danton. Multitudes have a tendency to accept the master. Their mass bears witness to apathy. A crowd is easily led as a whole to obedience. Men must be stirred up, pushed on, treated roughly by the very benefit of their deliverance, their eyes must be wounded by the true, light must be hurled at them in terrible handfuls. They must be a little thunderstruck themselves at their own well-being; this dazzling awakens them. Hence the necessity of tocsins and wars. Great combatants must rise, must enlighten nations with audacity, and shake up that sad humanity which is covered with gloom by the right divine, Caesarian glory, force, fanaticism, irresponsible power, and absolute majesty; a rabble stupidly occupied in the contemplation, in their twilight splendor, of these sombre triumphs of the night. Down with the tyrant! Of whom are you speaking? Do you call Louis Philippe the tyrant? No; no more than Louis XVI. Both of them are what history is in the habit of calling good kings; but principles are not to be parcelled out, the logic of the true is rectilinear, the peculiarity of truth is that it lacks complaisance; no concessions, then; all encroachments on man should be repressed. There is a divine right in Louis XVI., there is because a Bourbon in Louis Philippe; both represent in a certain measure the confiscation of right, and, in order to clear away universal insurrection, they must be combated; it must be done, France being always the one to begin. When the master falls in France, he falls everywhere. In short, what cause is more just, and consequently, what war is greater, than that which re-establishes social truth, restores her throne to liberty, restores the people to the people, restores sovereignty to man, replaces the purple on the head of France, restores equity and reason in their plenitude, suppresses every germ of antagonism by restoring each one to himself, annihilates the obstacle which royalty presents to the whole immense universal concord, and places the human race once more on a level with the right? These wars build up peace. An enormous fortress of prejudices, privileges, superstitions, lies, exactions, abuses, violences, iniquities, and darkness still stands erect in this world, with its towers of hatred. It must be cast down. This monstrous mass must be made to crumble. To conquer at Austerlitz is grand; to take the Bastille is immense.
There is no one who has not noticed it in his own case--the soul,-- and therein lies the marvel of its unity complicated with ubiquity, has a strange aptitude for reasoning almost coldly in the most violent extremities, and it often happens that heartbroken passion and profound despair in the very agony of their blackest monologues, treat subjects and discuss theses. Logic is mingled with convulsion, and the thread of the syllogism floats, without breaking, in the mournful storm of thought. This was the situation of Marius' mind.
As he meditated thus, dejected but resolute, hesitating in every direction, and, in short, shuddering at what he was about to do, his glance strayed to the interior of the barricade. The insurgents were here conversing in a low voice, without moving, and there was perceptible that quasi-silence which marks the last stage of expectation. Overhead, at the small window in the third story Marius descried a sort of spectator who appeared to him to be singularly attentive. This was the porter who had been killed by Le Cabuc. Below, by the lights of the torch, which was thrust between the paving-stones, this head could be vaguely distinguished. Nothing could be stranger, in that sombre and uncertain gleam, than that livid, motionless, astonished face, with its bristling hair, its eyes fixed and staring, and its yawning mouth, bent over the street in an attitude of curiosity. One would have said that the man who was dead was surveying those who were about to die. A long trail of blood which had flowed from that head, descended in reddish threads from the window to the height of the first floor, where it stopped.
马吕斯走到了菜市场。
这里和附近的那些街道比起来是更清静，更黑暗，更没有人的活动。从坟墓中钻出来的那种冰冷的宁静气氛好象已散漫在地面上。
一团红光把那排从圣厄斯塔什方面挡住麻厂街高楼的屋脊托映在黑暗的天空，这是燃烧在科林斯街垒里的那个火炬的反光。马吕斯朝红光走去。红光把他引到了甜菜市场。他隐隐看见布道修士街的黑暗街口。他走了进去。起义的哨兵守在街的另一头，没有看见他。他觉得他已经很接近他要找的地方了。他踮着脚往前走。我们记得，安灼拉曾把蒙德都巷①的一小段留作通往外面的唯一通道。马吕斯现在到达的地方正在进入这一小段蒙德都巷的转角处。 
①蒙德都巷，即前面提到的蒙德都街，因街道迂回曲折狭窄，故作者有时则称之为巷。在第五部街垒战时，作者屡次称之为巷，实即指同一条街。天鹅街等有时称巷也是基于这一认识。
在这巷子和麻厂街交接的地方一片漆黑，他自己也是隐在黑影中的。他看见前面稍远一点的石块路面上有点微光，看见酒店的一角和酒店后面一个纸灯笼在一道不成形的墙里眨着眼，还有一伙人蹲在地上，膝上横着步枪。这一切和他相距只十脱阿斯。这是那街垒的内部。
巷子右侧的那些房屋挡着他，使他望不见酒店的其余部分、大街垒和旗帜。
马吕斯只须再多走一步了。
这时这个苦恼的青年坐在一块墙角石上，手臂交叉，想起了他的父亲。
他想到那英勇的彭眉胥上校是个多么杰出的军人，他在共和时期捍卫了法国的国境，在皇帝的率领下到过亚洲的边界，他见过热那亚、亚历山大、米兰、都灵、马德里、维也纳、德累斯顿、柏林、莫斯科，他在欧洲每一个战果辉煌的战场上都洒过他的鲜血，也就是在马吕斯血管里流着的血，他一生维护军纪，指挥作战，未到老年便已头发斑白，他腰扣武装带，肩章穗子飘落到胸前，硝烟熏黑了帽徽，额头给铁盔压出了皱纹，生活在板棚、营地、帐幕、战地医疗站里，东征西讨二十年，回到家乡脸上挂一条大伤疤，笑容满面，平易安详，人人敬佩，为人淳朴如儿童，他向法兰西献出了一切，丝毫没有辜负祖国的地方。
他又想，现在轮到他自己了，他自己的时刻已经到了，他应当步他父亲的后尘，做个勇敢、无畏、大胆冒枪弹、挺胸迎刺刀、洒鲜血、歼敌人、不顾生死、奔赴战场、敢于拼杀的人。他想到他要去的战场是街巷，他要参加的战斗是内战。
想到内战，他好象看见了一个地洞，在他面前张着大嘴，而他会掉到那里去。
这时他打了一个寒噤。
他想起他父亲的那把剑，竟被他外祖父卖给了旧货贩子，他平时想到这事，便感到痛心，现在他却对自己说，这把英勇坚贞的剑宁肯饮恨潜藏于黑暗中也不愿落到他的手里是对的，它这样遁迹避世，是因为它有智慧，有先见之明，它预知这次暴动，这种水沟边的战争，街巷中的战争，地窖通风口的射击，来自背后和由背承担的毒手，是因为它是从马伦哥和弗里德兰回来的，不愿到麻厂街去，它不愿跟着儿子去干它曾跟着老子干过的事！他对自己说这把剑，要是在这儿，要是当初在他父亲去世的榻前他接受了这把剑，今天他也敢于把它握在手中，它一定会烫他的手，象天使的神剑那样，在他面前发出熊熊烈焰！他对自己说幸而它不在，幸亏它已失踪，这是好事，这是公道的，他的外祖父真正保卫了他父亲的荣誉，宁可让人家把上校的这把剑拍卖掉，落在一个旧货商手里，丢在废铁堆里，总比用它来使祖国流血强些。
接着他痛哭起来。
这太可怕了。但是怎么办呢？失去了珂赛特，仍旧活下去，这是他办不到的。她既然走了，他便只有一死。他不是已向她宣过誓，说他会死的吗？她明明知道这点，却又走了，那就是说，她存心不问马吕斯的死活了。并且，她事先没有告诉马吕斯，也没有留下一句话，她不是不知道马吕斯的住址，却没有写一封信，便这样走了。足见她已不再爱马吕斯了。现在他又何必再活下去呢？为什么还要活下去呢？并且，怎么说！已经到了此地，又退缩！已经走向危险，又逃走！已经看到街垒里的情形，又闪开！一面发抖，一面闪开，说什么：“确实，我已经受够了，我已经看清楚，看够了，这是内战，我走开好！”把等待着他的那些朋友丢下不管！他们也许正需要他！他们是以一小撮对付一支军队！丢掉爱情，丢掉朋友，自己说话不算数，一切全放弃不顾！以爱国为借口来掩饰自己的畏惧！但是，这样是说不过去的，他父亲的幽灵，如果这时正在他身边的黑暗中，看见他往后退缩，也一定会用他那把剑的剑脊抽他的腰，并向他吼道：“上，胆小鬼！”
被他的思潮起伏所苦恼，他的头慢慢低下去了。
他又忽然抬起了头。精神上刚起一种极为壮观的矫正，有了墓边人所特有的那种思想膨胀，接近死亡能使人眼睛明亮。对将采取的行动他也许正看到一种幻象，不是更为悲惨而是极其辉煌的幻象。街垒战，不知由于灵魂的一种什么内在作用，在他思想的视力前忽然变了样。他梦幻中的一大堆喧嚣纷扰的问号一齐回到他的脑子里，但并没有使他烦乱。他一一作出解答。
想一想，他父亲为什么会发怒？难道某种情况不会让起义上升到天职的庄严高度吗？对上校彭眉胥的儿子来说，他如果参加目前的战斗，会有什么东西降低他的身分呢？这已不是蒙米赖或尚波贝尔①，而是另外一回事。这里并不涉及神圣的领土问题，而是一个崇高的理想问题。祖国受苦，固然是的，但是人类在欢呼。并且祖国是不是真正会受苦呢？法兰西流血，而自由在微笑，在自由的微笑面前法兰西将忘却她的创伤。况且，如果从更高的角度来看，人们对内战究竟会说些什么呢？ 
①蒙米赖（Montmirail）、尚波贝尔（Champaubert）两地都在法国东部，一八一四年，拿破仑在这两处曾挫败俄普联军的进犯。
内战？这意味着什么？难道还有一种外战吗？人与人之间的战争，不都是兄弟之间的战争吗？战争的性质只取决于它的目的。无所谓外战，也无所谓内战。战争只有非正义的与正义的之分。在人类还没有进入大同世界的日子里，战争，至少是急速前进的未来反对原地踏步的过去的那种战争，也许是必要的。对于这样的战争有什么可谴责的呢？仅仅是在用以扼杀人权、进步、理智、文明、真理时战争才是耻辱，剑也才是凶器。内战或外战，都可以是不义的，都可以称之为犯罪。除了用正义这条神圣的标准去衡量以外，人们便没有依据以战争的一种形式去贬斥它的另一种形式。华盛顿的剑有什么权利来否认卡米尔·德穆兰的长矛？莱翁尼达斯反抗外族，蒂莫莱翁①反抗暴君，谁更伟大呢？一个是捍卫者，另一个是解救者。人能不问目的便诬蔑城市内部的任何武装反抗吗？那么，布鲁图斯、马塞尔②、阿尔努·德·布兰肯海姆③、科里尼，你都可以称为歹徒了。丛林战吗？巷战吗？为什么不可以呢？这便是昂比奥里克斯④、阿尔特维尔德⑤、马尔尼克斯⑥、佩拉热⑦所进行的战争。但是，昂比奥里克斯是为反抗罗马而战，阿尔特维尔德是为反抗法国而战，马尔尼克斯是为反抗西班牙而战，佩拉热是为反抗摩尔人而战，他们全是为了反抗外族而战的。 
①蒂莫莱翁（Timoléon，前410?36），希腊政治家，推崇法治。
②马塞尔（Marcel），十四世纪巴黎市长，曾为限制王权而斗争。
③阿尔努·德·布兰肯海姆（Arnould　de　Blankenheim），不详。
④昂比奥里克斯（Ambiorix），古高卢国王，前五四年曾反对恺撒，失败。
⑤阿尔特维尔德（Artevelde），十五世纪比利时根特行政长官。
⑥马尔尼克斯（Marnix），十六世纪反对西班牙统治的佛兰德人民起义领袖。
⑦佩拉热（Pélage），八世纪西班牙境内阿斯图里亚斯国王，反对阿拉伯人入侵。
好吧，君主制也就是外族，压迫也就是外族，神权也就是外族。专制制度侵犯精神的疆界，正如武力侵犯地理的疆界。驱逐暴君或驱逐英国人，都一样是为了收复国土。有时抗议是不中用的，谈了哲学之后还得有行动；理论开路，暴力完工；被缚的普罗米修斯开场，阿利斯托吉通结尾。百科全书启发灵魂，八月十日为灵魂充电。埃斯库罗斯之后得有特拉西布尔①，狄德罗之后得有丹东。人民大众有顺从主子的倾向，民间笼罩着暮气，群众易于向权贵低头。应当鼓动这些人，推搡他们，用解救自身的利益鞭策他们，用真理的光去刺他们的眼睛，用大量骇人的光明，大把大把地投向他们。他们应当为自身的利益而多少受些雷击，电光能惊醒他们。因而就有必要敲响警钟，进行战斗。应当有伟大的战士纷纷冒出来，以他们的大无畏精神为各族人民的表率，把这可叹的人类，一味浑浑噩噩欣赏落日残晖留恋苍茫暮色的众生，从神权、武功、暴力、信仰狂、不负责任的政权和专制君王的黑暗中拯救出来。打倒暴君！什么？你指的是谁啊？你把路易－菲力浦称为暴君吗？不是，他不见得比路易十六更暴些。他们两个都是历史上一惯称为好国王的。原则不容阉割，真实的逻辑是直线条的，真理的本质不能随意取舍，因此，没有让步的余地，任何对人的侵犯都应当镇压下去，路易十六身上有神权，路易－菲力浦身上有波旁的血统，两人都在某种程度上负有践踏人权的责任，为了全部清除对权力的篡窃行为，必须把他们打倒，必须这样，因为法国历来开山劈路。法国的主子垮台之日，也就是其他主子纷纷落地之时。总之，树立社会的真理，恢复自由的统帅地位，把人民还给人民，把主权还给老百姓，把紫金冠重新戴在法兰西的头上，重新发挥理智和平等的全部力量，在各人自主的基础上消灭一切仇恨的根源，彻底摧毁君主制设置在通往大同世界大道上的障碍，用法律划一全人类的地位，还有什么事业比这更正义的呢？也就是说，还有什么战争比这更伟大的呢？这样的战争才导致和平。目前还有一座由成见、特权、迷信、虚伪、勒索、滥取、强暴、欺凌、黑暗所构成的巨大堡垒屹立在地球上，高耸着它的无数个仇楼恨塔。必须把它摧毁。必须把这个庞然怪物夷为平地。在奥斯特里茨克敌制胜固然伟大，攻占巴士底更是无与伦比。 
①特拉西布尔（Thrasybule），公元前五世纪希腊将军，结束希腊三十年专制制度，恢复民主。
谁都有过这样切身的体会：灵魂具有这样一种奇特的性能，这也正说明它既存在于个体而又充塞虚空的妙用，它能使处于绝境的人在最激动的时刻几乎仍能冷静地思考问题，激剧的懊丧和沉痛的绝望在自问自答而难于辩解的苦恼中，也常能进行分析和研讨论题。紊乱的思路中杂有逻辑，推理的线索飘荡于思想的凄风苦雨中而不断裂。这正是马吕斯当时的精神状态。
他心情颓丧，不过有了信心，然而仍在迟疑不决，总之，想到他将采取的行动仍不免胆战心惊，他一面思前想后，一面望着街垒里面。起义的人正在那里低声谈话，没人走动，这种半沉寂状态使人感到已经到了等待的最后时刻了。马吕斯发现在他们上方四层楼上的一个窗子边，有个人在望着下面，他想那也许是个什么人在窥探情况，这人聚精会神的样子好不奇怪。那是被勒·卡布克杀害的看门老头。从下面望去，单凭那围在石块中间的火炬的光是看不清那人头的。一张露着惊骇神情的灰白脸，纹丝不动，头发散乱，眼睛定定地睁着，嘴半开，对着街心伏在窗口，象看热闹似的，这形象出现在那暗淡摇曳的火光中，确是没有比这更奇特的了。不妨说这是死了的人在望着将死的人。那头里流出的血有如一长条红线，自窗口直淌到二楼才凝止住。
Part 4 Book 14 Chapter 1 The Flag: Act First
As yet, nothing had come. Ten o'clock had sounded from Saint-Merry. Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet of the grand barricade. They no longer addressed each other, they listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant sound of marching. 
Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice, which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and began to sing distinctly, to the old popular air of "By the Light of the Moon," this bit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock:--
Mon nez est en larmes, Mon ami Bugeaud, Prete moi tes gendarmes Pour leur dire un mot.
En capote bleue, La poule au shako, Voici la banlieue! Co-cocorico![54]
[54] My nose is in tears, my friend Bugeaud, lend me thy gendarmes that I may say a word to them. With a blue capote and a chicken in his shako, here's the banlieue, co-cocorico.
They pressed each other's hands.
"That is Gavroche," said Enjolras.
"He is warning us," said Combeferre.
A hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a being more agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche bounded into the barricade, all breathless, saying: --
"My gun! Here they are!"
An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the sound of hands seeking their guns became audible.
"Would you like my carbine?" said Enjolras to the lad.
"I want a big gun," replied Gavroche.
And he seized Javert's gun.
Two sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost at the same moment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels from the end of the street, and the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the Lane des Precheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and Halles.
The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone were dimly visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a smoke.
Each man had taken up his position for the conflict.
Forty-three insurgents, among whom were Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling inside the large barricade, with their heads on a level with the crest of the barrier, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the stones as though at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Six, commanded by Feuilly, had installed themselves, with their guns levelled at their shoulders, at the windows of the two stories of Corinthe.
Several minutes passed thus, then a sound of footsteps,measured, heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction of Saint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then precise, then heavy and sonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without intermission, with a tranquil and terrible continuity. Nothing was to be heard but this. It was that combined silence and sound, of the statue of the commander, but this stony step had something indescribably enormous and multiple about it which awakened the idea of a throng, and, at the same time, the idea of a spectre. One thought one heard the terrible statue Legion marching onward. This tread drew near; it drew still nearer, and stopped. It seemed as though the breathing of many men could be heard at the end of the street. Nothing was to be seen, however, but at the bottom of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude of metallic threads, as fine as needles and almost imperceptible, which moved about like those indescribable phosphoric networks which one sees beneath one's closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at the moment when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and gun-barrels confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the torch.
A pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting. All at once, from the depths of this darkness, a voice, which was all the more sinister, since no one was visible, and which appeared to be the gloom itself speaking, shouted:--
"Who goes there?"
At the same time, the click of guns, as they were lowered into position, was heard.
Enjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone:--
"The French Revolution!"
"Fire!" shouted the voice.
A flash empurpled all the facades in the street as though the door of a furnace had been flung open, and hastily closed again. 
A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The red flag fell. The discharge had been so violent and so dense that it had cut the staff, that is to say, the very tip of the omnibus pole.
Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the houses penetrated the barricade and wounded several men. 
The impression produced by this first discharge was freezing. The attack had been rough, and of a nature to inspire reflection in the boldest. It was evident that they had to deal with an entire regiment at the very least.
"Comrades!" shouted Courfeyrac, "let us not waste our powder. Let us wait until they are in the street before replying." 
"And, above all," said Enjolras, "let us raise the flag again."
He picked up the flag, which had fallen precisely at his feet.
Outside, the clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be heard; the troops were re-loading their arms.
Enjolras went on:--
"Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag on the barricade again?"
Not a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the very moment when, without any doubt, it was again the object of their aim, was simply death. The bravest hesitated to pronounce hisown condemnation. Enjolras himself felt a thrill. He repeated:--"Does no one volunteer?"
还没有发生什么事。圣美里的钟已经敲过十点，安灼拉和公白飞都握着卡宾枪走去坐在大街垒的缺口附近。他们没有谈话，他们侧耳细听，听那些最远和最微弱的脚步声。
突然，在这阴森的寂静中，有个年轻人的清脆愉快的声音好象来自圣德尼街那面，用《在月光下》这首古老民歌的曲调，开始清晰地大声唱着这样的歌词，末尾还加上一句模仿雄鸡的啼叫：
我的鼻子淌眼泪，
我的朋友毕若哟，
把你的士兵借给我，
让我和他们说句话哟。
老母鸡头上戴军帽，
身上披着军大衣哟，
它们已经到郊区，
喔喔哩喔哟。
他们彼此握了一下手。
“这是伽弗洛什的声音。”安灼拉说。
“来向我们报信的。”公白飞说。
一阵急促的脚步声惊动了荒凉的街道。一个比杂技演员还矫捷的人影从公共马车上爬过来，接着伽弗洛什跳进了街垒，他气喘吁吁，急忙说道：
“我的枪！他们来了。”
一阵电流似的寒噤传遍了街垒，只听见手摸枪支的声音。
“你要不要我的卡宾枪？”安灼拉问那野孩。
“我要那支步枪。”伽弗洛什回答。
说着他取了沙威那支步枪。
两个哨兵也折回来了，几乎是和伽弗洛什同时到达的。他们一个原在那街口放哨，一个在小化子窝街。布道修士街的那个守卫，仍留在原岗位上没动。这说明在桥和菜市场方面没有发生情况。
麻厂街在照着红旗的那一点微光的映射下只有几块铺路石还隐约可见，它象一个烟雾迷蒙中的大黑门洞似的，展现在那些起义的人们眼前。
每个人都在自己的战斗岗位上。
四十三个起义战士，包括安灼拉、公白飞、古费拉克、博须埃、若李、巴阿雷和伽弗洛什，都蹲在大街垒里，头略高于垒壁。步枪和卡宾枪的枪管都靠在石块上，如同炮台边的炮眼，个个聚精会神，全无声息，只待开枪射击。弗以伊领着六个人，守在科林斯的上下两层楼的窗口，端着枪，瞄准待放。
又过了一些时候，一阵由许多人踏出的整齐沉重的脚步声清晰地从圣勒方面传来，起初声音微弱，后来逐渐明显，再后又重又响，一路走来，没有停顿，没有间歇，沉稳骇人，越走越近。除这以外，没有其他声音。就象一尊巨大塑像的那种死气和威风，但那种沉重的脚步声又使人去想象黑压压一大片真不知有多少生灵，既象万千个群鬼，又象是庞然一巨鬼。阴森骇人，有如听到妖兵厉卒的来临。这脚步声走近了，走得更近了，突然停了下来。人们仿佛听到街口有许多人呼吸的声音。但是什么也看不见，只看到在那街的尽头，隐隐约约有无数纤细的金属线条在黑暗中晃动，象针一样，几乎看不清楚，正如人在合上眼皮刚入睡时出现在眼前的那种无可名状的荧光网。那是被火炬的光映照着的远处的枪刺和枪管。
又停顿了一阵子，好象双方都在等待。忽然从黑暗的深处发出一个人喊话的声音，由于看不见那人的身影，他的声音便显得格外凄厉骇人，好象是黑暗本身在喊话，那人喊道：
“口令？”
同时传来一阵端枪的咔嚓声。
安灼拉以洪亮高亢的声音回答说：
“法兰西革命。”
“放！”那人的声音说。
火光一闪，把街旁的房屋照成紫色，好象有个火炉的门突然开了一下，又立即闭上似的。
街垒发出一阵骇人的摧折破裂的声音。那面红旗倒了。这阵射击来得如此猛烈，如此密集，把那旗杆，就是说，把那辆公共马车的辕木尖扫断了。有些枪弹从墙壁上的突出面反射到街垒里，打伤了好几个人。
这第一次排枪射击给人的印象是够寒心的。攻势来得凶猛，最大胆的人对此也不能不有所思考。他们所要对付的显然是一整个联队。
“同志们，”古费拉克喊着说，“不要浪费弹药，让他们进入这条街，我们才还击。”
“首先，”安灼拉说，“我们得把这面旗子竖起来。”
他拾起了那面恰巧倒在他脚跟前的旗帜。
他们听到外面有通条和枪管撞击的声音，军队又在上枪弹了。
安灼拉继续说：
“这儿谁有胆量再把这面红旗插到街垒上去？”
没有人回答。街垒分明成了再次射击的目标，到那上面去，干脆就是送命。最大胆的人也下不了自我牺牲的决心。安灼拉自己也感到胆寒。他又问：
“没有人愿去？”
Part 4 Book 14 Chapter 2 The Flag: Act Second
Since they had arrived at Corinthe, and had begun the construction of the barricade, no attention had been paid to Father Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf had not quitted the mob, however; he had entered the ground-floor of the wine-shop and had seated himself behind the counter. There he had, so to speak, retreated into himself. He no longer seemed to look or to think. Courfeyrac and others had accosted him two or three times, warning him of his peril, beseeching him to withdraw, but he did not hear them. When they were not speaking to him, his mouth moved as though he were replying to some one, and as soon as he was addressed, his lips became motionless and his eyes no longer had the appearance of being alive.
Several hours before the barricade was attacked, he had assumed an attitude which he did not afterwards abandon, with both fists planted on his knees and his head thrust forward as though he were gazing over a precipice. Nothing had been able to move him from this attitude; it did not seem as though his mind were in the barricade. When each had gone to take up his position for the combat, there remained in the tap-room where Javert was bound to the post, only a single insurgent with a naked sword, watching over Javert, and himself, Mabeuf. At the moment of the attack, at the detonation, the physical shock had reached him and had, as it were, awakened him; he started up abruptly, crossed the room, and at the instant when Enjolras repeated his appeal: "Does no one volunteer?" the old man was seen to make his appearance on the threshold of the wine-shop. His presence produced a sort of commotion in the different groups. A shout went up:--
"It is the voter! It is the member of the Convention! It is the representative of the people!" 
It is probable that he did not hear them.
He strode straight up to Enjolras, the insurgents withdrawing before him with a religious fear; he tore the flag from Enjolras, who recoiled in amazement and then, since no one dared to stop or to assist him, this old man of eighty, with shaking head but firm foot, began slowly to ascend the staircase of paving-stones arranged in the barricade. This was so melancholy and so grand that all around him cried: "Off with your hats!" At every step that he mounted, it was a frightful spectacle; his white locks, his decrepit face, his lofty, bald, and wrinkled brow, his amazed and open mouth, his aged arm upholding the red banner, rose through the gloom and were enlarged in the bloody light of the torch, and the bystanders thought that they beheld the spectre of '93 emerging from the earth, with the flag of terror in his hand.
When he had reached the last step, when this trembling and terrible phantom, erect on that pile of rubbish in the presence of twelve hundred invisible guns, drew himself up in the face of death and as though he were more powerful than it, the whole barricade assumed amid the darkness, a supernatural and colossal form. 
There ensued one of those silences which occur only in the presence of prodigies. In the midst of this silence, the old man waved the red flag and shouted:--
"Long live the Revolution! Long live the Republic! Fraternity! Equality! And Death!" 
Those in the barricade heard a low and rapid whisper, like the murmur of a priest who is despatching a prayer in haste. It was probably the commissary of police who was making the legal summons at the other end of the street.
Then the same piercing voice which had shouted: "Who goes there?" shouted:--
"Retire!"
M. Mabeuf, pale, haggard, his eyes lighted up with the mournful flame of aberration, raised the flag above his head and repeated:-- 
"Long live the Republic!"
"Fire!" said the voice.
A second discharge, similar to the first, rained down upon the barricade.
The old man fell on his knees, then rose again, dropped the flag and fell backwards on the pavement, like a log, at full length, with outstretched arms.
Rivulets of blood flowed beneath him. His aged head, pale and sad, seemed to be gazing at the sky.
One of those emotions which are superior to man, which make him forget even to defend himself, seized upon the insurgents, and they approached the body with respectful awe.
"What men these regicides were!" said Enjolras.
Courfeyrac bent down to Enjolras' ear:--
"This is for yourself alone, I do not wish to dampen the enthusiasm. But this man was anything rather than a regicide. I knew him. His name was Father Mabeuf. I do not know what was the matter with him to-day. But he was a brave blockhead. Just look at his head."
"The head of a blockhead and the heart of a Brutus," replied Enjolras.
Then he raised his voice:--
"Citizens! This is the example which the old give to the young. We hesitated, he came! We were drawing back, he advanced! This is what those who are trembling with age teach to those who tremble with fear! This aged man is august in the eyes of his country. He has had a long life and a magnificent death! Now, let us place the body under cover, that each one of us may defend this old man dead as he would his father living, and may his presence in our midst render the barricade impregnable!"
A murmur of gloomy and energetic assent followed these words.
Enjolras bent down, raised the old man's head, and fierce as he was, he kissed him on the brow, then, throwing wide his arms, and handling this dead man with tender precaution, as though he feared to hurt it, he removed his coat, showed the bloody holes in it to all, and said:--
"This is our flag now."
自从他们来到科林斯并开始建造街垒以后，他们便没有怎么注意马白夫公公。马白夫公公却一直没有离开队伍。他走进酒店以后，便去坐在楼下那间厅堂的柜台后面。可以说，他在那里已经完全寂灭了。他仿佛已不再望什么，也不再想什么。古费拉克和另外几个人曾两次或三次走到他跟前，把当时的危险说给他听，请他避开，他却好象什么也没听见。没有人和他谈话时，他的嘴唇会频频启闭，好象是在对谁答话，在有人找他谈话时他的嘴唇却又完全不动，眼睛也好象失去了生命似的。在街垒受到攻击的几个小时以前，他便坐在那里，两个拳头抵在膝上，头向前伛着，仿佛是在望一个什么危崖深谷，几个钟头过去了，他一直保持这一姿势，没有改变过。任何事都不能惊动他，看来他的精神完全不在街垒里。后来每个人都奔向各自的战斗岗位，厅堂里只剩下了三个人：被绑在柱子上的沙威、一个握着军刀监视沙威的起义战士和他马白夫。当攻打开始、爆裂发生时，他的身体也受到了震动，仿佛已经醒过来了，他陡然立了起来，穿过厅堂，这时，安灼拉正重复他的号召，说：“没人愿去？”人们看见这老人出现在酒店门口。他的出现，使整个队伍为之一惊，并引起了一阵惊喊：“这就是那个投票人！就是那个国民公会代表！就是那个人民代表！”
也许他并没有听见。
他直向安灼拉走去，起义的人都怀着敬畏的心为他让出一条路，他从安灼拉手里夺过红旗，安灼拉也被他愣住了，往后退了一步，其他的人，谁也不敢阻挡他，谁也不敢搀扶他，他，这八十岁的老人，头颈颤颤巍巍，脚步踏踏实实，向街垒里那道石级，一步一步慢慢跨上去。当时的情景是那么庄严，那么伟大，以致在他四周的人都齐声喊道：“脱帽！”他每踏上一级，他那一头白发，干瘪的脸，高阔光秃满是皱纹的额头，凹陷的眼睛，愕然张着的嘴，举着旗帜的枯臂，都从黑暗步步伸向火炬的血光中，逐渐升高扩大，形象好不骇人。人们以为看见了九三年的阴灵，擎着恐怖时期的旗帜，从地下冉冉升起。
当他走上最高一级，当这战战兢兢而目空一切的鬼魂，面对一千二百个瞧不见的枪口，视死如归，舍身忘我，屹立在那堆木石灰土的顶上时，整个街垒都从黑暗中望见了一个无比崇高的超人形象。
所有的人都屏住了呼吸，只在奇迹出现时才会有那种沉寂。
老人在这沉寂中，挥动着那面红旗，喊道：
“革命万岁！共和万岁！博爱！平等和死亡！”
人们从街垒里听到一阵低微、急促、象个牧师匆匆念诵祈祷文似的声音。也许是那警官在街的另一头，做他的例行劝降工作。
接着，先头喊“口令？”的那尖利嗓子喊道：
“下去！”
马白夫先生，脸气白了，眼里冒着悲愤躁急的火焰，把红旗高举在头顶上，再一次喊道：
“共和万岁！”
“放！”那人的声音说。
第二次射击，象霰弹似的，打在街垒上。
老人的两个膝头往下沉，随即又立起，旗子从他手中滑脱了，他的身体，象一块木板似的，向后倒在石块上，直挺挺伸卧着，两臂交叉在胸前。
一条条鲜血，象溪水似的，从他身下流出来。他那衰老的脸，惨白而悲哀，仿佛仍在望天空。
起义的人全被一种不受人力支配的愤激心情所控制，甚至忘了自卫，他们在惊愕恐骇中齐向那尸体靠近。
“这些判处国王的人真是好样儿的！”安灼拉说。
古费拉克凑近安灼拉的耳边说：
“这句话是说给你一个人听的，因为我不愿泼冷水。但是这个人完全比得上那些判处国王的代表。我认识他。他叫马白夫公公。我不知道他今天是怎么一回事。但是他一向是个诚实的老糊涂。你瞧他的脑袋。”
“老糊涂的脑袋，布鲁图斯的心。”安灼拉回答说。
接着，他提高嗓子说：
“公民们！这是老一辈给年轻一代做出的榜样。我们迟疑，他挺身而出！我们后退，他勇往直前！让我们瞧瞧因年老而颤抖的人是怎样教育因害怕而颤抖的人的！这位老人在祖国面前可说是浩气凛然。他活得长久，死得光荣。现在让我们保护好他的遗体，我们每个人都应当象保护自己活着的父亲那样来保护这位死了的老人。让他留在我们中间，使这街垒成为铜墙铁壁。”
在这些话后面的是一阵低沉而坚决的共鸣声。
安灼拉蹲下去托起那老人的头，怯生生地在他的前额上吻了一下，随即又掰开他的手臂，轻柔谨慎、怕弄痛了死者似的，扶起他的身体，解下他的衣服，把那上面的弹孔和血迹一一指给大家看，并说道：
“现在，这就是我们的红旗了。”
Part 4 Book 14 Chapter 4 The Barrel of Powder
Marius, still concealed in the turn of the Rue Mondetour, had witnessed, shuddering and irresolute, the first phase of the combat. But he had not long been able to resist that mysterious and sovereign vertigo which may be designated as the call of the abyss. In the presence of the imminence of the peril, in the presence of the death of M. Mabeuf, that melancholy enigma, in the presence of Bahorel killed, and Courfeyrac shouting: "Follow me!" of that child threatened, of his friends to succor or to avenge, all hesitation had vanished, and he had flung himself into the conflict, his two pistols in hand. With his first shot he had saved Gavroche, and with the second delivered Courfeyrac.
Amid the sound of the shots, amid the cries of the assaulted guards, the assailants had climbed the entrenchment, on whose summit Municipal Guards, soldiers of the line and National Guards from the suburbs could now be seen, gun in hand, rearing themselves to more than half the height of their bodies.
They already covered more than two-thirds of the barrier, but they did not leap into the enclosure, as though wavering in the fear of some trap. They gazed into the dark barricade as one would gaze into a lion's den. The light of the torch illuminated only their bayonets, their bear-skin caps, and the upper part of their uneasy and angry faces.
Marius had no longer any weapons; he had flung away his discharged pistols after firing them; but he had caught sight of the barrel of powder in the tap-room, near the door.
As he turned half round, gazing in that direction, a soldier took aim at him. At the moment when the soldier was sighting Marius, a hand was laid on the muzzle of the gun and obstructed it. This was done by some one who had darted forward,--the young workman in velvet trousers. The shot sped, traversed the hand and possibly, also, the workman, since he fell, but the ball did not strike Marius. All this, which was rather to be apprehended than seen through the smoke, Marius, who was entering the tap-room, hardly noticed. Still, he had, in a confused way, perceived that gun-barrel aimed at him, and the hand which had blocked it, and he had heard the discharge. But in moments like this, the things which one sees vacillate and are precipitated, and one pauses for nothing. One feels obscurely impelled towards more darkness still, and all is cloud.
The insurgents, surprised but not terrified, had rallied. Enjolras had shouted: "Wait! Don't fire at random!" In the first confusion, they might, in fact, wound each other. The majority of them had ascended to the window on the first story and to the attic windows, whence they commanded the assailants. 
The most determined, with Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, and Combeferre, had proudly placed themselves with their backs against the houses at the rear, unsheltered and facing the ranks of soldiers and guards who crowned the barricade.
All this was accomplished without haste, with that strange and threatening gravity which precedes engagements. They took aim, point blank, on both sides: they were so close that they could talk together without raising their voices.
When they had reached this point where the spark is on the brink of darting forth, an officer in a gorget extended his sword and said:-- 
"Lay down your arms!"
"Fire!" replied Enjolras.
The two discharges took place at the same moment, and all disappeared in smoke.
An acrid and stifling smoke in which dying and wounded lay with weak, dull groans. When the smoke cleared away, the combatants on both sides could be seen to be thinned out, but still in the same positions, reloading in silence. All at once, a thundering voice was heard, shouting:--
"Be off with you, or I'll blow up the barricade!"
All turned in the direction whence the voice proceeded.
Marius had entered the tap-room, and had seized the barrel of powder, then he had taken advantage of the smoke, and the sort of obscure mist which filled the entrenched enclosure, to glide along the barricade as far as that cage of paving-stones where the torch was fixed. To tear it from the torch, to replace it by the barrel of powder, to thrust the pile of stones under the barrel, which was instantly staved in, with a sort of horrible obedience,--all this had cost Marius but the time necessary to stoop and rise again; and now all, National Guards, Municipal Guards, officers, soldiers, huddled at the other extremity of the barricade, gazed stupidly at him, as he stood with his foot on the stones, his torch in his hand, his haughty face illuminated by a fatal resolution, drooping the flame of the torch towards that redoubtable pile where they could make out the broken barrel of powder, and giving vent to that startling cry:--
"Be off with you, or I'll blow up the barricade!"
Marius on that barricade after the octogenarian was the vision of the young revolution after the apparition of the old. 
"Blow up the barricade!" said a sergeant, "and yourself with it!"
Marius retorted: "And myself also."
And he dropped the torch towards the barrel of powder.
But there was no longer any one on the barrier. The assailants, abandoning their dead and wounded, flowed back pell-mell and in disorder towards the extremity of the street, and there were again lost in the night. It was a headlong flight.
The barricade was free.
马吕斯原来一直躲在蒙德都街的转角处，目击了初次交锋的情况，他心惊体颤，失了主张。但是，不用多久，他便已摆脱那种不妨称之为鬼使神差的没来由的强烈眩感，面对那一发千钧的危险处境，马白夫先生的谜一样的惨死，巴阿雷的牺牲，古费拉克的呼救，那孩子受到的威胁，以及亟待援救或为之报仇的许多朋友，他原有的疑虑完全消失了，他握着他的两支手枪投入了肉搏战。他第一枪救了伽弗洛什，第二枪帮了古费拉克。
听到连续的枪声、保安警察的号叫，那些进攻的军队齐向街垒攀登，这时街垒顶上已出现一大群握着步枪，露出大半截身体的保安警察、正规军、郊区的国民自卫军。他们已盖满垒壁的三分之二，但没有跳进街垒，他们仿佛还在踌躇，怕有什么暗算。他们象窥探一个狮子洞似的望着那黑暗的街垒。火炬的微光只照见他们的枪刺，羽毛高耸的军帽和惊慌激怒的上半部面庞。
马吕斯已没有武器。他丢掉那两支空手枪，但是他看见厅堂门旁的那桶火药。
正当他侧着脸朝这面望去时，一个兵士也正对着他瞄准。这时，有一个人蓦地跳上来，用手抓住那枪管，并堵在枪口上。这人便是那个穿灯芯绒裤子的少年工人。枪响了，子弹穿过那工人的手，也许还打在他身上，因为他倒下去了，却没有打中马吕斯。这一切都发生在烟雾中，看不大清楚。马吕斯正冲进那厅堂，几乎不知道有这一经过。他只隐隐约约见到那对准他的枪管和堵住枪口的那只手，也听到了枪声。但是在那样的时刻，人们所见到的事都是在瞬息万变之中，注意力不会停留在某一件事物上。人们只恍惚觉得自己的遭遇越来越黑暗，一切印象都是迷离不清的。
起义的人们吃惊不小，但并不害怕；他们聚集在一起。安灼拉大声说：“等一等！不要乱开枪！”确实如此，在那混乱开始时他们会伤着自己人。大部分人已经上楼，守在二楼和顶楼的窗口，居高临下，对着那些进攻的人。最坚决的几个都和安灼拉、古费拉克、让·勃鲁维尔、公白飞一道，雄赳赳地排列在街底那排房屋的墙跟前，毫无屏障，面对着立在街垒顶上那层层的大兵和部队。
这一切都是在不慌不忙的情况下，混战前少见的那种严肃态度和咄咄逼人的气势中完成的。两边都已枪口指向对方，瞄准待放，彼此间的距离又近到可以相互对话。正在这一触即发的时刻，一个高领阔肩章的军官举起军刀喊道：
“放下武器！”
“放！”安灼拉说。
两边的枪声同时爆发，硝烟弥漫，任何东西都看不见了。
在辛辣刺鼻令人窒息的烟雾中，人们听到一些即将死去和受了伤的人发出的微弱沙嗄的呻吟。
烟散了以后两边的战士都少了许多，但仍留在原处，一声不响地在重上枪弹。
突然有个人的声音猛吼道：
“你们滚开，要不我就炸掉这街垒！”
大家都向发出这声音的地方望去。
马吕斯先头冲进厅堂，抱起那桶火药，利用当时的硝烟和弥漫在那圈子里的那种昏暗的迷雾，顺着街垒，一直溜到那围着火炬的石块笼子旁边。他拔出那根火炬，把火药桶放在一叠石块上，往下一压，那桶底便立即通了，轻易到使人惊异，这一切都是在马吕斯一弯腰一起立的时间内完成的。这时，在街垒那头挤作一团的国民自卫军、保安警察、军官、士兵，全都骇然望着马吕斯，只见他一只脚踏在石块上，手握着火炬，豪壮的面庞在火光中显出一种表示必死之心的坚定意志，把火炬的烈焰伸向那通了底的火药桶旁边的一大堆可怕的东西，并发出这一骇人的叫嚷：
“你们滚开，要不我就炸掉这街垒！”
马吕斯继那八十岁老人之后，屹立在街垒上，这是继老革命而起的新生革命的形象。
“炸掉这街垒！”一个军士说，“你也活不了！”
马吕斯回答说：
“我当然活不了。”
同时他把火炬伸向那桶火药。
但那街垒上一个人也没有了。进犯的官兵丢下他们的伤员，乱七八糟一窝蜂似的，全向街的尽头逃走了，重行消失在黑夜中。一幅各自逃生的狼狈景象。
街垒解了围。
Part 4 Book 14 Chapter 5 End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire
All flocked around Marius. Courfeyrac flung himself on his neck.
"Here you are!"
"What luck!" said Combeferre.
"You came in opportunely!" ejaculated Bossuet.
"If it had not been for you, I should have been dead!"began Courfeyrac again.
"If it had not been for you, I should have been gobbled up!"added Gavroche.
Marius asked:--
"Where is the chief?"
"You are he!" said Enjolras.
Marius had had a furnace in his brain all day long; now it was a whirlwind. This whirlwind which was within him, produced on him the effect of being outside of him and of bearing him away. It seemed to him that he was already at an immense distance from life. His two luminous months of joy and love, ending abruptly at that frightful precipice, Cosette lost to him, that barricade, M. Mabeuf getting himself killed for the Republic, himself the leader of the insurgents,-- all these things appeared to him like a tremendous nightmare. He was obliged to make a mental effort to recall the fact that all that surrounded him was real. Marius had already seen too much of life not to know that nothing is more imminent than the impossible, and that what it is always necessary to foresee is the unforeseen. He had looked on at his own drama as a piece which one does not understand.
In the mists which enveloped his thoughts, he did not recognize Javert, who, bound to his post, had not so much as moved his head during the whole of the attack on the barricade, and who had gazed on the revolt seething around him with the resignation of a martyr and the majesty of a judge. Marius had not even seen him.
In the meanwhile, the assailants did not stir, they could be heard marching and swarming through at the end of the street but they did not venture into it, either because they were awaiting orders or because they were awaiting reinforcements before hurling themselves afresh on this impregnable redoubt. The insurgents had posted sentinels, and some of them, who were medical students, set about caring for the wounded.
They had thrown the tables out of the wine-shop, with the exception of the two tables reserved for lint and cartridges, and of the one on which lay Father Mabeuf; they had added them to the barricade, and had replaced them in the tap-room with mattresses from the bed of the widow Hucheloup and her servants. On these mattresses they had laid the wounded. As for the three poor creatures who inhabited Corinthe, no one knew what had become of them. They were finally found, however, hidden in the cellar.
A poignant emotion clouded the joy of the disencumbered barricade.
The roll was called. One of the insurgents was missing. And who was it? One of the dearest. One of the most valiant. Jean Prouvaire. He was sought among the wounded, he was not there. He was sought among the dead, he was not there. He was evidently a prisoner. Combeferre said to Enjolras:--
"They have our friend; we have their agent. Are you set on the death of that spy?"
"Yes," replied Enjolras; "but less so than on the life of Jean Prouvaire."
This took place in the tap-room near Javert's post.
"Well," resumed Combeferre, "I am going to fasten my handkerchief to my cane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer to exchange our man for theirs."
"Listen," said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre's arm.
At the end of the street there was a significant clash of arms.
They heard a manly voice shout:--
"Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!"
They recognized the voice of Prouvaire.
A flash passed, a report rang out.
Silence fell again.
"They have killed him," exclaimed Combeferre.
Enjolras glanced at Javert, and said to him:--
"Your friends have just shot you."
大家都围住马吕斯。古费拉克抱着他的颈子。
“你也来了！”
“太好了！”公白飞说。
“你来得正是时候！”博须埃说。
“没有你，我早已死了！”古费拉克又说。
“没有您，我早完了蛋！”伽弗洛什补上一句。
马吕斯问道：
“头头在哪儿？”
“头头就是你。”安灼拉说。
马吕斯这一整天脑子里燃着一炉火，现在又起了一阵风暴。这风暴发生在他心中，但他觉得它在他的体外，并且把他刮得颠颠倒倒。他仿佛觉得他已远离人生十万八千里。他两个月来美满的欢乐和恋爱竟会陡然一下子发展到目前这种绝地。珂赛特全无踪影，这个街垒，为实现共和而流血牺牲的马白夫先生，自己也成了起义的头头，所有这一切，在他看来，都象是一场惊心动魄的恶梦。他得使劲集中精力才能回忆起环绕着他的事物都是真实不虚的。马吕斯还缺少足够的人生经验去理解最迫切需要做的正是自以为无法做到的事，最应当提防的也正是难于预料的事。正如他在观看一场他看不懂的戏那样，看着他自己的戏。
沙威一直被绑在柱子上，当街垒受到攻打时，他头也没有转动一下，他以殉教者逆来顺受的态度和法官庄严倨傲的神情望着他周围的骚乱。神志不清的马吕斯甚至全不曾察觉到他。
这时，那些进犯的官兵停止了活动，人们听到他们在街口纷纷走动的声音，但是不再前来送死，他们或许是在等候指示，或许是要等到加强兵力以后再冲向这攻不下的堡垒。起义的人们又派出了岗哨，几个医科大学生着手包扎伤员。
除了两张做绷带和枪弹的桌子以及和马白夫公公躺着的桌子外，其他的桌子全被搬出酒店，加在街垒上，寡妇于什鲁和女仆床上的厚褥子也被搬下来，放在厅堂里，代替那些桌子。他们让伤员们躺在那些厚褥子上。至于科林斯的原住户，那三个可怜的妇人，现在怎样，却没有人知道。后来才发现她们都躲在地窖里。
大家正在为街垒解了围而高兴，随即又因一件事而惊慌焦急。
在集合点名时，他们发现少了一个起义人员。缺了谁呢？缺了最亲爱的一个，最勇猛的一个，让·勃鲁维尔。他们到伤员里去找，没有他。到尸体堆里去找，也没有他。他显然是被俘虏了。
公白飞对安灼拉说：
“他们逮住了我们的朋友，但是我们也逮住了他们的人员。你一定要处死这特务吗？”
“当然，”安灼拉说，“但是让·勃鲁维尔的生命更重要。”
这话是在厅堂里沙威的木柱旁说的。
“那么，”公白飞接着说，“我可以在我的手杖上结一块手帕，作为办交涉的代表，拿他们的人去向他们换回我们的人。”
“你听。”安灼拉把手放在公白飞的胳膊上说。
只听见从街口传出了一下扳动枪机的声音。
他们听到一个男子的声音喊道：
“法兰西万岁！未来万岁！”
他们听出那正是让·勃鲁维尔的声音。
火光一闪，枪也立即响了。
接着，声息全无。
“他们把他杀害了。”公白飞大声说。
安灼拉望着沙威，对他说：
“你的朋友刚才把你枪毙了。”
Part 4 Book 14 Chapter 6 The Agony of Death after the Agony of Life
A peculiarity of this species of war is, that the attack of the barricades is almost always made from the front, and that the assailants generally abstain from turning the position, either because they fear ambushes, or because they are afraid of getting entangled in the tortuous streets. The insurgents' whole attention had been directed, therefore, to the grand barricade, which was, evidently, the spot always menaced, and there the struggle would infallibly recommence. But Marius thought of the little barricade, and went thither. It was deserted and guarded only by the fire-pot which trembled between the paving-stones. Moreover, the Mondetour alley, and the branches of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie and the Rue du Cygne were profoundly calm.
As Marius was withdrawing, after concluding his inspection, he heard his name pronounced feebly in the darkness.
"Monsieur Marius!" 
He started, for he recognized the voice which had called to him two hours before through the gate in the Rue Plumet. 
Only, the voice now seemed to be nothing more than a breath.
He looked about him, but saw no one.
Marius thought he had been mistaken, that it was an illusion added by his mind to the extraordinary realities which were clashing around him. He advanced a step, in order to quit the distant recess where the barricade lay.
"Monsieur Marius!" repeated the voice.
This time he could not doubt that he had heard it distinctly; he looked and saw nothing.
"At your feet," said the voice.
He bent down, and saw in the darkness a form which was dragging itself towards him.
It was crawling along the pavement. It was this that had spoken to him.
The fire-pot allowed him to distinguish a blouse, torn trousers of coarse velvet, bare feet, and something which resembled a pool of blood. Marius indistinctly made out a pale head which was lifted towards him and which was saying to him:--
"You do not recognize me?"
"No."
"Eponine."
Marius bent hastily down. It was, in fact, that unhappy child. She was dressed in men's clothes.
"How come you here? What are you doing here?"
"I am dying," said she.
There are words and incidents which arouse dejected beings. Marius cried out with a start:--
"You are wounded! Wait, I will carry you into the room! They will attend to you there. Is it serious? How must I take hold of you in order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! My God! But why did you come hither?"
And he tried to pass his arm under her, in order to raise her.
She uttered a feeble cry.
"Have I hurt you?" asked Marius.
"A little."
"But I only touched your hand."
She raised her hand to Marius, and in the middle of that hand Marius saw a black hole.
"What is the matter with your hand?" said he.
"It is pierced."
"Pierced?"
"Yes."
"What with?"
"A bullet."
"How?"
"Did you see a gun aimed at you?"
"Yes, and a hand stopping it."
"It was mine."
Marius was seized with a shudder.
"What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if that is all, it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound; one does not die of a pierced hand."
She murmured:--
"The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back. It is useless to remove me from this spot. I will tell you how you can care for me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on this stone."
He obeyed; she laid her head on Marius' knees, and, without looking at him, she said:--
"Oh! How good this is! How comfortable this is! There; I no longer suffer."
She remained silent for a moment, then she turned her face with an effort, and looked at Marius.
"Do you know what, Monsieur Marius? It puzzled me because you entered that garden; it was stupid, because it was I who showed you that house; and then, I ought to have said to myself that a young man like you--"
She paused, and overstepping the sombre transitions that undoubtedly existed in her mind, she resumed with a heartrending smile:--
"You thought me ugly, didn't you?"
She continued:--
"You see, you are lost! Now, no one can get out of the barricade. It was I who led you here, by the way! You are going to die, I count upon that. And yet, when I saw them taking aim at you, I put my hand on the muzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it was because I wanted to die before you. When I received that bullet, I dragged myself here, no one saw me, no one picked me up, I was waiting for you, I said: `So he is not coming!' Oh, if you only knew. I bit my blouse, I suffered so! Now I am well. Do you remember the day I entered your chamber and when I looked at myself in your mirror, and the day when I came to you on the boulevard near the washerwomen? How the birds sang! That was a long time ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you: `I don't want your money.' I hope you picked up your coin? You are not rich. I did not think to tell you to pick it up. The sun was shining bright, and it was not cold. Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? Oh! How happy I am! Every one is going to die."
She had a mad, grave, and heart-breaking air. Her torn blouse disclosed her bare throat.
As she talked, she pressed her pierced hand to her breast, where therewas another hole, and whence there spurted from moment to moment a stream of blood, like a jet of wine from an open bung-hole. 
Marius gazed at this unfortunate creature with profound compassion.
"Oh!" she resumed, "it is coming again, I am stifling!"
She caught up her blouse and bit it, and her limbs stiffened on the pavement.
At that moment the young cock's crow executed by little Gavroche resounded through the barricade.
The child had mounted a table to load his gun, and was singing gayly the song then so popular:--
"En voyant Lafayette, "On beholding Lafayette, Le gendarme repete:-- The gendarme repeats:-- Sauvons nous! sauvons nous! Let us flee! let us flee! sauvons nous!" let us flee!
Eponine raised herself and listened; then she murmured:--
"It is he."
And turning to Marius:--
"My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me."
"Your brother?" inquired Marius, who was meditating in the most bitter and sorrowful depths of his heart on the duties to the Thenardiers which his father had bequeathed to him; "who is your brother?"
"That little fellow."
"The one who is singing?"
"Yes."
Marius made a movement.
"Oh! don't go away," said she, "it will not be long now."
She was sitting almost upright, but her voice was very low and broken by hiccoughs.
At intervals, the death rattle interrupted her. She put her face as near that of Marius as possible. She added with a strange expression:-- 
"Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter in my pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post. I kept it. I did not want to have it reach you. But perhaps you will be angry with me for it when we meet again presently? Take your letter."
She grasped Marius' hand convulsively with her pierced hand, but she no longer seemed to feel her sufferings. She put Marius' hand in the pocket of her blouse. There, in fact, Marius felt a paper.
"Take it," said she.
Marius took the letter.
She made a sign of satisfaction and contentment.
"Now, for my trouble, promise me--"
And she stopped.
"What?" asked Marius.
"Promise me!"
"I promise."
"Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead.--I shall feel it."
She dropped her head again on Marius' knees, and her eyelids closed. He thought the poor soul had departed. Eponine remained motionless. All at once, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity of death, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to proceed from another world:--
"And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you."
She tried to smile once more and expired.
这种战争有这么一个特点，对街垒几乎总是从正面进攻，攻方在一般情况下，常避免用迂回战术，不是怕遭到伏击，便是怕陷在曲折的街巷里。因而这些起义的人把全部注意力都集中在大街垒方面，这儿显然是时时受到威胁、也必然是要再次争夺的地方。马吕斯却想到了小街垒，并走去望了一眼。那边一个人也没有，守在那里的只是那盏在石块堆中摇曳的彩色纸灯笼。此外，那条蒙德都巷子以及小化子窝斜巷和天鹅斜巷都是静悄悄的。
马吕斯视察了一番，正要回去时，他听见一个人在黑暗中有气无力地喊着他的名字。
“马吕斯先生！”
他惊了一下，因为这声音正是两个钟头以前在卜吕梅街隔着铁栏门喊他的那个人的声音。
不过现在这声音仿佛只是一种嘘气的声音了。
他向四周望去，却不见有人。
马吕斯以为自己搞错了，他以为这是周围那些不寻常的事物在他精神上引起的一种幻觉。他向前走了一步，想要退出那街垒所在的凹角。
“马吕斯先生！”那声音又说。
这一次他听得清清楚楚，不能再怀疑了，他四面打量，什么也看不见。
“就在您脚跟前。”那声音说。
他弯下腰去，看见有个东西在黑暗中向他爬来。它在铺路的石块上爬着。向他说话的便是这东西。
彩色纸灯笼的光照出一件布衫、一条撕破了的粗绒布长裤、一双赤脚、还有一摊模模糊糊象是血的东西。马吕斯隐隐约约望见一张煞白的脸在抬起来对他说：
“您不认识我吗？”
“不认识。”
“爱潘妮。”
马吕斯连忙蹲下去，真的是那苦娃儿，她穿一身男人的衣服。
“您怎么会在这地方？您来这儿干什么？”
“我就要死了。”她对他说。
某些话和某些事是能使颓丧的心情兴奋起来的。马吕斯好象从梦中惊醒似的喊着说：
“您受了伤！等一下，让我把您抱到厅堂里去。他们会把您的伤口包扎起来。伤势重吗？我应当怎样抱才不会弄痛您呢？您什么地方痛？救人！我的天主！您到底为什么要到这儿来？”
他试着把他的手臂伸到她的身体底下，想抱起她来。
在抱的时候，他碰了一下她的手。
她轻轻叫了一声。
“我弄痛了您吗？”
“稍微有点。”
“可我只碰了一下您的手。”
她伸出她的手给马吕斯看，马吕斯看见她手掌心上有一个黑洞。
“您的手怎么啦？”他说。
“它被打通了。”
“打通了！”
“是啊。”
“什么东西打通的？”
“一粒子弹。”
“怎么会？”
“您先头没有看见有杆枪对着您瞄准吗？”
“看见的，还看见有只手堵住那枪口。”
“那就是我的手。”
马吕斯打了个寒噤。
“您真是疯了！可怜的孩子！幸而还好，如果只伤着手，还不要紧。让我把您放到一张床上去。他们会把您的伤口包扎起来，打穿一只手，不会送命的。”
她细声说道：
“枪弹打通了手，又从我背上穿出去。用不着再把我搬到别的地方去了。让我来告诉您，您怎样才能包扎好我的伤口，您准会比外科医生包扎得更好。您来坐在我旁边的这块石头上。”
他依着她的话坐下去，她把她的头枕在马吕斯的膝上，眼睛不望马吕斯，独自说道：
“呵！这可有多好！这样多舒服！就这样！我已经不痛了。”她静了一会儿，接着，她使劲把脸转过去，望着马吕斯说：“您知道吗，马吕斯先生？您进那园子，我心里就别扭，我太傻了，把那幢房子指给您看的原就是我，并且，到头来，我心里总应当明白，象您这样一个青年……”
她突然停了下来，她心里或许还有许多伤心话要说，但她跳过去了，没有吐出来，她只带着惨痛的笑容接着说：
“您一向认为我生得丑，不是吗？”
她又往下说：
“您瞧，您已经完了！现在谁也出不了这街垒。是我把您引到这儿来的，您知道！您就快死了。我担保。可是当我看见有人对着您瞄准的时候，我又用手去堵住那枪口。太可笑了！那也只是因为我愿意比您先死一刻。我吃了那一枪后，便爬到这儿，没有人瞧见我，也就没有人把我收了去。呵！假使您知道，我一直咬紧我的布衫，我痛得好凶啊！现在我可舒服了。您还记得吗，有一天，我到过您住的屋子里，在您的镜子里望着我自己，还有一天，我在大路上遇见了您，旁边还有好些作工的女人，您记得这些吗？那时鸟儿唱得多好呀！这都好象是昨天的事。您给了我一百个苏，我还对您说：‘我不要您的钱。’您该把您的那枚钱币拾起来了吧？您不是有钱人。我没有想到要告诉您把它拾起来。那天太阳多好，也不冷。您记得这些吗，马吕斯先生？呵！我高兴得很！大家都快死了。”
她那神气是疯疯癫癫、阴沉、令人心碎的。那件撕裂了的布衫让她的胸口露在外面。说话时，她用那只射穿了的手捂住她胸口上的另一个枪孔，鲜血从弹孔里一阵阵流出来，有如从酒桶口淌出的葡萄酒。
马吕斯望着这不幸的人心里十分难受。
“呵！”她又忽然喊道，“又来了。我吐不出气！”
她提起她的布衫，把它紧紧地咬着，两腿僵直地伸在铺路的石块上。
这时从大街垒里响起伽弗洛什的小公鸡噪音。那孩子正立在一张桌子上，往他的步枪里装子弹，兴高采烈地唱着一首当时广泛流行的歌曲：
拉斐德一出观，
丘八太爷便喊道：
“快逃跑！快逃跑！快逃跑！”
爱潘妮欠起身子仔细听，她低声说：
“这是他。”
她又转向马吕斯：
“我弟弟也来了。不要让他看见我。他会骂我的。”
马吕斯听了这话，又想起他父亲要他报答德纳第一家人的遗嘱，心中无比苦恼和沉痛。他问道：
“您弟弟？谁是您的弟弟？”
“那孩子。”
“是唱歌的孩子吗？”
“对。”
马吕斯动了一下，想起身。
“呵！您不要走开！”她说，“现在时间不会长了！”
她几乎坐了起来，但是她说话的声音很低，并且上气不接下气，有时她还得停下来喘气。她把她的脸尽量靠近马吕斯的脸。她以一种奇特的神情往下说：
“听我说，我不愿意捉弄您。我衣袋里有一封信，是给您的。昨天便已在我衣袋里了。人家要我把它放进邮筒。可我把它扣下了。我不愿意您收到这封信。但是等会儿我们再见面时您也许会埋怨我。死了的人能再见，不是吗？把您的信拿去吧。”
她用她那只穿了孔的手痉挛地抓住马吕斯的手，好象已不再感到疼痛了。她把马吕斯的手放在她布衫的口袋里。马吕斯果然摸到里面有一张纸。
“拿去。”她说。
马吕斯拿了信。她点点头，表示满意和同意。
“现在为了谢谢我，请答应我……”
她停住了。
“答应什么？”马吕斯问。
“先答应我！”
“我答应您。”
“答应我，等我死了，请在我的额头上吻我一下。我会感觉到的。”
她让她的头重行落在马吕斯的膝上，她的眼睛也闭上了。他以为这可怜人的灵魂已经离去。爱潘妮躺着一动也不动，忽然，正当马吕斯认为她已从此长眠时，她又慢慢睁开眼睛，露出的已是非人间的那种幽深渺忽的神态，她以一种来自另一世界的凄婉语气说：
“还有，听我说，马吕斯先生，我想我早就有点爱您呢。”
她再一次勉力笑了笑，于是溘然长逝了。
Part 4 Book 14 Chapter 7 Gavroche as a Profound Calculator of Distances
Marius kept his promise. He dropped a kiss on that livid brow, where the icy perspiration stood in beads.
This was no infidelity to Cosette; it was a gentle and pensive farewell to an unhappy soul. 
It was not without a tremor that he had taken the letter which Eponine had given him. He had immediately felt that it was an event of weight. He was impatient to read it. The heart of man is so constituted that the unhappy child had hardly closed her eyes when Marius began to think of unfolding this paper.
He laid her gently on the ground, and went away. Something told him that he could not peruse that letter in the presence of that body. 
He drew near to a candle in the tap-room. It was a small note, folded and sealed with a woman's elegant care. The address was in a woman's hand and ran:--
"To Monsieur, Monsieur Marius Pontmercy, at M. Courfeyrac's, Rue de la Verrerie, No. 16."
He broke the seal and read:--
"My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately. We shall be this evening in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7. In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th." 
Such was the innocence of their love that Marius was not even acquainted with Cosette's handwriting.
What had taken place may be related in a few words. Eponine had been the cause of everything. After the evening of the 3d of June she had cherished a double idea, to defeat the projects of her father and the ruffians on the house of the Rue Plumet, and to separate Marius and Cosette. She had exchanged rags with the first young scamp she came across who had thought it amusing to dress like a woman, while Eponine disguised herself like a man. It was she who had conveyed to Jean Valjean in the Champ de Mars the expressive warning: "Leave your house." Jean Valjean had, in fact, returned home, and had said to Cosette: "We set out this evening and we go to the Rue de l'Homme Arme with Toussaint. Next week, we shall be in London." Cosette, utterly overwhelmed by this unexpected blow, had hastily penned a couple of lines to Marius. But how was she to get the letter to the post? She never went out alone, and Toussaint, surprised at such a commission, would certainly show the letter to M. Fauchelevent. In this dilemma, Cosette had caught sight through the fence of Eponine in man's clothes, who now prowled incessantly around the garden. Cosette had called to "this young workman" and had handed him five francs and the letter, saying: "Carry this letter immediately to its address." Eponine had put the letter in her pocket. The next day, on the 5th of June, she went to Courfeyrac's quarters to inquire for Marius, not for the purpose of delivering the letter, but,--a thing which every jealous and loving soul will comprehend,--"to see." There she had waited for Marius, or at least for Courfeyrac, still for the purpose of seeing. When Courfeyrac had told her: "We are going to the barricades," an idea flashed through her mind, to fling herself into that death, as she would have done into any other, and to thrust Marius into it also. She had followed Courfeyrac, had made sure of the locality where the barricade was in process of construction; and, quite certain, since Marius had received no warning, and since she had intercepted the letter, that he would go at dusk to his trysting place for every evening, she had betaken herself to the Rue Plumet, had there awaited Marius, and had sent him, in the name of his friends, the appeal which would, she thought, lead him to the barricade. She reckoned on Marius' despair when he should fail to find Cosette; she was not mistaken. She had returned to the Rue de la Chanvrerie herself. What she did there the reader has just seen. She died with the tragic joy of jealous hearts who drag the beloved being into their own death, and who say: "No one shall have him!"
Marius covered Cosette's letter with kisses. So she loved him! For one moment the idea occurred to him that he ought not to die now. Then he said to himself: "She is going away. Her father is taking her to England, and my grandfather refuses his consent to the marriage. Nothing is changed in our fates." Dreamers like Marius are subject to supreme attacks of dejection, and desperate resolves are the result. The fatigue of living is insupportable; death is sooner over with. Then he reflected that he had still two duties to fulfil: to inform Cosette of his death and send her a final farewell, and to save from the impending catastrophe which was in preparation, that poor child, Eponine's brother and Thenardier's son.
He had a pocket-book about him; the same one which had contained the note-book in which he had inscribed so many thoughts of love for Cosette. He tore out a leaf and wrote on it a few lines in pencil:--
"Our marriage was impossible. I asked my grandfather, he refused; I have no fortune, neither hast thou. I hastened to thee, thou wert no longer there. Thou knowest the promise that I gave thee, I shall keep it. I die. I love thee. When thou readest this, my soul will be near thee, and thou wilt smile." 
Having nothing wherewith to seal this letter, he contented himself with folding the paper in four, and added the address:-- 
"To Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent, at M. Fauchelevent's, Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7."
Having folded the letter, he stood in thought for a moment, drew out his pocket-book again, opened it, and wrote, with the same pencil, these four lines on the first page:--
"My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather, M. Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais."
He put his pocketbook back in his pocket, then he called Gavroche. 
The gamin, at the sound of Marius' voice, ran up to him with his merry and devoted air. 
"Will you do something for me?"
"Anything," said Gavroche. "Good God! If it had not been for you, I should have been done for." 
"Do you see this letter?"
"Yes."
"Take it. Leave the barricade instantly" (Gavroche began to scratch his ear uneasily) "and to-morrow morning, you will deliver it at its address to Mademoiselle Cosette, at M. Fauchelevent's, Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7."
The heroic child replied
"Well, but! In the meanwhile the barricade will be taken, and I shall not be there."
"The barricade will not be attacked until daybreak, according to all appearances, and will not be taken before to-morrow noon."
The fresh respite which the assailants were granting to the barricade had, in fact, been prolonged. It was one of those intermissions which frequently occur in nocturnal combats, which are always followed by an increase of rage.
"Well," said Gavroche, "what if I were to go and carry your letter to-morrow?"
"It will be too late. The barricade will probably be blockaded, all the streets will be guarded, and you will not be able to get out. Go at once."
Gavroche could think of no reply to this, and stood there in indecision, scratching his ear sadly. 
All at once, he took the letter with one of those birdlike movements which were common with him.
"All right," said he.
And he started off at a run through Mondetour lane.
An idea had occurred to Gavroche which had brought him to a decision, but he had not mentioned it for fear that Marius might offer some objection to it.
This was the idea:--
"It is barely midnight, the Rue de l'Homme Arme is not far off; I will go and deliver the letter at once, and I shall get back in time."
马吕斯履行他的诺言。他在那冷汗涔涔的灰白额头上吻了一下。这不算对珂赛特的不忠，这是怀着无可奈何的感伤向那不幸的灵魂告别。
他拿到爱潘妮给他的信心中不能不为之震惊。他立即感到这里有重大的事。他迫不及待，急于要知道它的内容。人心就是这样，那不幸的孩子还几乎没有完全闭上眼睛，马吕斯便已想到要展读那封信。他把她轻轻放在地上，便走开了。某种东西使他无法在这尸体面前念那封信。
他走进厅堂，凑近一支蜡烛。那是一封以女性的优雅和细心折好封好的小柬，地址是女子的笔迹，写着：
玻璃厂街十六号，古费拉克先生转马吕斯·彭眉胥先生。
他拆开信封，念道：
我心爱的，真不巧，我父亲要我们立刻离开此地。今晚我们住在武人街七号。八天内我们去伦敦。珂赛特。六月四日。
他们的爱情竟会天真到如此程度，以致马吕斯连珂赛特的笔迹也不认识。
几句话便可把经过情形说清楚。一切全是爱潘妮干的。经过六月三日夜间的事以后她心里有了个双重打算：打乱她父亲和匪徒们抢劫卜吕梅街那一家的计划，并拆散马吕斯和珂赛特。她遇到想穿穿女人衣服寻开心的一个不相干的小伙子，便用她原有的破衣，换来她身上的这套服装，扮成个男子。在马尔斯广场向冉阿让扔下那意味深长的警告“快搬家”的便是她。冉阿让果然回到家里便向珂赛特说：“我们今晚要离开此地，和杜桑一同到武人街去住，下星期去伦敦。”珂赛特被这一意外的决定搞得心烦意乱，赶忙写了两行字给马吕斯。但是怎样把这封信送到邮局去呢？她从来不独自一人上街，要杜桑送去吧，杜桑也会感到奇怪，肯定要把这信送给割风先生看。正在焦急时，珂赛特一眼望见穿着男装的爱潘妮在铁栏门外闪过；爱潘妮近来经常在那园子附近逡巡的。珂赛特把这“少年工人”叫住，给了他五个法郎并对他说：“劳驾立刻把这封信送到这地方去。”爱潘妮却把信揣了在她的衣袋里。第二天，六月五日，她跑到古费拉克家里去找马吕斯，她去不是为了送信，而是为了“去看看”，这是每一个醋劲大发的情人都能理解的。她在那门口等了马吕斯，或至少，等了古费拉克，也还是为了“去看看”。当古费拉克对她说“我们去街垒”时，她脑子里忽然有了个主意。她想她横竖活不下去，不如就去死在街垒里，同时也把马吕斯推进去。她跟在古费拉克后面，确切知道了他们建造街垒的地点，并且还预料到，她既然截了那封信，马吕斯无从得到消息，傍晚时他必然要去那每天会面的地方，她到卜吕梅街去等候马吕斯，并借用他朋友们的名义向他发出那一邀请，她想，这样一定能把马吕斯引到街垒里去。她料定马吕斯见不着珂赛特必然要悲观失望，她确也没有估计错。她自己又回到了麻厂街。我们刚才见到了她在那里所做的事。她怀着宁肯自己杀其所爱、也决不让人夺其所爱，自己得不着、便谁也得不着的那种妒忌心，欢快地走上了惨死的道路。
马吕斯在珂赛特的信上不断地亲吻。这样看来，她仍是爱他的了！他一时曾想到他不该再作死的打算。接着他又对自己说：“她要走了。她父亲要带她去英国，我那外祖父也不允许我和她结婚。因此，命运一点也没有改变。”象马吕斯这样梦魂萦绕的人想到这件终生恨事，从中得出的结论仍只有死路一条。与其在受不了的苦恼中活着，倒不如死了干脆。
他随即想到还剩下两件事是他必须完成的：把他决死的心告诉珂赛特，并向她作最后的告别；另外，要把那可怜的孩子，爱潘妮的兄弟和德纳第的儿子，从这场即将来临的灾难中救出去。
他身上有个纸夹子，也就是从前夹过他在爱慕珂赛特的初期随时记录思想活动的那一叠随笔的夹子。他撕下一张纸，用铅笔写了这几行字：
我们的婚姻是不可能实现的。我已向我的外祖父提出要求，他不同意，我没有财产，你也一样。我到你家里去过，没有找着你，你知道我向你作出的誓言，我是说话算数的。我决心去死。我爱你。当你念着这封信时，我的灵魂将在你的身边，并向你微笑。
他没有信封，只好把那张纸一折四，写上地址：
武人街七号，割风先生家，珂赛特·割风小姐收。
信折好以后，他又想了一会儿，又拿起他的纸夹子，翻开第一页，用同一支铅笔，写了这几行字：
我叫马吕斯·彭眉胥。请把我的尸体送到我外祖父吉诺曼先生家，地址是：沼泽区，受难修女街六号。
他把纸夹子放进他衣服口袋里，接着就喊伽弗洛什。那野孩听到马吕斯的声音，带着欢快殷勤的面容跑来了。
“你肯替我办件事吗？”
“随您什么事，”伽弗洛什说，“好上帝的上帝！没有您的话，说真的，我早被烤熟了。”
“你看得见这封信吗？”
“看得见”。
“你拿着。马上绕出这街垒（伽弗洛什心里不踏实，开始搔他的耳朵）。明天早上你把它送到这地方，武人街七号割风先生家，交给珂赛特·割风小姐。”
那英勇的孩子回答说：
“好倒好，可是！在这段时间里街垒会让人家占了去，我却不在场。”
“看来在天亮以前不会有人再来攻打街垒，明天中午以前也决攻不下来。”
官军再次留给这街垒的喘息时间确在延长。夜战中常有这种暂时的休止，后面跟着来的却总是倍加猛烈的进攻。
“好吧，”伽弗洛什说，“我明天早晨把您的信送去，行吗？”
“那太迟了。街垒也许会被封锁，所有的通道全被掐断，你会出不去。你立刻就走吧。”
伽弗洛什找不出反驳的理由，但他还是呆立着不动，拿不定主意，愁眉苦脸地只顾搔耳朵。忽然一下，以他那常有的小雀似的急促动作抓去了那封信。
“好。”他说。
他从蒙德都巷子跑出去了。
伽弗洛什下了决心，因为他有了个主意，但是没有说出来他怕马吕斯反对。
他的主意是这样的：
“现在还不到晚上十二点，还差几分钟。武人街也不远。我立刻把这信送去，还来得及赶回来。”
Part 4 Book 15 Chapter 1 A Drinker is a Babbler
What are the convulsions of a city in comparison with the insurrections of the soul? Man is a depth still greater than the people. Jean Valjean at that very moment was the prey of a terrible upheaval. Every sort of gulf had opened again within him. He also was trembling, like Paris, on the brink of an obscure and formidable revolution. A few hours had sufficed to bring this about. His destiny and his conscience had suddenly been covered with gloom. Of him also, as well as of Paris, it might have been said: "Two principles are face to face. The white angel and the black angel are about to seize each other on the bridge of the abyss. Which of the two will hurl the other over? Who will carry the day?"
On the evening preceding this same 5th of June, Jean Valjean, accompanied by Cosette and Toussaint had installed himself in the Rue de l'Homme Arme. A change awaited him there. 
Cosette had not quitted the Rue Plumet without making an effort at resistance. For the first time since they had lived side by side, Cosette's will and the will of Jean Valjean had proved to be distinct, and had been in opposition, at least, if they had not clashed. There had been objections on one side and inflexibility on the other. The abrupt advice: "Leave your house," hurled at Jean Valjean by a stranger, had alarmed him to the extent of rendering him peremptory. He thought that he had been traced and followed. Cosette had been obliged to give way.
Both had arrived in the Rue de l'Homme Arme without opening their lips, and without uttering a word, each being absorbed in his own personal preoccupation; Jean Valjean so uneasy that he did not notice Cosette's sadness, Cosette so sad that she did not notice Jean Valjean's uneasiness.
Jean Valjean had taken Toussaint with him, a thing which he had never done in his previous absences. He perceived the possibility of not returning to the Rue Plumet, and he could neither leave Toussaint behind nor confide his secret to her. Besides, he felt that she was devoted and trustworthy. Treachery between master and servant begins in curiosity. Now Toussaint, as though she had been destined to be Jean Valjean's servant, was not curious. She stammered in her peasant dialect of Barneville: "I am made so; I do my work; the rest is no affair of mine."
In this departure from the Rue Plumet, which had been almost a flight, Jean Valjean had carried away nothing but the little embalmed valise, baptized by Cosette "the inseparable." Full trunks would have required porters, and porters are witnesses. A fiacre had been summoned to the door on the Rue de Babylone, and they had taken their departure.
It was with difficulty that Toussaint had obtained permission to pack up a little linen and clothes and a few toilet articles. Cosette had taken only her portfolio and her blotting-book.
Jean Valjean, with a view to augmenting the solitude and the mystery of this departure, had arranged to quit the pavilion of the Rue Plumet only at dusk, which had allowed Cosette time to write her note to Marius. They had arrived in the Rue de l'Homme Arme after night had fully fallen.
They had gone to bed in silence.
The lodgings in the Rue de l'Homme Arme were situated on a back court, on the second floor, and were composed of two sleeping-rooms, a dining-room and a kitchen adjoining the dining-room, with a garret where there was a folding-bed, and which fell to Toussaint's share. The dining-room was an antechamber as well, and separated the two bedrooms. The apartment was provided with all necessary utensils.
People re-acquire confidence as foolishly as they lose it; human nature is so constituted. Hardly had Jean Valjean reached the Rue de l'Homme Arme when his anxiety was lightened and by degrees dissipated. There are soothing spots which act in some sort mechanically on the mind. An obscure street, peaceable inhabitants. Jean Valjean experienced an indescribable contagion of tranquillity in that alley of ancient Paris, which is so narrow that it is barred against carriages by a transverse beam placed on two posts, which is deaf and dumb in the midst of the clamorous city, dimly lighted at mid-day, and is, so to speak, incapable of emotions between two rows of lofty houses centuries old, which hold their peace like ancients as they are. There was a touch of stagnant oblivion in that street. Jean Valjean drew his breath once more there. How could he be found there?
His first care was to place the inseparable beside him.
He slept well. Night brings wisdom; we may add, night soothes. On the following morning he awoke in a mood that was almost gay. He thought the dining-room charming, though it was hideous, furnished with an old round table, a long sideboard surmounted by a slanting mirror, a dilapidated arm-chair, and several plain chairs which were encumbered with Toussaint's packages. In one of these packages Jean Valjean's uniform of a National Guard was visible through a rent.
As for Cosette, she had had Toussaint take some broth to her room, and did not make her appearance until evening.
About five o'clock, Toussaint, who was going and coming and busying herself with the tiny establishment, set on the table a cold chicken, which Cosette, out of deference to her father, consented to glance at.
That done, Cosette, under the pretext of an obstinate sick headache, had bade Jean Valjean good night and had shut herself up in her chamber. Jean Valjean had eaten a wing of the chicken with a good appetite, and with his elbows on the table, having gradually recovered his serenity, had regained possession of his sense of security.
While he was discussing this modest dinner, he had, twice or thrice, noticed in a confused way, Toussaint's stammering words as she said to him: "Monsieur, there is something going on, they are fighting in Paris." But absorbed in a throng of inward calculations, he had paid no heed to it. To tell the truth, he had not heard her. He rose and began to pace from the door to the window and from the window to the door, growing ever more serene.
With this calm, Cosette, his sole anxiety, recurred to his thoughts. Not that he was troubled by this headache, a little nervous crisis, a young girl's fit of sulks, the cloud of a moment, there would be nothing left of it in a day or two; but he meditated on the future, and, as was his habit, he thought of it with pleasure. After all, he saw no obstacle to their happy life resuming its course. At certain hours, everything seems impossible, at others everything appears easy; Jean Valjean was in the midst of one of these good hours. They generally succeed the bad ones, as day follows night, by virtue of that law of succession and of contrast which lies at the very foundation of nature, and which superficial minds call antithesis. In this peaceful street where he had taken refuge, Jean Valjean got rid of all that had been troubling him for some time past. This very fact, that he had seen many shadows, made him begin to perceive a little azure.To have quitted the Rue Plumet without complications or incidents was one good step already accomplished. Perhaps it would be wise to go abroad, if only for a few months, and to set out for London. Well, they would go. What difference did it make to him whether he was in France or in England, provided he had Cosette beside him? Cosette was his nation. Cosette sufficed for his happiness; the idea that he, perhaps, did not suffice for Cosette's happiness, that idea which had formerly been the cause of his fever and sleeplessness, did not even present itself to his mind. He was in a state of collapse from all his past sufferings, and he was fully entered on optimism. Cosette was by his side, she seemed to be his; an optical illusion which every one has experienced. He arranged in his own mind, with all sorts of felicitous devices, his departure for England with Cosette, and he beheld his felicity reconstituted wherever he pleased, in the perspective of his revery. 
As he paced to and fro with long strides, his glance suddenly encountered something strange.
In the inclined mirror facing him which surmounted the sideboard, he saw the four lines which follow:--
"My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately. We shall be this evening in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7. In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th."
Jean Valjean halted, perfectly haggard.
Cosette on her arrival had placed her blotting-book on the sideboard in front of the mirror, and, utterly absorbed in her agony of grief, had forgotten it and left it there, without even observing that she had left it wide open, and open at precisely the page on which she had laid to dry the four lines which she had penned, and which she had given in charge of the young workman in the Rue Plumet. The writing had been printed off on the blotter. 
The mirror reflected the wriing.
The result was, what is called in geometry, the symmetrical image; so that the writing, reversed on the blotter, was righted in the mirror and presented its natural appearance; and Jean Valjean had beneath his eyes the letter written by Cosette to Marius on the preceding evening.
It was simple and withering.
Jean Valjean stepped up to the mirror. He read the four lines again, but he did not believe them. They produced on him the effect of appearing in a flash of lightning. It was a hallucination, it was impossible. It was not so.
Little by little, his perceptions became more precise; he looked at Cosette's blotting-book, and the consciousness of the reality returned to him. He caught up the blotter and said: "It comes from there." He feverishly examined the four lines imprinted on the blotter, the reversal of the letters converted into an odd scrawl, and he saw no sense in it. Then he said to himself: "But this signifies nothing; there is nothing written here." And he drew a long breath with inexpressible relief. Who has not experienced those foolish joys in horrible instants? The soul does not surrender to despair until it has exhausted all illusions.
He held the blotter in his hand and contemplated it in stu pid delight, almost ready to laugh at the hallucination of which he had been the dupe. All at once his eyes fell upon the mirror again, and again he beheld the vision. There were the four lines outlined with inexorable clearness. This time it was no mirage. The recurrence of a vision is a reality; it was palpable, it was the writing restored in the mirror. He understood.
Jean Valjean tottered, dropped the blotter, and fell into the old arm-chair beside the buffet, with drooping head, and glassy eyes, in utter bewilderment. He told himself that it was plain, that the light of the world had been eclipsed forever, and that Cosette had written that to some one. Then he heard his soul, which had become terrible once more, give vent to a dull roar in the gloom. Try then the effect of taking from the lion the dog which he has in his cage!
Strange and sad to say, at that very moment, Marius had not yet received Cosette's letter; chance had treacherously carried it to Jean Valjean before delivering it to Marius. Up to that day, Jean Valjean had not been vanquished by trial. He had been subjected to fearful proofs; no violence of bad fortune had been spared him; the ferocity of fate, armed with all vindictiveness and all social scorn, had taken him for her prey and had raged against him. He had accepted every extremity when it had been necessary; he had sacrificed his inviolability as a reformed man, had yielded up his liberty, risked his head, lost everything, suffered everything, and he had remained disinterested and stoical to such a point that he might have been thought to be absent from himself like a martyr. His conscience inured to every assault of destiny, might have appeared to be forever impregnable. Well, any one who had beheld his spiritual self would have been obliged to concede that it weakened at that moment. It was because, of all the tortures which he had undergone in the course of this long inquisition to which destiny had doomed him, this was the most terrible. Never had such pincers seized him hitherto. He felt the mysterious stirring of all his latent sensibilities. He felt the plucking at the strange chord. Alas! The supreme trial, let us say rather, the only trial, is the loss of the beloved being.
Poor old Jean Valjean certainly did not love Cosette otherwise than as a father; but we have already remarked, above, that into this paternity the widowhood of his life had introduced all the shades of love; he loved Cosette as his daughter, and he loved her as his mother, and he loved her as his sister; and, as he had never had either a woman to love or a wife, as nature is a creditor who accepts no protest, that sentiment also, the most impossible to lose, was mingled with the rest, vague, ignorant, pure with the purity of blindness, unconscious, celestial, angelic, divine; less like a sentiment than like an instinct, less like an instinct than like an imperceptible and invisible but real attraction; and love, properly speaking, was, in his immense tenderness for Cosette, like the thread of gold in the mountain, concealed and virgin. 
Let the reader recall the situation of heart which we have already indicated. No marriage was possible between them; not even that of souls; and yet, it is certain that their destinies were wedded. With the exception of Cosette, that is to say, with the exception of a childhood, Jean Valjean had never, in the whole of his long life, known anything of that which may be loved. The passions and loves which succeed each other had not produced in him those successive green growths, tender green or dark green, which can be seen in foliage which passes through the winter and in men who pass fifty. In short, and we have insisted on it more than once, all this interior fusion, all this whole, of which the sum total was a lofty virtue, ended in rendering Jean Valjean a father to Cosette. A strange father, forged from the grandfather, the son, the brother, and the husband, that existed in Jean Valjean; a father in whom there was included even a mother; a father who loved Cosette and adored her, and who held that child as his light, his home, his family, his country, his paradise.
Thus when he saw that the end had absolutely come, that she was escaping from him, that she was slipping from his hands, that she was gliding from him, like a cloud, like water, when he had before his eyes this crushing proof: "another is the goal of her heart, another is the wish of her life; there is a dearest one, I am no longer anything but her father, I no longer exist"; when he could no longer doubt, when he said to himself: "She is going away from me!" the grief which he felt surpassed the bounds of possibility. To have done all that he had done for the purpose of ending like this! And the very idea of being nothing! Then, as we have just said, a quiver of revolt ran through him from head to foot. He felt, even in the very roots of his hair, the immense reawakening of egotism, and the _I_ in this man's abyss howled.
There is such a thing as the sudden giving way of the inward subsoil. A despairing certainty does not make its way into a man without thrusting aside and breaking certain profound elements which, in some cases, are the very man himself. Grief, when it attains this shape, is a headlong flight of all the forces of the conscience. These are fatal crises. Few among us emerge from them still like ourselves and firm in duty. When the limit of endurance is overstepped, the most imperturbable virtue is disconcerted. Jean Valjean took the blotter again, and convinced himself afresh; he remained bowed and as though petrified and with staring eyes, over those four unobjectionable lines; and there arose within him such a cloud that one might have thought that everything in this soul was crumbling away.
He examined this revelation, athwart the exaggerations of revery, with an apparent and terrifying calmness, for it is a fearful thing when a man's calmness reaches the coldness of the statue.
He measured the terrible step which his destiny had taken without his having a suspicion of the fact; he recalled his fears of the preceding summer, so foolishly dissipated; he recognized the precipice, it was still the same; only, Jean Valjean was no longer on the brink, he was at the bottom of it.
The unprecedented and heart-rending thing about it was that he had fallen without perceiving it. All the light of his life had departed, while he still fancied that he beheld the sun.
His instinct did not hesitate. He put together certain circumstances, certain dates, certain blushes and certain pallors on Cosette's part, and he said to himself: "It is he."
The divination of despair is a sort of mysterious bow which never misses its aim. He struck Marius with his first conjecture. He did not know the name, but he found the man instantly. He distinctly perceived, in the background of the implacable conjuration of his memories, the unknown prowler of the Luxembourg, that wretched seeker of love adventures, that idler of romance, that idiot, that coward, for it is cowardly to come and make eyes at young girls who have beside them a father who loves them.
After he had thoroughly verified the fact that this young man was at the bottom of this situation, and that everything proceeded from that quarter, he, Jean Valjean, the regenerated man, the man who had so labored over his soul, the man who had made so many efforts to resolve all life, all misery, and all unhappiness into love, looked into his own breast and there beheld a spectre, Hate.
Great griefs contain something of dejection. They discourage one with existence. The man into whom they enter feels something within him withdraw from him. In his youth, their visits are lugubrious; later on they are sinister. Alas, if despair is a fearful thing when the blood is hot, when the hair is black, when the head is erect on the body like the flame on the torch, when the roll of destiny still retains its full thickness, when the heart, full of desirable love, still possesses beats which can be returned to it, when one has time for redress, when all women and all smiles and all the future and all the horizon are before one, when the force of life is complete, what is it in old age, when the years hasten on, growing ever paler, to that twilight hour when one begins to behold the stars of the tomb? 
While he was meditating, Toussaint entered. Jean Valjean rose and asked her:--
"In what quarter is it? Do you know?"
Toussaint was struck dumb, and could only answer him:--
"What is it, sir?"
Jean Valjean began again: "Did you not tell me that just now that there is fighting going on?"
"Ah! Yes, sir," replied Toussaint. "It is in the direction of Saint-Merry."
There is a mechanical movement which comes to us, unconsciously, from the most profound depths of our thought. It was, no doubt, under the impulse of a movement of this sort, and of which he was hardly conscious, that Jean Valjean, five minutes later,found himself in the street.
Bareheaded, he sat upon the stone post at the door of his house. He seemed to be listening.
Night had come.
一个城市的痉挛和灵魂的惊骇比较起来，算得了什么？人心的深度，大于人民。冉阿让这时的心正受着骇人的折磨。旧日的危崖险谷又一一重现在他眼前。他和巴黎一样，正在一次惊心动魄、吉凶莫测的革命边缘上战栗。几个钟头已足够使他的命运和心境突然陷在黑影中。对于他，正如对巴黎，我们不妨说，两种思潮正在交锋。白天使和黑天使即将在悬崖顶端的桥上进行肉搏。两个中的哪一个会把另一个摔下去呢？谁会胜利呢？
在六月五日这天的前夕，冉阿让在珂赛特和杜桑的陪同下迁到了武人街。一场急剧的转变正在那里候着他。
珂赛特在离开卜吕梅街以前，不是没有试图阻扰。自从他俩一道生活以来，在珂赛特的意愿和冉阿让的意愿之间出现分歧，这还是第一次，虽说没有发生冲突，却至少有了矛盾。一方面是不愿迁，一方面是非迁不可。一个不认识的人突然向他提出“快搬家”的劝告，这已够使他提心吊胆，把他变成坚持己见无可通融的了。他以为自己的隐情已被人家发觉，并有人在追捕他。珂赛特便只好让步。
他们在去武人街的路上，彼此都咬紧了牙没说一句话，各人想着各自的心事。冉阿让忧心如焚，看不见珂赛特的愁苦，珂赛特愁肠寸断，也看不见冉阿让的忧惧。
冉阿让带着杜桑一道走，这是他以前离家时，从来不曾做过的。他估计他大致不会再回到卜吕梅街去住了，他既不能把她撇下不管，也不能把自己的秘密说给她听。他觉得她是忠实可靠的，仆人对主人的出卖往往开始于爱管闲事。而杜桑不爱管闲事，好象她生来就是为冉阿让当仆人的。她口吃，说的是巴恩维尔农村妇人的土话，她常说：“我是一样一样的，我拉扯我的活，尾巴不关我事。”（“我就是这个样子，我干我的活，其余的事与我无关。”）
这次离开卜吕梅街几乎是仓皇出走，冉阿让只携带那只香气扑鼻、被珂赛特惯常称为“寸步不离”的小提箱，其他的东西全没带。如果要搬装满东西的大箱子，就非得找搬运行的经纪人不可，而经纪人也就是见证人。他们在巴比伦街雇了一辆街车便这样走了。
杜桑费了大劲才得到许可，包了几件换洗衣服、裙袍和梳妆用具。珂赛特本人只带了她的文具和吸墨纸。
冉阿让为了尽量掩人耳目，避免声张，还作了时间上的安排，不到天黑不走出卜吕梅街的楼房，这就让珂赛特有时间给马吕斯写那封信。他们到达武人街时天已完全黑了。
大家都静悄悄地睡了。
武人街的那套住房是对着后院的，在第一层楼上有两间卧室，一间餐室和一间与餐室相连的厨房，还带一间斜顶小屋子，里面有张吊床，也就是杜桑的卧榻。那餐室同时也是起坐间，位于两间卧室之间。整套住房里都配备了日用必需的家庭用具。
人会莫名其妙地无事自扰，也会莫名其妙地无故自宽，人的性情生来便是这样。冉阿让迁到武人街不久，他的焦急心情便已减轻，并且一步一步消失了。某些安静的环境仿佛能影响人的精神状态。昏暗的街，平和的住户，冉阿让住在古老巴黎的这条小街上，感到自己也好象受了宁静气氛的感染，小街是那么狭窄，一块固定在两根柱子上的横木板，挡住了车辆，在城市的喧闹中寂静无声，大白天也只有昏黄的阳光，两排年逾百岁的高楼，有如衰迈的老人，寂然相对，似乎可以说在这种环境中，人们的感情已失去了激动的能力。在这条街上人们健忘，无所思也无所忆。冉阿让住在这里只感到心宽气舒。能有办法把他从这地方找出来吗？
他最关心的第一件事便是把那“寸步不离”的东西放在自己的手边。
他安安稳稳地睡了一夜。常言道，黑夜使人清醒，我们不妨加这么一句，黑夜使人心安。第二天早晨，他醒来时几乎是欢快的。那间餐室原是丑陋不堪的，摆了一张旧圆桌、一口上面斜挂着镜子的碗橱，一张有虫蛀的围椅和几把靠背椅，椅上堆满了杜桑的包袱，冉阿让见了这样一间屋子却感到它美。有个包袱开着一条缝，露出了冉阿让的国民自卫军制服。
至于珂赛特，她仍待在她的卧室里，让杜桑送了一盆肉汤给她，直到傍晚才露面。
杜桑为了这次小小的搬家，奔忙了一整天，将近五点钟时，她在餐桌上放了一盘凉鸡，珂赛特为了表示对她父亲的恭顺，才同意对它看了一眼。
这样做过以后，珂赛特便借口头痛得难受，向冉阿让道了晚安，缩到她卧房里去了。冉阿让津津有味地吃了一个鸡翅膀，吃过以后，他肘端支在桌上，心情渐渐开朗，重又获得了他的安全感。
他在吃这顿简朴的晚饭时，曾两次或三次模模糊糊听到杜桑对他唠叨道：“先生，外面热闹着呢，巴黎城里打起来了。”但是他心里正在想东想西，没有过问这些事。说实在的，他并没有听。
他立起来，开始从窗子到门，又从门到窗子来回走动，心情越来越平静了。
在这平静的心境中，他的思想又回到了珂赛特棗这个唯一使他牵肠挂肚的人的身上。他挂念的倒不是她的头痛，头痛只是神经上的一点小毛病，姑娘们爱闹的闲气，暂时出现的乌云，过一两天就会消散的，这时他想着的是将来的日子，并且，和平时一样，他一想到这事，心里总有点乐滋滋的。总之，他没有发现他们恢复了的幸福生活还会遇到什么阻扰，以至不能继续下去。有时，好象一切全不可能，有时又好象一切都顺利，冉阿让这时正有那种事事都能如愿以偿的快感。这样的乐观思想经常是继苦恼时刻而来的，正如黑夜过后的白天。这原是自然界固有的正反轮替规律，也就是浅薄的人所说的那种对比方法。冉阿让躲在这条僻静的街巷中，渐渐摆脱了近来使他惶惑不安的种种苦恼。他所想象的原是重重黑暗，现在却开始望见了霁色晴光。这次能平安无事地离开卜吕梅街已是一大幸事。出国到伦敦去待一些时候，哪怕只去待上几个月，也许是明智的。待在法国或待在英国，那有什么两样？只要有珂赛特在身边就可以了。珂赛特便是他的国家。珂赛特能保证他的幸福。至于他，他能不能保证珂赛特的幸福呢？这在过去原是使他焦虑失眠的问题，现在他却丝毫没有想到这件事。他从前感到的种种痛苦已全部烟消云散，他这时的心境是完全乐观的。在他看来，珂赛特既在他身边，她便是归他所有的了，把表象当实质，这是每个人都有过的经验。他在心中极其轻松愉快地盘算着带着珂赛特去英国，通过他幻想中的图景，他见到他的幸福在任何地方都是可能的。
他正在缓步来回走动，他的视线忽然触到一件奇怪东西。
在碗橱前面，他看见那倾斜在橱上的镜子清晰地映着这样的几行字：
我心爱的，真不巧，我父亲要我们立刻离开此地。今晚我们住在武人街七号。八天内我们去伦敦。珂赛特。六月四日。
冉阿让一下子被惊到发了呆。
珂赛特昨晚一到家，便把她的吸墨纸簿子放在碗橱上的镜子跟前，她当时正愁苦欲绝，也就把它丢在那里忘了，甚至没有注意到是她让它开着摊在那里的，并且摊开的那页，又恰巧是她在卜吕梅街写完那几行字以后用来吸干纸上墨汁的那一页。这以后她才让那路过卜吕梅街的青年工人去投送。信上的字迹全印在那页吸墨纸上了。
镜子又把字迹反映出来。
结果产生了几何学中所说的那种对称的映象，吸墨纸上的字迹在镜子里反映成原形，出现在冉阿让眼前的正是珂赛特昨晚写给马吕斯的那封信。
这是非常简单而又极其惊人的。
冉阿让走向那面镜子。他把这几行字重读了一遍，却不敢信以为真。他仿佛看见那些字句是从闪电的光中冒出来的。那是一种幻觉。那是不可能的。那是不存在的。
慢慢地，他的感觉变得比较清晰了。他望着珂赛特的那本吸墨纸，逐渐恢复了他的真实感。他把吸墨纸拿在手里，并说道：“那是从这儿来的。”他非常激动地细看吸墨纸上的那几行字迹，感到那些反过来的字母的形象好不拙劣奇怪，实在是任何含义也看不出来。于是他对自己说：“不过这并不说明什么，这并不能成为文字。”他深深地吐了一口气，感到胸中有说不出的舒畅。在惊骇慌乱的时刻谁又不曾有过这种盲目的欢快呢？在幻想还没有完全破灭时，灵魂是不会向失望投降的。
他拿着那吸墨纸，不断地看，呆头呆脑地感到幸运，几乎笑了出来，说自己竟会受到错觉的愚弄。忽然，他的眼睛又落在镜面上，又看见了镜中的反映。几行字在镜子里毫不留情地显得清清楚楚，这一下可不能再认为是错觉了。一错再错的错觉也只能是真实，这是摸得着瞧得见的，这是在镜子里反映出来的手书文字。他明白了。
冉阿让打了个趔趄，吸墨纸也跌落了，他瘫倒在碗橱旁的破旧围椅里，低垂着脑袋，眼神沮丧，茫然不知如何是好。他对自己说，这已经是明摆着的了，在这世界上，从此不会再见到阳光了，那肯定是珂赛特写给某人的了。他听到他的灵魂，暴跳如雷，又在黑暗中哀号怒吼。你去把落在狮子笼里的爱犬夺回来吧！
可怪又可叹的是，这时马吕斯还没有收到珂赛特的信，偶然的机缘却把信中消息在马吕斯知道以前，便阴错阳差地泄露给了冉阿让。
冉阿让直到目前为止还不曾在考验面前摔过交。他经受过可怕的试探，受尽了逆境的折磨，法律的迫害，社会的无情遗弃，命运的残暴，都曾以他为目标，向他围攻过，他却从不曾倒退或屈服。在必要时，他也接受过穷凶极恶的暴行，他牺牲过他已恢复的人身不可侵犯性，放弃过他的自由，冒过杀头的危险，丧失了一切，忍受了一切，成了一个刻苦自励、与世无争的人，以致有时人们认为他和殉教者一样无私无我。他的良心，在经受种种苦难的千磨百炼以后好象已是无懈可击的了，可是，如果有谁洞察他的心灵深处，就不能不承认，他的心境，此时此刻，是不那么坦然的。
这是因为他在命运对他进行多次审讯时所遭受的种种酷刑，目前的这次拷问才是最可怕的。他从来还没有遇到过这种夹棍的压榨。他感到最深挚的情感也在暗中游离。他感到了有生以来从未尝过的那种心碎肠断的惨痛。唉，人生最严峻的考验，应当说，唯一的严峻考验，便是眼睁睁望着即将失去的心爱的人儿。
当然，可怜的老冉阿让对珂赛特的爱，只是父女之爱，但是，我们在前面已经指出过，在这种父爱中，也掺进了因他那无亲无偶的处境而产生的其他的爱，他把珂赛特当作女儿爱，也把她当作母亲爱，也把她当作妹子爱，并且，由于他从不曾有过情妇，也从不曾有过妻室，由于人的生性象个不愿接受拒绝支付证书的债权人，他的这种情感棗一种最最牢不可破的情感棗便也搀和在其他一些朦胧、昏昧、纯洁、盲目、无知、天真、超卓如天使、圣洁如天神的情感中，说那是情感，却更象是本能，说它是本能，却又更象是魅力，那是分辨不出瞧不见的，然而却是真实的，那种爱，确切地说，是蕴藏在他对珂赛特所怀的那种深广无际的慈爱中的，正如蕴藏在深山中的那种不见天日、未经触动的金矿脉一样。
请读者回忆一下我们已经指出过的这种心境。在他们之间是不可能有什么结合的，甚至连灵魂的结合也不可能，而他们却又相依为命。除了珂赛特，也就是说，除了一个孩子，冉阿让在他这一生的漫长岁月中再也不知道有什么可以爱。对一般五十左右的人来说，谁都有那种继炽热的恋情而起的爱，正如入冬的树叶，由嫩绿转为暗绿，冉阿让的心中却不曾有过这种变化。总之，我们已不止一次地谈到过，这种内心的契合，这个由高贵品德凝成的整体，只能使冉阿让成为珂赛特的父亲。这父亲是由冉阿让生而固有的祖孙之爱、父女之爱、兄妹之爱、夫妇之爱铸成的，父爱之中甚至还有母爱，这父亲爱珂赛特，并且崇拜她，把这孩子当作光明，当作安身之处，当作家庭，当作祖国，当作天堂。
因此，当他看见这一切都要破灭，她要溜走，她要从他手中滑脱，她要逃避，一切已如烟云，一切已成泡影，摆在他眼前的是这样一种锥心刺骨的局面：她的心已有所属，她已把她的终身幸福托给了另一个人，她已有了心爱的对象，而我只是个父亲了，我不再存在了。当他已不能再有所怀疑，当他对自己说“她撇下我的心要远走高飞了”，这时他感到的痛苦确已超过可能忍受的限度。想当初他是怎样尽心竭力，到头来却落得这么个结果！并且，还有什么可说的！一场空！在这当口，正如我们刚才说过的，他愤激到从头到脚浑身发抖。他从头发根里也感到他从前的那种强烈的唯我主义思想已在苏醒活动。
“我”又在这人的心灵深处哀号。
内心的崩塌是常有的。自认确已走上绝路的思想，一经侵入心中，必然会坼裂并摧毁这人心灵中的某些要素，而这些要素又往往就是他本人自己。当痛苦已到这种程度，良心的力量便会一败涂地。这儿便是生死存亡的关键时刻。在我们中能岿然不动，坚持正见，度过难关的人是不多的。不能战胜痛苦，便不能保全令德。冉阿让重又拿起那吸墨纸，想再证实一下，那几行字毕竟是无可否认的，他低着头，瞪着眼，呆着不动，脑子里烟雾腾腾，思想一片混乱，看来这人的内心世界已全部坍陷了。
他在浮想的夸大力量的支配下，研究着这次的暴露，他外表静得可怕，因为当人静到象塑像那样冷时，那是可怕的。
他衡量着他的命运在他不知不觉中迈出的那惊人的一步，他回忆起去年夏季他有过的那次疑惧，好不容易才消释，他这次又见到了那种危崖绝壁，还是那样，不过冉阿让已不再是在洞口，而是到了洞底。
情况是前所未闻并令人痛心的。他毫无所知，便落到洞底。他生命的光全熄灭了，他永不会重见天日了。
他本能地感觉到，他把某几次情景、某些日期、珂赛特脸上某几回的红晕、某几回的苍白连系起来进行分析，并对自己说：“就是他了。”失望中的猜测是一种百发百中的神矢。他一猜便猜到了马吕斯。他还不知道这个名字，但已找到了这个人。在他那记忆力的毫不留情的追溯中，他一清二楚地看见了那个在卢森堡公园里跟踪的可疑的陌生人，那个想吃天鹅肉的癞虾蟆，那个吊儿郎当的闲汉，那个蠢材，那个无赖，因为只有无赖才会走来对着有父亲爱护陪伴的姑娘挤眉弄眼。
当他明白在这件事的背后有这么个小伙子在作怪以后，他，冉阿让，这个曾狠下工夫来改造自己的灵魂，尽过最大努力来使自己一生中受到的一切苦难和一切不平的待遇都化为仁爱，也让自己得以从新做人的人，现在反顾自己的内心，却看见一个鬼物：憎恨。
大的痛苦能使人一蹶不振。它使人悲观绝望。遭受极大痛苦的人会感到有某种东西又回到自己心中。人在少壮时巨大的痛苦使他悲伤，而到了晚年它能置人于死地。唉，当血还是热的，头发还是黑的，头颅还能象火炬的火焰那样直立在肩上，命运簿还没有翻上几页，仍剩下一大沓，心里还充满爱的倾慕，心的跳动也还能在别人心里引起共鸣，还有悔过自新后的前途，女人也都还在对自己笑盈盈，前程远大，视野辽阔，生命力还完全充沛，这时如果失望是件可怕的事，那么，在岁月飞驰，人已老去，黄昏渐近，残照益微，暮色苍茫，墓上星光已现时失望又会是什么？
当他凝想时杜桑进来了。冉阿让立了起来，问她说：
“是靠哪面？您知道吗？”
杜桑，愣住了，只能这样回答：
“请问是……”
冉阿让又说：
“您先头不是对我说，打起来了吗？”
“啊！对，先生，”杜桑回答说，“是靠圣美里那面。”
我们最隐秘的思想常在我们不知不觉中驱使我们作出某种机械活动，正是由于这种活动的作用，冉阿让才会在没有十分意识到的情况下，五分钟过后去到了街上。
他光着头，坐在家门口的护墙石礅上。他好象是在静听。
天已经黑了。
Part 4 Book 15 Chapter 2 The Street Urchin an Enemy of Light
How long did he remain thus? What was the ebb and flow of this tragic meditation? Did he straighten up? Did he remain bowed? Had he been bent to breaking? Could he still rise and regain his footing in his conscience upon something solid? He probably would not have been able to tell himself.
The street was deserted. A few uneasy bourgeois, who were rapidly returning home, hardly saw him. Each one for himself in times of peril. The lamp-lighter came as usual to light the lantern which was situated precisely opposite the door of No.7, and then went away. Jean Valjean would not have appeared like a living man to any one who had examined him in that shadow. He sat there on the post of his door, motionless as a form of ice. There is congealment in despair. The alarm bells and a vague and stormy uproar were audible. In the midst of all these convulsions of the bell mingled with the revolt, the clock of Saint-Paul struck eleven, gravely and without haste; for the tocsin is man; the hour is God. The passage of the hour produced no effect on Jean Valjean; Jean Valjean did not stir. Still, at about that moment, a brusque report burst forth in the direction of the Halles, a second yet more violent followed; it was probably that attack on the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie which we have just seen repulsed by Marius. At this double discharge, whose fury seemed augmented by the stupor of the night, Jean Valjean started; he rose, turning towards the quarter whence the noise proceeded; then he fell back upon the post again, folded his arms, and his head slowly sank on his bosom again.
He resumed his gloomy dialogue with himself.
All at once, he raised his eyes; some one was walking in the street, he heard steps near him. He looked, and by the light of the lanterns, in the direction of the street which ran into the Rue-aux-Archives, he perceived a young, livid, and beaming face.
Gavroche had just arrived in the Rue l'Homme Arme.
Gavroche was staring into the air, apparently in search of something. He saw Jean Valjean perfectly well but he took no notice of him. 
Gavroche after staring into the air, stared below; he raised himself on tiptoe, and felt of the doors and windows of the ground floor; they were all shut, bolted, and padlocked. After having authenticated the fronts of five or six barricaded houses in this manner, the urchin shrugged his shoulders, and took himself to task in these terms:--
"Pardi!"
Then he began to stare into the air again.
Jean Valjean, who, an instant previously, in his then state of mind, would not have spoken to or even answered any one, felt irresistibly impelled to accost that child.
"What is the matter with you, my little fellow?" he said.
"The matter with me is that I am hungry," replied Gavroche frankly. And he added: "Little fellow yourself." 
Jean Valjean fumbled in his fob and pulled out a five-franc piece.
But Gavroche, who was of the wagtail species, and who skipped vivaciously from one gesture to another, had just picked up a stone. He had caught sight of the lantern.
"See here," said he, "you still have your lanterns here. You are disobeying the regulations, my friend. This is disorderly. Smash that for me."
And he flung the stone at the lantern, whose broken glass fell withsuch a clatter that the bourgeois in hiding behind their curtains in the opposite house cried: "There is `Ninety-three' come again."
The lantern oscillated violently, and went out. The street had suddenly become black.
"That's right, old street," ejaculated Gavroche, "put on your night-cap."
And turning to Jean Valjean:--
"What do you call that gigantic monument that you have there at the end of the street? It's the Archives, isn't it? I must crumble up those big stupids of pillars a bit and make a nice barricade out of them." 
Jean Valjean stepped up to Gavroche. 
"Poor creature," he said in a low tone, and speaking to himself, "he is hungry."
And he laid the hundred-sou piece in his hand.
Gavroche raised his face, astonished at the size of this sou; he stared at it in the darkness, and the whiteness of the big sou dazzled him. He knew five-franc pieces by hearsay; their reputation was agreeable to him; he was delighted to see one close to. He said:--
"Let us contemplate the tiger."
He gazed at it for several minutes in ecstasy; then, turning to Jean Valjean, he held out the coin to him, and said majestically to him:--
"Bourgeois, I prefer to smash lanterns. Take back your ferocious beast. You can't bribe me. That has got five claws; but it doesn't scratch me." 
"Have you a mother?" asked Jean Valjean.
Gavroche replied:--
"More than you have, perhaps."
"Well," returned Jean Valjean, "keep the money for your mother!"
Gavroche was touched. Moreover, he had just noticed that the man who was addressing him had no hat, and this inspired him with confidence.
"Truly," said he, "so it wasn't to keep me from breaking the lanterns?"
"Break whatever you please."
"You're a fine man," said Gavroche.
And he put the five-franc piece into one of his pockets.
His confidence having increased, he added:--
"Do you belong in this street?"
"Yes, why?"
"Can you tell me where No.7 is?"
"What do you want with No.7?"
Here the child paused, he feared that he had said too much; he thrust his nails energetically into his hair and contented himself with replying:--
"Ah! Here it is."
An idea flashed through Jean Valjean's mind. Anguish does have these gleams. He said to the lad:-- 
"Are you the person who is bringing a letter that I am expecting?"
"You?" said Gavroche. "You are not a woman."
"The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, is it not?"
"Cosette," muttered Gavroche. "Yes, I believe that is the queer name."
"Well," resumed Jean Valjean, "I am the person to whom you are to deliver the letter. Give it here."
"In that case, you must know that I was sent from the barricade."
"Of course," said Jean Valjean.
Gavroche engulfed his hand in another of his pockets and drew out a paper folded in four.
Then he made the military salute.
"Respect for despatches," said he. "It comes from the Provisional Government."
"Give it to me," said Jean Valjean.
Gavroche held the paper elevated above his head.
"Don't go and fancy it's a love letter. It is for a woman, but it's for the people. We men fight and we respect the fair sex. We are not as they are in fine society, where there are lions who send chickens[55] to camels."
[55] Love letters.
"Give it to me."
"After all," continued Gavroche, "you have the air of an honest man."
"Give it to me quick."
"Catch hold of it."
And he handed the paper to Jean Valjean.
"And make haste, Monsieur What's-your-name, for Mamselle Cosette is waiting."
Gavroche was satisfied with himself for having produced this remark.
Jean Valjean began again:--
"Is it to Saint-Merry that the answer is to be sent?"
"There you are making some of those bits of pastry vulgarly called brioches [blunders]. This letter comes from the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and I'm going back there. Good evening, citizen." 
That said, Gavroche took himself off, or, to describe it more exactly, fluttered away in the direction whence he had come with a flight like that of an escaped bird. He plunged back into the gloom as though he made a hole in it, with the rigid rapidity of a projectile; the alley of l'Homme Arme became silent and solitary once more; in a twinkling, that strange child, who had about him something of the shadow and of the dream, had buried himself in the mists of the rows of black houses, and was lost there, like smoke in the dark; and one might have thought that he had dissipated and vanished, had there not taken place, a few minutes after his disappearance, a startling shiver of glass, and had not the magnificent crash of a lantern rattling down on the pavement once more abruptly awakened the indignant bourgeois. It was Gavroche upon his way through the Rue du Chaume.
他这样待了多久？那些痛心的冥想有过怎样的起伏？他振作起来了吗？他屈伏下去了吗？他已被压得腰弯骨折了吗？他还能直立起来并在他良心上找到坚实的立足点吗？他自己心中大致也无数。
那条街是冷清清的。偶尔有几个心神不定，急于要回家的资产阶级也几乎没有看见他。在危难的时刻人人都只顾自己。点路灯的人和平时一样，把装在七号门正对面的路灯点燃以后便走了。冉阿让待在阴暗处，如果有人观察他，会感到他不是个活人。他坐在大门旁的护墙石上，象个冻死鬼似的，纹丝不动。失望原可使人凝固。人们听到号召武装反抗的钟声，也隐约听到风暴似的鼓噪声。在这一片狂敲猛打的钟声和喧腾哗乱的人声中，圣保罗教堂的时钟庄严舒缓地敲着十一点，警钟是人的声音，时钟是上帝的声音。冉阿让对时间的流逝毫无感觉，他呆坐不动。这时，从菜市场方面突然传来一阵爆破的巨响，接着又传来第二声，比第一次更猛烈，这大概就是我们先头见到的、被马吕斯击退了的那次对麻厂街街垒的攻打。那连续两次的射击，发生在死寂的夜间，显得格外狂暴，冉阿让听了也大吃一惊，他立了起来，面对发出那声音的方向，随即又落在护墙石上，交叉着手臂，头又慢慢垂到了胸前。
他重又和自己作愁惨的交谈。
他忽然抬起眼睛，听见街上有人在近处走路的声音，在路灯的光中，他望见一个黄瘦小伙子，从通往历史文物陈列馆的那条街上兴高采烈地走来。
伽弗洛什刚走到武人街。
伽弗洛什昂着头左右张望，仿佛要找什么。他明明看见了冉阿让，却没有理睬他。
伽弗洛什昂首望了一阵以后，又低下头来望，他踮起脚尖去摸那些门和临街的窗子，门窗全关上、销上、锁上了，试了五六个这样严防紧闭着的门窗以后，那野孩耸了耸肩，冒出了这样一句话：
“见他妈的鬼！”
接着他又朝上望。
在这以前，冉阿让在他那样的心境中是对谁都不会说一句话，也不会答一句话的。这时他却按捺不住，主动向那孩子说话了。
“小孩儿，”他说，“你要什么？”
“我要吃的，我肚子饿，”伽弗洛什毫不含糊地回答。他还加上一句，“老孩儿。”
冉阿让从他的背心口袋里摸出一个值五法郎的钱币。
伽弗洛什，象只动作急捷变换不停的鹡鸰，已从地上拾起一块石头。他早注意到了那盏路灯。
“嗨，”他说，“你们这儿还点着灯笼。你们不守规则，我的朋友。这是破坏秩序。砸掉它。”
他拿起石头往路灯砸去，灯上的玻璃掉得一片响，住在对面房子里的几个资产阶级从窗帘下面伸出头来大声说：“九三年的那套又来了！”
路灯猛烈地摇晃着，熄灭了。街上一下子变得漆黑。
“就得这样，老腐败街，”伽弗洛什说，“戴上你的睡帽吧。”
接着又转向冉阿让说：
“这条街尽头的那栋大楼，你们管它叫什么啊？历史文物陈列馆，不是吗？它那些老大老粗的石头柱子，得替我稍微打扫一下，好好地做一座街垒。”
冉阿让走到伽弗洛什身旁，低声对自己说：
“可怜的孩子，他饿了。”
他把那枚值一百个苏的钱放在他的手里。
伽弗洛什抬起他的鼻子，见到那枚钱币会那么大，不免有点吃惊，他在黑暗中望着那个大苏，它的白光照花了他的眼睛。他听人说过，知道有这么一种值五法郎的钱，思慕已久，现在能亲眼见到一个，大为高兴。他说：“让我看看这上面的老虎。”
他心花怒放地细看了一阵，又转向冉阿让，把钱递给他，一本正经地说：
“老板，我还是喜欢去砸路灯。把您这老虎收回去。我绝不受人家的腐蚀。这玩意儿有五个爪子，但是它抓不到我。”
“你有母亲吗？’冉阿让问。
“也许比您的还多。”
“好嘛，”冉阿让又说，“你就把这个钱留给你母亲吧。”
伽弗洛什心里觉得受了感动。并且他刚才已注意到，和他谈话的这个人没有帽子，这就增加了他对这人的好感。
“真是！”他说，“这不是为了防止我去砸烂路灯吧？”
“你爱砸什么，便砸什么吧。”
“您是个诚实人。”伽弗洛什说。
他随即把那值五法郎的钱塞在自己的衣袋里。
他的信任感加强了，接着又问：
“您是住在这街上的吗？”
“是的，你为什么要问？”
“您肯告诉我哪儿是七号吗？”
“你问七号干什么？”
那孩子不开口。他怕说得太多，他使劲把手指甲插在头发里，只回答了这一句：
“啊！没什么。”
冉阿让心里一动。焦急心情常使人思想灵敏。他对那孩子说：
“我在等一封信，你是来送信的吧？”
“您？”伽弗洛什说，“您又不是个女人。”
“信是给珂赛特小姐的，不是吗？”
“珂赛特？”伽弗洛什嘟囔着，“对，我想是的，是这么个怪滑稽的名字。”
“那么，”冉阿让又说，“是我应当把这信交给她。你给我就是。”
“既是这样，您总该知道我是从街垒里派来的吧。”
“当然。”冉阿让说。
伽弗洛什把他的拳头塞进另一个口袋，从那里抽出一张一折四的纸。
他随即行了个军礼。
“向这文件致敬礼，”他说，“它是由临时政府发出的。”
“给我。”冉阿让说。
伽弗洛什把那张纸高举在头顶上。
“您不要以为这是一封情书。它是写给一个女人的，但是为人民的。我们这些人在作战，并且尊重女性。我们不象那些公子哥儿，我们那里没有把小母鸡送给骆驼的狮子。”
“给我。”
“的确，”伽弗洛什继续说，“在我看来，您好象是个诚实人。”
“快点给我。”
“拿去吧。”
说着他把那张纸递给了冉阿让。
“还得请您早点交去，可塞先生，因为可塞特小姐在等着。”
伽弗洛什感到他能创造出这么个词，颇为得意。
冉阿让又说：
“回信应当送到圣美里吧？”
“您这简直是胡扯，”伽弗洛什大声说，“这信是从麻厂街街垒送来的。我这就要回到那儿去，祝您晚安，公民。”说完这话，伽弗洛什便走了，应当说，象只出笼的小鸟，朝着先头来的方向飞走了。他以炮弹直冲的速度，又隐没在黑暗中，象是把那黑影冲破了一个洞似的，小小的武人街又回复了寂静荒凉，这个仿佛是由阴影和梦魂构成的古怪孩子，一眨眼，又消失在那些排列成行的黑暗房屋中的迷雾里，一缕烟似的飘散在黑夜中不见了。他好象已完全泯没了，但是，几分钟过后，一阵清脆的玻璃破裂和路灯落地声又把那些怒气冲天的资产阶级老爷们惊醒了。伽弗洛什正走过麦茬街。
Part 4 Book 15 Chapter 3 While Cosette and Toussaint are Asleep
Jean Valjean went into the house with Marius' letter.
He groped his way up the stairs, as pleased with the darkness as an owl who grips his prey, opened and shut his door softly, listened to see whether he could hear any noise,--made sure that, to all appearances, Cosette and Toussaint were asleep, and plunged three or four matches into the bottle of the Fumade lighter before he could evoke a spark, so greatly did his hand tremble. What he had just done smacked of theft. At last the candle was lighted; he leaned his elbows on the table, unfolded the paper, and read.
In violent emotions, one does not read, one flings to the earth, so to speak, the paper which one holds, one clutches it like a victim, one crushes it, one digs into it the nails of one's wrath, or of one's joy; one hastens to the end, one leaps to the beginning; attention is at fever heat; it takes up in the gross, as it were, the essential points; it seizes on one point, and the rest disappears. In Marius' note to Cosette, Jean Valjean saw only these words:-- 
"I die. When thou readest this, my soul will be near thee."
In the presence of these two lines, he was horribly dazzled; he remained for a moment, crushed, as it were, by the change of emotion which was taking place within him, he stared at Marius' note with a sort of intoxicated amazement, he had before his eyes that splendor, the death of a hated individual.
He uttered a frightful cry of inward joy. So it was all over. The catastrophe had arrived sooner than he had dared to hope. The being who obstructed his destiny was disappearing. That man had taken himself off of his own accord, freely, willingly. This man was going to his death, and he, Jean Valjean, had had no hand in the matter, and it was through no fault of his. Perhaps, even, he is already dead. Here his fever entered into calculations. No, he is not dead yet. The letter had evidently been intended for Cosette to read on the following morning; after the two discharges that were heard between eleven o'clock and midnight, nothing more has taken place; the barricade will not be attacked seriously until daybreak; but that makes no difference, from the moment when "that man" is concerned in this war, he is lost; he is caught in the gearing. Jean Valjean felt himself delivered. So he was about to find himself alone with Cosette once more. The rivalry would cease; the future was beginning again. He had but to keep this note in his pocket. Cosette would never know what had become of that man. All that there requires to be done is to let things take their own course. This man cannot escape. If he is not already dead, it is certain that he is about to die. What good fortune!
Having said all this to himself, he became gloomy.
Then he went down stairs and woke up the porter.
About an hour later, Jean Valjean went out in the complete costume of a National Guard, and with his arms. The porter had easily found in the neighborhood the wherewithal to complete his equipment. He had a loaded gun and a cartridge-box filled with cartridges.
He strode off in the direction of the markets.
冉阿让拿着马吕斯的信回家去。
他一路摸黑，上了楼梯，象个抓获猎物的夜猫子，自幸处在黑暗中，轻轻地旋开又关上他的房门，细听了一阵周围是否有声音，根据一切迹象，看来珂赛特和杜桑都已睡了，他在菲玛德打火机的瓶子里塞了三根或四根火柴，才打出一点火星，他的手抖得太厉害了，因为做贼自然心虚。最后，他的蜡烛算是点上了，他两肘支在桌上，展开那张纸来看。
人在感情强烈冲动时，是不能好好看下去的。他一把抓住手里的纸，可以说，当成俘虏似的全力揪住，捏作一团，把愤怒或狂喜的指甲掐了进去，一眼便跑到了末尾，又跳回到开头，他的注意力也在发高烧，他只能看懂一个大概，大致的情况，一些主要的东西，他抓住一点，其余部分全不见了。在马吕斯写给珂赛特的那张纸里冉阿让只看见这些字：
“……我决心去死。当你念着这封信时，我的灵魂将在你的身边。”
面对这两行字，他心里起了一阵幸灾乐祸的狂喜，他好象被心情上的这一急剧转变压垮了，他怀着惊喜交集的陶醉感，久久望着马吕斯的信，眼前浮起一幅仇人死亡的美丽图景。
他在心里发出一阵狞恶的欢呼。这样，也就没有事了。事情的好转比原先敢于预期的还来得早。他命中的绊脚石就要消失了。它自己心甘情愿、自由自在地走开了。他冉阿让绝没有干预这件事，这中间也没有他的过失，“这个人”便要死去了。甚至他也许已经死了。想到此地，他那发热的头脑开始计算：“不对，他还没有死。”这信明明是写给珂赛特明天早晨看的，在十一点和午夜之间发生了那两次爆炸以后，他还没有遇到什么，街垒要到天亮时才会受到认真的攻打，但是，没有关系，只要“这个人”参加了这场战斗，他便完了，他已陷在那一套齿轮里了。冉阿让感到他自己已经得救。这样一来，他又可以独自一人和珂赛特生活下去了。竞争已经停止，前途又有了希望。他只消把这信揣在衣袋里。珂赛特永远不会知道“这个人”的下落。“一切听其自然就可以了。这个人决逃不了。如果现在他还没有死，他迟早总得死。多么幸福！”
他对自己说了这一切以后，感到心里郁闷恓惶。
他随即走下楼去，叫醒那看门人。
大致一个钟头过后，冉阿让出去了，穿上了国民自卫军的全套制服，并带了武器。看门人没有费多大的劲，便在附近一带，为他配齐了装备。他有一支上了枪弹的步枪和一只盛满枪弹的弹盒。他朝着菜市场那边走去。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 1 The Charybdis of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and the Scylla of the Faubourg d
The two most memorable barricades which the observer of social maladies can name do not belong to the period in which the action of this work is laid. These two barricades, both of them symbols, under two different aspects, of a redoubtable situation, sprang from the earth at the time of the fatal insurrection of June, 1848, the greatest war of the streets that history has ever beheld.
It sometimes happens that, even contrary to principles, even contrary to liberty, equality, and fraternity, even contrary to the universal vote, even contrary to the government, by all for all, from the depths of its anguish, of its discouragements and its destitutions,of its fevers, of its distresses, of its miasmas, of its ignorances, of its darkness, that great and despairing body, the rabble, protests against, and that the populace wages battle against, the people.
Beggars attack the common right; the ochlocracy rises against demos.
These are melancholy days; for there is always a certain amount of night even in this madness, there is suicide in this duel, and those words which are intended to be insults-- beggars, canaille, ochlocracy, populace--exhibit, alas! Rather the fault of those who reign than the fault of those who suffer; rather the fault of the privileged than the fault of the disinherited.
For our own part, we never pronounce those words without pain and without respect, for when philosophy fathoms the facts to which they correspond, it often finds many a grandeur beside these miseries. Athens was an ochlocracy; the beggars were the making of Holland; the populace saved Rome more than once; and the rabble followed Jesus Christ.
There is no thinker who has not at times contemplated the magnificences of the lower classes.
It was of this rabble that Saint Jerome was thinking, no doubt, and of all these poor people and all these vagabonds and all these miserable people whence sprang the apostles and the martyrs, when he uttered this mysterious saying: "Fex urbis, lex orbis,"-- the dregs of the city, the law of the earth.
The exasperations of this crowd which suffers and bleeds, its violences contrary to all sense, directed against the principles which are its life, its masterful deeds against the right, are its popular coups d'etat and should be repressed. The man of probity sacrifices himself, and out of his very love for this crowd, he combats it. But how excusable he feels it even while holding out against it! How he venerates it even while resisting it! This is one of those rare moments when, while doing that which it is one's duty to do, one feels something which disconcerts one, and which would dissuade one from proceeding further; one persists, it is necessary, but conscience, though satisfied, is sad, and the accomplishment of duty is complicated with a pain at the heart. 
June, 1848, let us hasten to say, was an exceptional fact, and almost impossible of classification, in the philosophy of history. All the words which we have just uttered, must be discarded, when it becomes a question of this extraordinary revolt, in which one feels the holy anxiety of toil claiming its rights. It was necessary to combat it, and this was a duty, for it attacked the republic. But what was June, 1848, at bottom? A revolt of the people against itself.
Where the subject is not lost sight of, there is no digression; may we, then, be permitted to arrest the reader's attention for a moment on the two absolutely unique barricades of which we have just spoken and which characterized this insurrection.
One blocked the entrance to the Faubourg Saint Antoine; the other defended the approach to the Faubourg du Temple; those before whom these two fearful masterpieces of civil war reared themselves beneath the brilliant blue sky of June, will never forget them. 
The Saint-Antoine barricade was tremendous; it was three stories high, and seven hundred feet wide. It barred the vast opening of the faubourg, that is to say, three streets, from angle to angle; ravined, jagged, cut up, divided, crenelated, with an immense rent, buttressed with piles that were bastions in themselves throwing out capes here and there, powerfully backed up by two great promontories of houses of the faubourg, it reared itself like a cyclopean dike at the end of the formidable place which had seen the 14th of July. Nineteen barricades were ranged, one behind the other, in the depths of the streets behind this principal barricade. At the very sight of it, one felt the agonizing suffering in the immense faubourg, which had reached that point of extremity when a distress may become a catastrophe. Of what was that barricade made? Of the ruins of three six-story houses demolished expressly, said some. Of the prodigy of all wraths, said others. It wore the lamentable aspect of all constructions of hatred, ruin. It might be asked: Who built this? It might also be said: Who destroyed this? It was the improvisation of the ebullition. Hold! take this door! this grating! this penthouse! this chimney-piece! This broken brazier! this cracked pot! Give all! cast away all! Push this roll, dig, dismantle, overturn, ruin everything! It was the collaboration of the pavement, the block of stone, the beam, the bar of iron, the rag, the scrap, the broken pane, the unseated chair, the cabbage-stalk, the tatter, the rag, and the malediction. It was grand and it was petty. It was the abyss parodied on the public place by hubbub. The mass beside the atom; the strip of ruined wall and the broken bowl,--threatening fraternization of every sort of rubbish. Sisyphus had thrown his rock there and Job his potsherd. Terrible, in short. It was the acropolis of the barefooted. Overturned carts broke the uniformity of the slope; an immense dray was spread out there crossways, its axle pointing heavenward, and seemed a scar on that tumultuous facade; an omnibus hoisted gayly, by main force, to the very summit of the heap, as though the architects of this bit of savagery had wished to add a touch of the street urchin humor to their terror, presented its horseless, unharnessed pole to no one knows what horses of the air. This gigantic heap, the alluvium of the revolt, figured to the mind an Ossa on Pelion of all revolutions; '93 on '89, the 9th of Thermidor on the 10th of August, the 18th of Brumaire on the 11th of January, Vendemiaire on Prairial, 1848 on 1830. The situation deserved the trouble and this barricade was worthy to figure on the very spot whence the Bastille had disappeared. If the ocean made dikes, it is thus that it would build. The fury of the flood was stamped upon this shapeless mass. What flood? The crowd. One thought one beheld hubbub petrified. One thought one heard humming above this barricade as though there had been over their hive, enormous, dark bees of violent progress. Was it a thicket? Was it a bacchanalia? Was it a fortress? Vertigo seemed to have constructed it with blows of its wings. There was something of the cess-pool in that redoubt and something Olympian in that confusion. One there beheld in a pell-mell full of despair, the rafters of roofs, bits of garret windows with their figured paper, window sashes with their glass planted there in the ruins awaiting the cannon, wrecks of chimneys, cupboards, tables, benches, howling topsyturveydom, and those thousand poverty-stricken things, the very refuse of the mendicant, which contain at the same time fury and nothingness. One would have said that it was the tatters of a people, rags of wood, of iron, of bronze, of stone, and that the Faubourg Saint Antoine had thrust it there at its door, with a colossal flourish of the broom making of its misery its barricade. Blocks resembling headsman's blocks, dislocated chains, pieces of woodwork with brackets having the form of gibbets, horizontal wheels projecting from the rubbish, amalgamated with this edifice of anarchy the sombre figure of the old tortures endured by the people. The barricade Saint Antoine converted everything into a weapon; everything that civil war could throw at the head of society proceeded thence; it was not combat, it was a paroxysm; the carbines which defended this redoubt, among which there were some blunderbusses, sent bits of earthenware bones, coat-buttons, even the casters from night-stands, dangerous projectiles on account of the brass. This barricade was furious; it hurled to the clouds an inexpressible clamor; at certain moments, when provoking the army, it was covered with throngs and tempest; a tumultuous crowd of flaming heads crowned it; a swarm filled it; it had a thorny crest of guns, of sabres, of cudgels, of axes, of pikes and of bayonets; a vast red flag flapped in the wind; shouts of command, songs of attack, the roll of drums, the sobs of women and bursts of gloomy laughter from the starving were to be heard there. It was huge and living, and, like the back of an electric beast, there proceeded from it little flashes of lightning. The spirit of revolution covered with its cloud this summit where rumbled that voice of the people which resembles the voice of God; a strange majesty was emitted by this titanic basket of rubbish. It was a heap of filth and it was Sinai.
As we have said previously, it attacked in the name of the revolution--what? The revolution. It--that barricade, chance, hazard, disorder, terror, misunderstanding, the unknown-- had facing it the Constituent Assembly, the sovereignty of the people, universal suffrage, the nation, the republic; and it was the Carmagnole bidding defiance to the Marseillaise.
Immense but heroic defiance, for the old faubourg is a hero.
The faubourg and its redoubt lent each other assistance. The faubourg shouldered the redoubt, the redoubt took its stand under cover of the faubourg. The vast barricade spread out like a cliff against which the strategy of the African generals dashed itself. Its caverns, its excrescences, its warts, its gibbosities, grimaced, so to speak, and grinned beneath the smoke. The mitraille vanished in shapelessness; the bombs plunged into it; bullets only succeeded in making holes in it; what was the use of cannonading chaos? and the regiments, accustomed to the fiercest visions of war, gazed with uneasy eyes on that species of redoubt, a wild beast in its boar-like bristling and a mountain by its enormous size.
A quarter of a league away, from the corner of the Rue du Temple which debouches on the boulevard near the Chateaud'Eau, if one thrust one's head bodily beyond the point formed by the front of the Dallemagne shop, one perceived in the distance, beyond the canal, in the street which mounts the slopes of Belleville at the culminating point of the rise, a strange wall reaching to the second story of the house fronts, a sort of hyphen between the houses on the right and the houses on the left, as though the street had folded back on itself its loftiest wall in order to close itself abruptly. This wall was built of paving-stones. It was straight, correct, cold, perpendicular, levelled with the square, laid out by rule and line. Cement was lacking, of course, but, as in the case of certain Roman walls, without interfering with its rigid architecture. The entablature was mathematically parallel with the base. From distance to distance, one could distinguish on the gray surface, almost invisible loopholes which resembled black threads. These loopholes were separated from each other by equal spaces. The street was deserted as far as the eye could reach. All windows and doors were closed. In the background rose this barrier, which made a blind thoroughfare of the street, a motionless and tranquil wall; no one was visible, nothing was audible; not a cry, not a sound, not a breath. A sepulchre. 
The dazzling sun of June inundated this terrible thing with light.
t was the barricade of the Faubourg of the Temple.
As soon as one arrived on the spot, and caught sight of it, it was impossible, even for the boldest, not to become thoughtful before this mysterious apparition. It was adjusted, jointed, imbricated, rectilinear, symmetrical and funereal. Science and gloom met there. One felt that the chief of this barricade was a geometrician or a spectre. One looked at it and spoke low. 
From time to time, if some soldier, an officer or representative of the people, chanced to traverse the deserted highway, a faint, sharp whistle was heard, and the passer-by fell dead or wounded, or, if he escaped the bullet, sometimes a biscaien was seen to ensconce itself in some closed shutter, in the interstice between two blocks of stone, or in the plaster of a wall. For the men in the barricade had made themselves two small cannons out of two cast-iron lengths of gas-pipe, plugged up at one end with tow and fire-clay. There was no waste of useless powder. Nearly every shot told. There were corpses here and there, and pools of blood on the pavement. I remember a white butterfly which went and came in the street. Summer does not abdicate.
In the neighborhood, the spaces beneath the portes cocheres were encumbered with wounded.
One felt oneself aimed at by some person whom one did not see, and one understood that guns were levelled at the whole length of the street.
Massed behind the sort of sloping ridge which the vaulted canal forms at the entrance to the Faubourg du Temple, the soldiers of the attacking column, gravely and thoughtfully, watched this dismal redoubt, this immobility, this passivity, whence sprang death. Some crawled flat on their faces as far as the crest of the curve of the bridge, taking care that their shakos did not project beyond it.
The valiant Colonel Monteynard admired this barricade with a shudder.--"How that is built!" he said to a Representative. "Not one paving-stone projects beyond its neighbor. It is made of porcelain."--At that moment, a bullet broke the cross on his breast, and he fell. 
"The cowards!" people said. "Let them show themselves. Let us see them! They dare not! They are hiding!" 
The barricade of the Faubourg du Temple, defended by eighty men, attacked by ten thousand, held out for three days. On the fourth, they did as at Zaatcha, as at Constantine, they pierced the houses, they came over the roofs, the barricade was taken. Not one of the eighty cowards thought of flight, all were killed there with the exception of the leader, Barthelemy, of whom we shall speak presently.
The Saint-Antoine barricade was the tumult of thunders; the barricade of the Temple was silence. The difference between these two redoubts was the difference between the formidable and the sinister. One seemed a maw; the other a mask.
Admitting that the gigantic and gloomy insurrection of June was composed of a wrath and of an enigma, one divined in the first barricade the dragon, and behind the second the sphinx.
These two fortresses had been erected by two men named, the one, Cournet, the other, Barthelemy. Cournet made the Saint-Antoine barricade; Barthelemy the barricade of the Temple. Each was the image of the man who had built it. 
Cournet was a man of lofty stature; he had broad shoulders, a red face, a crushing fist, a bold heart, a loyal soul, a sincere and terrible eye. Intrepid, energetic, irascible, stormy; the most cordial of men, the most formidable of combatants. War, strife, conflict, were the very air he breathed and put him in a good humor. He had been an officer in the navy, and, from his gestures and his voice, one divined that he sprang from the ocean, and that he came from the tempest; he carried the hurricane on into battle. With the exception of the genius, there was in Cournet something of Danton, as, with the exception of the divinity, there was in Danton something of Hercules. 
Barthelemy, thin, feeble, pale, taciturn, was a sort of tragic street urchin, who, having had his ears boxed by a policeman, lay in wait for him, and killed him, and at seventeen was sent to the galleys. He came out and made this barricade.
Later on, fatal circumstance, in London, proscribed by all, Barthelemy slew Cournet. It was a funereal duel. Some time afterwards, caught in the gearing of one of those mysterious adventures in which passion plays a part, a catastrophe in which French justice sees extenuating circumstances, and in which English justice sees only death, Barthelemy was hanged. The sombre social construction is so made that, thanks to material destitution, thanks to moral obscurity, that unhappy being who possessed an intelligence, certainly firm, possibly great, began in France with the galleys, and ended in England with the gallows. Barthelemy, on occasion, flew but one flag, the black flag.
观察社会疾苦的人可能会提到的那两座最使人难忘的街垒，并不属于本书所述故事发生的时期。这两座街垒是在一八四八年那次无法避免的六月起义期间从地下冒出来的，那是一次有史以来规模最大的巷战，从两个不同的方面看，这两座街垒都是那次惊险局势的标志。
有时，广大的乱民，在走投无路的时候，是会从他们的苦恼中，从他们的颓丧中，从他们的贫困中，从他们的焦灼中，从他们的绝望中，从他们的怨气中，从他们的愚昧中，从他们的黑暗中，起来反抗，甚至反对原则，甚至反对自由、平等、博爱，甚至反对普选，甚至反对由全民拥立为治理全民的政府，乱民有时会向人民发动战争。
穷棒子冲击普通法，暴民起来反对平民。
那是一些阴惨的日子，因为即使是在那种暴乱中，总还有一定程度的法律，在那种决斗中还有着自杀的性质；并且，不幸的是，从穷棒子、乱民、暴民、群氓这些带谩骂意味的字眼中，人们体验到的往往是统治阶层的错误而不是受苦受难者的错误；是特权阶层的错误，而不是一无所有者的错误。
至于我们，当我们说着这些字眼时，心里总不能不感到痛苦，也不能不深怀敬意。因为，如果从哲学方面去观察和这些字眼有关的种种事实，人们便常常能发现苦难中有不少伟大之处。雅典便是暴民政治，穷棒子建立了荷兰，群氓曾不止一次拯救了罗马，乱民跟随着耶稣基督。
思想家有时也都会景仰下层社会的奇观异彩。
当圣热罗姆说“罗马的恶习，世界的法律”①这句神秘的话时，他心里想到的大概就是那些乱民，所有那些穷人，那些流浪汉，那些不幸的人，使徒和殉道者就是从他们中间产生的。 
①“罗马的恶习，世界的法律”，原文为拉丁文　Fex　urbis，lex　orbis。
那些吃苦流血的群众的激怒，违反他们视作生命原则的蛮横作风以及侵犯人权的暴行，这些都使民众起来搞政变，是应当制止的。正直的人，苦心孤诣，正是为了爱护这些群众，才和他们进行斗争。但在和他们对抗中，又觉得他们情有可原！在抵制他们时又觉得他们是多么崇高可敬！这样的时刻真是少有，人们在尽他们本分的同时也觉得有些为难，几乎还受了某种力量的牵制，叫你不要再往前走；你坚持，那是理所当然的；但是得到了满足的良心是郁郁不乐的，完成了职责，但内心却又感到痛苦。
让我们赶快说出来，一八四八年六月是一次独特的事件，几乎不可能把它列入历史的哲学范畴中去。在涉及这次非常的暴动时，我们前面提到的那些字眼，应当一概撇开；在这次暴动中，我们感到了劳工要求权利的义愤。应当镇压，那是职责，因为它攻击共和。但是，究其实，一八四八年六月到底是怎么回事？是一次人民反对自己的暴乱。
只要不离开主题，话就不会说到题外去，因此，请允许我们让读者的注意力暂时先在我们前面提到的那两座街垒上停留一会儿，这是两座绝无仅有的街垒，是那次起义的特征。
一座堵塞了圣安东尼郊区的入口处，另一座挡住了通往大庙郊区的通道；亲眼见过这两座为内战而构筑的骇人杰作耸立在六月晴朗的碧空下的人们，是永远忘不了它们的。
圣安东尼街垒是个庞然大物，它有四层楼房高，七百尺宽。它挡住进入那一郊区的一大片岔路口，就是说，从这端到那端，它连续遮拦着三个街口，忽高忽低，若断若续，或前或后，零乱交错，在一个大缺口上筑了成行的雉堞，紧接着又是一个又一个土堆，构成一群棱堡，向前伸出许多突角；背后，稳如磐石地靠着两大排凸出的郊区房屋，象一道巨大的堤岸，出现在曾经目击过七月十四日的广场底上。十九个街垒层层排列在这母垒后面的几条街道的纵深处。只要望见这母垒，人们便会感到在这郊区，遍及民间的疾苦已经到了绝望的程度，即将转化为一场灾难。这街垒是用什么东西构成的？有人说是用故意拆毁的二座五层楼房的废料筑成的。另一些人说，这是所有的愤怒创造出来的奇迹。它具有仇恨所创造的一切建筑棗也就是废墟的那种令人痛心的形象。人们可以这么说：“这是谁建造的？”也可以这么说：“这是谁破坏的？”它是激情迸发的即兴创作。哟！这板门！这铁栅！这屋檐，这门框！这个破了的火炉！这只裂了的铁锅！什么都可以拿来！什么也都可以丢上去！一切一切，推吧，滚吧，挖吧，拆毁吧，翻倒吧，崩塌吧！那是铺路石、碎石块、木柱、铁条、破布、碎砖、烂椅子、白菜根、破衣烂衫和诅咒的协作。它伟大但也渺小。那是在地狱的旧址上翻修的混沌世界。原子旁边的庞然大物；一堵孤立的墙和一只破汤罐；一切残渣废物的触目惊心的结合；西绪福斯①在那里抛下了他的岩石，约伯也在那里抛下了他的瓦碴。总而言之，很可怕。那是赤脚汉的神庙，一些翻倒了的小车突出在路旁的斜坡上；一辆巨大的运货马车，车轴朝天，横亘在张牙舞爪的垒壁正面，象是那垒壁上的一道伤疤；一辆公共马车，已经由许多胳膊兴高采烈地拖上了土堆，放在它的顶上，辕木指向空中，好象在迎接什么行空的天马。垒砌这种原始堡垒的建筑师们，似乎有意要在制造恐怖的同时，增添一点野孩子趣味。这一庞然大物，这种暴动的产物，使人想起历次革命，犹如奥沙堆在贝利翁上②，九三堆在八九上③，热月九日堆在八月十日上④，雾月十八日堆在一月二十一日上⑤，萄月堆在牧月上⑥，一八四八堆在一八三○上⑦。这广场无愧此举，街垒当之无愧地出现在被摧毁的巴士底监狱原址上。如果海洋要建堤岸，它就会这般修建。狂怒的波涛在这畸形的杂物堆上留下了痕迹，什么波涛？民众。我们好象见到石化了的喧嚣声。犹如听见一群激进而又隐蔽的大蜜蜂，在它们这蜂窝似的街垒上嗡嗡低鸣。是一丛荆棘吗？是酒神祭日的狂欢节吗？是堡垒吗？这建筑物似乎振翅欲飞，令人头昏目眩。这棱堡有丑陋的一面，而在杂乱无章之中也有威严之处。在这令人见了灰心失望的一堆混乱物中，有人字屋顶架、裱了花纸的阁楼天花板、带玻璃窗的框架（插在砖瓦堆上等待着架炮）、拆开了的炉子烟囱、衣橱、桌子、长凳以及横七竖八乱成一团的连乞丐都不屑一顾的破烂货，其中含有愤怒，同时又空无所有。就象是民众的破烂、朽木、破铜烂铁、残砖碎石，都是圣安东尼郊区用一把巨大的扫帚扫出来的，用它的苦难筑成的街垒。有些木块象断头台，断链和有托座的木架象绞刑架，平放着的一些车轮在乱堆中露出来，这些都给这无政府的建筑物增添了一种残酷折磨人民的古老刑具的阴森形象。圣安东尼街垒利用一切作为武器，一切内战中能够用来射击社会的都在那儿出现了，这不是一场战斗，而是极度愤恨的爆发。在防卫这座棱堡的短枪中，有些大口径的枪发射出碎的陶器片、小骨头、衣服纽扣、直至床头柜脚上的小轮盘，这真是危险的发射物，因为同属铜质。狂暴的街垒，它向上空发出无法形容的叫嚣，当它向军队挑战时，街垒充满了咆哮的人群，一伙头脑愤激的人高据街垒，拥塞其中犹如蚁聚，它的顶部是由刀枪、棍棒、斧子、长矛和刺刀形成的尖峰，一面大红旗在风中劈啪作响，到处听得到指挥员发令的喊声、出击的战歌、隆隆的战鼓声、妇女的哭声以及饿汉们阴沉的狂笑。它庞大而又生动，好象一只电兽从背部发出雷电火星。革命精神的战云笼罩着街垒顶部，在那里群众的呼声象上帝的声音那样轰鸣着，一种奇异的威严从这巨人的乱石背篓里流露出来。这是一堆垃圾，而这也是西奈⑧。 
①据希腊神话，西绪福斯（Sisyphe）原是科林斯王，为人残忍苛刻，死后在地狱中被罚推一巨石上山，到了山顶，巨石滚回山脚，还要再推上山。
②奥沙（Ossa）和贝利翁（Pélion）是希腊的两座山，神话中的巨人想上天，就把奥沙堆在贝利翁上面。
③九三指一七九三年，这一年法国资产阶级大革命达到高潮。八九指一七八九年，法国资产阶级大革命开始。
④热月九日即一七九四年七月二十七日，吉伦特派与王党勾结，组织反革命叛乱，处死罗伯斯庇尔等二十二人。八月十日指一七九二年八月十日巴黎人民起义，君主政体被推翻。
⑤雾月十八日即一七九九年十一月九日，拿破仑由埃及返法，推翻督政府。一月二十一日即一七九三年一月二十一日，法王路易十六被处死刑。
⑥萄月十三日指一七九五年十月五日，保王党暴动分子进攻国民公会，拿破仑指挥共和军击败了保王党人。牧月一日指一七九五年五月二十日，人民起义反对国民公会，要求肃清自热月九日后一直存在的反动势力。
⑦一八三○年七月革命，推翻了波旁王朝。一八四八年巴黎二月革命，宣布成立第二共和国。
⑧西奈（SinaiD），在埃及。《圣经》记载，上帝在西奈向摩西传授十戒。
正如我们以前讲到过，它以革命的名义进攻，向什么进攻？向革命。它，这街垒，是冒险、紊乱和惊慌，是误解和未知之物，它的对立面是制宪议会、人民的主权、普选权、国家、共和政体，这是《卡玛尼奥拉》向《马赛曲》的挑战。
狂妄而又勇敢的挑战，因为这老郊区是一个英雄。
郊区和棱堡是相互支援的，郊区支持棱堡，棱堡也凭借郊区。这广阔的棱堡象伸展在海边的悬崖，攻打非洲的将军们的策略在那儿碰了壁。它的岩穴，它的那些肿瘤，那些疣子，以及弯腰驼背的怪态，似乎在烟幕中挤眉弄眼，嘲弄冷笑。开花炮弹在这怪物中消失了，炮弹钻进去，被吞没了，沉入深坑；炮弹只能打个窟窿；炮轰这杂乱的一堆有什么意义呢？那些联队，经历过最凶险的战争场面，却惶惑不安地望着这只鬃毛竖得象野猪、巨大如山的猛兽堡垒而束手无策。
离此一公里，在通往林荫大道、挨近水塔的大庙街转角上，如果有人胆敢在达尔麻尼商店铺面所形成的角上把头伸出去，他准会远远看到在运河那一边，在向上通往贝尔维尔坡道的街的顶端，一堵怪墙有房子正面的三层楼那么高，好象是左右两排楼房的连接线，就象这条街自动折叠起来成为一片高墙似的，突然堵塞了去路。这墙是铺路石砌成的。它笔直、整齐、冷酷、垂直，是用角尺、拉线和铅锤来达到这一平正和划一的。墙上显然缺乏水泥，但正象某些罗马的墙壁，对建筑物本身的坚固朴实却丝毫无损。看了它的高度，我们可以猜到它的深度。它的檐部和墙基是严格平行的。在那灰色的墙面上，我们可以辨别出这儿那儿有一些几乎看不出来的黑线条似的枪眼，以相等的距离相互间隔着。街上望到头也不见一个人影，所有的门窗都紧闭着，在纵深处竖起的这块挡路牌使街道变成了死胡同。墙壁肃立，静止，不见人影，也听不见任何声音。没有叫喊，没有声音，没有呼吸，这是一座坟。
六月眩目的阳光笼罩着这怪物。
这就是大庙郊区的街垒。
当你到达现场见到了它，最勇敢的人，见到这神秘的东西出现在眼前，都免不了会沉思默想起来。这街垒经过修饰、榫合，呈叠瓦状排列，笔直而对称，但阴森可怕。这里既有科学又有黑暗。我们感到这个街垒的首领是一个几何学家或一个鬼怪。见到的人都窃窃私语。
有时候如果有人棗士兵、军官或民众代表棗冒险越过这静悄悄的街心，我们就会听见尖锐而低低的呼啸声，于是过路人倒下、受伤或死去，如果他幸免了，我们就看见一颗子弹射进关着的百叶窗、碎石缝或墙壁的沙灰里去。有时是一个实心炮弹，因为街垒中的人把两段生铁煤气管制成两门小炮，一端用麻绳头及耐火泥堵塞起来，丝毫不浪费火药，几乎百发百中。到处躺着一些死尸，铺路石上有一摊一摊的鲜血。我记得有只白粉蝶在街上飞来飞去，可见夏日依然君临一切。
附近的大门道里，挤满了受伤的人。
在这儿，人感到被一个看不见的人所瞄准，并且知道整条街都被人瞄准着。
运河的拱桥在大庙郊区的入口处形成一个驼峰式的地势，它后面密集着进攻的队伍，士兵们严肃而聚精会神地观察着这座静止、阴沉、无动于衷的棱堡，而死亡将从中产生。有几个匍匐前进直至拱桥的高处，小心翼翼地不露出军帽的边缘。
勇敢的蒙特那上校对这座街垒赞美不已，他向一个代表说：“建筑得多么好！没有一块突出的石头，真太精致了。”这时一颗子弹打碎了他胸前的十字勋章，他倒下了。
“胆小鬼！”有人说，“有本事就露面吧！让人家看看他们！他们不敢！只能躲躲藏藏！”大庙郊区的街垒，八十个人防御，经受了一万人的攻打，它坚持了三天。第四天，采用了曾在扎阿恰和君士坦丁①的办法，打穿了房屋，从屋顶上攻进去，才攻克了街垒。八十个胆小鬼没有一个打算逃命，除了首领巴特尔米之外全被杀死了。关于巴特尔米的事，我们即将叙及。
圣安东尼的街垒暴跳如雷，大庙郊区的街垒鸦雀无声。就可怕和阴森而言两座棱堡各不相同，一个狂暴怒吼，另一个却以假相欺人。 
①扎阿恰（Zaatcha），阿尔及利亚沙漠中的绿洲，君士坦丁（Constantine），阿尔及利亚的城市，两处都曾被法军攻占。
如把这次巨大而阴惨的六月起义作为愤怒和谜的结合，我们感到第一个街垒里有条龙，而第二个背后是斯芬克司。
这两座堡垒是由两个人修建起来的，一个名叫库尔奈，另一个叫巴特尔米。库尔奈建造了圣安东尼的街垒，巴特尔米建造了大庙区的街垒。每个堡垒都具有修建者的形象。库尔奈个子魁伟，两肩宽阔，面色红润，拳头结实，生性勇敢，为人忠实，目光诚恳而炯炯骇人。他胆大无畏，坚韧不拔，急躁易怒，狂暴激烈，对人诚挚，对敌手不软。战争、武斗、冲突是他的家常便饭，使他心情愉快。他曾任海军军官，根据他的声音和举动，可以猜出他是来自海洋和风暴；在战斗中他坚持飓风式的战斗作风。除了天才这一点，库尔奈有点象丹东，正如除了神性这一点，丹东略似赫拉克勒斯。
巴特尔米瘦弱而矮小，面色苍白，沉默寡言，他象一个凄惨的流浪儿。他曾被一个警察打过一记耳光，于是他随时窥伺，等待机会，终于把这个警察杀死，因此他十七岁就被关进监狱。出狱后建成了这座街垒。
后来巴特尔米和库尔奈两人都被放逐到伦敦，巴特尔米杀死了库尔奈，这是命中注定的，是一场悲惨的决斗。不久以后，他被牵连进一桩离奇的凶杀案里去，其中不免涉及爱情。这种灾祸根据法国的裁判有可能减罪，而英国的司法则认为该处死刑。巴特尔米上了绞架。阴暗的社会结构就是如此这般，由于物质的匮乏和道德的沦丧，致使这不幸的人---他有才智，肯定很坚强，也许不很伟大---在法国从监狱开始，在英国以绞刑结束。巴特尔米，在这样情况下，只举起了一面旗---黑旗。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 2 What Is to Be Done in the Abyss if One Does Not Converse
Sixteen years count in the subterranean education of insurrection, and June, 1848, knew a great deal more about it than June, 1832. So the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was only an outline, and an embryo compared to the two colossal barricades which we have just sketched; but it was formidable for that epoch.
The insurgents under the eye of Enjolras, for Marius no longer looked after anything, had made good use of the night. The barricade had been not only repaired, but augmented. They had raised it two feet. Bars of iron planted in the pavement resembled lances in rest. All sorts of rubbish brought and added from all directions complicated the external confusion. The redoubt had been cleverly made over, into a wall on the inside and a thicket on the outside.
The staircase of paving-stones which permitted one to mount it like the wall of a citadel had been reconstructed.
The barricade had been put in order, the tap-room disencumbered, the kitchen appropriated for the ambulance, the dressing of the wounded completed, the powder scattered on the ground and on the tables had been gathered up, bullets run, cartridges manufactured, lint scraped, the fallen weapons re-distributed, the interior of the redoubt cleaned, the rubbish swept up, corpses removed. 
They laid the dead in a heap in the Mondetour lane, of which they were still the masters. The pavement was red for a long time at that spot. Among the dead there were four National Guardsmen of the suburbs. Enjolras had their uniforms laid aside.
Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras was a command. Still, only three or four took advantage of it. 
Feuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription on the wall which faced the tavern:-- 
LONG LIVE THE PEOPLES!
These four words, hollowed out in the rough stone with a nail, could be still read on the wall in 1848. 
The three women had profited by the respite of the night to vanish definitely; which allowed the insurgents to breathe more freely.
They had found means of taking refuge in some neighboring house.
The greater part of the wounded were able, and wished, to fight still. On a litter of mattresses and trusses of straw in the kitchen, which had been converted into an ambulance, there were five men gravely wounded, two of whom were municipal guardsmen. The municipal guardsmen were attended to first.
In the tap-room there remained only Mabeuf under his black cloth and Javert bound to his post. 
"This is the hall of the dead," said Enjolras.
In the interior of this hall, barely lighted by a candle at one end, the mortuary table being behind the post like a horizontal bar, a sort of vast, vague cross resulted from Javert erect and Mabeuf lying prone.
The pole of the omnibus, although snapped off by the fusillade, was still sufficiently upright to admit of their fastening the flag to it.
Enjolras, who possessed that quality of a leader, of always doing what he said, attached to this staff the bullet-ridden and bloody coat of the old man's.
No repast had been possible. There was neither bread nor meat. The fifty men in the barricade had speedily exhausted the scanty provisions of the wine-shop during the sixteen hours which they had passed there. At a given moment, every barricade inevitably becomes the raft of la Meduse. They were obliged to resign themselves to hunger. They had then reached the first hours of that Spartan day of the 6th of June when, in the barricade Saint-Merry, Jeanne, surrounded by the insurgents who demanded bread, replied to all combatants crying: "Something to eat!" with: "Why? It is three o'clock; at four we shall be dead."
As they could no longer eat, Enjolras forbade them to drink. He interdicted wine, and portioned out the brandy.
They had found in the cellar fifteen full bottles hermetically sealed. Enjolras and Combeferre examined them. Combeferre when he came up again said:--"It's the old stock of Father Hucheloup, who began business as a grocer."--"It must be real wine," observed Bossuet. "It's lucky that Grantaire is asleep. If he were on foot, there would be a good deal of difficulty in saving those bottles."--Enjolras, in spite of all murmurs, placed his veto on the fifteen bottles, and, in order that no one might touch them, he had them placed under the table on which Father Mabeuf was lying.
About two o'clock in the morning, they reckoned up their strength. There were still thirty-seven of them.
The day began to dawn. The torch, which had been replaced in its cavity in the pavement, had just been extinguished. The interior of the barricade, that species of tiny courtyard appropriated from the street, was bathed in shadows, and resembled, athwart the vague, twilight horror, the deck of a disabled ship. The combatants, as they went and came, moved about there like black forms. Above that terrible nesting-place of gloom the stories of the mute houses were lividly outlined; at the very top, the chimneys stood palely out. The sky was of that charming, undecided hue, which may be white and may be blue. Birds flew about in it with cries of joy. The lofty house which formed the back of the barricade, being turned to the East, had upon its roof a rosy reflection. The morning breeze ruffled the gray hair on the head of the dead man at the third-story window.
"I am delighted that the torch has been extinguished," said Courfeyrac to Feuilly. "That torch flickering in the wind annoyed me. It had the appearance of being afraid. The light of torches resembles the wisdom of cowards; it gives a bad light because it trembles."
Dawn awakens minds as it does the birds; all began to talk.
Joly, perceiving a cat prowling on a gutter, extracted philosophy from it.
"What is the cat?" he exclaimed. "It is a corrective. The good God, having made the mouse, said:`Hullo! I have committed a blunder.' And so he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse. The mouse, plus the cat, is the proof of creation revised and corrected."
Combeferre, surrounded by students and artisans, was speaking of the dead, of Jean Prouvaire, of Bahorel, of Mabeuf, and even of Cabuc, and of Enjolras' sad severity. He said:--
"Harmodius and Aristogiton, Brutus, Chereas, Stephanus, Cromwell, Charlotte Corday, Sand, have all had their moment of agony when it was too late. Our hearts quiver so, and human life is such a mystery that, even in the case of a civic murder, even in a murder for liberation, if there be such a thing, the remorse for having struck a man surpasses the joy of having served the human race." 
And, such are the windings of the exchange of speech, that, a moment later, by a transition brought about through Jean Prouvaire's verses, Combeferre was comparing the translators of the Georgics, Raux with Cournand, Cournand with Delille, pointing out the passages translated by Malfilatre, particularly the prodigies of Caesar's death; and at that word, Caesar, the conversation reverted to Brutus. 
"Caesar," said Combeferre, "fell justly. Cicero was severe towards Caesar, and he was right. That severity is not diatribe. When Zoilus insults Homer, when Maevius insults Virgil, when Vise insults Moliere, when Pope insults Shakspeare, when Frederic insults Voltaire, it is an old law of envy and hatred which is being carried out; genius attracts insult, great men are always more or less barked at. But Zoilus and Cicero are two different persons. Cicero is an arbiter in thought, just as Brutus is an arbiter by the sword. For my own part, I blame that last justice, the blade; but, antiquity admitted it. Caesar, the violator of the Rubicon, conferring, as though they came from him, the dignities which emanated from the people, not rising at the entrance of the senate, committed the acts of a king and almost of a tyrant, regia ac pene tyrannica. He was a great man; so much the worse, or so much the better; the lesson is but the more exalted. His twenty-three wounds touch me less than the spitting in the face of Jesus Christ. Caesar is stabbed by the senators; Christ is cuffed by lackeys. One feels the God through the greater outrage."
Bossuet, who towered above the interlocutors from the summit of a heap of paving-stones, exclaimed, rifle in hand:-- 
"Oh Cydathenaeum, Oh Myrrhinus, Oh Probalinthus, Oh graces of the AEantides! Oh! Who will grant me to pronounce the verses of Homer like a Greek of Laurium or of Edapteon?"
暴动，在地下进行了十六年的教育！到了一八四八年，比起一八三二年六月便精炼得多了。因此麻厂街的街垒和我们前面所描述的两座巨大的街垒相比，仅是一张草图，一个雏形，但在当时，它算是很可怕的了。
安灼拉亲眼看着那些起义者，他们充分利用夜晚的时间，因为当时马吕斯对一切都不闻不问。那街垒非但进行了修理，而且还扩大加高了两尺。那些插在铺路石块缝里的铁钎，好象一排防护的长枪，从各处搬来的残物堆积在上面，使这些混乱的外形更加复杂化。这棱堡的外表是乱七八糟的，可是朝里的这一面却很巧妙地变成了一堵墙。
他们修复了用铺路石堆砌的台阶，借以登上象城堡一样的墙顶。
街垒的内部也整理了一番，出清了地下室，把厨房改成战地病房，包扎了伤员，收集了散在地上和桌上的炸药，熔化了弹头，制造了子弹，理齐了包扎伤员的碎布，分配了倒在地上的武器，打扫了棱堡的内部，收拾了残余物品，搬走了尸体。
死尸被堆到还在控制范围内的蒙德都巷子里。那儿路面早已是血迹斑斑了。尸体中有四具是郊区国民自卫军的士兵。
安灼拉吩咐把他们的制服收放在一边。
安灼拉劝告大家睡两小时。安灼拉的劝告就是命令，可是只有三四个人接受。弗以伊利用这两个小时在面对酒店的墙上刻了下面的题铭：
人民万岁！
这四个字是用钉子在石块上凿出来的，到一八四八年，在这堵墙上还能看得很清楚。
那三个女人趁着夜间的暂时停火干脆溜走了，这使那些起义者松了一口气。
她们设法躲到邻近的一所屋子里去。
大部分的伤员还能继续作战，这也是他们的意愿。在那临时成为战地病房的厨房里，用草荐和草捆铺的垫子上面躺着五个重伤员，其中两个是保安警察。保安警察首先被敷药包伤。
在地下室里只剩下黑布盖着的马白夫和绑在柱子上的沙威。
安灼拉说：“这里是停尸间。”
在这间屋子的内部，一支蜡烛的暗淡光线在摇曳着，那停尸台放在柱子后面进深处，好象一根横梁，因此站着的沙威和躺着的马白夫，好象形成一个大十字架。
那辆长途马车的辕木，虽已被炮火轰断，但依然竖立在那儿，可以在上面悬挂一面旗帜。
安灼拉具有那种说到做到的首领的作风，他把已牺牲老人的一件被子弹打穿了的血衣挂了上去。
开饭已是不可能了。没有面包，也没有肉。街垒中五十来个人，在十六个小时内，很快就把酒店里有限的储存物吃得一干二净。到一定时候，坚持着的街垒不免要成为墨杜萨木排了。大家免不了要忍饥挨饿。六月六日，在这个斯巴达式的日子的凌晨，在圣美里街垒中，让娜被那些叫嚷要面包的起义者围绕着，她对他们说：“还要吃？现在是三点钟，到四点钟我们都已经死了。”
正因为没有吃的，安灼拉禁止大家喝酒，他不准大家喝葡萄酒，只定量配给些烧酒。
他们在酒窖中发现了封存完好的满满的十五瓶酒，安灼拉和公白飞检查了这些瓶子。公白飞走上来的时候说：“这是于什鲁大爷的存底，他以前是饮食杂货店的老板。”博须埃提出看法：“这肯定是真正的好葡萄酒。幸好格朗泰尔睡着了，否则这些瓶子就很难保住。”安灼拉不理睬这些闲话，对这十五个瓶子他下了禁令，为了不让任何人碰，为了使这些瓶子象圣品似的保留着，他吩咐放在躺着马白夫公公的桌子底下。
清晨两点钟左右，他们点了一下人数，还有三十七个人。
东方开始发白。不久前他们刚熄灭了放置在石块凹穴处的火把。在街垒内部，这个由街道围进来的小院子被黑暗笼罩着，通过令人有些寒悚的暗淡曙光，看起来好象一艘残损船只的甲板。战士们来来去去，犹如黑影在移动。在这可怕的黑窝上面，各层寂静的楼房开始在青灰色的背景上显出轮廓，不过高处的一些烟囱却变成灰白色了。天空呈现出一种悦目的似白近蓝的色调。鸟群一面飞一面愉快地啼鸣。街垒后面的那所高楼是向阳的，它的屋顶反映着粉红色的霞光。在四楼的一个小窗口，晨风吹拂着一个死人的灰白头发。
古费拉克对弗以伊说：“灭了火把我很高兴。在风中飘忽的火焰叫人烦闷，它好象怀着恐惧。那火把的光芒就象懦夫的智慧，它摇曳着，所以才照而不亮。”
曙光唤醒了鸟群和人的心灵，大家都在谈天。
若李看见一只猫在屋檐上徘徊，就作出了哲学的分析。
他高声说：“猫是什么？这是一剂校正的药。上帝创造了老鼠，就说：‘哟！我做错了一件事。’于是他又创造了猫，猫是老鼠的勘误表。老鼠和猫就是造物者重新阅读他的原稿后的修正。”
公白飞被学生和工人围着，在谈论一些已死的人。谈到让·勃鲁维尔、巴阿雷、马白夫，谈到勒·卡布克以及安灼拉深沉的悲痛。他说：
“阿尔莫迪乌斯和阿利斯托吉通、布鲁图斯①、谢列阿②、史特方纽斯、克伦威尔③、夏绿蒂·科尔黛④、桑得⑤，他们事后都曾有过苦闷的时刻。我们的心是如此不稳定而人的生命又是如此神秘，所以，即使为了公民利益或人的自由所进行的一次谋杀事件（如果存在这类谋杀的话），杀人后的悔恨心情仍超过造福人类而感到的欣慰。”
闲聊时话题经常改变，一分钟后，公白飞从让·勃鲁维尔的诗转到把翻译《农事诗》⑥的罗和古南特相比，又把古南特和特利尔相比，还指出几节马尔非拉特的译文，特别是关于因恺撒之死而出现的奇迹。谈到恺撒，话题又回到了布鲁图斯。 
①布鲁图斯（Brutus），罗马共和派领袖，此处指刺杀他的义父恺撒。
②谢列阿（Chéréas），罗马法官，杀死暴君卡利古拉（Caligula）而被诛。
③克伦威尔（1599-1658），英国革命领袖，处死暴君查理七世。
④夏绿蒂·科尔黛（CharlotteCorday，1768-1793），刺死马拉者。
⑤桑得（Sand，1795-1820），德国大学生，因谋杀反动作家科采布（KotzeBbue）而被诛。
⑥《农事诗》（Géorgiques），古罗马诗人维吉尔的作品。
公白飞说：“恺撒的灭亡是公正的。西塞罗对恺撒是严厉的，他做得对。这种严厉不是谩骂。佐伊尔辱骂荷马，梅维吕斯辱骂维吉尔，维塞辱骂莫里哀，蒲伯辱骂莎士比亚，弗莱隆辱骂伏尔泰，这是一条古老的规律棗妒忌和憎恨在起作用；有才华的人难免招致诽谤，伟人多少要听到狗吠。可是佐伊尔和西塞罗是两回事，西塞罗用思想来裁判，布鲁图斯以利剑来裁判。至于我，我斥责后面这种裁判，可是古代却允许这种方式。恺撒是破坏鲁比肯协议的人，他把人民给他的高官显职当作他自己给的，在元老院议员进来时也不起立，正如欧忒洛庇①所说：‘所作所为如帝王，类似暴君，象暴君一样执政。’②他是一个伟人，很遗憾，或者是好极了，教训是巨大的。我对他身受的二十三刀比向耶稣脸上吐唾沫更无动于衷。恺撤被元老院议员刺死，耶稣挨了奴仆的巴掌。受尽人间侮辱的莫过于上帝。” 
①欧忒洛庇（Eutrope），公元前四世纪拉丁历史学家。
②“所作所为如帝王，类似暴君，象暴君一样执政。”原文为拉丁文poenètyrannica。
博须埃站在一个石堆上，在众人之上，他手中握着卡宾枪，向谈论的人大声说：
“啊，西达特伦，啊，密利吕斯，啊，勃罗巴兰特，啊，美丽的安蒂德！使我象洛约姆或艾达普台翁那儿的希腊人一样，朗诵荷马的诗吧！”
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 3 Light and Shadow
Enjolras had been to make a reconnaissance. He had made his way out through Mondetour lane, gliding along close to the houses. 
The insurgents, we will remark, were full of hope. The manner in which they had repulsed the attack of the preceding night had caused them to almost disdain in advance the attack at dawn. They waited for it with a smile. They had no more doubt as to their success than as to their cause. Moreover, succor was, evidently, on the way to them. They reckoned on it. With that facility of triumphant prophecy which is one of the sources of strength in the French combatant, they divided the day which was at hand into three distinct phases. At six o'clock in the morning a regiment "which had been labored with," would turn; at noon, the insurrection of all Paris; at sunset, revolution.
They heard the alarm bell of Saint-Merry, which had not been silent for an instant since the night before; a proof that the other barricade, the great one, Jeanne's, still held out.
All these hopes were exchanged between the different groups in a sort of gay and formidable whisper which resembled the warlike hum of a hive of bees.
Enjolras reappeared. He returned from his sombre eagle flight into outer darkness. He listened for a moment to all this joy with folded arms, and one hand on his mouth. Then, fresh and rosy in the growing whiteness of the dawn, he said:
"The whole army of Paris is to strike. A third of the army is bearing down upon the barricades in which you now are. There is the National Guard in addition. I have picked out the shakos of the fifth of the line, and the standard-bearers of the sixth legion. In one hour you will be attacked. As for the populace, it was seething yesterday, to-day it is not stirring. There is nothing to expect; nothing to hope for. Neither from a faubourg nor from a regiment. You are abandoned."
These words fell upon the buzzing of the groups, and produced on them the effect caused on a swarm of bees by the first drops of a storm. A moment of indescribable silence ensued, in which death might have been heard flitting by.
This moment was brief.
A voice from the obscurest depths of the groups shouted to Enjolras:
"So be it. Let us raise the barricade to a height of twenty feet, and let us all remain in it. Citizens, let us offer the protests of corpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans, the republicans do not abandon the people."
These words freed the thought of all from the painful cloud of individual anxieties. It was hailed with an enthusiastic acclamation.
No one ever has known the name of the man who spoke thus; he was some unknown blouse-wearer, a stranger, a man forgotten, a passing hero, that great anonymous, always mingled in human crises and in social geneses who, at a given moment, utters in a supreme fashion the decisive word, and who vanishes into the shadows after having represented for a minute, in a lightning flash, the people and God.
This inexorable resolution so thoroughly impregnated the air of the 6th of June, 1832, that, almost at the very same hour, on the barricade Saint-Merry, the insurgents were raising that clamor which has become a matter of history and which has been consigned to the documents in the case:--"What matters it whether they come to our assistance or not? Let us get ourselves killed here, to the very last man."
As the reader sees, the two barricades, though materially isolated, were in communication with each other.
安灼拉出去侦察了一番，他从蒙德都巷子出去，转弯抹角地沿着墙走。
看来这些起义者是充满了希望的。他们晚间打退了敌人的进攻，这使他们几乎在事先就蔑视凌晨的袭击。他们含笑以待，对自己的事业既不发生怀疑，也不怀疑自己的胜利。再说，还有一支援军肯定会来协助他们。他们对这支援军寄托着希望。法兰西战士的部分力量来自这种轻易预料胜利的信心，他们把即将开始的一天分成明显的三个阶段：早晨六点，一个“他们做过工作的”联队将倒戈；午时，全巴黎起义；黄昏时刻，革命爆发。
从昨晚起，圣美里教堂的钟声从没停止过，这证明那位让娜的大街垒仍在坚持着。
所有这些希望，以愉快而又可怕的低语从一组传到另一组，仿佛蜂窝中嗡嗡的作战声。
安灼拉又出现了。他在外面黑暗中作了一次老鹰式阴郁的巡视。他双臂交叉，一只手按在嘴上，听了听这种愉快的谈论。接着，在逐渐转白的晨曦中，他面色红润、精神饱满地说：
“整个巴黎的军队都出动了。三分之一的军队压在你们所在的这个街垒上，还有国民自卫军。我认出了正规军第五营的军帽和宪兵第六队的军旗。一个钟头以后你们就要遭到攻打。至于人民，昨天还很激奋，可是今晨却没有动静了。不用期待，毫无希望。既没有一个郊区能相互呼应，也没有一支联队来接应。你们被遗弃了。”
这些话落在人们的嗡嗡声中，象暴风雨的第一个雨点打在蜂群上。大家哑口无言。在一阵无法形容的沉默中，好象听到死神在飞翔。
这只是短促的一刹那。
在最后面的人群里，一个声音向安灼拉喊道：
“就算情形是这样，我们还是把街垒加到了二十尺高，我们坚持到底。公民们，让我们提出用尸体来抗议。我们要表示，虽然人民抛弃共和党人，共和党人是不会背离人民的。”
这几句话，从个人的忧心忡忡里道出了大伙的想法，受到了热情的欢呼。
大家始终不知道讲这话的人叫什么名字，这是一个身穿工作服的无名小卒，一个陌生人，一个被遗忘的人，一个过路英雄，在人类的危境和社会的开创中，经常会有这样的无名伟人，他在一定的时刻，以至高无上的形式，说出决定性的言语，如同电光一闪，刹那间他代表了人民和上帝，此后就在黑暗中消失了。
这种不可动摇的坚定意志，散布在一八三二年六月六日的空气里，几乎同时，在圣美里街垒中，起义者也发出了这一具有历史意义并载入史册的呼声：“不管有没有人来支援我们，我们就在这儿拼到底，直到最后一人。”
我们可以看到，这两个街垒虽然分处两地，但却又互通声气。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 4 Minus Five, Plus One
After the man who decreed the "protest of corpses" had spoken, and had given this formula of their common soul, there issued from all mouths a strangely satisfied and terrible cry, funereal in sense and triumphant in tone:
"Long live death! Let us all remain here!"
"Why all?" said Enjolras.
"All! All!"
Enjolras resumed:
"The position is good; the barricade is fine. Thirty men are enough. Why sacrifice forty?"
They replied:
"Because not one will go away."
"Citizens," cried Enjolras, and there was an almost irritated vibration in his voice, "this republic is not rich enough in men to indulge in useless expenditure of them. Vain-glory is waste. If the duty of some is to depart, that duty should be fulfilled like any other."
Enjolras, the man-principle, had over his co-religionists that sort of omnipotent power which emanates from the absolute. Still, great as was this omnipotence, a murmur arose. A leader to the very finger-tips, Enjolras, seeing that they murmured, insisted. He resumed haughtily: 
"Let those who are afraid of not numbering more than thirty say so."
The murmurs redoubled.
"Besides," observed a voice in one group, "it is easy enough to talk about leaving. The barricade is hemmed in."
"Not on the side of the Halles," said Enjolras. "The Rue Mondetour is free, and through the Rue des Precheurs one can reach the Marche des Innocents."
"And there," went on another voice, "you would be captured. You would fall in with some grand guard of the line or the suburbs; they will spy a man passing in blouse and cap.`Whence come you?'`Don't you belong to the barricade?' And they will look at your hands. You smell of powder. Shot."
Enjolras, without making any reply, touched Combeferre's shoulder, and the two entered the tap-room.
They emerged thence a moment later. Enjolras held in his outstretched hands the four uniforms which he had laid aside. Combeferre followed, carrying the shoulder-belts and the shakos.
"With this uniform," said Enjolras, "you can mingle with the ranks and escape; here is enough for four." And he flung on the ground, deprived of its pavement, the four uniforms.
No wavering took place in his stoical audience. Combeferre took the word.
"Come, said he, "you must have a little pity. Do you know what the question is here? It is a question of women. See here. Are there women or are there not? Are there children or are there not? Are there mothers, yes or no, who rock cradles with their foot and who have a lot of little ones around them? Let that man of you who has never beheld a nurse's breast raise his hand. Ah! You want to get yourselves killed, so do I--I, who am speaking to you; but I do not want to feel the phantoms of women wreathing their arms around me. Die, if you will, but don't make others die. Suicides like that which is on the brink of accomplishment here are sublime; but suicide is narrow, and does not admit of extension; and as soon as it touches your neighbors, suicide is murder. Think of the little blond heads; think of the white locks. Listen, Enjolras has just told me that he saw at the corner of the Rue du Cygne a lighted casement, a candle in a poor window, on the fifth floor, and on the pane the quivering shadow of the head of an old woman, who had the air of having spent the night in watching. Perhaps she is the mother of some one of you. Well, let that man go, and make haste, to say to his mother:`Here I am, mother!' Let him feel at ease, the task here will be performed all the same. When one supports one's relatives by one's toil, one has not the right to sacrifice one's self. That is deserting one's family. And those who have daughters! what are you thinking of? You get yourselves killed, you are dead, that is well. And tomorrow? Young girls without bread--that is a terrible thing. Man begs, woman sells. Ah! those charming and gracious beings, so gracious and so sweet, who have bonnets of flowers, who fill the house with purity, who sing and prattle, who are like a living perfume, who prove the existence of angels in heaven by the purity of virgins on earth, that Jeanne, that Lise, that Mimi, those adorable and honest creatures who are your blessings and your pride, ah! good God, they will suffer hunger! What do you want me to say to you? There is a market for human flesh; and it is not with your shadowy hands, shuddering around them, that you will prevent them from entering it! Think of the street, think of the pavement covered with passers-by, think of the shops past which women go and come with necks all bare, and through the mire. These women, too, were pure once. Think of your sisters, those of you who have them. Misery, prostitution, the police, Saint-Lazare-- that is what those beautiful, delicate girls, those fragile marvels of modesty, gentleness and loveliness, fresher than lilacs in the month of May, will come to. Ah! You have got yourselves killed! You are no longer on hand! That is well; you have wished to release the people from Royalty, and you deliver over your daughters to the police. Friends, have a care, have mercy. Women, unhappy women, we are not in the habit of bestowing much thought on them. We trust to the women not having received a man's education, we prevent their reading, we prevent their thinking, we prevent their occupying themselves with politics; will you prevent them from going to the dead-house this evening, and recognizing your bodies? Let us see, those who have families must be tractable, and shake hands with us and take themselves off, and leave us here alone to attend to this affair. I know well that courage is required to leave, that it is hard; but the harder it is, the more meritorious. You say: `I have a gun, I am at the barricade; so much the worse, I shall remain there.' So much the worse is easily said. My friends, there is a morrow; you will not be here to-morrow, but your families will; and what sufferings! See, here is a pretty, healthy child, with cheeks like an apple, who babbles, prattles, chatters, who laughs, who smells sweet beneath your kiss,--and do you know what becomes of him when he is abandoned? I have seen one, a very small creature, no taller than that. His father was dead. Poor people had taken him in out of charity, but they had bread only for themselves. The child was always hungry. It was winter. He did not cry. You could see him approach the stove, in which there was never any fire, and whose pipe, you know, was of mastic and yellow clay. His breathing was hoarse, his face livid, his limbs flaccid, his belly prominent. He said nothing. If you spoke to him, he did not answer. He is dead. He was taken to the Necker Hospital, where I saw him. I was house-surgeon in that hospital. Now, if there are any fathers among you, fathers whose happiness it is to stroll on Sundays holding their child's tiny hand in their robust hand, let each one of those fathers imagine that this child is his own. That poor brat, I remember, and I seem to see him now, when he lay nude on the dissecting table, how his ribs stood out on his skin like the graves beneath the grass in a cemetery. A sort of mud was found in his stomach. There were ashes in his teeth. Come, let us examine ourselves conscientiously and take counsel with our heart. Statistics show that the mortality among abandoned children is fifty-five per cent. I repeat, it is a question of women, it concerns mothers, it concerns young girls, it concerns little children. Who is talking to you of yourselves? We know well what you are; we know well that you are all brave, parbleu! we know well that you all have in your souls the joy and the glory of giving your life for the great cause; we know well that you feel yourselves elected to die usefully and magnificently, and that each one of you clings to his share in the triumph. Very well. But you are not alone in this world. There are other beings of whom you must think. You must not be egoists."
All dropped their heads with a gloomy air.
Strange contradictions of the human heart at its most sublime moments. Combeferre, who spoke thus, was not an orphan. He recalled the mothers of other men, and forgot his own. He was about to get himself killed. He was "an egoist."
Marius, fasting, fevered, having emerged in succession from all hope, and having been stranded in grief, the most sombre of shipwrecks, and saturated with violent emotions and conscious that the end was near, had plunged deeper and deeper into that visionary stupor which always precedes the fatal hour voluntarily accepted. 
A physiologist might have studied in him the growing symptoms of that febrile absorption known to, and classified by, science, and which is to suffering what voluptuousness is to pleasure. Despair, also, has its ecstasy. Marius had reached this point. He looked on at everything as from without; as we have said, things which passed before him seemed far away; he made out the whole, but did not perceive the details. He beheld men going and coming as through a flame. He heard voices speaking as at the bottom of an abyss.
But this moved him. There was in this scene a point which pierced and roused even him. He had but one idea now, to die; and he did not wish to be turned aside from it, but he reflected, in his gloomy somnambulism, that while destroying himself, he was not prohibited from saving some one else. 
He raised his voice.
"Enjolras and Combeferre are right," said he; "no unnecessary sacrifice. I join them, and you must make haste. Combeferre has said convincing things to you. There are some among you who have families, mothers, sisters, wives, children. Let such leave the ranks."
No one stirred.
"Married men and the supporters of families, step out of the ranks!" repeated Marius.
His authority was great. Enjolras was certainly the head of the barricade, but Marius was its savior.
"I order it," cried Enjolras.
"I entreat you," said Marius.
Then, touched by Combeferre's words, shaken by Enjolras' order, touched by Marius' entreaty, these heroic men began to denounce each other.--"It is true," said one young man to a full grown man, "you are the father of a family. Go."--"It is your duty rather," retorted the man, "you have two sisters whom you maintain."-- And an unprecedented controversy broke forth. Each struggled to determine which should not allow himself to be placed at the door of the tomb.
"Make haste," said Courfeyrac, "in another quarter of an hour it will be too late."
"Citizens," pursued Enjolras, "this is the Republic, and universal suffrage reigns. Do you yourselves designate those who are to go." 
They obeyed. After the expiration of a few minutes, five were unanimously selected and stepped out of the ranks.
"There are five of them!" exclaimed Marius.
There were only four uniforms.
"Well," began the five, "one must stay behind."
And then a struggle arose as to who should remain, and who should find reasons for the others not remaining.The generous quarrel began afresh.
"You have a wife who loves you."--"You have your aged mother."--" You have neither father nor mother, and what is to become of your three little brothers?"--"You are the father of five children."--"You have a right to live, you are only seventeen, it is too early for you to die."
These great revolutionary barricades were assembling points for heroism.The improbable was simple there. These men did not astonish each other. 
"Be quick," repeated Courfeyrac.
Men shouted to Marius from the groups:
"Do you designate who is to remain."
"Yes," said the five, "choose. We will obey you."
Marius did not believe that he was capable of another emotion. Still, at this idea, that of choosing a man for death, his blood rushed back to his heart. He would have turned pale, had it been possible for him to become any paler. 
He advanced towards the five, who smiled upon him, and each, with his eyes full of that grand flame which one beholds in the depths of history hovering over Thermopylae, cried to him:
"Me! me! me!"
And Marius stupidly counted them; there were still five of them! Then his glance dropped to the four uniforms. 
At that moment, a fifth uniform fell, as if from heaven, upon the other four.
The fifth man was saved.
Marius raised his eyes and recognized M. Fauchelevent.
Jean Valjean had just entered the barricade.
He had arrived by way of Mondetour lane, whither by dint of inquiries made, or by instinct, or chance. Thanks to his dress of a National Guardsman, he had made his way without difficulty. 
The sentinel stationed by the insurgents in the Rue Mondetour had no occasion to give the alarm for a single National Guardsman, and he had allowed the latter to entangle himself in the street, saying to himself: "Probably it is a reinforcement, in any case it is a prisoner." The moment was too grave to admit of the sentinel abandoning his duty and his post of observation.
At the moment when Jean Valjean entered the redoubt, no one had noticed him, all eyes being fixed on the five chosen men and the four uniforms. Jean Valjean also had seen and heard, and he had silently removed his coat and flung it on the pile with the rest.
The emotion aroused was indescribable.
"Who is this man?" demanded Bossuet.
"He is a man who saves others," replied Combeferre.
Marius added in a grave voice:
"I know him."
This guarantee satisfied every one.
Enjolras turned to Jean Valjean.
"Welcome, citizen."
And he added:
"You know that we are about to die."
Jean Valjean, without replying, helped the insurgent whom he was saving to don his uniform.
在那个普通人宣布了“尸体的抗议”、代表了大伙的共同志愿讲了话之后，大家异口同声发出了一声奇特的既满意而又可怕的呼声，内容凄惨但语气高亢，好象已得到胜利似的：
“死亡万岁！咱们大伙都留在这儿！”
“为什么都留下来？”安灼拉问。
“都留下！都留下！”
安灼拉又说：
“地势优越，街垒坚固，三十个人足够了。为什么要牺牲四十个人呢？”
大家回答：
“因为没有一个人想离开呀！”
“公民们，”安灼拉大声说，他的声音带点激怒的颤动，“共和国在人员方面并不算多，要节约人力。虚荣就是浪费。对某些人来说，如果他们的任务是离开这里，那么这种任务也该象其他任务一样，要去完成。”
安灼拉是一个坚持原则的人，在他的同道中他具有一种从绝对中产生出来的无上权威。他虽有这种无限的权力，但大家仍低声议论纷纷。
安灼拉是个十足的领袖，他见人议论、就坚持他的看法，他用高傲的语气继续发问：“谁为只剩下三十个人而害怕，就来讲讲。”
嘟囔声越来越大了。
人群中有个声音提醒说：“离开这里，说得倒容易，整个街垒都被包围了。”
安灼拉说：“菜市场那边没有被包围。蒙德都街无人看守，而且从布道修士街可以通到圣婴市场去。”
人群中另一个声音指出：“在那儿就会被抓起来。我们会遇到郊区的或正规的自卫军，他们见到穿工人服戴便帽的人就会问：‘你们从哪儿来？你不是街垒里的人吗？’他们会叫你伸出手来看，发现手上有火药味，就枪毙。”
安灼拉并不回答，他用手碰了一下公白飞的肩膀，他们走到下面的厅堂里去了。
一会儿他们又从那儿出来。安灼拉两手托着四套他吩咐留下的制服，公白飞拿着皮带和军帽跟在后面。
安灼拉说：“穿上制服就很容易混进他们的队伍脱身了。
这里至少已够四个人的。”
他把这些制服扔在挖去了铺路石的地上。
这些临危泰然自若的听众没有一个人动一动。公白飞接着发言。
“好啦，”他说，“大家应当有点恻隐心。你们知道现在的问题是什么吗？是妇女。请问妇女到底存在不存在？孩子到底存在不存在？有没有身边围着一群孩子，用脚推着摇篮的母亲？你们中间，谁没有见过喂奶母亲的请举手。好啊！你们要牺牲自己，我对你们说，我也愿意这样，可是我不愿女人的阴魂在我周围悲泣。你们愿意死，行，可是不能连累别人。这里将要出现的自杀是高尚的，不过自杀也有限制，不该扩大；况且一旦你身边的人受到自杀的影响，那就成为谋杀了。应当为那些金发孩儿、还有那些白发老人想想。听我讲，刚才安灼拉对我说，他看见在天鹅街转角上，六楼的一个小窗口点着一支蜡烛，玻璃窗里映出一个哆哆嗦嗦的老婆婆的头影，她好象通宵未眠，在等待着。这可能是你们中间哪一位的母亲。那么，这个人应该赶快走，快回去向他母亲说：‘妈，我回来了！’他只管放心，我们这里的工作照样进行。当一个人要用劳动去抚养他的近亲时，他就没有权利牺牲。否则就是背离家庭。还有那些有女儿的和有姊妹的人，你们考虑过没有？你们自己牺牲了，死了，倒不错，可是明天怎么办呢？年轻的女孩子没有面包，这是可怕的。男人可以去乞食，女人就得去卖身。呵！这些可爱的人儿是这样的优雅温柔，她们戴着饰花软帽，爱说爱唱，使家里充满着贞洁的气氛，好象芳香四溢的鲜花，这些人间无瑕的童贞说明天上是有天使的，这个让娜，这个莉丝，这个咪咪，这些可爱而又诚实的人是你们所祝福而且为之骄傲的，啊老天，她们要挨饿了！你们要我怎么说呢？是有着一个人肉市场的，这可不是单凭你那双在她们身旁发颤的幽灵的手就能阻止她们进入！想想那些街巷，想想那些拥挤的马路，那些在商店橱窗前面来来往往袒胸露臂堕入泥坑的女人吧。这些女人以前也是纯洁的。有姊妹的人要替姊妹们考虑。穷困、卖淫、保安警察、圣辣匝禄监狱，这些娇小美丽的女孩子因此而堕落，她们是脆弱的出色的人儿，腼腆、优雅、贤慧、清秀。比五月的丁香更鲜妍。啊，你们自己牺牲了！啊，你们已不在人间了！好吧，你们想把人民从王权下拯救出来，但却把自己的女儿交给了保安警察。朋友们，注意，应当有同情心。女人，这些可怜的女人，大家经常习惯于为她们着想。我们对女子没受到和男子同等的教育感到心安理得，不让她们阅读，不让她们思考和关心政治，你们也禁止她们今晚到停尸所去辨认你们的尸体吗？好啦！那些有家室的人要发发善心，乖乖地来和我们握手，然后离开这里，让我们安心工作。我知道，离开这儿是要有勇气的，也是困难的，但越困难就越值得赞扬。有人说：‘我有一支枪，我是属于街垒的，活该，我不走。’活该，说得倒痛快。可是，朋友们，还有明天，明天你已不在世上了，你们的家庭可还在。有多少痛苦呀！你看，一个健壮可爱的孩子，面颊象苹果，一边笑一边咿咿呀呀学讲话，你吻他时感到他是多么娇嫩，你可知道他被遗弃后会怎么样？我见过一个，一点点大，只有这么高，他的父亲死了，几个穷苦人发慈悲把他收留下来，可是他们自己也经常吃不饱。小孩老是饿着。这是在冬天。他一声不哭。人们见他走到从没生过火的火炉旁，那烟筒，你知道，是涂上了黄粘土的。那孩子用小手指剥下一些泥来就吃。他的呼吸声沙哑，脸色苍白，双腿无力，肚子鼓胀。他什么话也不说。人家问他，他不回答。他死了。临死，人家把他送到纳凯救济院，我就是在那儿看到他的，当时我是救济院的住院医生。现在，如果你们中间有当父亲的，星期天就去幸福地散步，用壮健的手握着自己孩子的小手。请每个父亲想象一下，把这个孩子当作自己的孩子。这可怜的小娃娃，我还记得，好象就在眼前一样，当他赤身露体躺在解剖桌上时，皮下肋骨突出，好象墓地草丛下的坟穴。在这孩子的胃中我找到了泥土一类的东西。在牙缝中有灰渣。好吧，我们扪心自问，让良心指路吧！据统计，被遗弃的孩子的死亡率是百分之五十五。我再重复一遍，这是和妻子、女儿和孩子有关的问题。我不是说你们。大家都很清楚你们是什么人，天呀，谁都知道你们是勇士。谁都明白你们在为伟大事业牺牲自己的生命，心里感到快乐和光荣。谁都知道你们自己感到已被选定要去作有益而庄严的献身，要为胜利尽自己的一份力量。这是再好不过的，但你们不是单身汉，要想到其他的人，不要自私。”
大家沉郁地低下了头。
在最壮烈的时刻，人的内心会产生多么奇特的矛盾！公白飞这样讲，他自己也并不是孤儿。他想到别人的母亲，而忘了自己的。他准备牺牲自己。他是“自私的人”。
马吕斯忍着饥饿，心情狂热，接二连三地被一切希望所抛弃，他受到痛苦的折磨，这是最凄惨的折磨，他充满了激烈的感情，感到末日即将来临，于是逐渐陷入痴呆的幻境中，这是一种自愿牺牲者临终前常出现的状态。
一个生理学家可以在他身上去研究那种已为科学所了解、并也已归类的渐渐加剧的狂热呆痴症状，此症起于极端的痛苦，这和极乐时的快感相似，失望也会使人心醉神迷，马吕斯是属于这种情况的。他象局外人那样看待一切，正如我们所说，他面前发生的事对他是如此遥远，他能知道一些总的情况，但看不到细节。他在火焰中看到来来往往的人，他听到的说话声就好象来自深渊一样。
可是这件事却刺激了他。这一情景有点触及了他的心灵，使他惊醒过来。他唯一的心愿就是等死，他不愿改变主张，但是在凄凉的梦游状态中他也曾想过，他死并不妨碍他去拯救别人。
他提高嗓子说：
“安灼拉和公白飞说得有理。不要作无谓的牺牲。我同意他们，要赶快。公白飞说了决定性的话。你们中间凡是有家属的、有母亲的、有姊妹的、有妻子的、有孩子的人就站出来。”
没有一个人动一动。
马吕斯又说：“已婚男子和有家庭负担的人站出来！”
他的威望很高，安灼拉虽是街垒的指挥官，但马吕斯是救命人。
安灼拉说：“我命令你们！”
马吕斯说：“我请求你们。”
于是，这些被公白飞的话所激动，被安灼拉的命令所动摇，被马吕斯的请求所感动的英雄，开始互相揭发。一个青年对一个中年人说：“是呀，你是一家之长，你走吧。”那个人回答：“是你，你有两个姊妹要抚养。”一场前所未闻的争辩展开了，就看谁不被人赶出墓门。
古费拉克说：“赶快，一刻钟之后就来不及了。”
安灼拉接着说：“公民们，这里是共和政体，实行普选制度。你们自己把应该离开的人推选出来吧。”
大家服从了，大约过了五分钟，一致指定的五个人从队里站了出来。
马吕斯叫道：“他们是五个人！”
一共只有四套制服。
五个人回答说：“好吧，得有一个人留下来。”
于是又开始了一场慷慨的争论。问题是谁留下来，每个人都说别人没有理由留下来。
“你，你有一个热爱你的妻子。”“你，你有一个老母亲。”
“你，你父母双亡，三个小兄弟怎么办？”“你，你是五个孩子的父亲。”“你，你只有十七岁，太年轻了，应该活下去。”
这些伟大的革命街垒是英雄们的聚会之所，不可思议的事在这里是极其普遍的，在他们之间甚至都不以为奇了。
古费拉克重复说：“快点！”
人群中有个人向马吕斯喊道：
“由你指定吧，哪一个该留下。”
那五个人齐声说：“对，由你选定，我们服从。”
马吕斯不相信还有什么事能更使他感情冲动，但想到要选一个人去送死，他全身的血液都涌上了心头。他的面色本来已经煞白，不可能变得更苍白了。
他走向对他微笑的五个人，每个人的眼睛都冒着烈火，一如古代坚守塞莫皮莱的英维的目光，都向马吕斯喊道：
“我！我！我！”
马吕斯呆呆地数了一下，确是五个人！然后他的视线移到下面四套制服上。
正在这时，第五套制服，好比从天而降，落在这四套上面。
那第五个人得救了。
马吕斯抬头认出是割风先生。
冉阿让刚走进街垒。
可能他已探明情况，或由于他的本能，也许是碰巧，他从蒙德都巷子来。幸亏他那身国民自卫军的制服，很顺利地就通过了。
起义军设在蒙德都街上的哨兵，不为一个国民自卫军发出警报信号。这哨兵让他进入街道时心里想：“这可能是个援军，大不了是个囚徒。”哨兵要是玩忽职守，这一时刻可是太严重了。
冉阿让走进棱堡，没有引起任何人的注意，这时大家的目光都集中在这选出的五个人和四套制服上。冉阿让也看到听到了一切，他不声不响地脱下自己的制服，把它扔在那堆制服上。
当时情绪的激动是无法描绘的。
博须埃开口问道：“他是什么人？”
公白飞回答：“是一个拯救众人的人。”
马吕斯用深沉的语气接着说：
“我认识他。”
这种保证使大家放了心。
安灼拉转向冉阿让说：
“公民，我们欢迎你。”
他又接着说：
“你知道我们都将去死。”
冉阿让一言不发，帮助他救下的那个起义者穿上他的制服。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 5 The Horizon Which One Beholds from the Summit of a Barricade
The situation of all in that fatal hour and that pitiless place, had as result and culminating point Enjolras' supreme melancholy. 
Enjolras bore within him the plenitude of the revolution; he was incomplete, however, so far as the absolute can be so; he had too much of Saint-Just about him, and not enough of Anacharsis Cloots; still, his mind, in the society of the Friends of the A B C, had ended by undergoing a certain polarization from Combeferre's ideas; for some time past, he had been gradually emerging from the narrow form of dogma, and had allowed himself to incline to the broadening influence of progress, and he had come to accept, as a definitive and magnificent evolution, the transformation of the great French Republic, into the immense human republic. As far as the immediate means were concerned, a violent situation being given, he wished to be violent; on that point, he never varied;and he remained of that epic and redoubtable school which is summed up in the words: "Eighty-three." Enjolras was standing erect on the staircase of paving-stones, one elbow resting on the stock of his gun. He was engaged in thought; he quivered, as at the passage of prophetic breaths; places where death is have these effects of tripods. A sort of stifled fire darted from his eyes, which were filled with an inward look. All at once he threw back his head, his blond locks fell back like those of an angel on the sombre quadriga made of stars, they were like the mane of a startled lion in the flaming of an halo, and Enjolras cried: 
"Citizens, do you picture the future to yourselves? The streets of cities inundated with light, green branches on the thresholds, nations sisters, men just, old men blessing children, the past loving the present, thinkers entirely at liberty, believers on terms of full equality, for religion heaven, God the direct priest, human conscience become an altar, no more hatreds, the fraternity of the workshop and the school, for sole penalty and recompense fame, work for all, right for all, peace over all, no more bloodshed, no more wars, happy mothers! To conquer matter is the first step; to realize the ideal is the second. Reflect on what progress has already accomplished. Formerly, the first human races beheld with terror the hydra pass before their eyes, breathing on the waters, the dragon which vomited flame, the griffin who was the monster of the air, and who flew with the wings of an eagle and the talons of a tiger; fearful beasts which were above man. Man, nevertheless, spread his snares, consecrated by intelligence, and finally conquered these monsters. We have vanquished the hydra, and it is called the locomotive; we are on the point of vanquishing the griffin, we already grasp it, and it is called the balloon. On the day when this Promethean task shall be accomplished, and when man shall have definitely harnessed to his will the triple Chimaera of antiquity, the hydra, the dragon and the griffin, he will be the master of water, fire, and of air, and he will be for the rest of animated creation that which the ancient gods formerly were to him. Courage, and onward! Citizens, whither are we going? To science made government, to the force of things become the sole public force, to the natural law, having in itself its sanction and its penalty and promulgating itself by evidence, to a dawn of truth corresponding to a dawn of day. We are advancing to the union of peoples; we are advancing to the unity of man. No more fictions; no more parasites. The real governed by the true, that is the goal. Civilization will hold its assizes at the summit of Europe, and, later on, at the centre of continents, in a grand parliament of the intelligence. Something similar has already been seen. The amphictyons had two sittings a year, one at Delphos the seat of the gods, the other at Thermopylae, the place of heroes. Europe will have her amphictyons; the globe will have its amphictyons. France bears this sublime future in her breast. This is the gestation of the nineteenth century. That which Greece sketched out is worthy of being finished by France. Listen to me, you, Feuilly, valiant artisan, man of the people. I revere you. Yes, you clearly behold the future, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly; you adopted humanity for your mother and right for your father. You are about to die, that is to say to triumph, here. Citizens, whatever happens to-day, through our defeat as well as through our victory, it is a revolution that we are about to create. As conflagrations light up a whole city, so revolutions illuminate the whole human race. And what is the revolution that we shall cause? I have just told you, the Revolution of the True. From a political point of view, there is but a single principle; the sovereignty of man over himself. This sovereignty of myself over myself is called Liberty. Where two or three of these sovereignties are combined, the state begins. But in that association there is no abdication. Each sovereignty concedes a certain quantity of itself, for the purpose of forming the common right. This quantity is the same for all of us. This identity of concession which each makes to all, is called Equality. Common right is nothing else than the protection of all beaming on the right of each. This protection of all over each is called Fraternity.The point of intersection of all these assembled sovereignties is called society.This intersection being a junction, this point is a knot. Hence what is called the social bond. Some say social contract; which is the same thing, the word contract being etymologically formed with the idea of a bond. Let us come to an understanding about equality; for, if liberty is the summit, equality is the base. Equality, citizens, is not wholly a surface vegetation, a society of great blades of grass and tiny oaks; a proximity of jealousies which render each other null and void; legally speaking, it is all aptitudes possessed of the same opportunity; politically, it is all votes possessed of the same weight; religiously, it is all consciences possessed of the same right. Equality has an organ: gratuitous and obligatory instruction. The right to the alphabet, that is where the beginning must be made. The primary school imposed on all, the secondary school offered to all, that is the law. From an identical school, an identical society will spring. Yes, instruction! Light! Light! Everything comes from light, and to it everything returns. Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy. Then, there will be nothing more like the history of old, we shall no longer, as to-day, have to fear a conquest, an invasion, a usurpation, a rivalry of nations, arms in hand, an interruption of civilization depending on a marriage of kings, on a birth in hereditary tyrannies, a partition of peoples by a congress, a dismemberment because of the failure of a dynasty, a combat of two religions meeting face to face, like two bucks in the dark, on the bridge of the infinite; we shall no longer have to fear famine, farming out, prostitution arising from distress, misery from the failure of work and the scaffold and the sword, and battles and the ruffianism of chance in the forest of events. One might almost say: There will be no more events. We shall be happy. The human race will accomplish its law, as the terrestrial globe accomplishes its law; harmony will be re-established between the soul and the star; the soul will gravitate around the truth, as the planet around the light. Friends, the present hour in which I am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are terrible purchases of the future. A revolution is a toll. Oh! The human race will be delivered, raised up, consoled! We affirm it on this barrier. Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the heights of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the point of junction, of those who think and of those who suffer; this barricade is not made of paving-stones, nor of joists, nor of bits of iron; it is made of two heaps, a heap of ideas, and a heap of woes. Here misery meets the ideal. The day embraces the night,and says to it: `I am about to die, and thou shalt be born again with me.' From the embrace of all desolations faith leaps forth. Sufferings bring hither their agony and ideas their immortality. This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn."
Enjolras paused rather than became silent; his lips continued to move silently, as though he were talking to himself, which caused them all to gaze attentively at him, in the endeavor to hear more. There was no applause; but they whispered together for a long time. Speech being a breath, the rustling of intelligences resembles the rustling of leaves.
众人的处境，在这致命的时刻和这严正无私的地方，是使安灼拉无比忧郁的最大缘由。
安灼拉是一个不折不扣的革命者，但从绝对完善的角度来看，还是有缺点的，他太象圣鞠斯特，不太象阿那卡雪斯·克罗茨①；但他的思想在“ABC的朋友们”中受到公白飞思想的吸引；不久以来，他逐渐摆脱了他那狭隘的信条，走向扩大了的进步；他开始承认，最终的宏伟演进是把伟大的法兰西共和国转变为浩浩荡荡的全人类的共和国。 
①阿那卡雪斯·克罗茨（Anacharsis　Clootz，1755-1794），法国大革命时革命者，推崇理性，后和雅各宾左派一起被处死。此处指安灼拉缺乏克罗茨的理智。　
至于目前的办法，一种凶暴的环境已经形成，他坚持用暴力；在这点上，他不改变；他对那可怕的史诗般的学派信守不渝，这学派用三个字概括：
“九三年”①。
安灼拉站在铺路石堆成的台阶上，一只臂肘靠着他的枪筒。陷入沉思；好象有一阵过堂风吹过，使他战栗；在面临死亡的场合，使人感到象坐上了三脚凳②一样。他那洞察内心的瞳孔闪射出受到压抑的光芒。突然他抬起头来，把金黄的头发朝后一甩，就象披发天神驾着一辆由星星组成的黑色四马战车，又象是一只受惊的狮子把它的鬃毛散成光环。安灼拉于是大声说： 
①即一七九三年，当时法国大革命，路易十六上断头台。
②指古希腊祭台上的三脚凳，女祭司坐在上面宣述神谕。　　
“公民们，你们展望过未来的世界没有？城市的街道上光明普照，门前树木苍翠，各族人民亲如兄弟，人们大公无私，老人祝福儿童，以往赞美今朝，思想家自由自在，信仰绝对平等，上天就是宗教，上帝是直接的牧师，人们的良心是祭台，没有怨恨，工厂和学校友爱和睦，以名誉好坏代替赏罚，人人有工作，个个有权利，人人享受和平，不再流血，没有战争，母亲们欢天喜地。要掌握物质，这是第一步；实现理想，这是第二步。大家想想，现在的进步到了什么程度。在原始时代，人类惊恐地看到七头蛇兴风作浪，火龙喷火，天上飞着鹰翼虎爪的怪物，人们处在猛兽威胁之下；可是人们设下陷阱，神圣的智慧陷阱，终于俘获了这些怪物。
“我们驯服了七头蛇，它就是轮船；我们驯服了火龙，这就是火车头；我们即将驯服怪鸟，我们已抓住了它，这就是气球。有朝一日，人类最终完成了普罗米修斯开创的事业，任意驾驭这三种古老的怪物，七头蛇、火龙和怪鸟，人将成为水、火、空气的主人，他在其他生物中的地位就如同过去古代的天神在他的心中地位。鼓起勇气吧，前进！公民们，我们向何处前进？向科学，它将成为政府；向物质的力量，它将成为社会唯一的力量；向自然法则，它本身就具有赏与罚，它的颁布是事实的必然性决定的；向真理，它的显现犹如旭日东升。我们走向各民族的大团结，我们要达到人的统一。没有空想，不再有寄生虫。由真理统治事实，这就是我们的目的。文化在欧洲的高峰上举行会议，然后在各大陆的中心，举行一个智慧的大议会。如同事情已经存在过一样。古希腊的近邻同盟会每年开两次会，一次在德尔法，那是众神之地，另一次在塞莫皮莱，那是英雄之地。欧洲将有它的近邻同盟会议，全球将有它的同盟会议。法国孕育着这个崇高的未来，这就是十九世纪的怀胎期。古希腊粗具雏型的组织理应由法国来完成。弗以伊，听我说，你是英勇的工人，平民的儿子，人民的儿子。我崇敬你，你确实清楚地见到了未来世界，不错，你有道理。你已没有父母亲，弗以伊；但你把人类当作母亲，把公理当作父亲。你将在这儿死去，就是说在这儿胜利。公民们，不论今天将发生什么事，通过我们的失败或胜利，我们进行的将是一场革命。正好比火灾照亮全城，革命照亮全人类一样。我们进行的是什么样的革命？正如我刚才所说，是正义的革命。在政治上，只有一个原则：人对自己的主权。这种我对自己的主权就叫做自由。具有这种主权的两个或两个以上的人组织起来就出现了政府。但在这种组织中并不放弃任何东西。每人让出一部分主权来组成公法。所有人让出的部分都是等量的。每个人对全体的这种相等的让步称为平等。这种公法并不是别的，就是大家对各人权利的保护。这种集体对个人的保护称为博爱。各种主权的集合点称为社会。这个集合是一种结合，这个点就是一个枢纽，就是所谓社会联系，有人称之为社会公约，这都是一回事，因为公约这个词本来就有着联系的意思。我们要搞清楚平等的意义，因为如果自由是顶峰，那平等就是基础。公民们，所谓平等并不是说所有的植物长得一般高，一些高大的青草和矮小的橡树结为社会，邻居之间的忌妒要相互制止；而在公民方面，各种技能都有同样的出路；在政治方面，所投的票都有同样的分量；在宗教方面，所有信仰都有同样的权利；平等有一个工具：免费的义务教育。要从识字的权利这方面开始。要强迫接受初等教育，中学要向大家开放，这就是法律。同等的学历产生社会的平等。是的，教育！这是光明！光明！一切由光明产生，又回到光明。公民们，十九世纪是伟大的，但二十世纪将是幸福的。那时就没有与旧历史相似的东西了，人们就不会象今天这样害怕征服、侵略、篡夺，害怕国与国之间的武装对抗，害怕由于国王之间的通婚而使文化中断，害怕世袭暴君的诞生，害怕由一次会议而分裂民族，害怕因一个王朝的崩溃而造成国土被瓜分，害怕两种宗教正面冲突发生了象两只黑暗中的公山羊在太空独木桥上相遇的绝境；人们不用再害怕灾荒、剥削，或因穷困而卖身，或因失业而遭难，不再有断头台、杀戮和战争，以及无其数的事变中所遭到的意外情况①。人们几乎可以说：‘不会再有事变了。’人民将很幸福。人类将同地球一样完成自己的法则；心灵和天体之间又恢复了融洽。我们的精神围绕着真理运转，好象群星围绕着太阳。朋友们，我和你们谈话时所处的时刻是暗淡的，但这是为获得未来所付的惊人代价。革命是付一次通行税。啊！人类会被拯救，会站起来并得到安慰的！我们在这街垒中向人类作出保证。不在牺牲的高峰上我们还能在什么地方发出博爱的呼声呢？啊，弟兄们，这个地方是有思想的人和受苦难的人的集合点；这个街垒不是由石块、梁柱和破铜烂铁堆起来的，它是两堆东西的结合，一堆思想和一堆痛苦。苦难在这儿遇到了理想，白昼在这儿拥抱了黑夜并向它说：‘我和你一同死去，而你将和我一起复活。’在一切失望的拥抱里迸发出信念；痛苦在此垂死挣扎，理想将会永生。这种挣扎和永生的融合使我们为之而死。弟兄们，谁在这儿死去就是死在未来的光明中。我们将进入一个充满曙光的坟墓。” 
①原文是“在事变的森林里遭到偶然的抢劫”。这是以在森林中遭到抢劫作比，意思是“碰到意外事故”。
安灼拉不是结束而好象是暂时停止了他的发言。他的嘴唇默默地颤动着，仿佛继续在自言自语，因而使得那些人聚精会神地望着他，还想听他讲下去。没有掌声，但大家低声议论了很久。这番话好比一阵微风，其中智慧在闪烁发光，一如树叶在簌簌作响一样。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 6 Marius Haggard, Javert Laconic
Let us narrate what was passing in Marius' thoughts.
Let the reader recall the state of his soul. We have just recalled it, everything was a vision to him now. His judgment was disturbed. Marius, let us insist on this point, was under the shadow of the great, dark wings which are spread over those in the death agony. He felt that he had entered the tomb, it seemed to him that he was already on the other side of the wall, and he no longer beheld the faces of the living except with the eyes of one dead. 
How did M. Fauchelevent come there? Why was he there? What had he come there to do? Marius did not address all these questions to himself. Besides, since our despair has this peculiarity, that it envelops others as well as ourselves, it seemed logical to him that all the world should come thither to die. 
Only, he thought of Cosette with a pang at his heart.
However, M. Fauchelevent did not speak to him, did not look at him, and had not even the air of hearing him, when Marius raised his voice to say: "I know him."
As far as Marius was concerned, this attitude of M. Fauchelevent was comforting, and, if such a word can be used for such impressions, we should say that it pleased him. He had always felt the absolute impossibility of addressing that enigmatical man, who was, in his eyes, both equivocal and imposing. Moreover, it had been a long time since he had seen him; and this still further augmented the impossibility for Marius' timid and reserved nature.
The five chosen men left the barricade by way of Mondetour lane; they bore a perfect resemblance to members of the National Guard. One of them wept as he took his leave. Before setting out, they embraced those who remained.
When the five men sent back to life had taken their departure, Enjolras thought of the man who had been condemned to death. 
He entered the tap-room. Javert, still bound to the post, was engaged in meditation.
"Do you want anything?" Enjolras asked him.
"Javert replied: "When are you going to kill me?"
"Wait. We need all our cartridges just at present."
"Then give me a drink," said Javert.
Enjolras himself offered him a glass of water, and, as Javert was pinioned, he helped him to drink. 
"Is that all?" inquired Enjolras.
"I am uncomfortable against this post," replied Javert. "You are not tender to have left me to pass the night here. Bind me as you please, but you surely might lay me out on a table like that other man."
And with a motion of the head, he indicated the body of M. Mabeuf.
There was, as the reader will remember, a long, broad table at the end of the room, on which they had been running bullets and making cartridges. All the cartridges having been made, and all the powder used, this table was free.
At Enjolras' command, four insurgents unbound Javert from the post. While they were loosing him, a fifth held a bayonet against his breast.
Leaving his arms tied behind his back, they placed about his feet a slender but stout whip-cord, as is done to men on the point of mounting the scaffold, which allowed him to take steps about fifteen inches in length, and made him walk to the table at the end of the room, where they laid him down, closely bound about the middle of the body.
By way of further security, and by means of a rope fastened to his neck, they added to the system of ligatures which rendered every attempt at escape impossible, that sort of bond which is called in prisons a martingale, which, starting at the neck, forks on the stomach, and meets the hands, after passing between the legs.
While they were binding Javert, a man standing on the threshold was surveying him with singular attention. The shadow cast by this man made Javert turn his head. He raised his eyes, and recognized Jean Valjean. He did not even start, but dropped his lids proudly and confined himself to the remark: "It is perfectly simple."
我们来谈谈马吕斯的思想活动。
大家可以回忆一下他的精神状态。我们刚才已经提到，现在一切对他只是一种幻影。他的辨别力很弱。我们再重复一遍，马吕斯是处在临终者上方那巨大而幽暗的阴影之下，他自己感到已进入坟墓，已在围墙之外，他现在是在用死人的目光望着活人的脸。
割风先生怎么会在这儿呢？他为什么要来？他来干吗？马吕斯不去追究这些问题。再说，我们的失望有这样一个特点，它包围我们自己，也包围着别人，所有的人都到这里来死这件事他觉得好象还是合理的。
但是他的心情沉重，想念着珂赛特。
再说割风先生不和他说话，也不望他一眼，好象根本没有听见马吕斯在高声说：“我认识他。”
至于马吕斯，割风先生的这种态度使他精神上没有负担，如果能用这样一个词来形容这种心情，我们可以说，他很喜欢这种态度。他一向觉得绝对不可能和这个既暧昧威严，又莫测高深的人交谈。何况马吕斯又很久没有见到他了，马吕斯的性格本来就腼腆审慎，这更使他不可能去和他交谈了。
五个指定的人从蒙德都巷子走出了街垒，他们非常象国民自卫军。其中的一个泣不成声。离开以前，他们拥抱了所有留下的人。
当这五个又回到生路上去的人走了以后，安灼拉想起了该处死的那个人。他走进地下室，沙威仍被绑在柱子上，正在思考着什么。
安灼拉问他：“你需要什么吗？”
沙威回答：
“你们什么时候处死我？”
“等一等，目前我们还需要我们所有的子弹。”
沙威说：“那就给我一点水喝。”
安灼拉亲自递了一杯水给他，帮他喝下，因为沙威被捆绑着。
安灼拉又问：“不需要别的了？”
“我在这柱子上很不舒服，”沙威回答，“你们一点也不仁慈，就让我这样过夜。随便你们怎样捆绑，可是至少得让我躺在桌上，象那一个一样。”
他用头朝马白夫先生的尸体点了一下。
我们还记得，那间屋子的尽头有一张大长桌，用来熔化弹头和制造子弹的。子弹做好及炸药用完之后，现在桌子是空着的。
根据安灼拉的命令，四个起义者把沙威从柱子上解下来。这时，第五个人用刺刀顶住他的胸膛。他们把他的手反绑在背后，把他的脚用一根当鞭子用的结实绳子捆起来，使他只能迈十五寸的步子，象上断头台的犯人那样，他们让他走到屋子尽头的桌旁，把他放在上面，拦腰紧紧捆牢。
为了万无一失，又用一根绳子套在他脖子上，使他不可能逃跑，这种捆扎方法在狱中称之为马颔缰，从脖子捆起，在肚子上交叉分开，再穿过大腿又绑在手上。
捆绑沙威的时候，有一个人在门口特别注意地端详他。这个人的投影使沙威回转头来，认出了是冉阿让。他一点也不惊慌，傲慢地垂下眼皮，说了句：“这毫不足怪。”
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 7 The Situation Becomes Aggravated
The daylight was increasing rapidly. Not a window was opened, not a door stood ajar; it was the dawn but not the awaking. The end of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, opposite the barricade, had been evacuated by the troops, as we have stated it seemed to be free, and presented itself to passers-by with a sinister tranquillity. The Rue Saint-Denis was as dumb as the avenue of Sphinxes at Thebes. Not a living being in the cross-roads, which gleamed white in the light of the sun. Nothing is so mournful as this light in deserted streets. Nothing was to be seen, but there was something to be heard. A mysterious movement was going on at a certain distance. It was evident that the critical moment was approaching. As on the previous evening, the sentinels had come in; but this time all had come.
The barricade was stronger than on the occasion of the first attack. Since the departure of the five, they had increased its height still further.
On the advice of the sentinel who had examined the region of the Halles, Enjolras, for fear of a surprise in the rear, came to a serious decision. He had the small gut of the Mondetour lane, which had been left open up to that time, barricaded. For this purpose, they tore up the pavement for the length of several houses more. In this manner, the barricade, walled on three streets, in front on the Rue de la Chanvrerie, to the left on the Rues du Cygne and de la Petite Truanderie, to the right on the Rue Mondetour, was really almost impregnable; it is true that they were fatally hemmed in there. It had three fronts, but no exit.--"A fortress but a rat hole too," said Courfeyrac with a laugh.
Enjolras had about thirty paving-stones "torn up in excess," said Bossuet, piled up near the door of the wine-shop. 
The silence was now so profound in the quarter whence the attack must needs come, that Enjolras had each man resume his post of battle. 
An allowance of brandy was doled out to each.
Nothing is more curious than a barricade preparing for an assault. Each man selects his place as though at the theatre. They jostle, and elbow and crowd each other. There are some who make stalls of paving-stones. Here is a corner of the wall which is in the way, it is removed; here is a redan which may afford protection, they take shelter behind it. Left-handed men are precious; they take the places that are inconvenient to the rest. Many arrange to fight in a sitting posture. They wish to be at ease to kill, and to die comfortably. In the sad war of June, 1848, an insurgent who was a formidable marksman, and who was firing from the top of a terrace upon a roof, had a reclining-chair brought there for his use; a charge of grape-shot found him out there. 
As soon as the leader has given the order to clear the decks for action, all disorderly movements cease; there is no more pulling from one another; there are no more coteries; no more asides, there is no more holding aloof; everything in their spirits converges in, and changes into, a waiting for the assailants. A barricade before the arrival of danger is chaos; in danger, it is discipline itself. Peril produces order.
As soon as Enjolras had seized his double-barrelled rifle, and had placed himself in a sort of embrasure which he had reserved for himself, all the rest held their peace. A series of faint, sharp noises resounded confusedly along the wall of paving-stones. It was the men cocking their guns.
Moreover, their attitudes were prouder, more confident than ever; the excess of sacrifice strengthens; they no longer cherished any hope, but they had despair, despair,--the last weapon, which sometimes gives victory; Virgil has said so. Supreme resources spring from extreme resolutions. To embark in death is sometimes the means of escaping a shipwreck; and the lid of the coffin becomes a plank of safety.
As on the preceding evening, the attention of all was directed, we might almost say leaned upon, the end of the street, now lighted up and visible.
They had not long to wait. A stir began distinctly in the Saint-Leu quarter, but it did not resemble the movement of the first attack. A clashing of chains, the uneasy jolting of a mass, the click of brass skipping along the pavement, a sort of solemn uproar, announced that some sinister construction of iron was approaching. There arose a tremor in the bosoms of these peaceful old streets, pierced and built for the fertile circulation of interests and ideas, and which are not made for the horrible rumble of the wheels of war.
The fixity of eye in all the combatants upon the extremity of the street became ferocious.
A cannon made its appearance.
Artillery-men were pushing the piece; it was in firing trim; the fore-carriage had been detached; two upheld the gun-carriage, four were at the wheels; others followed with the caisson. They could see the smoke of the burning lint-stock.
"Fire!" shouted Enjolras.
The whole barricade fired, the report was terrible; an avalanche of smoke covered and effaced both cannon and men; after a few seconds, the cloud dispersed, and the cannon and men re-appeared; the gun-crew had just finished rolling it slowly, correctly, without haste, into position facing the barricade. Not one of them had been struck. Then the captain of the piece, bearing down upon the breech in order to raise the muzzle, began to point the cannon with the gravity of an astronomer levelling a telescope.
"Bravo for the cannoneers!" cried Bossuet.
And the whole barricade clapped their hands.
A moment later, squarely planted in the very middle of the street, astride of the gutter, the piece was ready for action. A formidable pair of jaws yawned on the barricade. 
"Come, merrily now!" ejaculated Courfeyrac. "That's the brutal part of it. After the fillip on the nose, the blow from the fist. The army is reaching out its big paw to us. The barricade is going to be severely shaken up. The fusillade tries, the cannon takes."
"It is a piece of eight, new model, brass," added Combeferre. "Those pieces are liable to burst as soon as the proportion of ten parts of tin to one hundred of brass is exceeded. The excess of tin renders them too tender. Then it comes to pass that they have caves and chambers when looked at from the vent hole. In order to obviate this danger, and to render it possible to force the charge, it may become necessary to return to the process of the fourteenth century, hooping, and to encircle the piece on the outside with a series of unwelded steel bands, from the breech to the trunnions. In the meantime, they remedy this defect as best they may; they manage to discover where the holes are located in the vent of a cannon, by means of a searcher. But there is a better method, with Gribeauval's movable star."
"In the sixteenth century," remarked Bossuet, "they used to rifle cannon."
"Yes," replied Combeferre, "that augments the projectile force, but diminishes the accuracy of the firing. In firing at short range, the trajectory is not as rigid as could be desired, the parabola is exaggerated, the line of the projectile is no longer sufficiently rectilinear to allow of its striking intervening objects, which is, nevertheless, a necessity of battle, the importance of which increases with the proximity of the enemy and the precipitation of the discharge. This defect of the tension of the curve of the projectile in the rifled cannon of the sixteenth century arose from the smallness of the charge; small charges for that sort of engine are imposed by the ballistic necessities, such, for instance, as the preservation of the gun-carriage. In short, that despot, the cannon, cannot do all that it desires; force is a great weakness. A cannon-ball only travels six hundred leagues an hour; light travels seventy thousand leagues a second. Such is the superiority of Jesus Christ over Napoleon."
"Reload your guns," said Enjolras.
How was the casing of the barricade going to behave under the cannon-balls? Would they effect a breach? That was the question. While the insurgents were reloading their guns, the artillery-men were loading the cannon.
The anxiety in the redoubt was profound.
The shot sped the report burst forth.
"Present!" shouted a joyous voice.
And Gavroche flung himself into the barricade just as the ball dashed against it.
He came from the direction of the Rue du Cygne, and he had nimbly climbed over the auxiliary barricade which fronted on the labyrinth of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie.
Gavroche produced a greater sensation in the barricade than the cannon-ball.
The ball buried itself in the mass of rubbish. At the most there was an omnibus wheel broken, and the old Anceau cart was demolished. On seeing this, the barricade burst into a laugh.
"Go on!" shouted Bossuet to the artillerists.
天很快就要亮了，但没有一扇窗子打开来，没有一扇门半开半掩，这是黎明，但还不是苏醒。街垒对面麻厂街尽头的部队撤走了，正如我们前面提到过的，它似乎已经畅通并在不祥的沉寂中向行人开放。圣德尼街象底比斯城内的斯芬克司大道一样鸦雀无声。在阳光照亮了的十字路口没有一个行人。没有比这种晴朗日子的荒凉街道更凄凉的了。
人们什么也看不到，可是听得见。一个神秘的活动在远处进行。可以肯定，重要关头就要到来。正如昨晚哨兵撤退，现在已全部撤离完毕一样。
这街垒比起第一次受攻打时更坚固了，当那五个人离开后，大伙又把它加高了一些。
根据侦察过菜市场区的放哨人的意见，安灼拉为防备后面受到突击，作出了重要的决定。他堵住那条至今仍通行无阻的蒙德都巷子。为此又挖了几间屋子长的铺路石。这个街垒如今堵塞了三个街口：前面的麻厂街，左边的天鹅街和小化子窝，右边的蒙德都街，这确是不易攻破的了，不过大家也就被封死在里面了。它三面临敌而没有一条出路。古费拉克笑着说：“这确是一座堡垒，但又象一只捕鼠笼。”
安灼拉把三十多块石头堆在小酒店门口，博须埃说：“挖得太多了点。”
将发动进攻的那方无比沉寂，所以安灼拉命令各人回到各自的岗位上去。
每人分到一定量的烧酒。
没有什么比一个准备冲锋的街垒更令人惊奇的了。每个人象观剧那样选择好自己的位置，互相紧挨着，肘靠肘，肩靠肩。有些人把石块堆成一个坐位。哪儿因墙角碍事就离开一些，找到一个可作防御的突出部分就躲在里面，惯用左手操作的人就更可贵了，他们到别人觉得不顺手的地方去。许多人布置好可以坐着战斗的位置。大家都愿意自在地杀敌或舒舒服服地死去。在一八四八年六月那场激战中，有一个起义者是一个凶猛的枪手，他摆了一张伏尔泰式的靠背椅，在一个屋顶的平台上作战，一颗机枪子弹就在那儿打中了他。
当首领发出了准备战斗的口令以后，一切杂乱的行动顿时终止了。相互间不再拉扯，不再说闲话，不再东一群西一堆地聚在一起，所有的人都精神集中，等待着进攻的人。一个街垒处在危急状态之前是混乱的，而在危急时刻则纪律严明；危难产生了秩序。
当安灼拉一拿起他的双响枪，待在他准备好的枪眼前，这时，大家都不说话了。接着一阵清脆的嗒嗒声沿着石块墙错杂地响了起来，这是大家在给枪上膛。
此外，他们的作战姿态更为勇猛，信心十足；高度的牺牲精神使他们非常坚定，他们已经没有希望，但他们有的是失望。失望，这个最后的武器，有时会带来胜利，维吉尔曾这样说过。最大的决心会产生最高的智慧。坐上死亡的船可能会逃脱翻船的危险；棺材盖可以成为一块救命板。
和昨晚一样，所有的注意力都转向或者可以说都盯着那条街的尽头，现在是照亮了，看得很清楚。
等待的时间并不长。骚动很明显地在圣勒那方开始了，可是这次不象第一次进攻。链条的嗒拉声，一个使人不安的巨大物体的颠簸声，一种金属在铺路石上的跳动声，一种巨大的隆隆声，预报着一个可怕的铁器在向前推进，震动了这些安静的老街道的心脏，当初这些街道是为了思想和经济利益的畅通而修建的，并不是为通过庞大的战车的巨轮而建。
所有注视这街道尽头的目光都变得凶狠异常。
一尊大炮出现了。
炮兵们推着炮车，炮已上了炮弹，在前面拖炮的车已分开，两个人扶着炮架，四个人走在车轮旁，其余的人都跟着子弹车。人们看到点燃了的导火线在冒烟。
“射击！”安灼拉发出命令。
整个街垒开了火，在一阵可怕的爆炸声里倾泻出大量浓烟，淹没了炮和人，一会儿烟雾散去，又出现了炮和人；炮兵们缓慢地、不慌不忙地、准确地把大炮推到街垒对面。没有一个人被击中。炮长用力压下炮的后部，抬高炮口，象天文学家调整望远镜那样慎重地把炮口瞄准。
“干得好啊，炮兵们！”博须埃喊道。
所有街垒中的人都鼓掌。
片刻后，大炮恰好安置在街中心，跨在街沟上，准备射击。
一个令人生畏的炮口对准了街垒。
“好呀，来吧！”古费拉克说，“粗暴的家伙来了，先弹弹手指，现在挥起拳头来了。军队向我们伸出了它的大爪子。街垒会被狠狠地震动一下。火枪开路，大炮攻打。”
“这是新型的铜制八磅重弹捣炮，”公白飞接着说，“这一类炮，只要锡的分量超过铜的百分之十就会爆炸；锡的分量多了就太软。有时就会使炮筒内有砂眼缺口。要避免这种危险，并增加炸药的分量，也许要回到十四世纪时的办法，就是加上箍，在炮筒外面从后膛直至炮耳加上一连串的无缝钢环。目前，只有尽可能修补缺陷，有人用一种大炮检查器在炮筒中寻找砂眼缺口，但是另有一个更好的方法，就是用格里博瓦尔的流动星去探视。”
“在十六世纪炮筒中有来复线。”博须埃指出。
“是呀，”公白飞回答，“这样会增加弹道的威力，可是减低了瞄准性。此外，在短射程中，弹道不能达到需要的陡峭的斜度，抛物线过大，弹道不够直，不易打中途中的所有目标，而这是作战中严格要求的；随着敌人的迫近和快速发射，这一点越来越重要了。这种十六世纪有膛线的炮的炮弹张力不足是由于炸药的力量小，对于这类炮，炸药力量不足是受到了炮弹学的限制，例如要保持炮架的稳固。总之，大炮这暴君，它不能为所欲为，力量是一个很大的弱点。一颗炮弹每小时的速度是六百法里，可是光的速度每秒钟是七万法里。这说明耶稣要比拿破仑高明得多。”
“重上子弹！”安灼拉说。
街垒的墙将怎样抵挡炮弹呢？会不会被打开一个缺口？这倒是一个问题。当起义者重上子弹时，炮兵们也在上炮弹。
在棱堡中人心焦虑。
开炮了，突然出现一声轰响。
“到！”一个喜悦的声音高呼道。
炮弹打中街垒的时候，伽弗洛什也跳了进来。
他是从天鹅街那边进来的，他轻巧地跨过了正对小化子窝斜巷那边侧面的街垒。
伽弗洛什的进入，在街垒中起着比炮弹更大的影响。
炮弹在一堆杂乱的破砖瓦里消失了，最多只打烂了那辆公共马车的一个轮子，毁坏了安索那辆旧车子。看到这一切，街垒中人大笑起来。
“再来呀。”博须埃向炮兵们大声叫道。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 8 The Artillery-men Compel People to Take Them Seriously
Thet flocked round Gavroche. But he had no time to tell anything. Marius drew him aside with a shudder. 
"What are you doing here?"
"Hullo!" said the child, "what are you doing here yourself?"
And he stared at Marius intently with his epic effrontery. His eyes grew larger with the proud light within them.
It was with an accent of severity that Marius continued:
"Who told you to come back? Did you deliver my letter at the address?"
Gavroche was not without some compunctions in the matter of that letter. In his haste to return to the barricade, he had got rid of it rather than delivered it. He was forced to acknowledge to himself that he had confided it rather lightly to that stranger whose face he had not been able to make out. It is true that the man was bareheaded, but that was not sufficient. In short, he had been administering to himself little inward remonstrances and he feared Marius' reproaches. In order to extricate himself from the predicament, he took the simplest course; he lied abominably. 
"Citizen, I delivered the letter to the porter. The lady was asleep. She will have the letter when she wakes up. 
Marius had had two objects in sending that letter: to bid farewell to Cosette and to save Gavroche. He was obliged to content himself with the half of his desire.
The despatch of his letter and the presence of M. Fauchelevent in the barricade, was a coincidence which occurred to him. He pointed out M. Fauchelevent to Gavroche.
"Do you know that man?"
"No," said Gavroche.
Gavroche had, in fact, as we have just mentioned, seen Jean Valjean only at night.
The troubled and unhealthy conjectures which had outlined themselves in Marius' mind were dissipated. Did he know M. Fauchelevent's opinions? Perhaps M. Fauchelevent was a republican. Hence his very natural presence in this combat.
In the meanwhile, Gavroche was shouting, at the other end of the barricade: "My gun!"
Courfeyrac had it returned to him.
Gavroche warned "his comrades" as he called them, that the barricade was blocked. He had had great difficulty in reaching it. A battalion of the line whose arms were piled in the Rue de la Petite Truanderie was on the watch on the side of the Rue du Cygne; on the opposite side, the municipal guard occupied the Rue des Precheurs. The bulk of the army was facing them in front. 
This information given, Gavroche added:
"I authorize you to hit 'em a tremendous whack."
Meanwhile, Enjolras was straining his ears and watching at his embrasure.
The assailants, dissatisfied, no doubt, with their shot, had not repeated it.
A company of infantry of the line had come up and occupied the end of the street behind the piece of ordnance. The soldiers were tearing up the pavement and constructing with the stones a small, low wall, a sort of side-work not more than eighteen inches high, and facing the barricade. In the angle at the left of this epaulement,there was visible the head of the column of a battalion from the suburbs massed in the Rue Saint-Denis.
Enjolras, on the watch, thought he distinguished the peculiar sound which is produced when the shells of grape-shot are drawn from the caissons, and he saw the commander of the piece change the elevation and incline the mouth of the cannon slightly to the left. Then the cannoneers began to load the piece. The chief seized the lint-stock himself and lowered it to the vent. 
"Down with your heads, hug the wall!" shouted Enjolras, "and all on your knees along the barricade!"
The insurgents who were straggling in front of the wine-shop, and who had quitted their posts of combat on Gavroche's arrival, rushed pell-mell towards the barricade; but before Enjolras' order could be executed, the discharge took place with the terrifying rattle of a round of grape-shot.This is what it was, in fact.
The charge had been aimed at the cut in the redoubt, and had there rebounded from the wall; and this terrible rebound had produced two dead and three wounded.
If this were continued, the barricade was no longer tenable. The grape-shot made its way in.
A murmur of consternation arose.
"Let us prevent the second discharge," said Enjolras.
And, lowering his rifle, he took aim at the captain of the gun, who, at that moment, was bearing down on the breach of his gun and rectifying and definitely fixing its pointing.
The captain of the piece was a handsome sergeant of artillery, very young, blond, with a very gentle face, and the intelligent air peculiar to that predestined and redoubtable weapon which, by dint of perfecting itself in horror, must end in killing war.
Combeferre, who was standing beside Enjolras, scrutinized this young man.
"What a pity!" said Combeferre. "What hideous things these butcheries are! Come, when there are no more kings, there will be no more war. Enjolras, you are taking aim at that sergeant, you are not looking at him. Fancy, he is a charming young man; he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young artillery-men are very well educated; he has a father, a mother, a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twenty at the most; he might be your brother."
"He is," said Enjolras.
"Yes," replied Combeferre, "he is mine too. Well, let us not kill him."
"Let me alone. It must be done."
And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras' marble cheek.
At the same moment, he pressed the trigger of his rifle. The flame leaped forth. The artillery-man turned round twice, his arms extended in front of him, his head uplifted, as though for breath, then he fell with his side on the gun, and lay there motionless. They could see his back, from the centre of which there flowed directly a stream of blood. The ball had traversed his breast from side to side. He was dead.
He had to be carried away and replaced by another. Several minutes were thus gained, in fact.
大家围住了伽弗洛什。
但他没有时间讲什么话。马吕斯颤抖着把他拉到了一边。
“你来这儿干什么？”
“咦！”孩子回答说，“那您呢？”
他那勇敢而调皮的眼睛直盯着马吕斯。他内心骄傲的光芒使他的眼睛大而有神。
马吕斯用严肃的声调继续说：
“谁叫你回来的？你究竟有没有把我的信送到那地点呢？”
对于这封信的传递情况，伽弗洛什不无遗憾。由于他急忙要回街垒，他没有把信送到收信人手中，而匆匆脱了手。他心里不得不承认自己把信随便交给一个他连面孔都没有看清的陌生人是轻率的。这人确实没有戴帽子，但这一点不能说明问题。总之，他对这件事多少有些内疚，并且又怕马吕斯责怪。为了摆脱窘境，他采取了最简单的方法，撒了一个弥天大谎。
“公民，我把那封信交给了看门的。那位夫人还睡着，她醒来就会见到的。”
马吕斯当初送信有两个目的：向珂赛特诀别并且救出伽弗洛什。他的愿望只满足了一半。
送信和割风先生在街垒中出现，这两件事在他头脑里联系起来了。他指着割风先生问伽弗洛什：
“你认识这个人吗？”
“不认识。”伽弗洛什回答。
确实，我们刚才提到过，伽弗洛什是在夜间见到冉阿让的。
马吕斯心中的混乱和病态的猜测消失了。他知道割风先生的政见吗？割风先生可能是一个共和派，他来参加战斗就不足为奇了。
此时伽弗洛什已在街垒的那一头嚷道：
“我的枪呢！”
古费拉克让人把枪还给了他。
伽弗洛什警告“同志们”（这是他对大家的称呼），街垒被包围了。他是费了很大的劲才进来的。一营作战的军队，枪架在小化子窝斜巷，把守住天鹅街那一边。另一面是保安警察队守着布道修士街，正面是主力军。
讲了这些情况之后，伽弗洛什接着说：
“我授权你们，向他们放一排狠毒的排枪。”
这时安灼拉一边听着，一边仍在枪眼口仔细窥伺。
进攻的军队，肯定对那发炮弹不太满意，没有再放。
一连作战的步兵来占领街的尽头，在大炮的后面。步兵们挖起铺路石，堆成一道类似胸墙的矮墙，大约有十八寸高，正对街垒。在胸墙左角，我们可以看到集合在圣德尼街上的一营郊区军队前面几排的士兵。
正在了望的安灼拉，觉得听到了一种从子弹箱中取出散装子弹盒的特殊声响。他还看到那个炮长，把炮转向左边一点，调整目标瞄准。接着炮兵开始装炮弹。那炮长亲自凑近炮筒点火。
“低下头，集合到墙边，”安灼拉喊道，“大家沿着街垒跪下！”
那些起义者，在伽弗洛什来到时，离开了各自的作战岗位，分散在小酒店前面，这时都乱哄哄地冲向街垒；可是还没有来得及执行安灼拉的命令，炮已打出，声音很可怕，象连珠弹，这的确是一发连珠弹。
大炮瞄准棱堡的缺口，从那儿的墙上弹回来，弹跳回来的碎片打死了两人，伤了三人。
如果这样继续下去，街垒就支持不住了，连珠弹会直接打进来。
出现了一阵惊慌杂乱的声音。
“先防止第二炮。”安灼拉说。
于是他放低他的卡宾枪，瞄准那个正俯身在炮膛口校正方位的炮长。
这炮长是一个长得很英俊的炮兵中士，年轻，金黄色的头发，脸很温和，带着这种命定的可怕武器所要求的聪明样子。这种武器在威慑方面得到不断改进，结果必将消灭战争本身。
公白飞站在安灼拉旁边注视着这个青年。
“多可惜！”公白飞说，“杀戮是何等丑恶的行为！算了，没有帝王就不会再有战争。安灼拉，你瞄准这个中士，你都不看他一眼。你想象一下，他是一个可爱的青年，勇敢有为，看得出他会动脑筋，这些炮兵营的人都有学问。他有父亲，母亲，有一个家，可能还在谈恋爱呢，他至多不过二十五岁，可以做你的兄弟！”
“他就是。”安灼拉说。
“是呀，”公白飞回答说，“他也是我的兄弟，算了，不要打死他吧。”
“不要管我。该做的还是要做。”
一滴眼泪慢慢流到安灼拉那云石般的面颊上。
同时他扳动卡宾枪的扳机，喷出了一道闪光。那炮手身子转了两下，两臂前伸，脸仰着，好象要吸点空气，然后身子侧倒在炮上不动了。大家可以看到从他的后背中心流出一股鲜血。
子弹穿透了他的胸膛。他死了。
要把他搬走，再换上一个人，这样就争取到了几分钟。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 9 Employment of the Old Talents of a Poacher
Opinions were exchanged in the barricade. The firing from the gun was about to begin again. Against that grape-shot, they could not hold out a quarter of an hour longer. It was absolutely necessary to deaden the blows.
Enjolras issued this command:
"We must place a mattress there."
"We have none," said Combeferre, "the wounded are lying on them."
Jean Valjean, who was seated apart on a stone post, at the corner of the tavern, with his gun between his knees, had, up to that moment, taken no part in anything that was going on. He did not appear to hear the combatants saying around him: "Here is a gun that is doing nothing."
At the order issued by Enjolras, he rose.
It will be remembered that, on the arrival of the rabble in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, an old woman, foreseeing the bullets, had placed her mattress in front of her window. This window, an attic window, was on the roof of a six-story house situated a little beyond the barricade. The mattress, placed cross-wise, supported at the bottom on two poles for drying linen, was upheld at the top by two ropes, which, at that distance, looked like two threads, and which were attached to two nails planted in the window frames. These ropes were distinctly visible, like hairs, against the sky.
"Can some one lend me a double-barrelled rifle?" said Jean Valjean.
Enjolras, who had just re-loaded his, handed it to him.
Jean Valjean took aim at the attic window and fired.
One of the mattress ropes was cut.
The mattress now hung by one thread only.
Jean Valjean fired the second charge. The second rope lashed the panes of the attic window. The mattress slipped between the two poles and fell into the street.
The barricade applauded.
All voices cried:
"Here is a mattress!"
"Yes," said Combeferre, "but who will go and fetch it?"
The mattress had, in fact, fallen outside the barricade, between besiegers and besieged. Now, the death of the sergeant of artillery having exasperated the troop, the soldiers had, for several minutes, been lying flat on their stomachs behind the line of paving-stones which they had erected, and, in order to supply the forced silence of the piece, which was quiet while its service was in course of reorganization, they had opened fire on the barricade. The insurgents did not reply to this musketry, in order to spare their ammunition the fusillade broke against the barricade; but the street, which it filled, was terrible. 
Jean Valjean stepped out of the cut, entered the street,traversed the storm of bullets, walked up to the mattress, hoisted it upon his back, and returned to the barricade.
He placed the mattress in the cut with his own hands. He fixed it there against the wall in such a manner that the artillery-men should not see it.
That done, they awaited the next discharge of grape-shot.
It was not long in coming.
The cannon vomited forth its package of buck-shot with a roar. But there was no rebound. The effect which they had foreseen had been attained. The barricade was saved.
"Citizen," said Enjolras to Jean Valjean, "the Republic thanks you."
Bossuet admired and laughed. He exclaimed:
"It is immoral that a mattress should have so much power. Triumph of that which yields over that which strikes with lightning. But never mind, glory to the mattress which annuls a cannon!"
街垒中议论纷纷。这门炮又要重新开始轰击。在这样的连珠炮弹轰击下街垒在一刻钟以后就要垮了，必须削弱它的轰击力。
安灼拉发出了这道命令：
“在缺口处得放一块床垫。”
“没有床垫了，”公白飞说，“上面都躺着伤员。”
冉阿让坐在较远的一块界石上，在小酒店的转角处，双腿夹着他的枪，直至目前为止，他一点也没有过问所发生的这些事。他似乎没有听见周围的战士说：“这儿有支枪不起作用。”
听到安灼拉发了命令，他站了起来。
人们记得当初来到麻厂街集合时，曾见到一个老太婆，她为了防御流弹，把她的床垫放在窗前。这是一扇阁楼的窗户，在紧靠街垒外面的一幢七层楼的屋顶上。这个床垫横放着，下端搁在两根晒衣服的杆子上，用两根绳子棗远看好象两根线棗挂在阁楼窗框的两根钉子上。绳子看得很清楚，仿沸两根头发丝悬在空中。
“谁能借一支双响的卡宾枪给我？”冉阿让说道。
安灼拉把他那支刚上了子弹的枪递给了他。
冉阿让瞄准阁楼放了一枪。
两根吊垫子的绳中的一根被打断了。
现在床垫只吊在一根绳索上。
冉阿让放第二枪。第二根绳子打了一下阁楼窗子的玻璃，床垫在两根杆子中间滑了下来，落在街上。
全街垒鼓掌叫好。
大家大声喊叫：
“有一个床垫了。”
“不错，”公白飞说，“但是谁去把它拿进来？”
的确，这床垫是落在街垒外边，在攻守两方的中间。此时那个炮兵中士的死亡使部队十分愤怒，士兵们都已卧倒在他们垒起的石砌的防线后面，大炮被迫沉默，需要重新安排，他们就向街垒放枪。起义者为了节省弹药，对这种排枪置之不理。那排枪打在街垒上就爆炸了，于是街上子弹横飞，非常危险。
冉阿让从缺口出去，进入街心，冒着弹雨，奔向床垫，拿起来就背回街垒。
他亲自把床垫挡住缺口，紧紧靠着墙，好让炮兵们注意不到。
做完以后，大家等待着下一次轰击。
等不多久。
大炮一声吼，喷出了一丛霰弹，但没有弹跳的情况。炮弹在床垫上流产了，产生了预期的效果，街垒保住了。
“公民，”安灼拉向冉阿让说，“共和国感谢您。”
博须埃一边笑一边赞叹道：
“这很不象话，一个床垫有这么大的威力。这是谦逊战胜了暴力。无论如何，光荣应该属于床垫，它使大炮失效了。”
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 10 Dawn
At that moment, Cosette awoke.
Her chamber was narrow, neat, unobtrusive, with a long sash-window, facing the East on the back court-yard of the house. 
Cosette knew nothing of what was going on in Paris. She had not been there on the preceding evening, and she had already retired to her chamber when Toussaint had said:
"It appears that there is a row."
Cosette had slept only a few hours, but soundly. She had had sweet dreams, which possibly arose from the fact that her little bed was very white. Some one, who was Marius, had appeared to her in the light. She awoke with the sun in her eyes, which, at first,produced on her the effect of being a continuation of her dream. Her first thought on emerging from this dream was a smiling one. Cosette felt herself thoroughly reassured. Like Jean Valjean, she had, a few hours previously, passed through that reaction of the soul which absolutely will not hear of unhappiness. She began to cherish hope, with all her might, without knowing why. Then she felt a pang at her heart.It was three days since she had seen Marius. But she said to herself that he must have received her letter, that he knew where she was, and that he was so clever that he would find means of reaching her.--And that certainly to-day, and perhaps that very morning.--It was broad daylight, but the rays of light were very horizontal; she thought that it was very early, but that she must rise, nevertheless, in order to receive Marius.
She felt that she could not live without Marius, and that, consequently, that was sufficient and that Marius would come. No objection was valid. All this was certain. It was monstrous enough already to have suffered for three days. Marius absent three days, this was horrible on the part of the good God. Now, this cruel teasing from on high had been gone through with. Marius was about to arrive, and he would bring good news. Youth is made thus; it quickly dries its eyes; it finds sorrow useless and does not accept it. Youth is the smile of the future in the presence of an unknown quantity, which is itself. It is natural to it to be happy. It seems as though its respiration were made of hope. 
Moreover, Cosette could not remember what Marius had said to her on the subject of this absence which was to last only one day, and what explanation of it he had given her. Every one has noticed with what nimbleness a coin which one has dropped on the ground rolls away and hides, and with what art it renders itself undiscoverable. There are thoughts which play us the same trick; they nestle away in a corner of our brain; that is the end of them; they are lost; it is impossible to lay the memory on them. Cosette was somewhat vexed at the useless little effort made by her memory. She told herself, that it was very naughty and very wicked of her, to have forgotten the words uttered by Marius.
She sprang out of bed and accomplished the two ablutions of soul and body, her prayers and her toilet. 
One may, in a case of exigency, introduce the reader into a nuptial chamber, not into a virginal chamber. Verse would hardly venture it, prose must not.
It is the interior of a flower that is not yet unfolded, it is whiteness in the dark, it is the private cell of a closed lily, which must not be gazed upon by man so long as the sun has not gazed upon it. Woman in the bud is sacred. That innocent bud which opens, that adorable half-nudity which is afraid of itself, that white foot which takes refuge in a slipper, that throat which veils itself before a mirror as though a mirror were an eye, that chemise which makes haste to rise up and conceal the shoulder for a creaking bit of furniture or a passing vehicle, those cords tied, those clasps fastened, those laces drawn, those tremors, those shivers of cold and modesty, that exquisite affright in every movement, that almost winged uneasiness where there is no cause for alarm, the successive phases of dressing, as charming as the clouds of dawn,-- it is not fitting that all this should be narrated, and it is too much to have even called attention to it.
The eye of man must be more religious in the presence of the rising of a young girl than in the presence of the rising of a star. The possibility of hurting should inspire an augmentation of respect. The down on the peach, the bloom on the plum, the radiated crystal of the snow, the wing of the butterfly powdered with feathers, are coarse compared to that chastity which does not even know that it is chaste. The young girl is only the flash of a dream, and is not yet a statue. Her bed-chamber is hidden in the sombre part of the ideal. The indiscreet touch of a glance brutalizes this vague penumbra. Here, contemplation is profanation.
We shall, therefore, show nothing of that sweet little flutter of Cosette's rising.
An oriental tale relates how the rose was made white by God, but that Adam looked upon her when she was unfolding, and she was ashamed and turned crimson. We are of the number who fall speechless in the presence of young girls and flowers, since we think them worthy of veneration.
Cosette dressed herself very hastily, combed and dressed her hair, which was a very simple matter in those days, when women did not swell out their curls and bands with cushions and puffs, and did not put crinoline in their locks. Then she opened the window and cast her eyes around her in every direction, hoping to descry some bit of the street, an angle of the house, an edge of pavement, so that she might be able to watch for Marius there. But no view of the outside was to be had. The back court was surrounded by tolerably high walls, and the outlook was only on several gardens. Cosette pronounced these gardens hideous: for the first time in her life, she found flowers ugly. The smallest scrap of the gutter of the street would have met her wishes better. She decided to gaze at the sky, as though she thought that Marius might come from that quarter.
All at once, she burst into tears. Not that this was fickleness of soul; but hopes cut in twain by dejection--that was her case. She had a confused consciousness of something horrible. Thoughts were rife in the air, in fact. She told herself that she was not sure of anything, that to withdraw herself from sight was to be lost; and the idea that Marius could return to her from heaven appeared to her no longer charming but mournful.
Then, as is the nature of these clouds, calm returned to her, and hope and a sort of unconscious smile, which yet indicated trust in God.
Every one in the house was still asleep. A country-like silence reigned. Not a shutter had been opened. The porter's lodge was closed. Toussaint had not risen, and Cosette, naturally, thought that her father was asleep. She must have suffered much, and she must have still been suffering greatly, for she said to herself, that her father had been unkind; but she counted on Marius. The eclipse of such a light was decidedly impossible. Now and then, she heard sharp shocks in the distance, and she said: "It is odd that people should be opening and shutting their carriage gates so early." They were the reports of the cannon battering the barricade.
A few feet below Cosette's window, in the ancient and perfectly black cornice of the wall, there was a martin's nest; the curve of this nest formed a little projection beyond the cornice, so that from above it was possible to look into this little paradise. The mother was there, spreading her wings like a fan over her brood; the father fluttered about, flew away, then came back, bearing in his beak food and kisses. The dawning day gilded this happy thing, the great law, "Multiply," lay there smiling and august, and that sweet mystery unfolded in the glory of the morning. Cosette, with her hair in the sunlight, her soul absorbed in chimeras, illuminated by love within and by the dawn without, bent over mechanically, and almost without daring to avow to herself that she was thinking at the same time of Marius, began to gaze at these birds, at this family, at that male and female, that mother and her little ones, with the profound trouble which a nest produces on a virgin.
这时珂赛特醒来了。
她的房间是窄小的，整洁，幽静，朝东有一扇长长的格子玻璃窗，开向房子的后院。
珂赛特对在巴黎发生的事一无所知。昨天黄昏她还不在这儿，当杜桑说“好象有吵闹声”时她已走进了寝室。
珂赛特只睡了很少的几个钟点，但睡得很好。她做了个甜蜜的梦，可能跟她睡的那张小床非常洁白有关。她梦见一个象马吕斯的人站在光亮中。当她醒来时，阳光耀眼，使她感到梦境仿佛还在延续。
从梦中醒来的第一个感觉是喜悦。珂赛特感到十分放心，正如几个小时以前的冉阿让一样，她的心由于决不接受不幸，正产生一种反击的力量。不知为什么她怀着一种强烈的希望，但接着又一阵心酸，已经三天没有见到马吕斯了。但她想他也该收到她的信了，已经知道她在什么地方，他那么机智，肯定会有办法找到她的。很可能就在今天，或许就在今天早晨。天已大亮，但由于阳光平射，她以为时间还很早，可是为了迎接马吕斯，也许起床了。
她感到没有马吕斯就无法生活下去，因此不容置疑马吕斯就会来的。任何相反的意见都不能接受，这一点是肯定无疑的。她愁闷了三天，十分难挨。马吕斯离开了三天，这多么可怕呀，慈祥的上帝！现在上天所踢的嘲弄这一考验已属过去，马吕斯就会来到，并会带来好消息。青年时代就是这样。她迅速擦了擦眼睛，她认为用不着烦恼，也不想接受它。青春就是未来在向一个陌生人微笑，而这陌生人就是自己。她觉得幸福是件很自然的事，好象她的呼吸就是希望。
再说，珂赛特也回忆不起马吕斯对这次不应超过一天的分别曾向她说过什么，向她讲的理由是什么。大家都曾注意到，一个小钱落到地上后一滚就会不见，这多么巧妙，使你找不到它。我们的思想有时也这样在和我们开玩笑，它们躲在我们脑子的角落里，从此完了，它们已无影无踪，无法把它们回忆起来。珂赛特思索了一会儿，但没有效果，所以感到有些烦恼。她自言自语地说，忘记马吕斯对她说过的话是不应该的，这是她自己的过错。
她下了床，做了身心方面双重的洗礼：祈祷和梳洗。
我们至多只能向读者介绍举行婚礼时的新房，可是不能去谈处女的寝室，诗句还勉强能描述一下，可散文就不行了。
这是一朵含苞未放的花的内部，是藏在暗中的洁白，是一朵没有开放的百合花的内心，没有被太阳爱抚之前，是不应让凡人注目的。花蕾似的女性是神圣的。这纯洁的床被慢慢掀开，对着这可赞叹的半裸连自己也感到羞怯，雪白的脚躲进了拖鞋，胸脯在镜子前遮掩起来，好象镜子是只眼睛，听到家具裂开的声音或街车经过，她便迅速地把衬衣提起遮住肩膀。有些缎带要打结，衣钩要搭上，束腰要拉紧，这些微微的颤动，由于寒冷和羞怯引起的哆嗦，所有这些可爱的虚惊，在这完全不必害怕的地方，到处有着一种无以名之的顾虑。穿着打扮的千姿百态，一如曙光中的云彩那样迷人，这一切本来不宜叙述，提一提就已嫌说得太多。
人的目光在一个起床的少女面前应比对一颗初升的星星更虔诚。不慎触及了可能触及之物应倍增尊敬。桃子上的茸茸细毛，李子上的霜，白雪的闪光晶体，蝴蝶的粉翅，这些在这一不明白自己就是纯洁的贞洁面前，只不过是些粗俗的东西罢了。一个少女只是一个梦的微光，尚未成为一个艺术的雕像。她的寝室是隐藏在理想的阴影中。轻率地观望等于损毁了那若隐若现、明暗交错的诗情画意，而仔细的观察那就是亵渎了。
因此我们完全不去描绘珂赛特醒来时的一些柔和而又忙乱的小动作。
一个东方寓言说，神创造的玫瑰花本是白色的，可是亚当在它开放时望了一眼，它感到羞怯而变成玫瑰色。我们在少女和花朵前是应当止步的，要想到她们是可敬可颂的。
珂赛特很快穿好了衣服，梳妆完毕；当时的装扮很简单，妇女们已不再把头发卷成鼓鼓的环形，或把头发在正中分为两股，再加垫子和卷子衬托，也不在头发里放硬衬布。这之后她开了窗，目光向周围一望，希望看到街中一段、一个墙角或一点路面，能在那儿瞥见马吕斯。可是外面什么也见不到。后院被相当高的墙围着，空隙处只见到一些花园。珂赛特断言这些花园很难看，她有生以来第一次觉得花儿不美丽，还不如去看看十字路口的一小段水沟呢。她决心朝天仰望，好象她以为马吕斯会从天而降似的。
突然她哭得象个泪人儿似的。这并不是内心变化无常，而是沮丧的心情把希望打断了，这就是她的处境。她模糊地感到一种莫名其妙的恐惧。确实，一切都在天上飘忽而过。她感到什么都没有把握，意识到不能和他见面就等于失去了他；至于那个认为马吕斯可能从天而降的想法，这并不是吉事而是一个凶兆。
然而，在这些乌云暗影之后，她又平静下来，恢复了希望和一种无意识的信赖上帝的微笑。
屋里的人都还在睡觉，周围是一片外省的宁静气氛。没有一扇百叶窗打开着。门房还没有开门。杜桑没有起床。珂赛特很自然地这样想父亲还睡着。她一定受了很大的痛苦，所以现在还觉得很悲伤，因为她说父亲对她不好，她把希望寄托在马吕斯身上。这样一种光明的消失是决不可能的，她祈祷。她不时听到远处传来沉重的震动声。她暗想着：“真怪，这么早就有人在开闭通车辆的大门了。”事实上那是攻打街垒的炮声。
在珂赛特窗下几尺的地方，墙上黑色的旧飞檐中有一个雨燕的巢，那燕子窝突出在屋檐的边缘，因此从上面能看到这个小天堂的内部。母燕在里面展开翅膀，象一把扇子那样遮着雏燕，那公燕不断地飞，飞去又飞来，用嘴带来食物和接吻。升起的太阳把这个安乐窝照得金光闪闪。“传种接代”的伟大规律在这儿微笑并显示出它的庄严，一种温存的奥秘展现在清晨的灿烂光辉里。珂赛特，头发沐浴在阳光中，心灵堕入幻想，内心的热恋和外界的晨曦照耀着她，使她机械地俯身向前；在注视这些燕子时，她几乎不敢承认自己同时也想起了马吕斯，这个小小的家庭，这只公鸟和母鸟，这个母亲和一群幼雏，一个鸟窝使一个处女的内心深深感到春意荡漾。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 11 The Shot Which Misses Nothing and Kills No One
The assailants' fire continued. Musketry and grape-shot alternated,but without committing great ravages, to tell the truth. The top alone of the Corinthe facade suffered; the window on the first floor, and the attic window in the roof, riddled with buck-shot and biscaiens, were slowly losing their shape. The combatants who had been posted there had been obliged to withdraw. However, this is according to the tactics of barricades; to fire for a long while, in order to exhaust the insurgents' ammunition, if they commit the mistake of replying. When it is perceived, from the slackening of their fire, that they have no more powder and ball, the assault is made. Enjolras had not fallen into this trap; the barricade did not reply.
At every discharge by platoons, Gavroche puffed out his cheek with his tongue, a sign of supreme disdain. 
"Good for you," said he, "rip up the cloth. We want some lint."
Courfeyrac called the grape-shot to order for the little effect which it produced, and said to the cannon:
"You are growing diffuse, my good fellow."
One gets puzzled in battle, as at a ball. It is probable that this silence on the part of the redoubt began to render the besiegers uneasy, and to make them fear some unexpected incident, and that they felt the necessity of getting a clear view behind that heap of paving-stones, and of knowing what was going on behind that impassable wall which received blows without retorting. The insurgents suddenly perceived a helmet glittering in the sun on a neighboring roof. A fireman had placed his back against a tall chimney, and seemed to be acting as sentinel. His glance fell directly down into the barricade.
"There's an embarrassing watcher," said Enjolras.
Jean Valjean had returned Enjolras' rifle, but he had his own gun.
Without saying a word, he took aim at the fireman, and, a second later, the helmet, smashed by a bullet, rattled noisily into the street. The terrified soldier made haste to disappear. A second observer took his place. This one was an officer. Jean Valjean, who had re-loaded his gun, took aim at the newcomer and sent the officer's casque to join the soldier's. The officer did not persist, and retired speedily. This time the warning was understood. No one made his appearance thereafter on that roof; and the idea of spying on the barricade was abandoned.
"Why did you not kill the man?" Bossuet asked Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean made no reply.
攻打的军队继续在开火。排枪和霰弹轮番发射，但实际上并没有造成多大损伤。只有科林斯正面的上方遭了殃；二楼的格子窗和屋顶阁楼被大小子弹打得百孔千疮，已慢慢地在变形。驻守在那儿的战士得侧身躲开。再说，这也是攻打街垒的一种策略，采用疲劳战术射击，目的是消耗起义者的弹药，如果被围的人回击就中了计。一旦发现被围者的火力弱下来，就说明没有子弹和炸药了，这就可以发动突击。但安灼拉没有中计；街垒毫不回击。
分队每发一次排枪，伽弗洛什就用舌头鼓起他的腮帮子，表示极大的蔑视。
“好吧，”他说，“把床垫撕烂。我们需要绷带呀。”
古费拉克斥责霰弹不中用，他对大炮说：
“伙计，你太不集中了。”
在作战时，好象在舞会上一样，人们互施诡计。大概这棱堡的沉默开始使进攻的一方担心了，生怕发生意外，他们感到需要摸清这堆石块后面的情况，并了解这堵漠不关心、只挨打不还击的墙内究竟在干什么。起义者们突然发觉邻近的屋顶上有一顶消防队的钢盔在阳光中闪烁。一个消防队员靠在高烟囱旁好象在那儿站岗。他的视线正好直直地落到街垒里。
“那是一个碍事的监视。”安灼拉说。
冉阿让已经把卡宾枪还给了安灼拉，但他还有自己的枪。
他一声不响，瞄准那消防队员，一秒钟后，钢盔被一颗子弹打中，很响亮地落在街心。受惊的士兵赶快逃开了。
另一个监视人接替了他的岗位。这是一个军官。冉阿让又装好子弹，瞄准新来的人，把军官的钢盔打下去找士兵的钢盔作伴去了。军官不再坚持，很快也退了下去。他们明白了这个警告。从此没有人再出现在屋顶上，他们放弃了对街垒的侦察。
“您为什么不打死那个人？”博须埃问冉阿让。
冉阿让没有答复。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 12 Disorder a Partisan of Order
Bossuet muttered in Combeferre's ear:
"He did not answer my question."
"He is a man who does good by gun-shots," said Combeferre.
Those who have preserved some memory of this already distant epoch know that the National Guard from the suburbs was valiant against insurrections. It was particularly zealous and intrepid in the days of June, 1832. A certain good dram-shop keeper of Pantin des Vertus or la Cunette, whose "establishment" had been closed by the riots, became leonine at the sight of his deserted dance-hall, and got himself killed to preserve the order represented by a tea-garden. In that bourgeois and heroic time, in the presence of ideas which had their knights, interests had their paladins. The prosiness of the originators detracted nothing from the bravery of the movement. The diminution of a pile of crowns made bankers sing the Marseillaise. They shed their blood lyrically for the counting-house; and they defended the shop, that immense diminutive of the fatherland, with Lacedaemonian enthusiasm.
At bottom, we will observe, there was nothing in all this that was not extremely serious. It was social elements entering into strife, while awaiting the day when they should enter into equilibrium. 
Another sign of the times was the anarchy mingled with governmentalism [the barbarous name of the correct party]. People were for order in combination with lack of discipline.
The drum suddenly beat capricious calls, at the command of such or such a Colonel of the National Guard; such and such a captain went into action through inspiration; such and such National Guardsmen fought,"for an idea," and on their own account. At critical moments, on "days" they took counsel less of their leaders than of their instincts. There existed in the army of order, veritable guerilleros, some of the sword, like Fannicot, others of the pen, like Henri Fonfrede. 
Civilization, unfortunately, represented at this epoch rather by an aggregation of interests than by a group of principles, was or thought itself, in peril; it set up the cry of alarm; each, constituting himself a centre, defended it, succored it, and protected it with his own head; and the first comer took it upon himself to save society.
Zeal sometimes proceeded to extermination. A platoon of the National Guard would constitute itself on its own authority a private council of war, and judge and execute a captured insurgent in five minutes. It was an improvisation of this sort that had slain Jean Prouvaire. Fierce Lynch law, with which no one party had any right to reproach the rest, for it has been applied by the Republic in America, as well as by the monarchy in Europe. This Lynch law was complicated with mistakes. On one day of rioting, a young poet, named Paul Aime Garnier, was pursued in the Place Royale, with a bayonet at his loins, and only escaped by taking refuge under the porte-cochere of No. 6. They shouted:--"There's another of those Saint-Simonians!" and they wanted to kill him. Now, he had under his arm a volume of the memoirs of the Duc de Saint-Simon. A National Guard had read the words Saint-Simon on the book, and had shouted: "Death!" 
On the 6th of June, 1832, a company of the National Guards from the suburbs, commanded by the Captain Fannicot, above mentioned, had itself decimated in the Rue de la Chanvrerie out of caprice and its own good pleasure. This fact, singular though it may seem, was proved at the judicial investigation opened in consequence of the insurrection of 1832. Captain Fannicot, a bold and impatient bourgeois, a sort of condottiere of the order of those whom we have just characterized, a fanatical and intractable governmentalist, could not resist the temptation to fire prematurely, and the ambition of capturing the barricade alone and unaided, that is to say, with his company. Exasperated by the successive apparition of the red flag and the old coat which he took for the black flag, he loudly blamed the generals and chiefs of the corps, who were holding council and did not think that the moment for the decisive assault had arrived, and who were allowing "the insurrection to fry in its own fat," to use the celebrated expression of one of them. For his part, he thought the barricade ripe, and as that which is ripe ought to fall, he made the attempt.
He commanded men as resolute as himself, "raging fellows," as a witness said. His company, the same which had shot Jean Prouvaire the poet, was the first of the battalion posted at the angle of the street. At the moment when they were least expecting it, the captain launched his men against the barricade. This movement, executed with more good will than strategy, cost the Fannicot company dear. Before it had traversed two thirds of the street it was received by a general discharge from the barricade. Four, the most audacious, who were running on in front, were mown down point-blank at the very foot of the redoubt, and this courageous throng of National Guards, very brave men but lacking in military tenacity, were forced to fall back, after some hesitation, leaving fifteen corpses on the pavement. This momentary hesitation gave the insurgents time to re-load their weapons, and a second and very destructive discharge struck the company before it could regain the corner of the street, its shelter. A moment more, and it was caught between two fires, and it received the volley from the battery piece which, not having received the order, had not discontinued its firing. 
The intrepid and imprudent Fannicot was one of the dead from this grape-shot. He was killed by the cannon, that is to say, by order. 
This attack, which was more furious than serious, irritated Enjolras.--"The fools!" said he. "They are getting their own men killed and they are using up our ammunition for nothing." 
Enjolras spoke like the real general of insurrection which he was. Insurrection and repression do not fight with equal weapons. Insurrection, which is speedily exhausted, has only a certain number of shots to fire and a certain number of combatants to expend. An empty cartridge-box, a man killed, cannot be replaced. As repression has the army, it does not count its men, and, as it has Vincennes, it does not count its shots. Repression has as many regiments as the barricade has men, and as many arsenals as the barricade has cartridge-boxes. Thus they are struggles of one against a hundred, which always end in crushing the barricade; unless the revolution, uprising suddenly, flings into the balance its flaming archangel's sword. This does happen sometimes. Then everything rises, the pavements begin to seethe, popular redoubts abound. Paris quivers supremely, the quid divinum is given forth, a 10th of August is in the air, a 29th of July is in the air, a wonderful light appears, the yawning maw of force draws back, and the army, that lion, sees before it, erect and tranquil, that prophet, France.
博须埃在公白飞的耳边低声说：
“他没有回答我的问题。”
“这是一个枪下留情的人。”公白飞说。
那些对遥远的事还有些记忆的人知道郊区国民自卫军在镇压起义时也相当勇敢。尤其在一八三二年六月的日子里他们顽强而无畏。庞坦、凡都斯和古内特这些小酒店的好老板，当暴动使“企业”停工时，看到舞厅没有顾客，就都成了小狮子，他们牺牲自己的性命，为的是维持郊区小酒店所代表的治安。在这同时具有市侩气息和英雄气概的时期，各种思潮都有它的骑士，利润也有它的侠客。平凡的动机并没有减少它在运动中的胆量。看到白银堆降低了，银行家就唱起《马赛曲》。为了钱柜，人们热情地流了自己的血；有人以斯巴达人的狂热来护卫小店浦棗这个极其渺小的国家的缩影。
我们可以说，事实上这一切并没有不严肃的地方，这是社会各成分间的冲突，将来有一天会达到平衡。
那个时期的另一特点是无政府主义混入了政府至上主义（这是正统派的怪名称）之中。人们在维持秩序，但毫无纪律。在某一国民自卫军上校的指挥下战鼓突然莫名其妙地擂起了集合令；某个上尉一时激动就上了火线，某个自卫军为了“主义”，为了自己去战斗。在某些危急关头，在这些“日子”里，大家不去征求上级的指示而凭自己的本能行事。在治安部队里有真正的游击队员，有些人象法尼各那样拿起武器，还有的象亨利·方弗来特那样执笔撰文。
在这个时代，文明不幸是某些利益的集合而不是某些原则的代表，它是，或自以为是处于危急之中。它发出紧急呼吁。每个人以自己为中心，并根据自己的想法起来防卫它，支援它，保卫它；随便一个什么人都自认为要负责拯救社会。
有时这种热忱发展到要处死人。国民自卫军的某个分队擅自组织了一个军事法庭，在五分钟内判决一个被俘的起义者死刑并立即执行。就是这样一个临时组织杀死了让·勃鲁维尔。残酷的林奇裁判①，没有任何一方有权去责怪对方，因为美国的共和体制就是这样行事的，犹如欧洲的君主政体一样。这种私刑加上误会就更复杂了。在某一个暴动的日子里，有一个叫保罗－埃美·加尼埃的年轻诗人在王宫广场被人持着刺刀追逐，他只得躲进六号大门洞里。有人大声喊：“又是一个圣西门主义者！”他们要杀死他。当时他臂下夹着一本圣西门公爵②的《回忆录》。有一个国民自卫军在封皮上一念到“圣西门”这个名字就大叫起来：“把他杀死！” 
①林奇裁判（loi　de　Lynch），美国的一种刑法，抓到罪犯后当场判决，立即执行。
②圣西门公爵（1675-1755），著有《回忆录》，记述当时宫廷及显贵琐事。此处指人误认为他拿的是同名的空想主义者圣西门的著作。
一八三二年六月六日，有一连郊区国民自卫军，由上尉法尼各指挥，这个人前面已提到过，他出于怪癖和一时的兴致，在麻厂街造成了大量伤亡。这一事件，在一八三二年起义结束后进行的司法预审中有记载证实。法尼各上尉是一个性情急躁和冒险的小市民，在维护秩序的队伍中他是一个类似雇佣兵那样的角色，这种人我们已描绘过他们的特性，他是个狂热而无法无天的政府至上主义者，他不能抑制冲动要提前开火，并有着由他带领连队单独取下街垒的野心，他在接连看到红旗后又见到把旧衣当作黑旗，这使他怒不可遏，于是破口大骂那些在开会的将军和军团长们，因为他们认为总攻的决定性时刻尚未到来，根据他们间的一句名言，那就是“让反抗者在他们自己的肉汁中煮熟吧”。至于法尼各，他认为夺取街垒已经成熟，熟了的东西就该落地，所以他就去尝试。
他指挥着一伙和他同样坚决的人，当时的见证人称之为“一群疯子”。他那一连人，就是枪杀诗人让·勃鲁维尔的，是驻扎在那条街转角上的营中的第一连。在一个谁也很少想到的时刻，这上尉派遣他的人向街垒进攻。这种只凭愿望而无策略的行动，使法尼各这连人蒙受了巨大的伤亡。他们还没有进入到这条街三分之二的地方，就遭到街垒中发出的一次全面射击。跑在最前面的四个最胆大的士兵在离棱堡脚下很近的地方被击毙。国民自卫军这伙好汉是极为英勇的，但还缺乏军人的顽强性，他们犹豫了一下就退下来了，在街心留下了十五具尸体。正当他们犹豫的时候，起义者又有时间去重新装上子弹，第二次射击杀伤力很强，打中了这一连里还没来得及回到街角掩体里的人。有那么一会儿，他们处在两股霰弹火力的夹击中，还受到大炮的轰击，因为这门大炮没有接到停火的命令。这位英勇而不谨慎的法尼各就是被霰弹击中的人里的一个。他被炮火击毙，也就是说被接受命令派击毙。
这次凶猛而不严肃的进攻激怒了安灼拉。“这群蠢材！”他说，“他们把自己人打死，还白白浪费了我们的弹药。”
安灼拉是以暴动里一个真正的将军身分讲了这番话的。起义者和镇压者在力量悬殊的情况下作战，起义者很快就被消耗殆尽，他们只能放有限的几枪，人员的损失也是一种限制。一个弹盒空了，一个人死了，就无法补充了。镇压者却拥有整个军队，人员不成问题，拥有万塞纳兵工厂，也无须计算弹药。镇压者有街垒中人员那么多的联队，有街垒中弹盒那么多的兵工厂，所以这是以百对一的战争，街垒最后一定要被摧毁，除非革命突然爆发，在天平上加上它那天神的火红利剑。如果这种情况发生了，那时一切都会站起来，大街上开始沸腾，民众的棱堡将急剧增多，如雨后春笋一般，巴黎将为此极度震动，一个神妙的东西①出现了，一个八月十日又来到了，一个七月二十九日又来到了；出现了神奇的光辉，张着血盆大口的权威将会退却，还有军队，这只狮子，它将望着镇定自若站在它面前的预言者----法兰西。 
①神妙的东西。原文为拉丁文quid　divinum。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 13 Passing Gleams
In the chaos of sentiments and passions which defend a barricade, there is a little of everything; there is bravery, there is youth, honor, enthusiasm, the ideal, conviction, the rage of the gambler, and, above all, intermittences of hope.
One of these intermittences, one of these vague quivers of hope suddenly traversed the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie at the moment when it was least expected.
"Listen," suddenly cried Enjolras, who was still on the watch, "it seems to me that Paris is waking up."
It is certain that, on the morning of the 6th of June, the insurrection broke out afresh for an hour or two, to a certain extent. The obstinacy of the alarm peal of Saint-Merry reanimated some fancies. Barricades were begun in the Rue du Poirier and the Rue des Gravilliers. In front of the Porte Saint-Martin, a young man, armed with a rifle, attacked alone a squadron of cavalry. In plain sight, on the open boulevard, he placed one knee on the ground, shouldered his weapon, fired, killed the commander of the squadron, and turned away, saying: "There's another who will do us no more harm."
He was put to the sword. In the Rue Saint-Denis, a woman fired on the National Guard from behind a lowered blind. The slats of the blind could be seen to tremble at every shot. A child fourteen years of age was arrested in the Rue de la Cossonerie, with his pockets full of cartridges. Many posts were attacked. At the entrance to the Rue Bertin-Poiree, a very lively and utterly unexpected fusillade welcomed a regiment of cuirrassiers, at whose head marched Marshal General Cavaignac de Barague. In the Rue Planche-Mibray, they threw old pieces of pottery and household utensils down on the soldiers from the roofs; a bad sign; and when this matter was reported to Marshal Soult, Napoleon's old lieutenant grew thoughtful, as he recalled Suchet's saying at Saragossa: "We are lost when the old women empty their pots de chambre on our heads."
These general symptoms which presented themselves at the moment when it was thought that the uprising had been rendered local, this fever of wrath, these sparks which flew hither and thither above those deep masses of combustibles which are called the faubourgs of Paris,--all this, taken together, disturbed the military chiefs. They made haste to stamp out these beginnings of conflagration.
They delayed the attack on the barricades Maubuee, de la Chanvrerie and Saint-Merry until these sparks had been extinguished, in order that they might have to deal with the barricades only and be able to finish them at one blow. Columns were thrown into the streets where there was fermentation, sweeping the large, sounding the small, right and left, now slowly and cautiously, now at full charge. The troops broke in the doors of houses whence shots had been fired; at the same time, manoeuvres by the cavalry dispersed the groups on the boulevards. This repression was not effected without some commotion, and without that tumultuous uproar peculiar to collisions between the army and the people. This was what Enjolras had caught in the intervals of the cannonade and the musketry. Moreover, he had seen wounded men passing the end of the street in litters, and he said to Courfeyrac:--"Those wounded do not come from us."
Their hope did not last long; the gleam was quickly eclipsed. In less than half an hour, what was in the air vanished, it was a flash of lightning unaccompanied by thunder, and the insurgents felt that sort of leaden cope, which the indifference of the people casts over obstinate and deserted men, fall over them once more.
The general movement, which seemed to have assumed a vague outline, had miscarried; and the attention of the minister of war and the strategy of the generals could now be concentrated on the three or four barricades which still remained standing.
The sun was mounting above the horizon.
An insurgent hailed Enjolras.
"We are hungry here. Are we really going to die like this, without anything to eat?"
Enjolras, who was still leaning on his elbows at his embrasure, made an affirmative sign with his head, but without taking his eyes from the end of the street.
在防卫街垒的道义感和激烈冲动的混杂心情中是应有尽有的，有勇敢的精神，有青年的朝气，有荣誉的欲望，有激动的热情，有理想，有坚定的信仰，有赌徒的顽强，特别还有断断续续的一线希望。
在这时断时续期间，突然一个模糊的希望颤动着，在意想不到的时候掠过麻厂街的街垒。
“你们听，”一直严加戒备的安灼拉突然叫起来，“巴黎似乎醒来了。”
在六月六日清晨，这些起义者在一两个小时里确实勇气倍增。圣美里持续不断的警钟使一些微弱的希望复活了。梨树街和格拉维利埃街也筑起了街垒。圣与尔丹门前有一个青年，独自用卡宾枪射击一个骑兵连。他毫不隐蔽地在林荫大道上跪下一膝，以肩抵枪，瞄准并击毙了骑兵中队长，然后回转头来说：“又少了一个，他不会再给我们罪受了。”那青年被马刀砍死了。圣德尼街有一个妇女在放下的百叶帘后面射击保安警察。她每打一枪，就可以看到百叶帘在颤动。一个十四岁的孩子在高松纳利街被捕，他的口袋里装满了子弹。好几个岗哨受到了攻打。在贝尔坦－波瓦雷街口，由卡芬雅克·德·巴拉尼将军①带领的装甲联队意外地受到排枪的猛烈射击；在卜朗什－米勃雷街，有人从屋顶向过路的军队扔下破坛烂罐和家用器皿，这是不祥之兆。当有人把这种情况向苏尔特元帅报告时，这位拿破仑的老上尉不禁堕入沉思，他回忆起絮歇②元帅在萨拉戈萨时讲的一句话：“什么时候老奶奶往我们头上用尿壶倒尿，我们就完蛋了。” 
①巴拉尼是一八四八年残酷镇压巴黎工人六月起义的陆军部长卡芬雅克的叔父。
②絮歇（Suchet，1772?826），法国元帅，在西班牙作战获胜。
当人们以为暴动已被控制不再蔓延时，又出现了这种普遍的症状，重又燃起的怒火，这些人们称之为巴黎郊区柴堆上飞舞的火花，所有这一切都使军事长官们惶恐不安。他们急于扑灭刚冒头的火灾。在未扑灭之前，推迟了对莫布埃街、麻厂街和圣美里这些街垒的进攻，目的是好集中兵力对付它们，一举全歼。有些纵队被派遣到有骚乱的街上去，肃清大街，进而追索左右的一些小街小巷，有时蹑手蹑脚，小心提防，有时则加快步伐。军队捅破那些放过冷枪的门，同时，骑兵驱散了在林荫大道上集合的人群。这种镇压不免引起骚乱和军民之间的冲突。安灼拉在炮轰和排枪之间所听到的就是这些声音。此外，他看见街那头有人用担架抬走受伤的人，他对古费拉克说：“受伤的不是我们这边的人。”
希望没有延长多久，微光很快就消逝了。不到半小时，孕育中的暴动破灭了，犹如没有雷声的闪电瞬息即逝一般，起义者感到一块铅质的棺罩，被冷漠的民众盖在他们这些顽强不屈的被遗弃者的身上。
当时的普遍行动似乎已略具规模，但却流产了。陆军大臣①的注意力和将军们的策略，现在能运用集中到这三四个还屹立着的街垒上来了。 
①陆军大臣，指苏尔特。
旭日在地平线上升起。
一个起义者质问安灼拉：
“我们这儿大家都饿了。难道我们真的什么都不吃就这样死去吗？”
安灼拉始终把手肘支在胸墙上，注视着街的尽头，点了一下头。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 15 Gavroche Outside
Courfeyrac suddenly caught sight of some one at the base of the barricade, outside in the street, amid the bullets. 
Gavroche had taken a bottle basket from the wine-shop, had made his way out through the cut, and was quietly engaged in emptying the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guardsmen who had been killed on the slope of the redoubt, into his basket.
"What are you doing there?" asked Courfeyrac.
Gavroche raised his face:--
"I'm filling my basket, citizen."
"Don't you see the grape-shot?"
Gavroche replied:
"Well, it is raining. What then?"
Courfeyrac shouted:--"Come in!"
"Instanter," said Gavroche.
And with a single bound he plunged into the street.
It will be remembered that Fannicot's company had left behind it a trail of bodies. Twenty corpses lay scattered here and there on the pavement, through the whole length of the street. Twenty cartouches for Gavroche meant a provision of cartridges for the barricade. 
The smoke in the street was like a fog. Whoever has beheld a cloud which has fallen into a mountain gorge between two peaked escarpments can imagine this smoke rendered denser and thicker by two gloomy rows of lofty houses. It rose gradually and was incessantly renewed; hence a twilight which made even the broad daylight turn pale. The combatants could hardly see each other from one end of the street to the other, short as it was. 
This obscurity, which had probably been desired and calculated on by the commanders who were to direct the assault on the barricade, was useful to Gavroche. 
Beneath the folds of this veil of smoke, and thanks to his small size, he could advance tolerably far into the street without being seen. He rifled the first seven or eight cartridge-boxes without much danger.
He crawled flat on his belly, galloped on all fours, took his basket in his teeth, twisted, glided, undulated, wound from one dead body to another, and emptied the cartridge-box or cartouche as a monkey opens a nut.
They did not dare to shout to him to return from the barricade, which was quite near, for fear of attracting attention to him. 
On one body, that of a corporal, he found a powder-flask.
"For thirst," said he, putting it in his pocket.
By dint of advancing, he reached a point where the fog of the fusillade became transparent. So that the sharpshooters of the line ranged on the outlook behind their paving-stone dike and the sharpshooters of the banlieue massed at the corner of the street suddenly pointed out to each other something moving through the smoke.
At the moment when Gavroche was relieving a sergeant, who was lying near a stone door-post, of his cartridges, a bullet struck the body. 
"Fichtre!" ejaculated Gavroche. "They are killing my dead men for me."
A second bullet struck a spark from the pavement beside him.-- A third overturned his basket.
Gavroche looked and saw that this came from the men of the banlieue.
He sprang to his feet, stood erect, with his hair flying in the wind, his hands on his hips, his eyes fixed on the National Guardsmen who were firing, and sang:
"On est laid a Nanterre, "Men are ugly at Nanterre, C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire; Et bete a Palaiseau, And dull at Palaiseau, C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of Rousseau."
Then he picked up his basket, replaced the cartridges which had fallen from it, without missing a single one, and, advancing towards the fusillade, set about plundering another cartridge-box. There a fourth bullet missed him, again. Gavroche sang:
"Je ne suis pas notaire, "I am not a notary, C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire; Je suis un petit oiseau, I'm a little bird, C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of Rousseau." 
A fifth bullet only succeeded in drawing from him a third couplet. 
"Joie est mon caractere, "Joy is my character, C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire; Misere est mon trousseau, Misery is my trousseau, C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of Rousseau."
Thus it went on for some time.
It was a charming and terrible sight. Gavroche, though shot at, was teasing the fusillade. He had the air of being greatly diverted. It was the sparrow pecking at the sportsmen. To each discharge he retorted with a couplet. They aimed at him constantly, and always missed him. The National Guardsmen and the soldiers laughed as they took aim at him. He lay down, sprang to his feet, hid in the corner of a doorway, then made a bound, disappeared, re-appeared, scampered away, returned, replied to the grape-shot with his thumb at his nose, and, all the while, went on pillaging the cartouches, emptying the cartridge-boxes, and filling his basket. The insurgents, panting with anxiety, followed him with their eyes. The barricade trembled; he sang. He was not a child, he was not a man; he was a strange gamin-fairy. He might have been called the invulnerable dwarf of the fray. The bullets flew after him, he was more nimble than they. He played a fearful game of hide and seek with death; every time that the flat-nosed face of the spectre approached, the urchin administered to it a fillip.
One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than the rest, finally struck the will-o'-the-wisp of a child. Gavroche was seen 
to stagger, then he sank to the earth. The whole barricade gave vent to a cry; but there was something of Antaeus in that pygmy; for the gamin to touch the pavement is the same as for the giant to touch the earth; Gavroche had fallen only to rise again; he remained in a sitting posture, a long thread of blood streaked his face, he raised both arms in the air, glanced in the direction whence the shot had come, and began to sing:
"Je suis tombe par terre, "I have fallen to the earth, C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire; Le nez dans le ruisseau, With my nose in the gutter, C'est la faute a . . . " 'Tis the fault of . . . "
He did not finish. A second bullet from the same marksman stopped him short. This time he fell face downward on the pavement, and moved no more. This grand little soul had taken its flight.
古费拉克忽然发现有个人在街垒的下面，外边，街上，火线下。
伽弗洛什从小酒店里取了一个盛玻璃瓶的篮子，穿过缺口走出去，安闲自在地只顾把那些倒毙在街垒斜沿上的国民自卫军装满子弹的弹药包倒进篮子。
“你在干什么？”古费拉克说。
伽弗洛什翘起鼻子：
“公民，我在装篮子。”
“难道你没看见霰弹？”
伽弗洛什回答说：
“是啊，在下雨。又怎样呢？”
古费拉克吼了起来：
“进来！”
“回头就来。”伽弗洛什说。
于是，他一跃跳到街心。
我们记得法尼各连在退却时，留下了一大串尸体。
整条街的路面上，这儿那儿，躺着将近二十具尸体。对伽弗洛什来说，这是二十来个弹药包，对街垒来说，是大批的子弹。
街上的烟就象迷雾一样。凡是见过一朵云落在峡谷中两座峭壁之间的人都能想象这种被压缩在棗并且好象浓化了的棗阴森森的两列高房子中间的烟。它缓缓上升，还不断得到补充，以致光线越来越矇眬，甚至使白昼也变得阴暗起来。这条街，从一头到另一头，并不怎么长，可是交战的人，几乎彼此望不见。
这种矇眬的状态，也许是指挥攻打街垒的官长们所需要、所筹划的，却也给伽弗洛什带来了方便。
在这层烟幕的萦回下，由于伽弗洛什个子小，便能在这条街上走得相当远而不被人察觉。他倒空了最初七八个弹药包，冒的危险还不算大。
他紧贴地面往前爬，四肢快速行动着，用牙咬住篮子，身体扭着，溜着，波浪似的行动着，象蛇一样爬行，从一个死尸到另一个死尸，把一个个的弹药包或子弹盒都倒干净，就象一只剥核桃的猴子。
他离街垒还相当近，里面的人可不敢叫他回来，恐怕引起对方的注意。
在一具尸首---是个排长---的身上，他找到一个打猎用的火药瓶。
“以备不时之需。”他一面塞进口袋一面说。
他不断往前移动，终于到了烟雾稀薄的地方。
于是埋伏在石堆后面的一排前线狙击兵和聚集在街角上的郊区狙击兵，忽然不约而同地相互指点烟雾里有个东西在活动。
正当伽弗洛什在解一个倒在界石附近的中士身上的弹药包时，一颗子弹打中了那尸体。
“好家伙！”伽弗洛什说，“他们竟来杀我的这些死人了。”
第二颗子弹打在他身边，把路面上的石块打得直冒火星。
第三颗打翻了他的篮子。
伽弗洛什打量了一下，看见这是从郊区方面射过来的。他笔直地立起来，站着，头发随风飘扬，两手叉在腰上，眼睛盯着那些开枪射击的国民自卫军，唱道：
楠泰尔人丑八怪，
这只能怨伏尔泰；
帕莱索人大脓包，
这也只能怨卢梭。
随后他拾起他的篮子，把翻了出家的子弹全捡回去，一颗不剩，然后继续向开枪的地方前进，去解另一个弹药包；到了那里，第四颗子弹仍旧没有射中他。伽弗洛什唱道：
公证人我做不来，
这只能怨伏尔泰；
我只是只小雀儿，
这也只能怨卢梭。
第五颗子弹打出了他的第三段歌词：
欢乐是我的本态，
这只能怨伏尔泰；
贫穷是我的格调，
这也只能怨卢梭。
这样延续了一些时候。
这景象真骇人，也真动人。伽弗洛什被别人射击，他却和射击的人逗乐。他的神气好象觉得很好玩。这是小麻雀在追啄猎人。他用一段唱词回答一次射击。人们不断地瞄准他，却始终打他不着。那些国民自卫军和士兵一面对他瞄准一面笑。他伏下身去，又站起来，躲在一个门角里，继而又跳出来，藏起来不见了，随即又出现，跑了又回来，对着枪弹做鬼脸，同时还捞子弹，掏弹药包，充实他的篮子。那些起义者急得喘不过气来，眼睛盯住他不放，街垒在发抖。而他，在歌唱。他不是个孩子，也不是个大人，而是个小精灵似的顽童。可以说，他是混战中的一个无懈可击的侏儒。枪弹紧跟着他，但他比枪弹更灵活。他跟死亡玩着骇人的捉迷藏游戏。每一次当索命的鬼魂来到他跟前时，这顽皮的孩子总是“啪”的一下给它来个弹指。
可是有一颗子弹，比其余的都来得准些，或者说，比其余的都更为奸诈，终于射中了这磷火似的孩子。大家看见伽弗洛什东倒西歪地走了几步，便软下去了，街垒里的人发出一声叫喊，但在这小孩的体内，有安泰的神力；孩子一触及路面，就象那巨人接触大地一样。伽弗洛什倒下去，很快就又直起身子。他坐了起来，脸上流着一长条鲜血，举起他的两只手臂，望着打枪的方向，又开始唱起来：
我是倒了下来，
这只能怨伏尔泰；
鼻子栽进了小溪，
这也只能怨……
他没有唱完。第二颗子弹，由原先的那个枪手射出的，一下使他停了下来。这一次，他脸朝地倒下去，不再动弹了。这个伟大的小灵魂飞逝了。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 16 How from a Brother One Becomes a Father
At that same moment, in the garden of the Luxembourg,--for the gaze of the drama must be everywhere present,--two children were holding each other by the hand. One might have been seven years old, the other five. The rain having soaked them, they were walking along the paths on the sunny side; the elder was leading the younger; they were pale and ragged; they had the air of wild birds. The smaller of them said: "I am very hungry."
The elder, who was already somewhat of a protector, was leading his brother with his left hand and in his right he carried a small stick.
They were alone in the garden. The garden was deserted, the gates had been closed by order of the police, on account of the insurrection. The troops who had been bivouacking there had departed for the exigencies of combat.
How did those children come there? Perhaps they had escaped from some guard-house which stood ajar; perhaps there was in the vicinity, at the Barriered'Enfer; or on the Esplanade del'Observatoire, or in the neighboring careful, dominated by the pediment which could be read:Invenerunt parvulum pannis involutum, some mountebank's booth from which they had fled; perhaps they had, on the preceding evening, escaped the eye of the inspectors of the garden at the hour of closing, and had passed the night in some one of those sentry-boxes where people read the papers? The fact is, they were stray lambs and they seemed free. To be astray and to seem free is to be lost. These poor little creatures were, in fact, lost.
These two children were the same over whom Gavroche had been put to some trouble, as the reader will recollect. Children of the Thenardiers,leased out to Magnon, attributed to M. Gillenormand, and now leaves fallen from all these rootless branches, and swept over the ground by the wind. Their clothing, which had been clean in Magnon's day, and which had served her as a prospectus with M. Gillenormand, had been converted into rags.
Henceforth these beings belonged to the statistics as "Abandoned children," whom the police take note of, collect, mislay and find again on the pavements of Paris.
It required the disturbance of a day like that to account for these miserable little creatures being in that garden. If the superintendents had caught sight of them, they would have driven such rags forth. Poor little things do not enter public gardens; still, people should reflect that, as children, they have a right to flowers.
These children were there, thanks to the locked gates. They were there contrary to the regulations. They had slipped into the garden and there they remained. Closed gates do not dismiss the inspectors, oversight is supposed to continue, but it grows slack and reposes; and the inspectors, moved by the public anxiety and more occupied with the outside than the inside, no longer glanced into the garden, and had not seen the two delinquents. 
It had rained the night before, and even a little in the morning. But in June, showers do not count for much. An hour after a storm, it can hardly be seen that the beautiful blonde day has wept. The earth, in summer, is as quickly dried as the cheek of a child. At that period of the solstice, the light of full noonday is, so to speak, poignant. It takes everything. It applies itself to the earth, and superposes itself with a sort of suction. One would say that the sun was thirsty. A shower is but a glass of water; a rainstorm is instantly drunk up. In the morning everything was dripping, in the afternoon everything is powdered over.
Nothing is so worthy of admiration as foliage washed by the rain and wiped by the rays of sunlight; it is warm freshness. The gardens and meadows, having water at their roots, and sun in their flowers, become perfuming-pans of incense, and smoke with all their odors at once. Everything smiles, sings and offers itself. One feels gently intoxicated. The springtime is a provisional paradise, the sun helps man to have patience.
There are beings who demand nothing further; mortals, who, having the azure of heaven, say: "It is enough!" dreamers absorbed in the wonderful, dipping into the idolatry of nature, indifferent to good and evil, contemplators of cosmos and radiantly forgetful of man, who do not understand how people can occupy themselves with the hunger of these, and the thirst of those, with the nudity of the poor in winter, with the lymphatic curvature of the little spinal column, with the pallet, the attic, the dungeon, and the rags of shivering young girls, when they can dream beneath the trees; peaceful and terrible spirits they, and pitilessly satisfied. Strange to say, the infinite suffices them. That great need of man, the finite, which admits of embrace, they ignore. The finite which admits of progress and sublime toil, they do not think about. The indefinite, which is born from the human and divine combination of the infinite and the finite, escapes them. Provided that they are face to face with immensity, they smile. Joy never, ecstasy forever. Their life lies in surrendering their personality in contemplation. The history of humanity is for them only a detailed plan. All is not there; the true All remains without; what is the use of busying oneself over that detail, man? Man suffers, that is quite possible; but look at Aldebaran rising! The mother has no more milk, the new-born babe is dying. I know nothing about that, but just look at this wonderful rosette which a slice of wood-cells of the pine presents under the microscope! Compare the most beautiful Mechlin lace to that if you can! These thinkers forget to love. The zodiac thrives with them to such a point that it prevents their seeing the weeping child. God eclipses their souls. This is a family of minds which are, at once, great and petty. Horace was one of them; so was Goethe. La Fontaine perhaps; magnificent egoists of the infinite, tranquil spectators of sorrow, who do not behold Nero if the weather be fair, for whom the sun conceals the funeral pile, who would look on at an execution by the guillotine in the search for an effect of light, who hear neither the cry nor the sob, nor the death rattle, nor the alarm peal, for whom everything is well, since there is a month of May, who, so long as there are clouds of purple and gold above their heads, declare themselves content, and who are determined to be happy until the radiance of the stars and the songs of the birds are exhausted.
These are dark radiances. They have no suspicion that they are to be pitied. Certainly they are so. He who does not weep does not see. They are to be admired and pitied, as one would both pity and admire a being at once night and day, without eyes beneath his lashes but with a star on his brow.
The indifference of these thinkers, is, according to some, a superior philosophy. That may be; but in this superiority there is some infirmity. One may be immortal and yet limp: witness Vulcan. One may be more than man and less than man. There is incomplete immensity in nature. Who knows whether the sun is not a blind man?
But then, what? In whom can we trust? Solem quis dicere falsum audeat? Who shall dare to say that the sun is false? Thus certain geniuses, themselves, certain Very-Lofty mortals, man-stars, may be mistaken? That which is on high at the summit, at the crest, at the zenith, that which sends down so much light on the earth, sees but little, sees badly, sees not at all? Is not this a desperate state of things? No. But what is there, then, above the sun? The god.
On the 6th of June, 1832, about eleven o'clock in the morning, the Luxembourg, solitary and depopulated, was charming. The quincunxes and flower-beds shed forth balm and dazzling beauty into the sunlight. The branches, wild with the brilliant glow of midday, seemed endeavoring to embrace. In the sycamores there was an uproar of linnets, sparrows triumphed, woodpeckers climbed along the chestnut trees, administering little pecks on the bark. The flower-beds accepted the legitimate royalty of the lilies; the most august of perfumes is that which emanates from whiteness. The peppery odor of the carnations was perceptible. The old crows of Marie de Medici were amorous in the tall trees. The sun gilded, empurpled, set fire to and lighted up the tulips, which are nothing but all the varieties of flame made into flowers. All around the banks of tulips the bees, the sparks of these flame-flowers, hummed. All was grace and gayety, even the impending rain; this relapse, by which the lilies of the valley and the honeysuckles were destined to profit, had nothing disturbing about it; the swallows indulged in the charming threat of flying low. He who was there aspired to happiness; life smelled good; all nature exhaled candor, help, assistance, paternity, caress, dawn. The thoughts which fell from heaven were as sweet as the tiny hand of a baby when one kisses it.
The statues under the trees, white and nude, had robes of shadow pierced with light; these goddesses were all tattered with sunlight; rays hung from them on all sides. Around the great fountain, the earth was already dried up to the point of being burnt. There was sufficient breeze to raise little insurrections of dust here and there. A few yellow leaves, left over from the autumn, chased each other merrily, and seemed to be playing tricks on each other.
This abundance of light had something indescribably reassuring about it. Life, sap, heat, odors overflowed; one was conscious, beneath creation, of the enormous size of the source; in all these breaths permeated with love, in this interchange of reverberations and reflections, in this marvellous expenditure of rays, in this infinite outpouring of liquid gold, one felt the prodigality of the inexhaustible; and, behind this splendor as behind a curtain of flame, one caught a glimpse of God, that millionaire of stars. 
Thanks to the sand, there was not a speck of mud; thanks to the rain, there was not a grain of ashes. The clumps of blossoms had just been bathed; every sort of velvet, satin, gold and varnish, which springs from the earth in the form of flowers, was irreproachable. This magnificence was cleanly. The grand silence of happy nature filled the garden. A celestial silence that is compatible with a thousand sorts of music, the cooing of nests, the buzzing of swarms, the flutterings of the breeze. All the harmony of the season was complete in one gracious whole; the entrances and exits of spring took place in proper order; the lilacs ended; the jasmines began; some flowers were tardy, some insects in advance of their time; the van-guard of the red June butterflies fraternized with the rear-guard of the white butterflies of May. The plantain trees were getting their new skins. The breeze hollowed out undulations in the magnificent enormity of the chestnut-trees. It was splendid. A veteran from the neighboring barracks, who was gazing through the fence, said: "Here is the Spring presenting arms and in full uniform."
All nature was breakfasting; creation was at table; this was its hour; the great blue cloth was spread in the sky, and the great green cloth on earth; the sun lighted it all up brilliantly. God was serving the universal repast. Each creature had his pasture or his mess. The ring-dove found his hemp-seed, the chaffinch found his millet, the goldfinch found chickweed, the red-breast found worms, the green finch found flies, the fly found infusoriae, the bee found flowers. They ate each other somewhat, it is true, which is the misery of evil mixed with good; but not a beast of them all had an empty stomach.
The two little abandoned creatures had arrived in the vicinity of the grand fountain, and, rather bewildered by all this light, they tried to hide themselves, the instinct of the poor and the weak in the presence of even impersonal magnificence; and they kept behind the swans' hutch.
Here and there, at intervals, when the wind blew, shouts, clamor, a sort of tumultuous death rattle, which was the firing, and dull blows, which were discharges of cannon, struck the ear confusedly. Smoke hung over the roofs in the direction of the Halles. A bell, which had the air of an appeal, was ringing in the distance.
These children did not appear to notice these noises. The little one repeated from time to time: "I am hungry." 
Almost at the same instant with the children, another couple approached the great basin. They consisted of a goodman, about fifty years of age, who was leading by the hand a little fellow of six. No doubt, a father and his son. The little man of six had a big brioche.
At that epoch, certain houses abutting on the river, in the Rues Madame and d'Enfer, had keys to the Luxembourg garden, of which the lodgers enjoyed the use when the gates were shut, a privilege which was suppressed later on. This father and son came from one of these houses, no doubt. 
The two poor little creatures watched "that gentleman" approaching, and hid themselves a little more thoroughly. 
He was a bourgeois. The same person, perhaps, whom Marius had one day heard, through his love fever, near the same grand basin, counselling his son "to avoid excesses." He had an affable and haughty air, and a mouth which was always smiling, since it did not shut. This mechanical smile, produced by too much jaw and too little skin, shows the teeth rather than the soul. The child, with his brioche, which he had bitten into but had not finished eating, seemed satiated. The child was dressed as a National Guardsman, owing to the insurrection, and the father had remained clad as a bourgeois out of prudence.
Father and son halted near the fountain where two swans were sporting. This bourgeois appeared to cherish a special admiration for the swans. He resembled them in this sense,that he walked like them. 
For the moment, the swans were swimming, which is their principal talent, and they were superb. 
If the two poor little beings had listened and if they had been of an age to understand, they might have gathered the words of this grave man. The father was saying to his son: 
"The sage lives content with little. Look at me, my son. I do not love pomp. I am never seen in clothes decked with gold lace and stones; I leave that false splendor to badly organized souls."
Here the deep shouts which proceeded from the direction of the Halles burst out with fresh force of bell and uproar. 
"What is that?" inquired the child.
The father replied:
"It is the Saturnalia."
All at once, he caught sight of the two little ragged boys behind the green swan-hutch.
"There is the beginning," said he.
And, after a pause, he added:
"Anarchy is entering this garden."
In the meanwhile, his son took a bite of his brioche, spit it out, and, suddenly burst out crying. 
"What are you crying about?" demanded his father.
"I am not hungry any more," said the child.
The father's smile became more accentuated.
"One does not need to be hungry in order to eat a cake."
"My cake tires me. It is stale."
"Don't you want any more of it?"
"No."
The father pointed to the swans.
"Throw it to those palmipeds."
The child hesitated. A person may not want any more of his cake; but that is no reason for giving it away. 
The father went on:
"Be humane. You must have compassion on animals."
And, taking the cake from his son, he flung it into the basin.
The cake fell very near the edge.
The swans were far away, in the centre of the basin, and busy with some prey. They had seen neither the bourgeois nor the brioche. 
The bourgeois, feeling that the cake was in danger of being wasted, and moved by this useless shipwreck, entered upon a telegraphic agitation, which finally attracted the attention of the swans.
They perceived something floating, steered for the edge like ships, as they are, and slowly directed their course toward the brioche, with the stupid majesty which befits white creatures. 
"The swans [cygnes] understand signs [signes]," said the bourgeois, delighted to make a jest.
At that moment, the distant tumult of the city underwent another sudden increase. This time it was sinister. There are some gusts of wind which speak more distinctly than others. The one which was blowing at that moment brought clearly defined drum-beats, clamors, platoon firing, and the dismal replies of the tocsin and the cannon. This coincided with a black cloud which suddenly veiled the sun.
The swans had not yet reached the brioche.
"Let us return home," said the father, "they are attacking the Tuileries."
He grasped his son's hand again. Then he continued:
"From the Tuileries to the Luxembourg, there is but the distance which separates Royalty from the peerage; that is not far. Shots will soon rain down."
He glanced at the cloud.
"Perhaps it is rain itself that is about to shower down; the sky is joining in; the younger branch is condemned. Let us return home quickly."
"I should like to see the swans eat the brioche," said the child.
The father replied:
"That would be imprudent."
And he led his little bourgeois away.
The son, regretting the swans, turned his head back toward the basin until a corner of the quincunxes concealed it from him. 
In the meanwhile, the two little waifs had approached the brioche at the same time as the swans. It was floating on the water. The smaller of them stared at the cake, the elder gazed after the retreating bourgeois.
Father and son entered the labyrinth of walks which leads to the grand flight of steps near the clump of trees on the side of the Rue Madame. 
As soon as they had disappeared from view, the elder child hastily flung himself flat on his stomach on the rounding curb of the basin, and clinging to it with his left hand, and leaning over the water, on the verge of falling in, he stretched out his right hand with his stick towards the cake. The swans, perceiving the enemy, made haste, and in so doing, they produced an effect of their breasts which was of service to the little fisher; the water flowed back before the swans, and one of these gentle concentric undulations softly floated the brioche towards the child's wand. Just as the swans came up, the stick touched the cake. The child gave it a brisk rap, drew in the brioche, frightened away the swans, seized the cake, and sprang to his feet. The cake was wet; but they were hungry and thirsty. The elder broke the cake into two portions, a large one and a small one, took the small one for himself, gave the large one to his brother, and said to him:
"Ram that into your muzzle."
正在此时，在卢森堡公园中棗戏剧的目光应该无所不在棗有两个孩子手牵着手，一个约有七岁，另一个五岁。雨水把他们淋湿了，他们在向阳一边的小径上走着，大的领着小的，他们衣衫褴褛，面容苍白，好象两只野雀。小的说：“我饿得很。”老大多少象个保护人了，左手牵着小弟弟，右手拿着一根小棍棒。
只有他们两人在花园里，花园空无一人，铁栅栏门在起义期间根据警方的命令关闭了。里面宿营的部队已离开迎战去了。
孩子们怎么会在这里的？这可能是从半掩着门的收容所里逃出来的；也许是从附近，从唐斐便门，或天文台的了望台上，或从邻近的十字路口，那儿有一个居高临下的三角门楣的装饰，上面写着“今拾到一个布裹的婴儿”①，从那里的卖艺的木棚里逃出来的；也可能是头天晚上关门时，他们躲过了看门人的目光，在阅报亭里度过了一宵？事实是他们在流浪，然而又好象很自由。流浪而好象很自由就是无家可归。这两个可怜的孩子确实已没有归宿了。 
①原文为拉丁文Invenerunt　parvulum　pannis　involutum。
读者应该还记得，这就是使伽弗洛什担忧的两个孩子，德纳第的孩子，曾借给马侬当作吉诺曼先生的孩子，如今已象无根的断枝上掉下来的落叶，被风卷着遍地乱滚。
他们的衣服，在马侬家时是整洁的，那时对吉诺曼先生要交代得过去，现在已经破烂不堪了。
这些孩子从此便列入“弃儿”统计表内，由警方查明，收容，走失，又在巴黎马路上找到了。
还得碰上今天这样混乱的时期，可怜的孩子才能来到公园。如果看门人发现了他们，一定要撵走这些小化子。因为穷苦的孩子是不能进入公园的。其实人们应该想到，作为孩子，他们有权利欣赏鲜花。
幸亏关了铁门，他俩才能待在里面。他们违犯了规章，溜进了公园，他们就在里面待下来。铁门虽关却不允许检查人员休息，检查人员仍被认为在继续进行检查，但执行得懈怠而不严格；他们同样受到民众不安的影响，关心园外远胜园内，他们不再检查花园，因而没有看见这两个犯有轻罪的小孩。
昨晚下了雨，今晨还飘了雨点。但六月的骤雨不算一回事。暴雨过后一小时，人们很难察觉这美丽的艳阳天曾经流过泪。夏天地面很快被晒干，就象孩子的面颊一样。
在这夏至时节，白天的太阳可以说是火辣辣的，它控制了一切。它紧贴着伏在大地上，好象在吮吸似的。太阳好象渴了，骤雨等于一杯水，一阵雨立刻被喝尽。清晨处处溪流纵横，中午却已扬起了灰尘。
没有再比雨水打湿、阳光拭干的芳草更宜人的了，这是夏日的清新气息。花园和草地，根上有雨露，花上有阳光，同时成为散发出各种氤氲的香炉。一切在欢笑，歌唱，都在献出各自的芬芳，这使人感到一种甜蜜的陶醉。春天是暂时的天堂，阳光使人变得坚韧有力。
有些人不再苛求，他们只要有蔚蓝的天空就说：“这样足够了！”他们沉湎在神奇的幻想中，对大自然的崇拜使他们在善与恶面前漠然处之，他们对宇宙沉思默想，而对人则出奇地心不在焉，他们不明白，当人可以在树林中遐想自娱时，为什么还要为这些饥饿的人，那些干渴的人，要为冬天衣不蔽体的穷人，要为因淋巴而背脊弯曲的孩子，要为陋榻、阁楼、地牢以及在破衣烂衫中哆嗦的姑娘们操心；这些安谧和不近人情的心灵，毫无怜悯心的自得其乐。奇怪的是，他们满足于无限的太空。而人的重大需求，那包含博爱的有限事物，他们却并不理解。为有限所承认的进步，这一高贵的辛劳，他们不去想一想。而这一不定限，是在无限和有限方面人与天的结合而产生的，他们也同样体会不到。只要能与无极相对，他们就微笑。他们从不感到欢乐，但经常心醉神迷。自甘沉溺其中，这就是他们的生活。人类的历史在他们看来只是断篇残简，完整并不在此，真正的万有在外界，何必为人的这类琐事操心？人有痛苦，这很可能，但请看这颗红星①升起了！母亲没有奶水，新生儿濒于死亡，我一点也不知道，但请你察看一下显微镜下枞树的截断面所形成的奇妙的圆花形！你把最美丽的精致花边拿来比比看！这些思想家忘记了爱。黄道带竟使他们专心到看不见孩子在哭泣。上帝使他们见不到灵魂。这是某种思想家的类型，既伟大又渺小。贺拉斯是如此，歌德是如此，拉封丹可能也是如此；对待无限堂堂一表的利己主义，对疾苦无动于衷的旁观者，天气晴朗就看不见尼禄，太阳可以为他们遮住火刑台，望着断头台行刑时还在寻找光线的效果，他们听不见叫喊、啜泣、断气的喘息声，也听不见警钟，对他们来说，只要存在五月，一切都是尽善尽美的，只要头上有金黄和绛紫色的云彩，他们就感到心满意足，并决心享乐直至星光消逝，鸟儿不再啭鸣为止。 
①红星（Aldebaran），金牛座中最亮的一颗星。
他们是光辉灿烂中的黑暗。他们并没猜想到自己是可怜虫。无疑地他们就是如此。谁没有同情之泪也就是一无所见。我们应当赞美并怜悯他们，正如我们既怜悯又赞美一个同时是黑夜又是白昼的人，在他们的眉毛下面没有眼睛，只有一颗星星在额上。
思想家的冷酷，照某些人看来，这才是一种精深的哲学。就算这样，但在这种精深中有着欠缺的一面。一个人可以是不朽的，然而又是跛子，伏尔甘①就是一个明证。人可以高人一筹，也有低人一等的地方。大自然中存在着无穷尽的不完整的现象，谁知道太阳是否盲目呢？ 
①伏尔甘（Vulcain），希腊神话中的跛足火神。
那怎么办？信赖谁呢？谁敢说太阳虚假呢？①某些天才，某些杰出的人，那些星官们也会失误？那个在上空，在顶端，在最高峰，在天顶上的东西，它送给大地无穷光明，但它看见的很少，看不清或完全看不见？这难道不令人感到沮丧？不对。在太阳之上究竟还有什么？有上帝。
一八三二年六月六日上午十一时左右，卢森堡公园杳无人迹，景色迷人。排成梅花形的树木和花坛在阳光下发出芬芳的气息和夺目的色彩。所有的树枝在正午的烈日下似乎都在狂喜地相互拥抱。埃及无花果树丛中莺群一片啁啾，麻雀在唱凯歌，啄木鸟爬土板栗树用嘴在树皮的窟窿里啄着。花坛接受了百合花的合法王位；最尊贵的馨香出自洁白的颜色。石竹花的芬芳弥漫在空间，玛丽·德·梅迪契的老白嘴鸦在大树林中谈情说爱。阳光在郁金香上飞金贴紫，使它们发出火光，这简直就是一朵五光十色的火焰。蜜蜂在所有的郁金香花坛四周忙乱地转圈，就象火花上的火星，连同即将到来的阵雨，一切都是艳丽的，喜气洋溢的；这一再滋润的雨水，铃兰和金银花正可受益而无须担惊受怕！燕子低飞显示了一种可爱的威胁②，这里万物都浸沉在幸福里，生命是何等的美好，整个自然界处于真诚、救助、支援、父爱、温存和曙光中。从天而降的思想就象我们吻着孩子的小手那样温柔。 
①“谁敢说太阳虚假呢？”原文为拉丁文，语出维吉尔之《农事诗》“Solem　quisdicere　falsum　audeat？”
②燕子低飞，表示即将下雨，这是种威胁，但由于它飞翔姿态优美，故仍觉得可爱。
树木下的石像，洁白而裸露，透过阳光的照射，树荫给它们穿上了一件衣衫；这些女神身上光线明暗不一，而四周全是光线。大水池周围，地干得象是烤焦了一样。常常刮风使得到处都是尘土。晚秋的几片黄叶在欢快地相互追逐，就象野孩子在嬉戏一样。
到处一片光明使人感到一种无可形容的慰藉。生命、树液、暑热和香气都在涌溢；从宇宙万象中我们体会到那种巨大的源泉；在这充满了爱的微风中，在这往复的反响和反射中，在这肆意挥霍的阳光中，在这无限倾泻的金色流体中，使我们感到是取之不尽、用之不竭的；在这瑰丽似火的帷幕后面，我们瞥见了主宰亿万星辰的上帝。
多谢细沙，这里没有一点泥迹，幸亏雨露，这里没有一粒灰尘。花束洗涤一净；所有幻成花形从地下冒出来的丝绒、绫缎、彩釉和黄金都毫无瑕疵。这种华丽是完美无缺的。园林浸沉在一片欢悦的大自然的静谧里。一种天上才有的幽静与千万种音乐融洽共存，鸟巢中的咕咕声，蜂群的嗡嗡声和风的飒飒声。这个季节所有的音响和谐地合成一个完美的协奏；春季的物候井然有序，丁香凋谢了，茉莉迎上来；有些花要迟开，有些昆虫却来得很早；六月红蝶的先锋队和五月白蝶的后卫队亲如兄弟。梧桐换上新装。和风使高大华美的栗树丛此起彼伏，气势雄伟。附近兵营的一个老兵在铁栅栏门外望着说：“这是一个披坚执锐全副戎装的春天。”
整个自然界在进餐，万物已经就席。到时间了。大幅的蓝帷幕张挂在天上，宽阔的绿桌布铺陈在地下，阳光灿烂。上帝供全世界就餐。每种生物都有自己的饲料或糕点。野鸽找到了大麻子，燕雀找到了小米，金翅鸟找到了繁缕，知更鸟找到了蛆虫，蜜蜂找到了花朵，苍绳找到了纤毛虫，翠鸟找到了苍蝇。它们之间多少存在着相互吞噬的现象，是善和恶神秘的混合，但它们没有一个是空着肚子的。
两个被遗弃的孩子来到大池旁，阳光使他们有点昏昏沉沉，他们设法躲藏，这是穷人和弱者在豪华面前的本能畏缩，尽管不是在人前；于是他们躲在天鹅棚后面。
这儿那儿，在顺风时，可以断断续续模糊地听见叫喊声、嘈杂声和一种喧闹的嗒嗒声，这就是机枪在响，还有低沉的击拍声，这就是在开炮。菜市场那边的屋顶上冒着烟。一个类似召唤的钟声在远处回响。
这两个孩子似乎听不见这些响声。小的那个不时轻声说：
“我肚子饿。”
几乎和这两个孩子同时，另外一对也走近了大水池；一个五十岁光景的老人牵着一个六岁的小娃娃，这大概是父子俩。
六岁的小孩手里拿着一块大蛋糕。
在这一时期，在夫人街和唐斐街上有一些沿河的房屋，配备了卢森堡公园的钥匙，当公园的铁栅栏关闭时，房客们可以用它进入园中。后来这种特许取消了。父子俩大概是从一幢这样的房子里出来的。
两个穷孩子望见“绅士”走来，便藏得更隐蔽一些。
这是个有产者。也许就是马吕斯在热恋时期碰到的那个人。他曾听到他在这大池旁教训儿子“凡事不能过分”。他的态度和蔼而高傲，有一张合不拢的嘴，老在笑。这机械的笑容出自牙床大，包不住，露出的是牙齿而不是心灵。孩子拿着咬剩的蛋糕，好象已经吃撑了。由于处于动乱时期，孩子穿一身国民自卫军的服装；而父亲仍是有产者的打扮，而这是为了谨慎。
父子俩停在两只天鹅戏水的大池旁，这个有产者似乎特别欣赏天鹅，他在走路方面和它们也很相象。
这时天鹅正在游泳，这是它们的专长，游的姿态很优美。
如果这两个可怜的孩子注意听了，并也已到了懂事的年龄，他们就会听见一个道貌岸然的人所说的话。父亲对儿子说：
“贤者活着满足于无所求。看着我，我的儿子，我不爱奢华。从来不会有人见到我穿着缀有金片或宝石的衣服，我把这些假的光彩让给那些头脑有缺陷的人。”
此刻来自菜市场方面的沉闷的呼叫声、钟声和嘈杂的声音同时加剧起来。
“这是什么？”孩子问。
父亲回答：
“这是庆丰收的土神节。”
忽然间，他发现了这两个衣衫褴褛的孩子，一动不动地站在天鹅的绿色小屋后面。
“这正是开始。”他说。
停了一会儿，他加上一句：
“无政府状态进入了公园。”
这时儿子咬了口蛋糕，又吐出来，忽然哭了起来。
“你哭什么？”父亲问。
“我不饿。”孩子说。
父亲的笑容更为明显了：
“点心不是非等饿了才吃。”
“我讨厌这块糕点，它不新鲜。”
“你不要了？”
“不要了。”
父亲向他指指天鹅。
“丢给这些有蹼的鸟吧！”
孩子犹豫不决。他不要糕点，但没有理由要把它送掉。
父亲继续说：
“要仁慈，对动物应当有同情心。”
于是他从儿子那儿拿过糕点，丢进水池。蛋糕掉在离岸很近的水里。
天鹅在距离较远的池中心忙着吃捕获的东西。它们既没有看见这个有产者，也没有看见蛋糕。
这个有产者感到糕点有白丢的危险，对无谓的损失感到痛心，就设法现出一种焦急的样子，结果引起了天鹅的注意。
它们看见水面上漂浮着一样什么东西，于是就象帆船似的转舵慢慢地游向蛋糕，不失这种白色珍禽应有的高贵气派。
“天鹅领会这些手势①。”这个有产者说，为自己的俏皮话得意洋洋。 
①在法语中“天鹅”（cygne）与手势（signe）同音，故也可理解为“天鹅理解天鹅”。
这时城中的骚乱忽又增强起来，变得更为凄厉。几阵风吹来，要比别的更能说明情况。现在可以听到清晰的战鼓声、叫嚣声、小分队的枪声，沉郁的警钟和炮声在相互呼应。这时一团乌云忽然遮住了太阳。
天鹅还没有游到蛋糕那儿。
“回去吧，”父亲说，“他们在进攻杜伊勒里宫。”他抓住儿子的手，又说：
“从杜伊勒里宫到卢森堡，只有王位到爵位的距离，这不算远。枪声将如骤雨。”
他望望乌云。
“可能雨也要下了，天也加了进来，王朝的旁支①完了。快回家吧！” 
①指路易－菲力浦。
“我要看天鹅吃蛋糕。”孩子说。
父亲回答：
“这太冒失了。”
于是他把小有产者带走了。
孩子舍不得天鹅，不住地向大池回头望，直到梅花形排列的树木在拐角处遮住了他的视线为止。
与天鹅同时，这时两个小流浪者也走近了蛋糕。糕点浮在水面上，小的那个眼睁睁地望着，另一个望着走开的有产者。
父亲和儿子走上了蜿蜒的小路，这条路通往夫人街那边树丛密集的宽大的梯级那里。
当不再看到他们时，大孩子立刻趴在水池的圆边上，左手抓住边缘，俯在水上，几乎要掉下去，他用另一只手伸出棍子挨近蛋糕。天鹅看见对手，动作就加快了，它们的前胸迅速移动，产生了对小渔夫有利的效果，水在天鹅前面向后流，一圈荡漾着的波纹把糕点推向孩子的棍棒。天鹅刚游到，棍子也正好碰到蛋糕。孩子用一个快速动作来拨蛋糕，他吓走了天鹅，抓住蛋糕后就站起来。蛋糕浸湿了，但他们又饥又渴。大孩子把糕一分为二，一大一小，自己拿小的，把大的那一半给了弟弟，并对他说：
“拿去填肚子吧。”
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 17 Mortuus Pater Filium Moriturum Expectat
Marius dashed out of the barricade, Combeferre followed him. But he was too late. Gavroche was dead. Combeferre brought back the basket of cartridges; Marius bore the child.
"Alas!" he thought, "that which the father had done for his father,he was requiting to the son; only, Thenardier had brought back his father alive; he was bringing back the child dead."
When Marius re-entered the redoubt with Gavroche in his arms,his face, like the child, was inundated with blood.
At the moment when he had stooped to lift Gavroche, a bullet had grazed his head; he had not noticed it.
Courfeyrac untied his cravat and with it bandaged Marius' brow.
They laid Gavroche on the same table with Mabeuf, and spread over the two corpses the black shawl. There was enough of it for both the old man and the child.
Combeferre distributed the cartridges from the basket which he had brought in.
This gave each man fifteen rounds to fire.
Jean Valjean was still in the same place, motionless on his stone post. When Combeferre offered him his fifteen cartridges, he shook his head.
"Here's a rare eccentric," said Combeferre in a low voice to Enjolras. "He finds a way of not fighting in this barricade."
"Which does not prevent him from defending it," responded Enjolras.
"Heroism has its originals," resumed Combeferre.
And Courfeyrac, who had overheard, added:
"He is another sort from Father Mabeuf."
One thing which must be noted is, that the fire which was battering the barricade hardly disturbed the interior. Those who have never traversed the whirlwind of this sort of war can form no idea of the singular moments of tranquillity mingled with these convulsions. Men go and come, they talk, they jest, they lounge. Some one whom we know heard a combatant say to him in the midst of the grape-shot:"We are here as at a bachelor breakfast." The redoubt of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, we repeat, seemed very calm within. All mutations and all phases had been, or were about to be, exhausted. The position, from critical, had become menacing, and, from menacing, was probably about to become desperate. In proportion as the situation grew gloomy, the glow of heroism empurpled the barricade more and more. Enjolras, who was grave, dominated it, in the attitude of a young Spartan sacrificing his naked sword to the sombre genius, Epidotas. 
Combeferre, wearing an apron, was dressing the wounds: Bossuet and Feuilly were making cartridges with the powder-flask picked up by Gavroche on the dead corporal, and Bossuet said to Feuilly: "We are soon to take the diligence for another planet"; Courfeyrac was disposing and arranging on some paving-stones which he had reserved for himself near Enjolras, a complete arsenal, his sword-cane, his gun, two holster pistols, and a cudgel, with the care of a young girl setting a small dunkerque in order. Jean Valjean stared silently at the wall opposite him. An artisan was fastening Mother Hucheloup's big straw hat on his head with a string, "for fear of sun-stroke," as he said. The young men from the Cougourde d'Aix were chatting merrily among themselves, as though eager to speak patois for the last time. Joly, who had taken Widow Hucheloup's mirror from the wall, was examining his tongue in it. Some combatants, having discovered a few crusts of rather mouldy bread, in a drawer, were eagerly devouring them. Marius was disturbed with regard to what his father was about to say to him.
①为拉丁文mortuus　pater　filium　mo－riturum　expectat。　
马吕斯冲出街垒。公白飞跟着他。但太迟了。伽弗洛什已经死去。公白飞捧回了那篮子弹，马吕斯抱回了孩子。
唉！他心中想，那个父亲为他父亲所做的，他要在儿子身上报答，可是德纳第救回了他活的父亲，他呢，他抱回来的是死孩子。
当马吕斯抱着伽弗洛什走进棱堡时，他象那孩子一样，脸上也是鲜血淋淋。
他正弯腰抱伽弗洛什时，一颗子弹擦伤了他的头盖骨，他并没有觉察到。
公白飞解下他的领带包扎马吕斯的额头。
大家把伽弗洛什放在停放马白夫的那张桌子上，并用一块黑纱盖住两个身子，一老一少刚够用。
公白飞把他取回的篮子里的子弹发给大家。
这样每人得到了十五发。
冉阿让仍待在老地方，一动不动地坐在他的界石上。当公白飞递给他十五发子弹时，他摇摇头。
“这儿有个少见的古怪人，”公白飞低声对安灼拉说，“他居然在街垒中不作战。”
“这并不妨碍他保卫街垒。”安灼拉说。
“有一些奇怪的英雄。”公白飞回答。
古费拉克听见后，添了一句：
“他跟马白夫老爹不是一类的。”
有件事值得指出，向街垒射来的火力对内部影响很小。没有经历过这种旋风式战斗的人，不能理解在这种紧张气氛中，还能有宁静的时刻。人们走来走去，随意聊天，开着玩笑，松松散散。有一个我们认识的人听见一个战士在霰弹声中向他说：“我们好象是单身汉在进午餐。”麻厂街的棱堡，我们再重复一遍，内部看起来的确很镇定。一切演变和各个阶段都已经完成或即将结束，处境已从危急转为可怕，从可怕大概要演变成绝望。随着处境逐渐变得惨淡，英雄们的光芒把街垒映得越来越红。安灼拉严肃地坐镇街垒，他的姿势正如一个年轻的斯巴达人，他立誓要把光秃秃的剑奉献给忧郁的天才埃比陀达斯。
公白飞腰间围着围腰，在包扎伤员，博须埃和弗以伊用伽弗洛什从排长尸体上取来的火药罐里的火药在做子弹。博须埃对弗以伊说：“我们不久就要坐上公共马车到另一个星球去了。”古费拉克象一个少女在仔细整理她的针线盒一样，在几块他拾来放在安灼拉旁边的铺路石上安放排列一整套军械：他的剑杖、他的枪、两支马枪和一支手枪。冉阿让默不作声，望着他对面的墙。一个工人用细绳把于什鲁大妈的大草帽拴在头上，他说：“免得中暑。”艾克斯苦古尔德地方的年轻人愉快地在闲谈，好象急着要最后一次说说家乡的土话似的。若李把于什鲁寡妇的镜子从钩子上取下来察看自己的舌头。几个战士在抽屉中找到了一些几乎发霉的面包皮，贪婪地吃着。马吕斯在发愁，他的父亲会对他说些什么呢。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 18 The Vulture Becomes Prey
We must insist upon one psychological fact peculiar to barricades. Nothing which is characteristic of that surprising war of the streets should be omitted.
Whatever may have been the singular inward tranquillity which we have just mentioned, the barricade, for those who are inside it, remains, none the less, a vision.
There is something of the apocalypse in civil war, all the mists of the unknown are commingled with fierce flashes, revolutions are sphinxes, and any one who has passed through a barricade thinks he has traversed a dream. 
The feelings to which one is subject in these places we have pointed out in the case of Marius, and we shall see the consequences; they are both more and less than life. On emerging from a barricade, one no longer knows what one has seen there. One has been terrible, but one knows it not. One has been surrounded with conflicting ideas which had human faces; one's head has been in the light of the future. There were corpses lying prone there, and phantoms standing erect. The hours were colossal and seemed hours of eternity. One has lived in death. Shadows have passed by. What were they? 
One has beheld hands on which there was blood; there was a deafening horror; there was also a frightful silence; there were open mouths which shouted, and other open mouths which held their peace; one was in the midst of smoke, of night, perhaps. One fancied that one had touched the sinister ooze of unknown depths; one stares at something red on one's finger nails. One no longer remembers anything. 
Let us return to the Rue de la Chanvrerie.
All at once, between two discharges, the distant sound of a clock striking the hour became audible.
"It is midday," said Combeferre.
The twelve strokes had not finished striking when Enjolras sprang to his feet, and from the summit of the barricade hurled this thundering shout:
"Carry stones up into the houses; line the windowsills and the roofs with them. Half the men to their guns, the other half to the paving-stones. There is not a minute to be lost."
A squad of sappers and miners, axe on shoulder, had just made their appearance in battle array at the end of the street. 
This could only be the head of a column; and of what column? The attacking column, evidently; the sappers charged with the demolition of the barricade must always precede the soldiers who are to scale it.
They were, evidently, on the brink of that moment which M. Clermont-Tonnerre, in 1822, called "the tug of war."
Enjolras' order was executed with the correct haste which is peculiar to ships and barricades, the only two scenes of combat where escape is impossible. In less than a minute, two thirds of the stones which Enjolras had had piled up at the door of Corinthe had been carried up to the first floor and the attic, and before a second minute had elapsed, these stones, artistically set one upon the other, walled up the sash-window on the first floor and the windows in the roof to half their height. A few loop-holes carefully planned by Feuilly, the principal architect, allowed of the passage of the gun-barrels.This armament of the windows could be effected all the more easily since the firing of grape-shot had ceased. The two cannons were now discharging ball against the centre of the barrier in order to make a hole there, and, if possible, a breach for the assault.
When the stones destined to the final defence were in place, Enjolras had the bottles which he had set under the table where Mabeuf lay, carried to the first floor.
"Who is to drink that?" Bossuet asked him.
"They," replied Enjolras.
Then they barricaded the window below, and held in readiness the iron cross-bars which served to secure the door of the wine-shop at night. 
The fortress was complete. The barricade was the rampart, the wine-shop was the dungeon. With the stones which remained they stopped up the outlet.
As the defenders of a barricade are always obliged to be sparing of their ammunition, and as the assailants know this, the assailants combine their arrangements with a sort of irritating leisure, expose themselves to fire prematurely, though in appearance more than in reality, and take their ease. The preparations for attack are always made with a certain methodical deliberation; after which,the lightning strikes.
This deliberation permitted Enjolras to take a review of everything and to perfect everything. He felt that, since such men were to die, their death ought to be a masterpiece. 
He said to Marius: "We are the two leaders. I will give the last orders inside. Do you remain outside and observe." 
Marius posted himself on the lookout upon the crest of the barricade.
Enjolras had the door of the kitchen, which was the ambulance, as the reader will remember, nailed up. 
"No splashing of the wounded," he said.
He issued his final orders in the tap-room in a curt, but profoundly tranquil tone; Feuilly listened and replied in the name of all. 
"On the first floor, hold your axes in readiness to cut the staircase. Have you them?"
"Yes," said Feuilly.
"How many?"
"Two axes and a pole-axe."
"That is good. There are now twenty-six combatants of us on foot. How many guns are there?" 
"Thirty-four."
"Eight too many. Keep those eight guns loaded like the rest and at hand. Swords and pistols in your belts. Twenty men to the barricade. Six ambushed in the attic windows, and at the window on the first floor to fire on the assailants through the loop-holes in the stones. Let not a single worker remain inactive here. Presently, when the drum beats the assault, let the twenty below stairs rush to the barricade. The first to arrive will have the best places."
These arrangements made, he turned to Javert and said:
"I am not forgetting you."
And, laying a pistol on the table, he added:
"The last man to leave this room will smash the skull of this spy."
"Here?" inquired a voice.
"No, let us not mix their corpses with our own. The little barricade of the Mondetour lane can be scaled. It is only four feet high. The man is well pinioned. He shall be taken thither and put to death."
There was some one who was more impassive at that moment than Enjolras, it was Javert. Here Jean Valjean made his appearance. He had been lost among the group of insurgents. He stepped forth and said to Enjolras:
"You are the commander?"
"Yes."
"You thanked me a while ago."
"In the name of the Republic. The barricade has two saviors, Marius Pontmercy and yourself." 
"Do you think that I deserve a recompense?"
"Certainly."
"Well, I request one."
"What is it?"
"That I may blow that man's brains out."
Javert raised his head, saw Jean Valjean, made an almost imperceptible movement, and said:
"That is just."
As for Enjolras, he had begun to re-load his rifle; he cut his eyes about him:
"No objections."
And he turned to Jean Valjean:
"Take the spy."
Jean Valjean did, in fact, take possession of Javert, by seating himself on the end of the table. He seized the pistol, and a faint click announced that he had cocked it.
Almost at the same moment, a blast of trumpets became audible.
"Take care!" shouted Marius from the top of the barricade.
Javert began to laugh with that noiseless laugh which was peculiar to him, and gazing intently at the insurgents, he said to them: 
"You are in no better case than I am."
"All out!" shouted Enjolras.
The insurgents poured out tumultuously, and, as they went, received in the back,--may we be permitted the expression,-- this sally of Javert's:
"We shall meet again shortly!"
我们应该详述一下街垒里所特有的心理状态。一切和这次惊人的巷战有关的特征都不该遗漏。
不论我们提到的内部安谧有多么奇特，这街垒，对里面的人来说，仍然是一种幻影。
在内战中有一种启示，一切未知世界的烟雾混在这凶暴的烈火中，革命犹如斯芬克司，谁经历过一次街垒战，那就等于做了一个梦。
这些地方给人的感觉，我们已在述及马吕斯时指出了，我们还将看到它的后果，它超出了人的生活而又不象人的生活。一走出街垒，人们就不知道刚才在那里究竟见到过什么。当时人变得很可怕，但自己并不知道这一点。周围充满了人脸上表现出来的战斗思想，头脑中充满了未来的光明。那儿有躺着的尸体和站着的鬼魂。时间长极了，象永恒一样。人生活在死亡中。一些影子走过去了，这是什么？人们见到了带血的手；这里有一种可怕的震耳欲聋的声音，但也有一种骇人的沉默；有张口喊叫的，也有张口不出声的；人是在烟雾中，也许是在黑夜中。人似乎感到已经触到了不可知的深渊中险恶的淤泥；人看着自己指甲上某种红色的东西，其余一概回忆不起来了。
让我们再回到麻厂街。
突然在两次炮火齐射中，他们听见远处的钟声在报时。
“这是中午。”公白飞说。
十二响还未打完，安灼拉笔直站了起来，在街垒顶上发出雷鸣般的声音：
“把铺路石搬进楼房，沿着窗台和阁楼的窗户排齐。一半的人持枪，一半的人搬石头。时间已刻不容缓了。”
一组消防队员，扛着斧子，排成战斗队形在街的尽头出现了。
无疑的这是一个纵队的前列。什么纵队？肯定是突击纵队，消防队奉命摧毁这座街垒，因而总得行动在负责攀登的士兵之前。
他们显然要进行类似一八二二年克雷蒙－东纳先生称之为“大刀阔斧”的攻打。
安灼拉的命令被正确无误地飞速执行了，因为这样的迅速正确是街垒和轮船特别需要的，只有在这两个地方逃跑才成为不可能。不到一分钟，安灼拉命令把堆在科林斯门口三分之二的铺路石搬上了二楼和阁楼，第二分钟还没过完，这些铺路石已整齐地垒起来堵住二楼窗户和阁楼老虎窗的一半。几个孔隙，在主要的建筑者弗以伊的精心部署下，小枪筒已通出去。窗上的防卫很容易办到，因为霰弹已停止发射。那两门炮用实心炮弹瞄准墙的中部轰击，为了打开一个洞，只要能造成缺口，就发起突击。
当指定作最后防御物的铺路石安置好时，安灼拉命令把他放在马白夫停尸桌下的酒瓶搬上二楼。
“谁喝这些酒？”博须埃问。
“他们。”安灼拉回答。
接着大家堵住下面的窗户，并把那些晚上闩酒店大门的铁门闩放在手边备用。
这是一座不折不扣的堡垒，街垒是壁垒，而酒店是了望塔。
剩下的铺路石，他们用来堵塞街垒的缺口。
街垒保卫者必须节约弹药，围攻者对这一点是很清楚的，围攻者用那种令人生气的从容不迫在进行调动，不到时候就暴露在火力下，不过这是在表面上，事实上并不是这样，他们显得很自在。进攻的准备工作经常是有规律的缓慢，接着，就是雷电交加。
这种延缓使安灼拉能够再全部检阅一遍，并使一切更为完备。他感到这些人既然要去死，他们的死应该成为壮举。
他对马吕斯说：“我们两个是领队。我去里面交代最后的命令。你留在外面负责观察。”
马吕斯于是坐镇在街垒顶上警戒着。
安灼拉把厨房门钉死，我们还记得，这里是战地医院。
“不能让碎弹片打中伤员。”他说。
他在地下室简短地发出了最后的指示，语气十分镇静，弗以伊听着并代表大家回答。
“二楼，准备好斧子砍楼梯。有没有？”
“有。”弗以伊回答。
“有多少？”
“两把斧子和一把战斧。”
“好。我们是二十六个没倒下的战士。有多少支枪？”
“三十四。”
“多八支。这八支也装上子弹，放在手边。剑和手枪插在腰间。二十人待在街垒里，六个埋伏在阁楼和二楼，从石缝中射击进攻者。不要有一个人闲着。一会儿，当战鼓擂起进攻号时，下面二十人就奔进街垒。最先到达的岗位最好。”
布置完了，他转向沙威说：
“我没有忘了你。”
他把手枪放在桌上，又说：
“最后离开屋子的人把这个密探的脑浆打出来。”
“在这儿吗？”有一个声音问。
“不，不要把这死尸和我们的人混在一起。蒙德都巷子的小街垒很容易跨过去。它只有四尺高。那人绑得很结实，把他带去，在那儿干掉他。”
这时有个人比安灼拉更沉着，这就是沙威。
冉阿让在这时出现了。
他混在一群起义者中间，站出来，向安灼拉说：
“您是司令官吗？”
“是的。”
“您刚才谢了我。”
“代表共和国。这街垒有两个救护人：马吕斯·彭眉胥和您。”
“您认为我可以得到奖赏吗？”
“当然可以。”
“那我就向您要一次。”
“什么奖赏？”
“让我来处决这个人。”
沙威抬起头，看见冉阿让，他做了一个不易察觉的动作说：
“这是公正的。”
至于安灼拉，他在马枪里重新装上子弹，环视一下四周：
“没有不同意的吗？”
接着他转向冉阿让：
“把密探带走。”
冉阿让坐在桌子一端，的确已占有了沙威。他拿起手枪，轻轻的一声“喀哒”，说明子弹上了膛。
几乎在同时大家听到了号角声。
“注意！”马吕斯在街垒上面喊。
沙威以他那种独有的笑容无声地笑了笑，盯着起义者向他们说：
“你们的健康并不比我好多少。”
“大家都出来！”安灼拉喊道。
当起义者乱哄哄地冲出去时，让我们这样形容一下，沙威朝他们背后嚷了这样一句话：
“待会儿见！”
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 19 Jean Valjean Takes His Revenge
When Jean Valjean was left alone with Javert, he untied the rope which fastened the prisoner across the middle of the body, and the knot of which was under the table. After this he made him a sign to rise.
Javert obeyed with that indefinable smile in which the supremacy of enchained authority is condensed.
Jean Valjean took Javert by the martingale, as one would take a beast of burden by the breast-band, and, dragging the latter after him, emerged from the wine-shop slowly, because Javert, with his impeded limbs, could take only very short steps.
Jean Valjean had the pistol in his hand.
In this manner they crossed the inner trapezium of the barricade. The insurgents, all intent on the attack, which was imminent, had their backs turned to these two.
Marius alone, stationed on one side, at the extreme left of the barricade, saw them pass. This group of victim and executioner was illuminated by the sepulchral light which he bore in his own soul.
Jean Valjean with some difficulty, but without relaxing his hold for a single instant, made Javert, pinioned as he was, scale the little entrenchment in the Mondetour lane.
When they had crossed this barrier, they found themselves alonein the lane. No one saw them. Among the heap they could distinguish a livid face, streaming hair, a pierced hand and the half nude breast of a woman. It was Eponine. The corner of the houses hid them from the insurgents. The corpses carried away from the barricade formed a terrible pile a few paces distant. 
Javert gazed askance at this body, and, profoundly calm, said in a low tone:
"It strikes me that I know that girl."
Then he turned to Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean thrust the pistol under his arm and fixed on Javert a look which it required no words to interpret: "Javert, it is I." 
Javert replied:
"Take your revenge."
Jean Valjean drew from his pocket a knife, and opened it.
"A clasp-knife!" exclaimed Javert, "you are right. That suits you better."
Jean Valjean cut the martingale which Javert had about his neck, then he cut the cords on his wrists, then, stooping down, he cut the cord on his feet; and, straightening himself up, he said to him: 
"You are free."
Javert was not easily astonished. Still, master of himself though he was, he could not repress a start. He remained open-mouthed and motionless.
Jean Valjean continued:
"I do not think that I shall escape from this place. But if, by chance, I do, I live, under the name of Fauchelevent, in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7."
Javert snarled like a tiger, which made him half open one corner of his mouth, and he muttered between his teeth:
"Have a care."
"Go," said Jean Valjean.
Javert began again:
"Thou saidst Fauchelevent, Rue de l'Homme Arme?"
"Number 7."
Javert repeated in a low voice:--"Number 7."
He buttoned up his coat once more, resumed the military stiffness between his shoulders, made a half turn, folded his arms and, supporting his chin on one of his hands, he set out in the direction of the Halles. Jean Valjean followed him with his eyes:
A few minutes later, Javert turned round and shouted to Jean Valjean:
"You annoy me. Kill me, rather."
Javert himself did not notice that he no longer addressed Jean Valjean as "thou."
"Be off with you," said Jean Valjean.
Javert retreated slowly. A moment later he turned the corner of the Rue des Precheurs.
When Javert had disappeared, Jean Valjean fired his pistol in the air.
Then he returned to the barricade and said:
"It is done."
In the meanwhile, this is what had taken place.
Marius, more intent on the outside than on the interior, had not, up to that time, taken a good look at the pinioned spy in the dark background of the tap-room.
When he beheld him in broad daylight, striding over the barricade in order to proceed to his death, he recognized him. Something suddenly recurred to his mind. He recalled the inspector of the Rue de Pontoise, and the two pistols which the latter had handed to him and which he, Marius, had used in this very barricade, and not only did he recall his face, but his name as well.
This recollection was misty and troubled, however, like all his ideas.
It was not an affirmation that he made, but a question which he put to himself:
"Is not that the inspector of police who told me that his name was Javert?"
Perhaps there was still time to intervene in behalf of that man. But, in the first place, he must know whether this was Javert.
Marius called to Enjolras, who had just stationed himself at the other extremity of the barricade:
"Enjolras!"
"What?"
"What is the name of yonder man?"
"What man?"
"The police agent. Do you know his name?"
"Of course. He told us."
"What is it?"
"Javert."
Marius sprang to his feet.
At that moment, they heard the report of the pistol.
Jean Valjean re-appeared and cried: "It is done."
A gloomy chill traversed Marius' heart.
剩下了冉阿让单独和沙威在一起，他解开那根拦腰捆住犯人的绳索，绳结在桌子下面。然后做手势要沙威站起来。
沙威含笑照办，笑容还是那样无法捉摸，但表现出一种被捆绑的权威的优越感。
冉阿让抓住沙威的腰带，如同人们抓住负重牲口的皮带那样，把他拖在自己后面，慢慢走出酒店，由于沙威双腿被捆，只能跨很小的步子。
冉阿让手中握着手枪。
他们经过了街垒内部的小方场。起义者对即将到来的猛攻全神贯注，身子都转了过去。
马吕斯单独一人被安置在围墙尽头的左侧边，他看见他们走过。他心里燃烧着的阴森火光，照亮了受刑人和刽子手这一对形象。
冉阿让不无困难地让捆着腿的沙威爬过蒙德都巷子的战壕，但是一刻也不松手。
他们跨过了这堵围墙，现在小路上只有他们两人，谁也瞧不见他们。房屋的转角遮住了起义者的视线。街垒中搬出来的尸体在他们前面几步堆成可怕的一堆。
在这堆死人中可以认出一张惨白的脸，披散着的头发，一只打穿了的手，一个半裸着的女人的胸脯，这是爱潘妮。
沙威侧目望望这具女尸，分外安详地小声说：“我好象认识这个女孩子。”
他又转向冉阿让。
冉阿让臂下夹着枪，盯住沙威，这目光的意思是：“沙威，是我。”
沙威回答：
“你报复吧。”
冉阿让从口袋中取出一把刀并打开来。
“一把匕首！”沙威喊了一声，“你做得对，这对你更合适。”
冉阿让把捆住沙威脖子的绳子割断，又割断他手腕上的绳子，再弯腰割断他脚上的绳子，然后站起来说：
“您自由了。”
沙威是不容易吃惊的。这时，虽然他善于控制自己，也不免受到震动，因而目瞪口呆。</
j@!!!
l?瘃
f v!?@易≡谖淙私制吆拧Ｓ玫拿?质歉罘纭！? 
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 20 The Dead Are in the Right and the Living Are Not in the Wrong
The death agony of the barricade was about to begin.
Everything contributed to its tragic majesty at that supreme moment; a thousand mysterious crashes in the air, the breath of armed masses set in movement in the streets which were not visible, the intermittent gallop of cavalry, the heavy shock of artillery on the march, the firing by squads, and the cannonades crossing each other in the labyrinth of Paris, the smokes of battle mounting all gilded above the roofs, indescribable and vaguely terrible cries, lightnings of menace everywhere, the tocsin of Saint-Merry, which now had the accents of a sob, the mildness of the weather, the splendor of the sky filled with sun and clouds, the beauty of the day, and the alarming silence of the houses.
For, since the preceding evening, the two rows of houses in the Rue de la Chanvrerie had become two walls; ferocious walls, doors closed, windows closed, shutters closed.
In those days, so different from those in which we live, when the hour was come, when the people wished to put an end to a situation, which had lasted too long, with a charter granted or with a legal country, when universal wrath was diffused in the atmosphere, when the city consented to the tearing up of the pavements, when insurrection made the bourgeoisie smile by whispering its password in its ear, then the inhabitant, thoroughly penetrated with the revolt, so to speak, was the auxiliary of the combatant, and the house fraternized with the improvised fortress which rested on it. When the situation was not ripe, when the insurrection was not decidedly admitted, when the masses disowned the movement, all was over with the combatants, the city was changed into a desert around the revolt, souls grew chilled, refuges were nailed up, and the street turned into a defile to help the army to take the barricade.
A people cannot be forced, through surprise, to walk more quickly than it chooses. Woe to whomsoever tries to force its hand! A people does not let itself go at random. Then it abandons the insurrection to itself. The insurgents become noxious, infected with the plague. A house is an escarpment, a door is a refusal, a facade is a wall. This wall hears, sees and will not. It might open and save you. No. This wall is a judge. It gazes at you and condemns you. What dismal things are closed houses. They seem dead, they are living. Life which is, as it were, suspended there, persists there. No one has gone out of them for four and twenty hours, but no one is missing from them. In the interior of that rock, people go and come, go to bed and rise again; they are a family party there; there they eat and drink; they are afraid, a terrible thing! Fear excuses this fearful lack of hospitality; terror is mixed with it, an extenuating circumstance. Sometimes, even, and this has been actually seen, fear turns to passion; fright may change into fury, as prudence does into rage; hence this wise saying: "The enraged moderates." There are outbursts of supreme terror, whence springs wrath like a mournful smoke.--"What do these people want? What have they come there to do? Let them get out of the scrape. So much the worse for them. It is their fault. They are only getting what they deserve. It does not concern us. Here is our poor street all riddled with balls. They are a pack of rascals. Above all things, don't open the door."--And the house assumes the air of a tomb. The insurgent is in the death-throes in front of that house; he sees the grape-shot and naked swords drawing near; if he cries, he knows that they are listening to him, and that no one will come; there stand walls which might protect him, there are men who might save him; and these walls have ears of flesh, and these men have bowels of stone.
Whom shall he reproach?
No one and every one.
The incomplete times in which we live.
It is always at its own risk and peril that Utopia is converted into revolution, and from philosophical protest becomes an armed protest, and from Minerva turns to Pallas.
The Utopia which grows impatient and becomes revolt knows what awaits it; it almost always comes too soon. Then it becomes resigned, and stoically accepts catastrophe in lieu of triumph. It serves those who deny it without complaint, even excusing them, and even disculpates them, and its magnanimity consists in consenting to abandonment. It is indomitable in the face of obstacles and gentle towards ingratitude.
Is this ingratitude, however?
Yes, from the point of view of the human race.
No, from the point of view of the individual.
Progress is man's mode of existence. The general life of the human race is called Progress, the collective stride of the human race is called Progress. Progress advances; it makes the great human and terrestrial journey towards the celestial and the divine; it has its halting places where it rallies the laggard troop, it has its stations where it meditates, in the presence of some splendid Canaan suddenly unveiled on its horizon, it has its nights when it sleeps; and it is one of the poignant anxieties of the thinker that he sees the shadow resting on the human soul, and that he gropes in darkness without being able to awaken that slumbering Progress.
"God is dead, perhaps," said Gerard de Nerval one day to the writer of these lines, confounding progress with God, and taking the interruption of movement for the death of Being. 
He who despairs is in the wrong. Progress infallibly awakes, and, in short, we may say that it marches on, even when it is asleep, for it has increased in size. When we behold it erect once more, we find it taller. To be always peaceful does not depend on progress any more than it does on the stream; erect no barriers, cast in no boulders; obstacles make water froth and humanity boil. Hence arise troubles; but after these troubles, we recognize the fact that ground has been gained. Until order, which is nothing else than universal peace, has been established, until harmony and unity reign, progress will have revolutions as its halting-places.
What, then, is progress? We have just enunciated it; the permanent life of the peoples.
Now, it sometimes happens, that the momentary life of individuals offers resistance to the eternal life of the human race. 
Let us admit without bitterness, that the individual has his distinct interests, and can, without forfeiture, stipulate for his interest, and defend it; the present has its pardonable dose of egotism; momentary life has its rights, and is not bound to sacrifice itself constantly to the future. The generation which is passing in its turn over the earth, is not forced to abridge it for the sake of the generations, its equal, after all, who will have their turn later on.--"I exist," murmurs that some one whose name is All. "I am young and in love, I am old and I wish to repose, I am the father of a family, I toil, I prosper, I am successful in business, I have houses to lease, I have money in the government funds, I am happy, I have a wife and children, I have all this, I desire to live, leave me in peace."--Hence, at certain hours, a profound cold broods over the magnanimous vanguard of the human race.
Utopia, moreover, we must admit, quits its radiant sphere when it makes war. It, the truth of to-morrow, borrows its mode of procedure, battle, from the lie of yesterday. It, the future, behaves like the past.It, pure idea, becomes a deed of violence. It complicates its heroism with a violence for which it is just that it should be held to answer; a violence of occasion and expedient, contrary to principle, and for which it is fatally punished. The Utopia, insurrection, fights with the old military code in its fist; it shoots spies, it executes traitors; it suppresses living beings and flings them into unknown darkness. It makes use of death, a serious matter. It seems as though Utopia had no longer any faith in radiance, its irresistible and incorruptible force. It strikes with the sword. Now, no sword is simple. Every blade has two edges; he who wounds with the one is wounded with the other.
Having made this reservation, and made it with all severity, it is impossible for us not to admire, whether they succeed or not, those the glorious combatants of the future, the confessors of Utopia. Even when they miscarry, they are worthy of veneration; and it is, perhaps, in failure, that they possess the most majesty. Victory, when it is in accord with progress, merits the applause of the people; but a heroic defeat merits their tender compassion. The one is magnificent, the other sublime. For our own part, we prefer martyrdom to success. John Brown is greater than Washington, and Pisacane is greater than Garibaldi. 
It certainly is necessary that some one should take the part of the vanquished.
We are unjust towards these great men who attempt the future, when they fail.
Revolutionists are accused of sowing fear abroad. Every barricade seems a crime. Their theories are incriminated, their aim suspected, their ulterior motive is feared, their conscience denounced. They are reproached with raising, erecting, and heaping up, against the reigning social state, a mass of miseries, of griefs, of iniquities, of wrongs, of despairs, and of tearing from the lowest depths blocks of shadow in order therein to embattle themselves and to combat. People shout to them: "You are tearing up the pavements of hell!" They might reply: "That is because our barricade is made of good intentions."
The best thing, assuredly, is the pacific solution. In short, let us agree that when we behold the pavement, we think of the bear, and it is a good will which renders society uneasy. But it depends on society to save itself, it is to its own good will that we make our appeal. No violent remedy is necessary. To study evil amiably, to prove its existence, then to cure it. It is to this that we invite it.
However that may be, even when fallen, above all when fallen, these men, who at every point of the universe, with their eyes fixed on France, are striving for the grand work with the inflexible logic of the ideal, are august; they give their life a free offering to progress; they accomplish the will of providence; they perform a religious act. At the appointed hour, with as much disinterestedness as an actor who answers to his cue, in obedience to the divine stage-manager, they enter the tomb. And this hopeless combat, this stoical disappearance they accept in order to bring about the supreme and universal consequences, the magnificent and irresistibly human movement begun on the 14th of July, 1789; these soldiers are priests. The French revolution is an act of God. 
Moreover, there are, and it is proper to add this distinction to the distinctions already pointed out in another chapter,--there are accepted revolutions, revolutions which are called revolutions; there are refused revolutions, which are called riots.
An insurrection which breaks out, is an idea which is passing its examination before the people. If the people lets fall a black ball, the idea is dried fruit; the insurrection is a mere skirmish. 
Waging war at every summons and every time that Utopia desires it, is not the thing for the peoples. Nations have not always and at every hour the temperament of heroes and martyrs. 
They are positive. A priori, insurrection is repugnant to them, in the first place, because it often results in a catastrophe, in the second place, because it always has an abstraction as its point of departure.
Because, and this is a noble thing, it is always for the ideal, and for the ideal alone, that those who sacrifice themselves do thus sacrifice themselves. An insurrection is an enthusiasm. Enthusiasm may wax wroth; hence the appeal to arms. But every insurrection, which aims at a government or a regime, aims higher. Thus, for instance, and we insist upon it, what the chiefs of the insurrection of 1832, and, in particular, the young enthusiasts of the Rue de la Chanvrerie were combating, was not precisely Louis Philippe. The majority of them, when talking freely, did justice to this king who stood midway between monarchy and revolution; no one hated him. But they attacked the younger branch of the divine right in Louis Philippe as they had attacked its elder branch in Charles X.; and that which they wished to overturn in overturning royalty in France, was, as we have explained, the usurpation of man over man, and of privilege over right in the entire universe. Paris without a king has as result the world without despots. This is the manner in which they reasoned. Their aim was distant no doubt, vague perhaps, and it retreated in the face of their efforts; but it was great.
Thus it is. And we sacrifice ourselves for these visions, which are almost always illusions for the sacrificed, but illusions with which, after all, the whole of human certainty is mingled. We throw ourselves into these tragic affairs and become intoxicated with that which we are about to do. Who knows? We may succeed. We are few in number, we have a whole army arrayed against us; but we are defending right, the natural law, the sovereignty of each one over himself from which no abdication is possible, justice and truth, and in case of need, we die like the three hundred Spartans. We do not think of Don Quixote but of Leonidas. And we march straight before us, and once pledged, we do not draw back, and we rush onwards with head held low, cherishing as our hope an unprecedented victory, revolution completed, progress set free again,the aggrandizement of the human race, universal deliverance; and in the event of the worst, Thermopylae. 
These passages of arms for the sake of progress often suffer shipwreck, and we have just explained why. The crowd is restive in the presence of the impulses of paladins. Heavy masses, the multitudes which are fragile because of their very weight, fear adventures; and there is a touch of adventure in the ideal.
Moreover, and we must not forget this, interests which are not very friendly to the ideal and the sentimental are in the way. Sometimes the stomach paralyzes the heart.
The grandeur and beauty of France lies in this, that she takes less from the stomach than other nations: she more easily knots the rope about her loins. She is the first awake, the last asleep. She marches forwards. She is a seeker.
This arises from the fact that she is an artist. 
The ideal is nothing but the culminating point of logic, the same as the beautiful is nothing but the summit of the true. Artistic peoples are also consistent peoples. To love beauty is to see the light. That is why the torch of Europe, that is to say of civilization, was first borne by Greece, who passed it on to Italy, who handed it on to France. Divine, illuminating nations of scouts! Vitaelampada tradunt.
It is an admirable thing that the poetry of a people is the element of its progress. The amount of civilization is measured by the quantity of imagination. Only, a civilizing people should remain a manly people. Corinth, yes; Sybaris, no. Whoever becomes effeminate makes himself a bastard. He must be neither a dilettante nor a virtuoso: but he must be artistic. In the matter of civilization, he must not refine, but he must sublime. On this condition, one gives to the human race the pattern of the ideal.
The modern ideal has its type in art, and its means is science. It is through science that it will realize that august vision of the poets, the socially beautiful. Eden will be reconstructed by A+B. At the point which civilization has now reached, the exact is a necessary element of the splendid, and the artistic sentiment is not only served, but completed by the scientific organ; dreams must be calculated. Art, which is the conqueror, should have for support science, which is the walker; the solidity of the creature which is ridden is of importance. The modern spirit is the genius of Greece with the genius of India as its vehicle; Alexander on the elephant.
Races which are petrified in dogma or demoralized by lucre are unfit to guide civilization. Genuflection before the idol or before money wastes away the muscles which walk and the will which advances. Hieratic or mercantile absorption lessens a people's power of radiance, lowers its horizon by lowering its level, and deprives it of that intelligence, at once both human and divine of the universal goal, which makes missionaries of nations. Babylon has no ideal; Carthage has no ideal. Athens and Rome have and keep, throughout all the nocturnal darkness of the centuries, halos of civilization.
France is in the same quality of race as Greece and Italy. She is Athenian in the matter of beauty, and Roman in her greatness. Moreover, she is good. She gives herself. Oftener than is the case with other races, is she in the humor for self-devotion and sacrifice. Only, this humor seizes upon her, and again abandons her. And therein lies the great peril for those who run when she desires only to walk, or who walk on when she desires to halt. France has her relapses into materialism, and, at certain instants, the ideas which obstruct that sublime brain have no longer anything which recalls French greatness and are of the dimensions of Missouri or a South Carolina. What is to be done in such a case? The giantess plays at being a dwarf; immense France has her freaks of pettiness. That is all.
To this there is nothing to say. Peoples, like planets, possess the right to an eclipse. And all is well, provided that the light returns and that the eclipse does not degenerate into night. Dawn and resurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light is identical with the persistence of the _I_.
Let us state these facts calmly. Death on the barricade or the tomb in exile, is an acceptable occasion for devotion. The real name of devotion is disinterestedness. Let the abandoned allow themselves to be abandoned, let the exiled allow themselves to be exiled, and let us confine ourselves to entreating great nations not to retreat too far, when they do retreat. One must not push too far in descent under pretext of a return to reason.
Matter exists, the minute exists, interest exists, the stomach exists; but the stomach must not be the sole wisdom. The life of the moment has its rights, we admit, but permanent life has its rights also. Alas! the fact that one is mounted does not preclude a fall. This can be seen in history more frequently than is desirable: A nation is great, it tastes the ideal, then it bites the mire, and finds it good; and if it be asked how it happens that it has abandoned Socrates for Falstaff, it replies: "Because I love statesmen."
One word more before returning to our subject, the conflict.
A battle like the one which we are engaged in describing is nothing else than a convulsion towards the ideal. Progress trammelled is sickly, and is subject to these tragic epilepsies. With that malady of progress, civil war, we have been obliged to come in contact in our passage. This is one of the fatal phases, at once act and entr'acte of that drama whose pivot is a social condemnation, and whose veritable title is Progress. 
Progress!
The cry to which we frequently give utterance is our whole thought; and, at the point of this drama which we have now reached, the idea which it contains having still more than one trial to undergo, it is, perhaps, permitted to us, if not to lift the veil from it, to at least allow its light to shine through.
The book which the reader has under his eye at this moment is, from one end to the other, as a whole and in detail, whatever may be its intermittences, exceptions and faults, the march from evil to good, from the unjust to the just, from night to day, from appetite to conscience, from rottenness to life, from hell to heaven, from nothingness to God. Point of departure: matter; point of arrival: the soul. The hydra at the beginning, the angel at the end.
街垒的垂死挣扎即将开始。
一切都使这至高无上的最后一刹那有着悲剧性的庄严：空中那千万种神秘的爆破声，在看不见的街道上行动着的武装的密集队伍的声息，骑兵队断断续续的奔驰声，前进的炮兵部队发出的沉重的震动声，齐射的枪声和大炮声在迷宫般的巴黎上空回旋，战争的金黄色烟云在屋顶上冒起来，一种说不上来的有点骇人的怪叫声从远处传来，到处是可怕的火光，圣美里的警钟此刻已成呜咽声，温和的季节，阳光和浮云点缀着的灿烂的青天，绚丽的时光以及令人恐怖的死气沉沉的房屋。
因为从昨晚开始，这两排麻厂街的房屋已变成两堵墙，两堵不让人接近的墙，门窗紧闭，百叶窗也关着。
在那个时代，和我们现在的情况大不相同，当老百姓认为国王赐予的宪章或立法政体这种局面历时太久，要求结束的时候，当普遍的愤慨散布在空中，当城市允许掘去它的铺路石，当起义者向市民轻轻耳语，把口令私下相告而听者微笑时，这时的居民可以说是充满了暴动的情绪，他们就成为战斗者的助手，于是房屋和依赖房屋的临时堡垒就友爱地成为一体。当形势尚不成熟，当起义显然没有得到人们的赞助，当群众否定这个运动时，战斗者就毫无希望了。在起义者的四周，城市变为沙漠，人心冷漠，可避难的场所堵死了，街道成为协助军队去夺取街垒的掩蔽地带。
我们不能突如其来地要老百姓违反他们的意愿而加速前进。谁想强迫老百姓谁倒霉！老百姓决不听人支配。他们会抛弃起义者，不管他们，这时暴动者便无人理睬了。一所房屋是一块峭壁，一扇门是一种拒绝，一座建筑物的正面是一堵墙。这堵墙看得见，听得明，但不愿理睬你。它可以半开着来营救你。不。这堵墙是个法官，它望着你而判你刑。紧闭着门的屋子是何等阴沉，它们仿佛已经死去，其实里面是活着的。内部的生命好象暂时停止了，但却存在着。二十四小时以来并没有人出来，可是一个人也不缺。在这石窟中，人们来来去去，睡觉，起床，全家聚集在一起吃喝；人们担心害怕，这害怕是件可怕的事！害怕可以使人原谅这种可怕的冷淡，害怕中夹杂着惊惶失措，就更情有可原了。有时，这种情况也是有的，惧怕会变为激情，惊骇能变成疯狂，如同谨慎变成狂怒一样，从而出现了这句深刻的话：“疯狂的稳重。”极端恐惧的火焰可以产生一缕阴郁的烟，那就是怒火。“这些人要干什么呢？他们永不知足。他们会连累和平的人们，好象革命还不够多似的！他们来这儿干什么？让他们自己去脱身吧！活该，是他们不对，自作自受，与我们无关。我们倒霉的街道被乱弹射击，这是一群无赖。千万不要开门。”于是房屋就如同坟墓一样。起义者在门前垂死挣扎，他们眼见霰弹和白刃来临，如果他们叫嚷，他们知道会有人听见，但不会有人出来，有墙可以保护他们，有人可以营救他们，这些墙有的是肉做的耳朵，但这些人却是铁石心肠。
这怪谁？
无人可怪！怪所有的人。
怪生活在一个不完善的时代。
乌托邦转变为起义者，由哲学的抗拒转变为武装的抗拒，从密涅瓦到帕拉斯①，总是冒着风险的，乌托邦急躁冒进成为暴乱，明知自己会有什么结局，常因操之过急，于是只好屈从，泰然地接受灾祸而不是胜利。它毫无怨恨地为那些否认它的人们服务，甚至为他们辩解，它的高尚就在于能忍受遗弃，在障碍面前它不屈不挠，对忘恩负义者温存体贴。
究竟是否忘恩负义？
从人类的角度来说，是的。
从个人角度来说，不是。
进步是人的生活方式。人类的生活常态称之为进步；人类的一致步骤称之为进步。进步在前进；它天上地下大巡游，要达到巧夺天工的神圣境界；它有时停顿，等待着和落在后面的人群会合；它有它的歇息，此时正在某个即将豁然开朗的出色的迦南②面前沉思；它也有入睡的长夜；使思想家痛心疾首的一点就是：阴影投射在人类的精神上，人在暗中摸索，无法使正在酣睡中的进步苏醒。 
①帕拉斯（Pallas），密涅瓦的另一个名字，她是智慧女神，也是战神。
②迦南（Chanaan），据《圣经》记载，迦南是上帝赐给以色列人的圣地。
“上帝可能已死去。”有一天，热拉尔·德·奈瓦尔①对本书作者说。他将进步与上帝混为一谈，把运动的暂时停止当成上帝的死亡。 
①热拉尔·德·奈瓦尔（Gérarddenerval，1808-1855），法国诗人及文学家。
绝望是错误的，进步必然会苏醒。总之，可以这样说，它睡着也在前进，因为人们发现它成长了。当它又站起来时，人们觉察到它高了一些。进步如同河流，不可能永远平静；不要筑起堤坝，不要投入石块；障碍能使河流溅起泡沫，使人类沸腾，从而产生混乱；但在混乱之后，我们就认识到进了一步。在秩序，即全球性的和平建立之前，在和谐统一普及大地之前，进步总是以革命为驿站的。
进步是什么？我们刚才已经说过，是人民永久的生命。
然而有时个人目前的生活抗拒着人类永久的生活。
让我们毫无隐痛地承认，各人有他不同的利益，他谋求这个利益并保卫它而无越权之罪；为了眼前的打算可以允许一定程度的自私；目前生活有它自己的权利，并非必须为未来而不断牺牲自己。目前的一代人有权在地球上过路，不能强迫他们为了后代而缩短自己的路程，后代和他们是平等的，将来才轮到后代过路。“我存在着。”有一个人轻声说。这个人就是大家。“我年轻，我在恋爱，我老了，我需要休息，我有孩子，我工作，我生财有道，事业昌盛，我有房屋出赁，我有资金投放在政府的企业里，我幸福，我有妻室儿女，我热爱这一切，我要活下去，不要干扰我。”这些原因使这些人有时对人类伟大的先锋队极端冷漠。
此外乌托邦，我们得承认，一打仗就离开了自己光芒四射的领域。它是明日的真理，它采用了战争的方式，这是昨日使用的手段。它是未来，但却和过去一般行动。它本是纯洁的思想，却变为粗暴的行为。它在自己的英勇中夹杂了暴力，对这暴力它应当负责；这是权宜之计的暴力，违反原则必定受到惩罚。起义式的乌托邦，手中拿着老军事规章战斗；它枪杀间谍，处死叛徒，它消灭活人并将他们丢入无名的黑暗中。它利用死亡，这可是严重的事情。似乎乌托邦对光明已丧失信心，光明本是它无敌的永不变质的力量。它用利剑打击，然而没有一种利剑是单刃的，每把剑都有双刃，一边伤了人，另一边便伤了自己。
作出了这种保留之后，并且是严肃的保留之后，我们不得不赞颂棗不论他们成功与否棗这些为了未来而战斗的光荣战士，乌托邦的神甫。即使失败了，他们仍是可敬的，也许正因为失败了，所以更显得威严。一个符合进步的胜利值得人民鼓掌；但一个英勇的失败更应该得到人民的同情。一个是宏伟的，另一个是崇高的。我们赏识牺牲者远胜于成功者，我们认为约翰·布朗比华盛顿伟大，比萨康纳比加里波的伟大。
总得有人支持战败者。
人们对这些为了未来而努力从事、以失败告终的伟大的人是不公正的。
人们责怪革命者散布恐怖，每个街垒好象都在行凶。人们指责他们的理论，怀疑他们的目的，担心他们别有用心，并谴责他们的意识。人们责备他们不该抗拒现存的社会制度，不该竖起、筑起并造成大量贫穷、痛苦、罪恶、不满和绝望，不该从地底下掘起黑暗的石块，筑起雉堞来进行斗争。人们向他们叫喊：“你们把地狱的铺路石都拆毁了！”他们可以回答：“这正说明我们筑街垒的动机是纯正的。”①
最妥善的办法当然是和平解决。总之，我们得承认，当我们见到了铺路石时，就会联想起那只熊②来，社会在为这种好心肠而担忧。但社会应该自己拯救自己；我们向它的善意呼吁，不需要剧烈的药剂，通过友好协商来研究疾苦，查明病情，然而再治愈它，这是我们对社会的劝告。 
①法国有句谚语：“地狱的路面是由良好的动机铺砌的。”这句话的意思是“很多有良好动机的人干了坏事”。
②拉封丹寓言《熊和园艺爱好者》中的主角，这只熊想赶走朋友鼻子上的苍蝇，他用石头砸苍蝇，结果砸死了自己的朋友。
无论如何，这些人，在世界的各个角落，目光注视着法国，并以理想的坚定逻辑，为了伟大的事业而战斗。他们即使倒下，特别在倒下的时候，也是令人敬畏的。他们为了进步无偿地献出自己的生命，他们完成了上天的旨意，作出了宗教的行动。到了一定的时刻，象演员到了要接台词时那样，大公无私、照上天剧情所安排的那样去进入坟墓。这个没有希望的战斗，和这泰然自若的消失，他们都能接受，为的是要把从一七八九年七月十四日开始的这一不可抗拒的人的运动，发展到它那辉煌而至高无上的世界性的结局为止。这些士兵是传教士，法国革命是上帝的行动。
再说，在另一章里已经指出的区别之外，还应增加下面这一区别：有被人接受的起义，这称之为革命，也有被人否定的革命，这称之为暴动。一个起义的爆发，就是一种思想在人民面前接受考验，如果老百姓掷下黑球，这思想就是一个枯萎的果子，起义便成为轻举妄动了。
每当空想愿意变成事实时，那时一声召唤，便立即进行战争，但这不是老百姓的作风，这些民族不是时刻都有着英雄和烈士气质的。
他们讲究实际。他们一开始就对起义有反感，第一，因为起义的结果经常是一场灾难；第二，因为起义的出发点经常是抽象的。
因为，尽忠者总是，并且也仅为理想而献身，这一点很高尚。起义是狂热的表现。狂热的头脑可以发怒，因而拿起了武器。但任何针对政府或政体的起义，矛头都对得更深远。譬如，我们要强调一下，一八三二年的起义领袖，尤其是麻厂街的激进青年所攻击的，并不完全是路易－菲力浦。大多数人，在坦率交谈时能公正地对待这个介乎君主制和革命之间的君王的优点，没有人憎恨他。在路易－菲力浦身上他们所攻击的是世袭神权王位的旁支，正如他们在查理十世身上攻击的是嫡系。我们已经解释过，他们推翻法国王朝，主要是想在全世界推翻人对人的篡夺和特权对人权的篡夺。巴黎如果没有君王，其结果就是世上将没有暴君。他们是如此推论的，他们的目标肯定很遥远，可能很模糊，他们在困难面前退却，但他们是伟大的。
情况就是这样。人们为这些幻影献身；对献身者来说，这些幻影几乎总是些梦想，总之，是些混淆了人类坚定信念的梦想。起义者把起义镀上了金又把它诗意化了。人们一头扎进这一悲惨事件中去，并被即将从事的事业所陶醉。谁知道呀！也许会成功。他们人数少，要和整整一支军队对抗，但他们为了保卫人权和自然法，保卫每个人不可放弃的主权，保卫正义、真理，必要时他们可以象那三百个斯巴达人一样死去。他们想到的不是堂吉诃德，而是莱翁尼达斯，他们勇往直前，既已投入战斗，就不后退，低着头往前冲，希望获得空前的胜利，更为完善的革命，恢复了自由的进步，希望人类更加伟大，世界得到拯救，最坏也无非是塞莫皮莱罢了。
这些为了进步的交锋常常遭到失败，我们刚才已说明了原因。群众不愿受勇士的驱使。这些呆滞的人民大众，他们所以脆弱是因为他们迟钝，他们害怕冒险的行动，而理想是具有冒险性的。
此外，我们不能忘记，这儿有一个利益问题，与理想和感情不大相容，有时胃会使心麻痹。
法国的伟大和美丽就在于它不象其他民族那样肚子凸起，它能较灵便地把绳子系在腰上，它最早觉醒，最后入睡。它前进，它探索。
这正是因为它是艺术家。
理想无非就是逻辑的最高峰，同样美就是真的顶端。艺术的民族同时也是彻底的民族。爱美就是要求光明。因此欧洲的火炬，即文明的火炬，首先由希腊举起，再传到意大利，再传到法国。神圣的民族先锋队！他们在传递生命之灯①。
奇妙的是，一个民族的诗意是它进步的原素。文化的分量是由想象力的分量来测定的。但一个传播文化的民族应该是刚强的。象科林斯②，对了！象西巴利斯③，不行。谁爱懦弱，谁就要衰退。不要当业余爱好者，也别当有名的演奏家，要做艺术家。至于文化，不应将其提炼精制，而应使其纯化。在这一条件下，我们就能赐予人类理想的模范。 
①他们在传递生命之灯，原文为拉丁文Vitailampadatradrnt。
②科林斯（Corinthe），古希腊城市，此处指其刚强，曾与雅典、斯巴达抗衡。
③西巴利斯（Sybaris），古意大利城市，居民以柔弱著称。
现代的理想以艺术为典型，以科学为手段。照科学办，我们就能实现诗人的宏伟幻想棗社会的美。我们将用A＋B重建乐园。文化发展到这样一种程度，精确成了壮丽不可少的成分，科学手段不仅帮助而且充实了艺术的情感。梦想必须谋划。本是征服者的艺术，应以科学为支点，这是它的原动力。坐骑的坚固与否是很重要的，现代的智慧，就是以印度天才为运载工具的希腊天才，是亚历山大骑在大象身上。
被教条僵化或被利欲腐蚀的民族不适宜领导文化。膜拜偶像或金钱会使支配行走的肌肉萎缩，使向上的意志衰退。沉浸在宗教的传统中或商业买卖中就会使民族逊色，降低其水平，同时也缩小了它的视野，使它失去了那为世界目标奋斗的既属人又属神的智慧，这智慧本可使这民族成为传道者。巴比伦没有理想，迦太基也没有。雅典和罗马才具有，并在经历了多少世纪的黑暗后仍保持着文化的光环。
法国和希腊、意大利有着同样的民族素质，它有雅典人的美，罗马人的伟大。此外，它是善良的。它慷慨献身，它比其他民族更乐于尽忠，乐于牺牲，可是这种气质时有时无，这样对于那些法国想走、他们偏要跑，或法国想停下、他们偏要走的人是很危险的。法国也曾多次犯过唯物主义的错误，有时，使这超凡的头脑闭塞的思想一点也不能使人回想起伟大的法国，而只回想起米苏里州或南卡罗来纳州罢了。怎么办？巨人装矮子，辽阔的法国有时会突然爱好渺小。就是这样而已。
对于这种情况无话可说。人民和星宿一样，有权暂时隐没。一切都很好，只要光明重现，只要暂时的隐没不要退化成黑夜就是了。黎明和复活是同义词，光明的重现和“我”的延续相同。
让我们平静地来看待这些事。死于街垒或流亡，对于忠诚的人来说，在不得已时都是可以接受的。忠忱的真谛，就是忘我。被遗弃者让他们被遗弃吧，流放者被流放吧，我们只恳求伟大的人民后退时不要退得过远；不要借口恢复理智，而在下坡路上滑过了头。
物质是存在的，时间是存在的，利益是存在的，肚子是存在的；但肚子不应该是唯一的智慧。目前的生活有权被重视，我们承认这一点，但永久的生活也有它的权利。唉！登高了有时还会下跌，很遗憾这种事历史上常常能见到。有一个民族曾显赫一时，它曾处于理想的境界，然后又陷入污泥并还感到称心如意。如果有人问它为什么抛弃苏格拉底去找法斯达夫①，它的回答是：“因为我爱政客。” 
①法斯达夫（Falstaff，1378-1459），英国著名军官，以沉湎酒色、厚颜无耻著名。
在回到这次混战之前再说几句话。
一次我们此刻所谈到的战争无非是一种面向理想的痉挛。遇到障碍的进步是病态的，它就有着这些悲惨的癫痫病。进步的病痛是内战，在我们的行程中免不了会遇到。这是这出戏不可避免的一个阶段，既是一幕，又是幕间休息，剧的中心人物是一个社会上的受苦人，剧的真正名字叫“进步”。
进步！
这是代表我们思想经常发出来的呼声，我们这出剧发展到现在，它所包含的思想还要经受不止一次的考验，也许我们可以揭去帷幕，至少让它的光芒能清晰地透露出来。
此刻读者手边的这部书，中间不论有怎样的间断、例外或缺欠，从头到尾，从整本到细节都是从恶走向善，从不公正到公正，从假到真，从黑夜到天明，从欲望到良心，从腐化到生活，从兽行到责任，从地狱到天堂，从虚无到上帝。它的出发点是物质，终止处是心灵；它由七头蛇开始，以天使告终。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 21 The Heroes
All at once, the drum beat the charge.
The attack was a hurricane. On the evening before, in the darkness,the barricade had been approached silently, as by a boa. Now, in broad daylight, in that widening street, surprise was decidedly impossible, rude force had, moreover, been unmasked, the cannon had begun the roar, the army hurled itself on the barricade. Fury now became skill. A powerful detachment of infantry of the line, broken at regular intervals, by the National Guard and the Municipal Guard on foot, and supported by serried masses which could be heard though not seen, debauched into the street at a run, with drums beating, trumpets braying, bayonets levelled, the sappers at their head, and, imperturbable under the projectiles, charged straight for the barricade with the weight of a brazen beam against a wall. 
The wall held firm.
The insurgents fired impetuously. The barricade once scaled had a mane of lightning flashes. The assault was so furious, that for one moment, it was inundated with assailants; but it shook off the soldiers as the lion shakes off the dogs, and it was only covered with besiegers as the cliff is covered with foam, to re-appear, a moment later, beetling, black and formidable. 
The column, forced to retreat, remained massed in the street, unprotected but terrible, and replied to the redoubt with a terrible discharge of musketry. Any one who has seen fireworks will recall the sheaf formed of interlacing lightnings which is called a bouquet. Let the reader picture to himself this bouquet, no longer vertical but horizontal, bearing a bullet, buck-shot or a biscaien at the tip of each one of its jets of flame, and picking off dead men one after another from its clusters of lightning. The barricade was underneath it.
On both sides, the resolution was equal. The bravery exhibited there was almost barbarous and was complicated with a sort of heroic ferocity which began by the sacrifice of self.
This was the epoch when a National Guardsman fought like a Zouave. The troop wished to make an end of it, insurrection was desirous of fighting. The acceptance of the death agony in the flower of youth and in the flush of health turns intrepidity into frenzy. In this fray, each one underwent the broadening growth of the death hour. The street was strewn with corpses.
The barricade had Enjolras at one of its extremities and Marius at the other. Enjolras, who carried the whole barricade in his head, reserved and sheltered himself; three soldiers fell, one after the other, under his embrasure, without having even seen him; Marius fought unprotected. He made himself a target. He stood with more than half his body above the breastworks. There is no more violent prodigal than the avaricious man who takes the bit in his teeth; there is no man more terrible in action than a dreamer. Marius was formidable and pensive. In battle he was as in a dream. One would have pronounced him a phantom engaged in firing a gun.
The insurgents' cartridges were giving out; but not their sarcasms. In this whirlwind of the sepulchre in which they stood, they laughed.
Courfeyrac was bare-headed.
"What have you done with your hat?" Bossuet asked him.
Courfeyrac replied:
"They have finally taken it away from me with cannon-balls."
Or they uttered haughty comments.
"Can any one understand," exclaimed Feuilly bitterly, "those men,--[and he cited names, well-known names, even celebrated names, some belonging to the old army]--who had promised to join us, and taken an oath to aid us, and who had pledged their honor to it, and who are our generals, and who abandon us!"
And Combeferre restricted himself to replying with a grave smile.
"There are people who observe the rules of honor as one observes the stars, from a great distance."
The interior of the barricade was so strewn with torn cartridges that one would have said that there had been a snowstorm.
The assailants had numbers in their favor; the insurgents had position. They were at the top of a wall, and they thundered point-blank upon the soldiers tripping over the dead and wounded and entangled in the escarpment. This barricade, constructed as it was and admirably buttressed, was really one of those situations where a handful of men hold a legion in check. Nevertheless, the attacking column, constantly recruited and enlarged under the shower of bullets,drew inexorably nearer, and now, little by little, step by step, but surely, the army closed in around the barricade as the vice grasps the wine-press.
One assault followed another. The horror of the situation kept increasing.
Then there burst forth on that heap of paving-stones, in that Rue de la Chanvrerie, a battle worthy of a wall of Troy. These haggard, ragged, exhausted men, who had had nothing to eat for four and twenty hours, who had not slept, who had but a few more rounds to fire, who were fumbling in their pockets which had been emptied of cartridges, nearly all of whom were wounded, with head or arm bandaged with black and blood-stained linen, with holes in their clothes from which the blood trickled, and who were hardly armed with poor guns and notched swords, became Titans. The barricade was ten times attacked, approached, assailed, scaled, and never captured.
In order to form an idea of this struggle, it is necessary to imagine fire set to a throng of terrible courages, and then to gaze at the conflagration. It was not a combat, it was the interior of a furnace; there mouths breathed the flame; there countenances were extraordinary. The human form seemed impossible there, the combatants flamed forth there, and it was formidable to behold the going and coming in that red glow of those salamanders of the fray. 
The successive and simultaneous scenes of this grand slaughter we renounce all attempts at depicting. The epic alone has the right to fill twelve thousand verses with a battle. 
One would have pronounced this that hell of Brahmanism, the most redoubtable of the seventeen abysses, which the Veda calls the Forest of Swords.
They fought hand to hand, foot to foot, with pistol shots, with blows of the sword, with their fists, at a distance, close at hand, from above, from below, from everywhere, from the roofs of the houses, from the windows of the wine-shop, from the cellar windows, whither some had crawled. They were one against sixty.
The facade of Corinthe, half demolished, was hideous. The window, tattooed with grape-shot, had lost glass and frame and was nothing now but a shapeless hole, tumultuously blocked with paving-stones. 
Bossuet was killed; Feuilly was killed; Courfeyrac was killed; Combeferre, transfixed by three blows from a bayonet in the breast at the moment when he was lifting up a wounded soldier, had only time to cast a glance to heaven when he expired.
Marius, still fighting, was so riddled with wounds, particularly in the head, that his countenance disappeared beneath the blood, and one would have said that his face was covered with a red kerchief.
Enjolras alone was not struck. When he had no longer any weapon, he reached out his hands to right and left and an insurgent thrust some arm or other into his fist. All he had left was the stumps of four swords; one more than Francois I. at Marignan. Homer says: "Diomedes cuts the throat of Axylus, son of Teuthranis, who dwelt in happy Arisba; Euryalus, son of Mecistaeus, exterminates Dresos and Opheltios, Esepius, and that Pedasus whom the naiad Abarbarea bore to the blameless Bucolion; Ulysses overthrows Pidytes of Percosius; Antilochus, Ablerus; Polypaetes, Astyalus; Polydamas, Otos, of Cyllene; and Teucer, Aretaon. Meganthios dies under the blows of Euripylus' pike. Agamemnon, king of the heroes, flings to earth Elatos, born in the rocky city which is laved by the sounding river Satnois." In our old poems of exploits, Esplandian attacks the giant marquis Swantibore with a cobbler's shoulder-stick of fire, and the latter defends himself by stoning the hero with towers which he plucks up by the roots. Our ancient mural frescoes show us the two Dukes of Bretagne and Bourbon, armed, emblazoned and crested in war-like guise, on horseback and approaching each other, their battle-axes in hand, masked with iron, gloved with iron, booted with iron, the one caparisoned in ermine, the other draped in azure: Bretagne with his lion between the two horns of his crown, Bourbon helmeted with a monster fleur de lys on his visor. But, in order to be superb, it is not necessary to wear, like Yvon, the ducal morion, to have in the fist, like Esplandian, a living flame, or, like Phyles, father of Polydamas, to have brought back from Ephyra a good suit of mail, a present from the king of men, Euphetes; it suffices to give one's life for a conviction or a loyalty. This ingenuous little soldier, yesterday a peasant of Bauce or Limousin, who prowls with his clasp-knife by his side, around the children's nurses in the Luxembourg garden, this pale young student bent over a piece of anatomy or a book, a blond youth who shaves his beard with scissors,--take both of them, breathe upon them with a breath of duty, place them face to face in the Carrefour Boucherat or in the blind alley Planche-Mibray, and let the one fight for his flag, and the other for his ideal, and let both of them imagine that they are fighting for their country; the struggle will be colossal; and the shadow which this raw recruit and this sawbones in conflict will produce in that grand epic field where humanity is striving, will equal the shadow cast by Megaryon, King of Lycia, tiger-filled, crushing in his embrace the immense body of Ajax, equal to the gods.
突然袭击的战鼓敲响了。
飓风式的猛攻。昨夜在黑暗中，街垒好象被一条蟒蛇悄悄地靠近了。现在大白天，在敞开的大街上，奇袭肯定是不可能的；此外，强大的兵力已经暴露。大炮已开始狂吼，军队向街垒猛冲。狂怒现在成为巧妙的技能。一支强大的步兵呈战列纵队，在相当的距离内，平均地安插在国民自卫军和保安警察队之间，并有无数听得到看不见的人作后盾，向大街跑步冲来，他们擂起战鼓，吹着军号，刺刀平端，工兵开路，在枪林弹雨中沉着前进，直抵街垒，象根铜柱那样把重量压在一堵墙上。
这堵墙顶住了。
起义者激烈地开火。街垒出现了人在上面竞相攀登的场面，它有着一簇象鬃毛样披散的火光。攻打是如此猛烈，一时间四周全是进攻者；就象狮子对付群狗，街垒摆脱了这些士兵，它被围攻者覆盖着，只不过象浪花冲击悬崖一样，不一会儿，又重新露出黑色的巨大峭壁。
纵队被迫退却后又在街上密集，他们已没有掩护，但很可怖，他们用骇人的排枪向棱堡还击。见过烟火的人将会记起那种称之为礼花的交叉着的火光，试想这簇礼花不是垂直而是横着的，每束火花顶端有一颗实心弹、一颗大粒霰弹或一颗散子弹，在一连串的电闪雷鸣中撒播着死亡。街垒正处在它的下方。
双方的决心是相等的。勇敢在这里近于野蛮，并夹杂着某种残酷的英雄行为，这首先是来自自我牺牲的精神。在那个时代国民自卫军打起仗来就象轻步兵一样。军队要结束这场战争，起义者却要继续战斗。在年轻力壮的时候去接受死亡，这使大无畏的精神变为疯狂。混战中的每一个人都感到了最后时刻所赐予的至高无上的形象。街上堆满了尸体。
街垒的一头是安灼拉，另一头是马吕斯。安灼拉关心整个街垒，他等待战机，暂作隐蔽；三个士兵看都没有看到他，就在他的枪孔前接连倒下。马吕斯则是不加掩护地作战，成了众矢之的。他从棱堡顶上露出大半截身子。一个吝啬的人在发狂时可以千金一掷，在所不惜，但也没有比一个冥想者行动起来更可怕的了。马吕斯既极其可怕又沉思不醒。他在战斗中的动作如同在梦里一样，看起来好象是一个鬼魂在打枪。
被包围者的子弹逐渐耗尽，他们的嘲讽却还没有枯竭。在这座坟墓的旋风中，他们还是嬉笑自如。
古费拉克光着脑袋。
“你把帽子弄哪儿去了？”博须埃问他。
古费拉克回答：
“他们老开炮给轰掉了。”
或者他们还态度傲慢地评论一番。
“真不明白这些人，”弗以伊辛酸地喊着（他念着一些名字，有些甚至很有名，一些过去军界中的人士），“他们答应来参加并发誓帮助我们，他们曾以荣誉担保，他们是我们的将军，可是却抛弃了我们！”
公白飞只报以庄严的微笑：
“有些人遵守荣誉信条，好比人们观察①星星，隔着老远的距离。” 
①此处“遵守”与“观察”法语是同一个词：observer。
街垒的内部撒满炸开的弹片，就象下了一场雪。
进攻者人数众多，起义者地势优越。起义者在一堵高墙上很近地瞄准那些在尸体和伤兵间踉跄前进或在陡坡上跌脚绊手的士兵。这街垒筑得这样牢固真令人叹服，真不愧是一个固守的阵地，少数人就可阻挡一个军团。可是随时在补充人员并在枪林弹雨中不断增援的突击纵队无情地迫近了，现在正在一点点、一步步、但有把握地前进，象是压榨机的螺丝在拧紧，军队逐渐逼近街垒。
突击连续不断，恐怖越加强烈。
于是在这堆铺路石上，在这条麻厂街上，展开了一场堪与特洛伊之战相比的搏斗。这些形容憔悴、衣衫破烂、疲惫不堪的人，十四小时不进食，没合眼，只剩下几发子弹可供射击，现在正摸着没有子弹的空口袋；他们几乎都受了伤，头或手臂都用发黑的血污的布条包扎着，衣服的破洞中流出鲜血，有的武器只是管坏枪和旧而钝的刀，但却要成为巨人提坦了。街垒曾十次受到围困、攻打、攀登，但始终未被占领。
要对这次战斗有个概念，我们可以想象在一堆可怕的勇士身上点起火来，再来观看这场火灾。这不是一场战斗，这是一个火炉的炉膛。他们的嘴在吞吐火焰，他们的脸非常奇特。这已不再是人的形态；战士们浑身是火；见到这些在混战的红焰中来往的火蛇真是令人胆战心惊。对双方同时进行的连续不断的大规模杀戮场面，我们将不予描述，因为只有长篇的英雄史诗才有权用一万二千行诗句来叙述一次战斗。
简直就象婆罗门教的地狱，十七种地狱中最可怕的一种，在《吠陀》①中被称为剑林。
肉搏开始了，短兵相接，用手枪射击，长刀砍，拳头打，远处，近处，从上面，从下面，到处皆是，从屋顶，从酒店窗口，几个人钻进了地下室，从通气洞射击。这是一对六十的悬殊战。科林斯的门面已毁去一半，形状很丑。窗上弹痕累累，玻璃和窗框都已不在，只是一个畸形的洞而已，用铺路石乱七八糟地堵着。博须埃被杀死了，弗以伊被杀死了，古费拉克被杀死了，若李被杀死了，公白飞正在扶起一个伤兵时被刺刀刺了三下，刺穿了胸，只朝天望了一眼就气绝了。
马吕斯继续战斗，浑身是伤，尤其是头部，满面鲜血，好象盖了一块红手帕。
安灼拉是唯一没有受伤的。他没有了武器，就左右伸手，有个起义者随便放一把刀在他手里。他的四把剑只剩下了断片，比弗朗索瓦一世②在马林雅诺还多一把。 
①《吠陀》（Véda），印度最古的宗教文献和文学作品的总称。
②弗朗索瓦一世（FrancoisIer，1494-1547），法国国王，一五一五年至一五四七年在位。一五一五年在意大利马林雅诺城战胜瑞士人。
荷马说：“狄俄墨得斯扼杀了住在欢乐的阿利斯巴的特脱拉尼斯的儿子阿希勒；墨西斯特的儿子于利亚除掉了特来梭斯、奥菲提奥斯、埃赛普以及河神阿巴巴莱和无可非难的布科里奥怀孕后生下的儿子贝达希斯；乌利西斯推翻了贝谷斯的毕弟特；安提罗科推翻阿培来；波里波特斯推翻阿斯第耶；波里达马斯推翻西兰的奥多斯；透克洛斯推翻阿埃达翁。梅冈提奥斯死在欧里毕勒的标枪下。阿伽门农，英雄之王，打翻了生长在波涛滚滚的沙特诺以斯河所灌溉的悬崖城市中的埃拉多斯。”①在我们古代的英雄史诗中埃斯勃朗第安用两头冒火的利刃攻打巨人斯汪蒂坡尔侯爵，侯爵拔起城楼向这位骑士掷去自卫。我们的古老壁画中可以见到布列塔尼和波旁两个武装了的公爵，他们带着徽章和战盔，骑着马，握着战斧，戴着铁面罩，穿着铁靴，戴着铁手套，一匹马披着银鼠马衣，另一匹裹着蓝呢；布列塔尼那一位在冠冕的两角之间有他的狮子为记，波旁的那一位在铁盔帽舌上装饰着一大朵百合花。其实要表示堂皇，不需要象伊奉那样戴着公爵的高顶盔，象埃斯勃朗第安那样，举着一个火炬，或象波里达马斯的父亲费来斯那样，从埃非尔带回欧菲特王的礼物棗一副好甲胄，这只需为一个信仰或为了尽忠献出生命就够了。这个天真的小士兵，昨天还是博斯或里摩日的农民，腰间别着菜刀，在卢森堡公园孩子们的保姆周围徘徊，这个年轻的学生，面色苍白，专心解剖或看一本书，一个用剪刀剪胡子的金发少年，把他们两人集合在一起，向他们鼓吹一下责任心，把他们带到布什拉街口或在卜朗什－米勃雷死胡同内面对面站着，使一个为了自己的旗帜、另一个为了理想而战，让双方都认为是在为祖国而战；斗争将很激烈，这两个对抗着的步兵和外科医生，他们投在人类斗争的大战场上的影子可与多虎的里西君王美加莱在和伟大的与神明相等的埃阿斯②肉博时所投的影子相媲美。 
①以上人名均系荷马史诗《伊利亚特》及《奥德赛》中之英雄。
②埃阿斯（Ajax），特洛伊战争中的希腊英雄。主将阿喀琉斯死后，埃阿斯与奥德修斯争夺阿喀琉斯的武器，奥德修斯用计取胜，埃阿斯自杀而死。 
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 22 Foot to Foot
When there were no longer any of the leaders left alive, except Enjolras and Marius at the two extremities of the barricade, the centre, which had so long sustained Courfeyrac, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly and Combeferre, gave way. The cannon, though it had not effected a practicable breach, had made a rather large hollow in the middle of the redoubt; there, the summit of the wall had disappeared before the balls, and had crumbled away; and the rubbish which had fallen, now inside, now outside, had, as it accumulated, formed two piles in the nature of slopes on the two sides of the barrier, one on the inside, the other on the outside. The exterior slope presented an inclined plane to the attack. 
A final assault was there attempted, and this assault succeeded. The mass bristling with bayonets and hurled forward at a run, came up with irresistible force, and the serried front of battle of the attacking column made its appearance through the smoke on the crest of the battlements. This time, it was decisive. The group of insurgents who were defending the centre retreated in confusion.
Then the gloomy love of life awoke once more in some of them. Many, finding themselves under the muzzles of this forest of guns, did not wish to die. This is a moment when the instinct of self-preservation emits howls, when the beast re-appears in men. They were hemmed in by the lofty, six-story house which formed the background of their redoubt. This house might prove their salvation. The building was barricaded, and walled, as it were, from top to bottom. Before the troops of the line had reached the interior of the redoubt, there was time for a door to open and shut, the space of a flash of lightning was sufficient for that, and the door of that house, suddenly opened a crack and closed again instantly, was life for these despairing men. Behind this house, there were streets, possible flight, space. They set to knocking at that door with the butts of their guns, and with kicks, shouting, calling, entreating, wringing their hands. No one opened. From the little window on the third floor, the head of the dead man gazed down upon them. 
But Enjolras and Marius, and the seven or eight rallied about them, sprang forward and protected them. Enjolras had shouted to the soldiers: "Don't advance!" and as an officer had not obeyed, Enjolras had killed the officer. He was now in the little inner court of the redoubt, with his back planted against the Corinthe building, a sword in one hand, a rifle in the other, holding open the door of the wine-shop which he barred against assailants. He shouted to the desperate men:--"There is but one door open; this one."-- And shielding them with his body, and facing an entire battalion alone, he made them pass in behind him. All precipitated themselves thither. Enjolras, executing with his rifle, which he now used like a cane, what single-stick players call a "covered rose" round his head, levelled the bayonets around and in front of him, and was the last to enter; and then ensued a horrible moment, when the soldiers tried to make their way in, and the insurgents strove to bar them out. The door was slammed with such violence, that, as it fell back into its frame, it showed the five fingers of a soldier who had been clinging to it, cut off and glued to the post.
Marius remained outside. A shot had just broken his collar bone, he felt that he was fainting and falling. At that moment, with eyes already shut, he felt the shock of a vigorous hand seizing him, and the swoon in which his senses vanished, hardly allowed him time for the thought, mingled with a last memory of Cosette:--"I am taken prisoner. I shall be shot."
Enjolras, not seeing Marius among those who had taken refuge in the wine-shop, had the same idea. But they had reached a moment when each man has not the time to meditate on his own death. Enjolras fixed the bar across the door, and bolted it, and double-locked it with key and chain, while those outside were battering furiously at it, the soldiers with the butts of their muskets, the sappers with their axes. The assailants were grouped about that door. The siege of the wine-shop was now beginning.
The soldiers, we will observe, were full of wrath.
The death of the artillery-sergeant had enraged them, and then, a still more melancholy circumstance. during the few hours which had preceded the attack, it had been reported among them that the insurgents were mutilating their prisoners, and that there was the headless body of a soldier in the wine-shop. This sort of fatal rumor is the usual accompaniment of civil wars, and it was a false report of this kind which, later on, produced the catastrophe of the Rue Transnonain. 
When the door was barricaded, Enjolras said to the others:
"Let us sell our lives dearly."
Then he approached the table on which lay Mabeuf and Gavroche. Beneath the black cloth two straight and rigid forms were visible, one large, the other small, and the two faces were vaguely outlined beneath the cold folds of the shroud. A hand projected from beneath the winding sheet and hung near the floor. It was that of the old man.
Enjolras bent down and kissed that venerable hand, just as he had kissed his brow on the preceding evening. 
These were the only two kisses which he had bestowed in the course of his life.
Let us abridge the tale. The barricade had fought like a gate of Thebes; the wine-shop fought like a house of Saragossa. These resistances are dogged. No quarter. No flag of truce possible. Men are willing to die, provided their opponent will kill them.
When Suchet says:--"Capitulate,"--Palafox replies: "After the war with cannon, the war with knives." Nothing was lacking in the capture by assault of the Hucheloup wine-shop; neither paving-stones raining from the windows and the roof on the besiegers and exasperating the soldiers by crushing them horribly, nor shots fired from the attic-windows and the cellar, nor the fury of attack, nor, finally, when the door yielded, the frenzied madness of extermination. The assailants, rushing into the wine-shop, their feet entangled in the panels of the door which had been beaten in and flung on the ground, found not a single combatant there. The spiral staircase, hewn asunder with the axe, lay in the middle of the tap-room, a few wounded men were just breathing their last, every one who was not killed was on the first floor, and from there, through the hole in the ceiling, which had formed the entrance of the stairs, a terrific fire burst forth. It was the last of their cartridges. When they were exhausted, when these formidable men on the point of death had no longer either powder or ball, each grasped in his hands two of the bottles which Enjolras had reserved, and of which we have spoken, and held the scaling party in check with these frightfully fragile clubs. They were bottles of aquafortis. 
We relate these gloomy incidents of carnage as they occurred. The besieged man, alas! converts everything into a weapon. Greek fire did not disgrace Archimedes, boiling pitch did not disgrace Bayard. All war is a thing of terror, and there is no choice in it. The musketry of the besiegers, though confined and embarrassed by being directed from below upwards, was deadly. The rim of the hole in the ceiling was speedily surrounded by heads of the slain, whence dripped long, red and smoking streams, the uproar was indescribable; a close and burning smoke almost produced night over this combat. Words are lacking to express horror when it has reached this pitch. There were no longer men in this conflict, which was now infernal. They were no longer giants matched with colossi. It resembled Milton and Dante rather than Homer. Demons attacked, spectres resisted. 
It was heroism become monstrous.
当时活着的领队人只剩下队长安灼拉和马吕斯在街垒的两端，由古费拉克、若李、博须埃、弗以伊和公白飞坚持了很久的中部已抵挡不住了。炮火虽没有轰出可通行的缺口，却在棱堡的中部截了一个相当大的凹形。这儿的墙顶已被炮弹打塌，掉下来的碎石乱瓦有的倒向里，有的倒向外，积累成堆，使屏障内外形成了两个斜坡，外面的成了有利于攻打的斜坡。
发动了一次决定性的突击，这次突击成功了。兵士举着如林的刺刀向前猛冲，势不可档；突击纵队密集的战斗行列在陡坡顶上的烟火中出现了，这时大势已去，在中部抗御的起义人群混乱地退却了。
有些人燃起了一线模模糊糊的求生的欲望，他们不愿在这枪林弹雨中束手待毙。这时保全自己的本能使他们发出嗥叫，人又重新回复到动物的状态。他们被迫退到棱堡后部一所七层的楼房前面。这所房屋是可以救命的。它从上到下关得紧紧的，象砌了一堵墙似的。在军队进入棱堡之前，有充分的时间来打开又关上一扇门，只要一刹那就够了。这门忽然半开但又立即关上，对这些绝望的人来说，这就是生命。房屋后面，有大路可以逃跑，空旷无阻。他们开始用枪托捶门，用脚踢门，又喊又叫，合掌哀求，可是没有人来开。在四楼的窗口，只有死人的头在望着他们。
但是安灼拉和马吕斯，还有七八个聚在他们身旁的人，飞跑过去保护他们。安灼拉向士兵们叫喊：“不要近前！”一个军官不听从，安灼拉杀死了他。此刻他在棱堡小后院中，紧靠着科林斯的房屋，他一手持剑，一手握枪，把酒店的门打开，拦住进攻者。他向那些绝望的人大声说：“只有这扇门是开的。”他用身子掩护他们，独自一人应付一个战斗营，让他们在他身后过去。大家都冲进去。安灼拉挥舞着马枪，此刻起到一根棍棒的作用，这一着耍棍棒的人称之为“盖蔷薇”，用来挫倒他四周和前面的刺刀，自己最后一个进门；这时出现了可怖的一刹那，士兵们要进门，起义者要关门。那门关得这样猛，结果在关紧之后，可以见到一个抓住门框的士兵的五个断指粘在门框上。
马吕斯留在外面，一颗子弹打碎了他的锁骨，他感到晕眩而倒了下来。这时他闭上了眼睛，但还意识到一只有力的手抓住了他。对珂赛特最后的怀念在他心头萦回，他刚刚有时间闪过这样一个念头：“我成了俘虏，要被枪毙了。”接着就昏了过去。
安灼拉在逃入酒店的人中没有见到马吕斯时，也有同样的想法。但是此刻人只有时间考虑自己的死。安灼拉闩上门闩，插上插销，把钥匙在锁眼里转了两下，再锁上挂锁，这时外面猛烈敲打，士兵用枪托，工兵用斧子。进攻者麇集在门前，开始围攻酒店。
士兵们，可以这样说，都充满了狂怒。
炮长之死激怒了他们，更糟的是，在攻打前几小时，士兵中流传着起义者摧残俘虏的说法，据说在酒店里有一具无头士兵的尸体。这种必然会带来灾祸的流言蜚语经常伴随着内战，也正因为这类谣传，后来引起了特兰斯诺南街的事件①。 
①一八三四年四月十四日，政府军进攻特兰斯诺南街垒时，从十二号房屋里射出一枪，伤一军官，军队在攻入街垒后进行血腥屠杀。
当门已堵住后，安灼拉向其他人说：“我们死也必须使对方付出很高的代价。”
然后他走向躺着马白夫和伽弗洛什的长桌。黑布下是两个笔直僵硬的形体，一大一小，两张脸在冷冰冰的裹尸布的褶裥下面隐约可辨。一只手从尸布下露出来垂向地面，这是老人的手。
安灼拉弯腰吻了这只可敬的手，头天晚上他曾吻过他的额头。
这是他一生中仅有的两次吻。
我们扼要地说，街垒之战好比底比斯城门之战，酒店之战等于萨拉戈萨的巷战，这种抗拒是顽强的。对战败者不饶命，没有谈判的可能，人们拼死厮杀。当絮歇说：“投降！”帕拉福克斯回答：“炮战后拼刺。”于什鲁酒店遭受突击攻下时什么都使上了：有铺路石从窗口和屋顶如雨般倾泻打击围攻者，使士兵们遭到可怕的伤亡因而怒不可遏，有从地窖和阁楼打出来的枪，有猛烈的攻打，有狂暴的抗击，最后，门攻破后，就是疯狂的杀尽灭绝。进攻者冲进酒店，倒地的破门板绊住了他们的脚，竟找不到一个战士。盘旋的楼梯被斧子砍断，横在楼下厅堂中，几个受伤者刚断了气，所有未被杀死的人都在二楼，从本是楼梯通道的天花板的洞口，猛烈地开了火。这是他们最后的子弹。当子弹用尽了，这些濒于死亡的猛士已没有任何弹药，他们每人手中拿两个安灼拉储备的瓶子（我们前面提到过），他们用这易碎的骇人的粗棒对付攀登者。这是装了镪水的瓶子。我们如实地叙述这种凄惨的残杀。被围者，真可叹，把一切东西都变为武器。希腊的火硝并未伤害阿基米得的声誉，沸滚的松脂也无损于巴亚尔①的名声；一切战争都是恐怖的，没有选择的余地。包围军的机枪手，自下而上虽有些不便，杀伤力仍很可观。天花板洞口四周很快被一圈死人的头围着，流淌着长条的鲜血。那些嘈杂声真无法形容；在紧闭的火热的浓烟中就象在黑夜中作战一样，已到非笔墨所能形容的恐怖程度。这种地狱中的搏斗已没有人性，这已不是巨人对付大汉，这象密尔顿和但丁，而不象荷马。恶魔在进攻，鬼魂在顽抗。
这是残酷的英雄主义。 
①巴亚尔（Bayard，1475-1524），法国骑士，被同代人誉为“大无畏而又无可责难的骑士”。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 23 Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk
At length, by dint of mounting on each other's backs, aiding themselves with the skeleton of the staircase, climbing up the walls, clinging to the ceiling, slashing away at the very brink of the trap-door, the last one who offered resistance, a score of assailants, soldiers, National Guardsmen, municipal guardsmen, in utter confusion, the majority disfigured by wounds in the face during that redoubtable ascent, blinded by blood, furious, rendered savage, made an irruption into the apartment on the first floor. There they found only one man still on his feet, Enjolras. Without cartridges, without sword, he had nothing in his hand now but the barrel of his gun whose stock he had broken over the head of those who were entering. He had placed the billiard table between his assailants and himself; he had retreated into the corner of the room, and there, with haughty eye, and head borne high, with this stump of a weapon in his hand, he was still so alarming as to speedily create an empty space around him. A cry arose:
"He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot him down on the spot."
"Shoot me," said Enjolras.
And flinging away his bit of gun-barrel, and folding his arms, he offered his breast.
The audacity of a fine death always affects men. As soon as Enjolras folded his arms and accepted his end, the din of strife ceased in the room, and this chaos suddenly stilled into a sort of sepulchral solemnity. The menacing majesty of Enjolras disarmed and motionless, appeared to oppress this tumult, and this young man, haughty, bloody, and charming, who alone had not a wound, who was as indifferent as an invulnerable being, seemed, by the authority of his tranquil glance, to constrain this sinister rabble to kill him respectfully. His beauty, at that moment augmented by his pride, was resplendent, and he was fresh and rosy after the fearful four and twenty hours which had just elapsed, as though he could no more be fatigued than wounded. It was of him, possibly, that a witness spoke afterwards, before the council of war: "There was an insurgent whom I heard called Apollo." A National Guardsman who had taken aim at Enjolras, lowered his gun, saying: "It seems to me that I am about to shoot a flower." 
Twelve men formed into a squad in the corner opposite Enjolras, and silently made ready their guns. 
Then a sergeant shouted:
"Take aim!"
An officer intervened.
"Wait."
And addressing Enjolras:
"Do you wish to have your eyes bandaged?"
"No."
"Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?"
"Yes."
Grantaire had waked up a few moments before.
Grantaire, it will be remembered, had been asleep ever since the preceding evening in the upper room of the wine-shop, seated on a chair and leaning on the table.
He realized in its fullest sense the old metaphor of "dead drunk." The hideous potion of absinthe-porter and alcohol had thrown him into a lethargy. His table being small, and not suitable for the barricade, he had been left in possession of it. He was still in the same posture, with his breast bent over the table, his head lying flat on his arms, surrounded by glasses, beer-jugs and bottles. His was the overwhelming slumber of the torpid bear and the satiated leech. Nothing had had any effect upon it, neither the fusillade, nor the cannon-balls, nor the grape-shot which had made its way through the window into the room where he was. Nor the tremendous uproar of the assault. He merely replied to the cannonade, now and then, by a snore. He seemed to be waiting there for a bullet which should spare him the trouble of waking. Many corpses were strewn around him; and, at the first glance, there was nothing to distinguish him from those profound sleepers of death.
Noise does not rouse a drunken man; silence awakens him. The fall of everything around him only augmented Grantaire's prostration; the crumbling of all things was his lullaby. The sort of halt which the tumult underwent in the presence of Enjolras was a shock to this heavy slumber. It had the effect of a carriage going at full speed, which suddenly comes to a dead stop. The persons dozing within it wake up. Grantaire rose to his feet with a start, stretched out his arms, rubbed his eyes, stared, yawned, and understood.
A fit of drunkenness reaching its end resembles a curtain which is torn away. One beholds, at a single glance and as a whole, all that it has concealed. All suddenly presents itself to the memory; and the drunkard who has known nothing of what has been taking place during the last twenty-four hours, has no sooner opened his eyes than he is perfectly informed. Ideas recur to him with abrupt lucidity; the obliteration of intoxication, a sort of steam which has obscured the brain, is dissipated, and makes way for the clear and sharply outlined importunity of realities.
Relegated, as he was, to one corner, and sheltered behind the billiard-table, the soldiers whose eyes were fixed on Enjolras, had not even noticed Grantaire, and the sergeant was preparing to repeat his order: "Take aim!" when all at once, they heard a strong voice shout beside them:
"Long live the Republic! I'm one of them."
Grantaire had risen. The immense gleam of the whole combat which he had missed, and in which he had had no part, appeared in the brilliant glance of the transfigured drunken man.
He repeated: "Long live the Republic!" crossed the room with a firm stride and placed himself in front of the guns beside Enjolras. 
"Finish both of us at one blow," said he. 
And turning gently to Enjolras, he said to him:
"Do you permit it?"
Enjolras pressed his hand with a smile.
This smile was not ended when the report resounded.
Enjolras, pierced by eight bullets, remained leaning against the wall, as though the balls had nailed him there. Only, his head was bowed. 
Grantaire fell at his feet, as though struck by a thunderbolt.
A few moments later, the soldiers dislodged the last remaining insurgents, who had taken refuge at the top of the house. They fired into the attic through a wooden lattice. They fought under the very roof. They flung bodies, some of them still alive, out through the windows. Two light-infantrymen, who tried to lift the shattered omnibus, were slain by two shots fired from the attic. A man in a blouse was flung down from it, with a bayonet wound in the abdomen, and breathed his last on the ground. A soldier and an insurgent slipped together on the sloping slates of the roof, and, as they would not release each other, they fell, clasped in a ferocious embrace. A similar conflict went on in the cellar. Shouts, shots, a fierce trampling. Then silence. The barricade was captured.
The soldiers began to search the houses round about, and to pursue the fugitives.
①此处俄瑞斯忒斯影射安灼拉，皮拉得斯影射格朗泰尔。　
最后，叠人成梯，再利用断梯，爬上墙，攀住天花板，劈伤洞口最后几个抵抗者，二十个左右的进攻者，有士兵、国民自卫军和保安警察队，大家乱成一团，一大半人在惊心动魄的攀登中面部受伤，流血使眼睛看不见东西。他们怒不可遏，野性大发，冲进了二楼室中。那里只有一个人还站着，这就是安灼拉。他一无子弹，二无利剑，手中只有一管枪筒，枪托已在侵入者的头上敲断了。他把弹子台横在自己和进攻者之间，自己退至屋角，目光炯炯，昂首挺立。他握着断枪，神情可怖，致使无人近前。突然一声大叫：
“这是头头，是他杀死了炮长。他倒挑了个地方，倒也不坏，就让他这样待着，就地枪决！”
“开枪吧。”安灼拉说。
他摔掉手里的枪筒，两臂交叉，挺起胸等着。
英勇就义总是令人感动的。一旦安灼拉叉起双臂，接受死刑，震耳的厮杀声在屋中顿时寂静下来，混乱状态立刻平息，变为坟场般的肃穆。安灼拉手无寸铁，一动不动，凛然不可犯。这年轻人，似乎对嘈杂声施展了一种压力，是唯一没有受到一点伤的人。他举止高贵，浑身沾满鲜血，神态动人，象不会受伤的人那样无动于衷，好象单凭他那镇静的目光就迫使这凶狠的人群怀着敬意来枪杀他。他那英俊的容貌，此刻再加上他的傲气，使他容光焕发，他好象既不知疲劳，也不会受伤，经过了这可怕的二十四小时，仍面色红润鲜艳。事后一个证人在军事法庭上谈到的人可能就是他：“有一个暴动者，我听见大家叫他阿波罗。”①一个国民自卫军瞄准安灼拉后，又垂下他的武器说：“我感到似乎要去枪杀一朵花。” 
①此处指安灼拉容貌英俊，和阿波罗相似。
十二个人在安灼拉的角落对面组成了一个小队，默默地准备好他们的武器。
然后一个班长叫了一声：“瞄准！”
一个军官打断了说：
“等一会儿。”
他问安灼拉：
“需要替您蒙上眼睛吗？”
“不要。”
“是不是您杀了我们的炮长？”
“是的。”
格朗泰尔已经醒了一会儿了。
格朗泰尔，我们记得，从昨晚起他就睡在酒店的楼上，坐在椅子上，扑倒在桌上。
他和从前的那种比喻完全一样：死醉。这种可恶的迷人的烈性酒精使他昏睡。他的桌子太小，对街垒起不了作用，所以就留下给他了。他老是保持同一种姿势，胸部俯向桌面，头平伏在手臂上，周围有着玻璃杯、啤酒杯和酒瓶。他沉重的睡眠有如冬眠的熊和吸足了血的蚂蟥，排枪齐射、炮弹、霰弹从窗口打进他所在的屋内，甚至连袭击惊人的叫嚣，一切对他都不起作用。对炮声他有时以鼾声作答。免得使自己醒来，他好象在等着一颗子弹。好几个尸体躺在他的四周，乍一看他和这些死去的沉睡者是分不清的。
喧嚣不曾吵醒一个醉汉。寂静反而使他醒来。这种怪现象不止一次地被人见到。四周坍塌的一切格朗泰尔都一无知觉，坍塌好象使他睡得更稳。在安灼拉面前停止的喧嚣对这位昏睡者也起了震撼的作用。等于一辆飞跑着的车子突然停下来一样，车中的酣睡者因此醒来。格朗泰尔突然直起身来，撑开两臂，揉揉眼睛望望，打个呵欠，终于明白了。
醉性过去就象拉开帷幕。醉汉一眼就全部理解了幕布遮住的一切。种种情况都在他脑中浮现，他不知道二十四小时以来发生过什么事，但刚一睁眼，就全明白了。头脑突然又清醒过来，沉醉时的模糊不清，那迷惑头脑的雾气，消失了，随之而来的是摆脱不开的清清楚楚的现实。
士兵们盯着那个退在角落里的安灼拉，他象被弹子台隐蔽着一样，一点也没看见格朗泰尔。班长正准备再一次发令：“瞄准！”这时他们忽然听见一个洪亮的声音在旁边喊着：
“共和国万岁！我也是一个。”
格朗泰尔站起来了。
他错过了的整个战斗的无限的光辉，此刻在变得高尚的醉汉目光中闪耀着。
他重复说着“共和国万岁！”并用坚定的步伐穿过这间房，靠着安灼拉站到一排枪前。
“你们一次打两个吧！”他说。
又转向安灼拉温和地问他：
“你允许吗？”
安灼拉微笑着握了握他的手。
这微笑尚未结束，排枪就响了。
安灼拉，中了八枪，靠着墙象被子弹钉在那儿一样，只是头垂下了。
格朗泰尔被打倒在他脚下。
不久以后，士兵们把最后几个藏在房子顶部的暴动者赶了下来，他们穿过一个木栅栏对准阁楼放枪。人们在阁楼中交战。有人把人从窗口扔了出来，有几个还是活的。两个正在设法扶起打坏了的公共大马车的轻骑兵，被阁楼里打来的两枪送了命。一个穿罩衫的人被抛了出来，肚子被刺刀戳穿，倒在地上呻吟。一个士兵和一个暴动者同时从瓦砾坡上滑下来，互不松手，凶猛地扭在一起摔下来。在地窖里也进行着同样的搏斗，叫喊声、枪声以及野蛮的践踏声，然后突然寂静下来，街垒被占领了。
士兵们开始搜查四周的房屋并追捕逃亡者。
Part 5 Book 1 Chapter 24 Prisoner
Marius was, in fact, a prisoner.
The hand which had seized him from behind and whose grasp he had felt at the moment of his fall and his loss of consciousness was that of Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean had taken no other part in the combat than to expose himself in it. Had it not been for him, no one, in that supreme phase of agony, would have thought of the wounded. Thanks to him, everywhere present in the carnage, like a providence, those who fell were picked up, transported to the tap-room, and cared for. In the intervals, he reappeared on the barricade. But nothing which could resemble a blow, an attack or even personal defence proceeded from his hands. He held his peace and lent succor. Moreover he had received only a few scratches. The bullets would have none of him. If suicide formed part of what he had meditated on coming to this sepulchre, to that spot, he had not succeeded. But we doubt whether he had thought of suicide, an irreligious act.
Jean Valjean, in the thick cloud of the combat, did not appear to see Marius; the truth is, that he never took his eyes from the latter. When a shot laid Marius low, Jean Valjean leaped forward with the agility of a tiger, fell upon him as on his prey, and bore him off.
The whirlwind of the attack was, at that moment, so violently concentrated upon Enjolras and upon the door of the wine-shop, that no one saw Jean Valjean sustaining the fainting Marius in his arms, traverse the unpaved field of the barricade and disappear behind the angle of the Corinthe building.
The reader will recall this angle which formed a sort of cape on the street; it afforded shelter from the bullets, the grape-shot, and all eyes, and a few square feet of space. There is sometimes a chamber which does not burn in the midst of a conflagration, and in the midst of raging seas, beyond a promontory or at the extremity of a blind alley of shoals, a tranquil nook. It was in this sort of fold in the interior trapezium of the barricade, that Eponine had breathed her last.
There Jean Valjean halted, let Marius slide to the ground, placed his back against the wall, and cast his eyes about him. 
The situation was alarming. 
For an instant, for two or three perhaps, this bit of wall was a shelter, but how was he to escape from this massacre? He recalled the anguish which he had suffered in the Rue Polonceau eight years before, and in what manner he had contrived to make his escape; it was difficult then, to-day it was impossible. He had before him that deaf and implacable house, six stories in height, which appeared to be inhabited only by a dead man leaning out of his window; he had on his right the rather low barricade, which shut off the Rue de la Petite Truanderie; to pass this obstacle seemed easy, but beyond the crest of the barrier a line of bayonets was visible. The troops of the line were posted on the watch behind that barricade. It was evident, that to pass the barricade was to go in quest of the fire of the platoon, and that any head which should run the risk of lifting itself above the top of that wall of stones would serve as a target for sixty shots. On his left he had the field of battle. Death lurked round the corner of that wall. 
What was to be done?
Only a bird could have extricated itself from this predicament.
And it was necessary to decide on the instant, to devise some expedient, to come to some decision. Fighting was going on a few paces away; fortunately, all were raging around a single point, the door of the wine-shop; but if it should occur to one soldier, to one single soldier, to turn the corner of the house, or to attack him on the flank, all was over.
Jean Valjean gazed at the house facing him, he gazed at the barricade at one side of him, then he looked at the ground, with the violence of the last extremity, bewildered, and as though he would have liked to pierce a hole there with his eyes.
By dint of staring, something vaguely striking in such an agony began to assume form and outline at his feet, as though it had been a power of glance which made the thing desired unfold. A few paces distant he perceived, at the base of the small barrier so pitilessly guarded and watched on the exterior, beneath a disordered mass of paving-stones which partly concealed it, an iron grating, placed flat and on a level with the soil. This grating, made of stout, transverse bars, was about two feet square. The frame of paving-stones which supported it had been torn up, and it was, as it were, unfastened.
Through the bars a view could be had of a dark aperture, something like the flue of a chimney, or the pipe of a cistern. Jean Valjean darted forward. His old art of escape rose to his brain like an illumination. To thrust aside the stones, to raise the grating, to lift Marius, who was as inert as a dead body, upon his shoulders, to descend, with this burden on his loins, and with the aid of his elbows and knees into that sort of well, fortunately not very deep, to let the heavy trap, upon which the loosened stones rolled down afresh, fall into its place behind him, to gain his footing on a flagged surface three metres below the surface,--all this was executed like that which one does in dreams, with the strength of a giant and the rapidity of an eagle; this took only a few minutes.
Jean Valjean found himself with Marius, who was still unconscious, in a sort of long, subterranean corridor.
There reigned profound peace, absolute silence, night.
The impression which he had formerly experienced when falling from the wall into the convent recurred to him. Only, what he was carrying to-day was not Cosette; it was Marius. He could barely hear the formidable tumult in the wine-shop, taken by assault, like a vague murmur overhead.
马吕斯确实被俘了，他做了冉阿让的俘虏。
当他摔倒的时候，一只手从后面紧抱住他，虽已失去知觉，他仍能感到是被抓住了，这只手是冉阿让的。
冉阿让没有参加战斗，他只是冒着危险待在那儿。没有他，在这濒危的紧要关头，没有人会考虑到受伤者。幸而有他，屠杀时他好象神人一样无处不在，把倒下的人扶起来，送到地下室包扎好。间歇时，他修整街垒。但类似打人、攻击、或个人的自卫等决不会出自他的手。他默不作声地帮助人。再说，他只有少数擦伤的地方。子弹看不中他。如果自杀是他来到这座坟墓时的一个梦想，在这方面他可没有成功，但我们怀疑他会去考虑自杀这一违反宗教的行为。
冉阿让，在斗争的浓烟中，好象没看见马吕斯，其实他的目光一直没离开过他。当一枪把马吕斯打倒时，冉阿让如老虎般敏捷地一蹦，向他扑过去，象擒住一个猎物那样，把他带走了。
旋风式的攻打此刻非常猛烈地集中在酒店门口和安灼拉的身上，因此没有人看见冉阿让，他用双臂托着晕过去的马吕斯，走过了这失去铺路石的街垒战场，在科林斯房屋的拐角处消失了。
我们记得这拐角处形成了一个伸向大街的海岬，它形成一个几尺见方的能挡住枪弹和霰弹、也能挡住人的视线的地方。有时在火灾中也有一间没有烧着的房间，在最狂暴的海上，在岬角的另一边或暗礁的尽头，会有一个平静的小角落，就是在这种街垒内部的梯形隐蔽处爱潘妮断了气。
冉阿让在这儿止了步，把马吕斯轻轻地放在地上，他紧靠着墙并用目光四面扫视。
当时处境危急。
目前，可能在两三分钟以内，这堵墙还是一个掩体，但怎么能逃出这个屠杀场呢？他回想起八年前，他在波隆梭街时的焦虑，他是如何脱身的，这在当时是困难的，而在今日则是不可能的了。他面前是一所无情的七层聋屋，好象只住着那个俯首窗外的死人，他右边是堵塞小化子窝的相当低矮的街垒，跨过这障碍似乎容易，但在这障碍物的顶上可以见到一排刺刀尖，那是战斗队，防守在街垒外边，埋伏着。毫无疑问跨越这街垒，那就是引来排枪的射击，谁敢冒险在这铺路石堆的墙上探头，谁就要成为六十发枪弹的目标。他左边是战场，死亡就在这墙角的后面。
怎么办？
只有一只小鸟才能逃脱。
必须立刻作出决定，找到办法，打定主意。在他几步之外正在作战，幸亏所有的人都在激烈地争夺一个点，就是酒店的门；但是如果有一个士兵，只要有一个，想到绕过房屋，或从侧面去攻打，那就一切都完了。
冉阿让望望他前面的房屋，看看身旁的街垒，然后又带着陷入绝境的强烈感情望望地，心里十分混乱，想用眼睛在地上挖出一个窟窿。
由于专心注视，不知什么模糊然而可以捕捉的东西在这垂死挣扎的时刻显现出来并在他的脚旁形成了，好象是目光的威力使得心愿实现了似的。他看见几步以外，在那堵外面被无情地守卫着和窥伺着的矮墙脚下，有一扇被一堆塌下的铺路石盖住一部分的铁栅栏门，它是安在地上的。这铁门，用粗的横铁棍制成，大致有两平方尺。支撑它的铺路石框架已被掘掉，铁栅栏好象已被拆开。透过铁条可以看到一个阴暗的洞口，一个类似烟囱的管道或是贮水槽的总管子。冉阿让冲过去，他越狱的老本领好象一道亮光在脑中一闪。搬开铺路石，掀起铁栅栏，背起一动不动象尸体般的马吕斯，降下去；驮着这重负，用手肘和膝头使劲，下到这种幸而不深的井里，再让头上的重铁门再落下来；铺路石受震后又倒下来，有些落在门上，这时冉阿让脚踏在铺了石块的低于地面三米的地上；他象一个极度兴奋的人那样，用巨人的力气、雄鹰的敏捷完成了这些动作，为时不过几分钟。
冉阿让和昏迷的马吕斯进入到一种地下长廊里。
这儿，无比安全，极端寂静，是漆黑的夜。
过去他从大街上落进修女院时的印象又出现在眼前，但今天他背负的不是珂赛特，而是马吕斯。
此刻他只勉强听到在他上面，象一种模糊不清的窃窃私语一样，那攻占酒店时惊人的喧嚣声。
Part 5 Book 2 Chapter 1 The Land Impoverished by the Sea
Paris casts twenty-five millions yearly into the water. And this without metaphor. How, and in what manner? Day and night. With what object? With no object. With what intention? With no intention. Why? For no reason. By means of what organ? By means of its intestine. What is its intestine? The sewer.
Twenty-five millions is the most moderate approximative figure which the valuations of special science have set upon it.
Science, after having long groped about, now knows that the most fecundating and the most efficacious of fertilizers is human manure. The Chinese, let us confess it to our shame, knew it before us. Not a Chinese peasant--it is Eckberg who says this,--goes to town without bringing back with him, at the two extremities of his bamboo pole, two full buckets of what we designate as filth. Thanks to human dung, the earth in China is still as young as in the days of Abraham. Chinese wheat yields a hundred fold of the seed. There is no guano comparable in fertility with the detritus of a capital. A great city is the most mighty of dung-makers. Certain success would attend the experiment of employing the city to manure the plain. If our gold is manure, our manure, on the other hand, is gold.
What is done with this golden manure? It is swept into the abyss. 
Fleets of vessels are despatched, at great expense, to collect the dung of petrels and penguins at the South Pole, and the incalculable element of opulence which we have on hand, we send to the sea. All the human and animal manure which the world wastes, restored to the land instead of being cast into the water, would suffice to nourish the world. 
Those heaps of filth at the gate-posts, those tumbrils of mud which jolt through the street by night, those terrible casks of the street department, those fetid drippings of subterranean mire, which the pavements hide from you,--do you know what they are? They are the meadow in flower, the green grass, wild thyme, thyme and sage, they are game, they are cattle, they are the satisfied bellows of great oxen in the evening, they are perfumed hay, they are golden wheat, they are the bread on your table, they are the warm blood in your veins, they are health, they are joy, they are life. This is the will of that mysterious creation which is transformation on earth and transfiguration in heaven.
Restore this to the great crucible; your abundance will flow forth from it. The nutrition of the plains furnishes the nourishment of men.
You have it in your power to lose this wealth, and to consider me ridiculous to boot. This will form the master-piece of your ignorance. 
Statisticians have calculated that France alone makes a deposit of half a milliard every year, in the Atlantic, through the mouths of her rivers. Note this: with five hundred millions we could pay one quarter of the expenses of our budget. The cleverness of man is such that he prefers to get rid of these five hundred millions in the gutter. It is the very substance of the people that is carried off, here drop by drop, there wave after wave, the wretched outpour of our sewers into the rivers, and the gigantic collection of our rivers into the ocean. Every hiccough of our sewers costs us a thousand francs. From this spring two results, the land impoverished, and the water tainted. Hunger arising from the furrow, and disease from the stream.
It is notorious, for example, that at the present hour, the Thames is poisoning London.
So far as Paris is concerned, it has become indispensable of late, to transport the mouths of the sewers down stream, below the last bridge.
A double tubular apparatus, provided with valves and sluices, sucking up and driving back, a system of elementary drainage, simple as the lungs of a man, and which is already in full working order in many communities in England, would suffice to conduct the pure water of the fields into our cities, and to send back to the fields the rich water of the cities, and this easy exchange, the simplest in the world, would retain among us the five hundred millions now thrown away. People are thinking of other things.
The process actually in use does evil, with the intention of doing good. The intention is good, the result is melancholy. Thinking to purge the city, the population is blanched like plants raised in cellars. A sewer is a mistake. When drainage, everywhere, with its double function, restoring what it takes, shall have replaced the sewer, which is a simple impoverishing washing, then, this being combined with the data of a now social economy, the product of the earth will be increased tenfold, and the problem of misery will be singularly lightened. Add the suppression of parasitism, and it will be solved.
In the meanwhile, the public wealth flows away to the river, and leakage takes place. Leakage is the word. Europe is being ruined in this manner by exhaustion.
As for France, we have just cited its figures. Now, Paris contains one twenty-fifth of the total population of France, and Parisian guano being the richest of all, we understate the truth when we value the loss on the part of Paris at twenty-five millions in the half milliard which France annually rejects. These twenty-five millions, employed in assistance and enjoyment, would double the splendor of Paris. The city spends them in sewers. So that we may say that Paris's great prodigality, its wonderful festival, its Beaujon folly, its orgy, its stream of gold from full hands, its pomp, its luxury, its magnificence, is its sewer system.
It is in this manner that, in the blindness of a poor political economy, we drown and allow to float down stream and to be lost in the gulfs the well-being of all. There should be nets at Saint-Cloud for the public fortune. 
Economically considered, the matter can be summed up thus: Paris is a spendthrift. Paris, that model city, that patron of well-arranged capitals, of which every nation strives to possess a copy, that metropolis of the ideal, that august country of the initiative, of impulse and of effort, that centre and that dwelling of minds, that nation-city, that hive of the future, that marvellous combination of Babylon and Corinth, would make a peasant of the Fo-Kian shrug his shoulders, from the point of view which we have just indicated. 
Imitate Paris and you will ruin yourselves.
Moreover, and particularly in this immemorial and senseless waste, Paris is itself an imitator.
These surprising exhibitions of stupidity are not novel; this is no young folly. The ancients did like the moderns. "The sewers of Rome," says Liebig, "have absorbed all the well-being of the Roman peasant." When the Campagna of Rome was ruined by the Roman sewer, Rome exhausted Italy, and when she had put Italy in her sewer, she poured in Sicily, then Sardinia, then Africa. The sewer of Rome has engulfed the world. This cess-pool offered its engulfment to the city and the universe. Urbi et orbi. Eternal city, unfathomable sewer.
Rome sets the example for these things as well as for others.
Paris follows this example with all the stupidity peculiar to intelligent towns.
For the requirements of the operation upon the subject of which we have just explained our views, Paris has beneath it another Paris; a Paris of sewers; which has its streets, its cross-roads, its squares, its blind-alleys, its arteries, and its circulation, which is of mire and minus the human form.
For nothing must be flattered, not even a great people; where there is everything there is also ignominy by the side of sublimity; and, if Paris contains Athens, the city of light, Tyre, the city of might, Sparta, the city of virtue, Nineveh, the city of marvels,it also contains Lutetia,the city of mud.
However, the stamp of its power is there also, and the Titanic sink of Paris realizes, among monuments, that strange ideal realized in humanity by some men like Macchiavelli, Bacon and Mirabeau, grandiose vileness.
The sub-soil of Paris, if the eye could penetrate its surface, would present the aspect of a colossal madrepore. A sponge has no more partitions and ducts than the mound of earth for a circuit of six leagues round about, on which rests the great and ancient city. Not to mention its catacombs, which are a separate cellar, not to mention the inextricable trellis-work of gas pipes, without reckoning the vast tubular system for the distribution of fresh water which ends in the pillar fountains, the sewers alone form a tremendous, shadowy net-work under the two banks; a labyrinth which has its slope for its guiding thread. 
There appears, in the humid mist, the rat which seems the product to which Paris has given birth.
巴黎一年要把二千五百万法郎抛入海洋。
这并非修辞方面的隐喻。怎样抛，又以什么方式？日以继夜。为了什么目的？毫无目的。用意何在？从未考虑过。为什么要这样做？什么也不为。通过什么器官？通过它的肠子。
它的肠子是什么？那就是它的下水道。
二千五百万是从专业角度估计出来的最低约数。
经过长期的摸索，科学今日已经知道肥效最高的肥料就是人肥。中国人，说来令人惭愧，比我们知道得早。没有一个中国农民棗这是埃格勃说的棗进城不用竹子扁担挑两桶满满的我们称之为污物的东西回去。多亏人肥，中国的土地仍和亚伯拉罕①时代那样富于活力。中国小麦的收成，一粒种子能收获一百二十倍的麦子。任何鸟粪都没有首都的垃圾肥效高。一个大城市有着肥效极高的粪肥。利用城市来对田野施肥，这肯定会成功的。如果说我们的黄金是粪尿，反之，我们的粪尿就是黄金。 
①亚伯拉罕（Abraham），希伯来民族之始祖。
我们的这些黄金粪尿是如何处理的呢？我们把它倒在深渊中。
我们花了大量开支，派船队到南极去收集海燕和企鹅的粪，而手边不可估量的致富因素却流入海洋。全世界损失的人兽肥，如归还土地而不抛入水中，就足够使全世界丰衣足食了。
这些墙拐角处的垃圾堆，半夜在路上颠簸的一车车淤泥，使人厌恶的清道夫的载运车，铺路石遮盖的在地下流动着的臭污泥，你可知道这是什么？这是鲜花盛开的牧场，是碧绿的草地，是薄荷草，是百里香，是鼠尾草，是野味，是家畜，是大群雄牛晚上知足的哞哞声，是喷香的干草，是金黄的麦穗，是你们桌上的面包，是你们血管中的血液，是健康，是快乐，是生命。神秘的造物主就是要使地上变化无穷，天上改观变形。
把这些归还给大熔炉，您将从中得到丰收，平原得到的营养会变为人类的食物。
你们可以抛弃这些财富，并且还觉得我很可笑。这是你们愚昧无知的十足表现。
根据统计学的计算，仅法国一国每年就从它的河流倾入大西洋五亿法郎。请注意，用这五亿法郎我们就可以支付国家预算开支的四分之一。可是人竟如此高明，宁愿将这五亿扔进河沟里。让我们的阴沟一滴一滴地注入河流，并让河流大量向大海倾泻的，是人民的养分。阴沟每打一个噎，就耗费一千法郎。这就产生两个结果：土壤贫瘠，河流被污染。饥馑来自田畦，疾病来自河流。
例如，尽人皆知，现在泰晤士河使伦敦中毒。
至于巴黎，最近只得把绝大多数的阴渠出口改到下游最后一座桥的下方。
一种双管设备，设有活门和放水闸门，引水进来又排泄出去。一个极简单的排水法，简单得就象人的肺，在英国好几个地区已大量采用，已把田野的清流引进城市并把城市的肥水输入田野。这种世上最简单的一来一去，可以保住扔掉的五亿法郎，然而人们想的是别的事。
目前的做法是想办好事却干了坏事。动机是好的，但后果却很糟。他们以为在使城市清洁，其实他们在使人民憔悴，阴渠使用不合理。一旦这种只洗涤而伤元气的阴渠都换成了有两种功能的、吸受后又归还的排水系统，再配上一套新的社会经济体系，那么地里的产物就可以增长十倍，穷困问题将大大缓和。加上又消灭了各类寄生虫，问题将会得到解决。
目前，公共的财富流进河里。漏损接连不断。漏损这字眼很恰当，就这样，欧洲因这一消耗而破产。
至于法国，我们刚才已提到过它的数字，现在巴黎占全国人口的二十五分之一，而巴黎的粪沟是所有阴沟中最富的，所以在法国，每年抛弃的五亿中估计巴黎损失二千五百万还是一个低于实际的数字。这二千五百万如用在救济和享受方面，可以使巴黎更加繁华，但这个城市却把它花在下水道里。因此我们可以这样说，巴黎最大的挥霍，它奇妙的节日，波戎区的狂欢，它的盛宴，它的挥金如土，它的豪华，它的奢侈，它的华丽，就是它的阴渠。
由于这样，一个盲目而又拙劣的政治经济学使公众的福利丧失，付之流水，使它沉没在深渊中。对于公众的财富，应该用上圣克鲁的网①才是。
从经济方面来说，这事可以作这样的总结：巴黎是一个漏筐。
巴黎，这个模范城市，一切有水平的首都的典范，每个民族都试图仿效它，这个理想的首都，这个创举、推进试验的雄伟策源地，这个精神的中心，这个城市之国，这个创造未来的场所，这个集巴比伦和科林斯之大成者，在我们所指出的方面，却要使一个福建的农民耸肩讥笑。
仿效巴黎，就会使你破产。
此外，尤其是在这远得无法追忆而又缺乏理智的挥霍方面，巴黎本身也是仿效别人的。
这些令人惊异的无能不是新鲜事！这不只是近代产生的愚昧行为。古人和今人的作法相同。李比希②曾说：“罗马的下水道吞没了罗马农民的福利。”当罗马的农村被罗马的阴沟毁灭之后，罗马又使意大利疲惫。它把意大利扔进阴沟里之后，它又把西西里扔进去，然后又扔进了撒丁和非洲。罗马的阴沟把全世界卷了进去，这个下水道淹没了全市和全球。罗马城势遍天下③。这是座不朽之城，无底的坑。 
①圣克鲁（Saint－Cloud），法国塞纳河畔的要塞，在该处河中置网，用以拦截河中各种漂流物。
②李比希（Liebig，1803-1873），德国化学家。
③罗马城势遍天下，原文为拉丁文urbietorbi。　
对这些事和对其他事一样，罗马起到了首创作用。
巴黎，以一切文化城市固有的傻劲，仿效这块样板。
由于我们刚才解释的工序的需要，巴黎在它下面另有一个巴黎，一个阴沟的巴黎，它有它的道路、它的十字路、它的广场、它的死胡同、它的动脉以及污泥的循环，只是缺少人形而已。
因为，什么也不要恭维，也不能恭维，这里应有尽有，有壮丽卓绝的一面，也有不光彩的一面；如果巴黎具有雅典城的光明，提尔①城的实力，斯巴达城的道义，尼尼微城的英才，但它也有着吕代斯②的污泥。
何况，它的力量的印验也表现在这里，巴黎巨大的肮脏沟道，在所有的大建筑中，这一奇特典型被人类中几个人物所体现，如马基雅弗利、培根③和米拉波，都是可耻的伟大。 
①提尔（Tyr），古代腓尼基城市，在地中海东岸。
②吕代斯（Lutèce），巴黎古名。
③培根（Bacon，1561-1626），英国哲学家，英国唯物主义的创始人，自然科学家和历史学家。
如果视线能透过路面，巴黎的地下会呈现出一个巨大的石珊瑚形状，海绵孔也不会比这块上面矗立着伟大古城的、周围有着六法里长的土块下面的狭径和管道更多，还不包括地下墓窟棗这是另一种地窖，还不包括错杂的煤气管，还不算庞大的一直通到取水龙头的饮用水管道系统，单单阴渠本身在河的两岸下面就形成了一个黑暗的网道，斜坡就是这座迷宫的引路线。
这儿，在潮湿的烟雾中，出现了大老鼠，就象巴黎分娩出来的一样。
Part 5 Book 2 Chapter 2 Ancient History of the Sewer
Let the reader imagine Paris lifted off like a cover, the subterranean net-work of sewers, from a bird's eye view, will outline on the banks a species of large branch grafted on the river. On the right bank, the belt sewer will form the trunk of this branch, the secondary ducts will form the branches, and those without exit the twigs.
This figure is but a summary one and half exact, the right angle, which is the customary angle of this species of subterranean ramifications, being very rare in vegetation.
A more accurate image of this strange geometrical plan can be formed by supposing that one is viewing some eccentric oriental alphabet, as intricate as a thicket, against a background of shadows, and the misshapen letters should be welded one to another in apparent confusion, and as at haphazard, now by their angles, again by their extremities.
Sinks and sewers played a great part in the Middle Ages, in the Lower Empire and in the Orient of old. The masses regarded these beds of decomposition, these monstrous cradles of death, with a fear that was almost religious. The vermin ditch of Benares is no less conducive to giddiness than the lions' ditch of Babylon. Teglath-Phalasar, according to the rabbinical books, swore by the sink of Nineveh. It was from the sewer of Munster that John of Leyden produced his false moon, and it was from the cess-pool of Kekscheb that oriental menalchme, Mokanna, the veiled prophet of Khorassan, caused his false sun to emerge.
The history of men is reflected in the history of sewers. The Germoniae[58] narrated Rome. The sewer of Paris has been an ancient and formidable thing. It has been a sepulchre, it has served as an asylum. Crime, intelligence, social protest, liberty of conscience, thought, theft, all that human laws persecute or have persecuted, is hidden in that hole; the maillotins in the fourteenth century, the tire-laine of the fifteenth, the Huguenots in the sixteenth, Morin's illuminated in the seventeenth, the chauffeurs [brigands] in the eighteenth. A hundred years ago, the nocturnal blow of the dagger emerged thence, the pickpocket in danger slipped thither; the forest had its cave, Paris had its sewer. Vagrancy, that Gallic picareria, accepted the sewer as the adjunct of the Cour des Miracles, and at evening, it returned thither,fierce and sly, through the Maubuee outlet, as into a bed-chamber.
[58] Steps on the Aventine Hill, leading to the Tiber, to which the bodies of executed criminals were dragged by hooks to be thrown into the Tiber.
It was quite natural, that those who had the blind-alley Vide-Gousset, [Empty-Pocket] or the Rue Coupe-Gorge [Cut-Throat], for the scene of their daily labor, should have for their domicile by night the culvert of the Chemin-Vert, or the catch basin of Hurepoix. Hence a throng of souvenirs. All sorts of phantoms haunt these long, solitary corridors; everywhere is putrescence and miasma; here and there are breathing-holes, where Villon within converses with Rabelais without.
The sewer in ancient Paris is the rendezvous of all exhaustions and of all attempts. Political economy therein spies adetritus, social philosophy there beholds a residuum.
The sewer is the conscience of the city. Everything there converges and confronts everything else. In that livid spot there are shades, but there are no longer any secrets. Each thing bears its true form, or at least, its definitive form. The mass of filth has this in its favor, that it is not a liar. Ingenuousness has taken refuge there. The mask of Basil is to be found there, but one beholds its cardboard and its strings and the inside as well as the outside, and it is accentuated by honest mud. Scapin's false nose is its next-door neighbor. All the uncleannesses of civilization, once past their use, fall into this trench of truth, where the immense social sliding ends. They are there engulfed, but they display themselves there. This mixture is a confession. There, no more false appearances, no plastering over is possible, filth removes its shirt, absolute denudation puts to the rout all illusions and mirages, there is nothing more except what really exists, presenting the sinister form of that which is coming to an end. There, the bottom of a bottle indicates drunkenness, a basket-handle tells a tale of domesticity; there the core of an apple which has entertained literary opinions becomes an apple-core once more; the effigy on the big sou becomes frankly covered with verdigris, Caiphas' spittle meets Falstaff's puking, the louis-d'or which comes from the gaming-house jostles the nail whence hangs the rope's end of the suicide. a livid foetus rolls along, enveloped in the spangles which danced at the Opera last Shrove-Tuesday, a cap which has pronounced judgment on men wallows beside a mass of rottenness which was formerly Margoton's petticoat; it is more than fraternization, it is equivalent to addressing each other as thou. All which was formerly rouged, is washed free. The last veil is torn away. A sewer is a cynic. It tells everything.
The sincerity of foulness pleases us, and rests the soul. When one has passed one's time in enduring upon earth the spectacle of the great airs which reasons of state, the oath, political sagacity, human justice, professional probity, the austerities of situation, incorruptible robes all assume, it solaces one to enter a sewer and to behold the mire which befits it.
This is instructive at the same time. We have just said that history passes through the sewer. The Saint-Barthelemys filter through there, drop by drop, between the paving-stones. Great public assassinations, political and religious butcheries, traverse this underground passage of civilization, and thrust their corpses there. For the eye of the thinker, all historic murderers are to be found there, in that hideous penumbra, on their knees, with a scrap of their winding-sheet for an apron, dismally sponging out their work. Louis XI. is there with Tristan, Francois I. with Duprat, Charles IX. is there with his mother, Richelieu is there with Louis XIII., Louvois is there, Letellier is there, Hebert and Maillard are there, scratching the stones, and trying to make the traces of their actions disappear. Beneath these vaults one hears the brooms of spectres. One there breathes the enormous fetidness of social catastrophes. One beholds reddish reflections in the corners. There flows a terrible stream, in which bloody hands have been washed.
The social observer should enter these shadows. They form a part of his laboratory. Philosophy is the microscope of the thought. Everything desires to flee from it, but nothing escapes it. Tergiversation is useless. What side of oneself does one display in evasions? The shameful side. Philosophy pursues with its glance, probes the evil, and does not permit it to escape into nothingness. In the obliteration of things which disappear, in the watching of things which vanish, it recognizes all. It reconstructs the purple from the rag, and the woman from the scrap of her dress. From the cess-pool, it re-constitutes the city; from mud, it reconstructs manners; from the potsherd it infers the amphora or the jug. By the imprint of a finger-nail on a piece of parchment, it recognizes the difference which separates the Jewry of the Judengasse from the Jewry of the Ghetto. It re-discovers in what remains that which has been, good, evil, the true, the blood-stain of the palace, the ink-blot of the cavern, the drop of sweat from the brothel, trials undergone, temptations welcomed, orgies cast forth, the turn which characters have taken as they became abased, the trace of prostitution in souls of which their grossness rendered them capable, and on the vesture of the porters of Rome the mark of Messalina's elbowing.
让我们想象一下，巴黎象揭盖子那样被揭开了，笔直地往下着，这个地下的阴渠网有如画在两边岸上与河流衔接的树干。在右岸的阴渠总管道好比树枝的主干，较细的管道好比树枝，死胡同一如枝桠。
这图形很粗略，只是大致相似而已，地下分枝常出现直角，在植物中这是罕见的。
我们如果把这奇异的实测平面图想象成在一个黑底子上平视到的一种古怪而杂乱的东方字母表，这样会更相象一点，它那畸形的字母，表面上杂乱无章，好象很随便地有时在转角处、有时在尽头处相互衔接。
污水坑和阴渠在中古时代，在罗马帝国后期①和古老的东方起过很大作用。瘟疫在那儿发生，暴君在那儿死亡。民众见到这些腐烂物的温床、骇人的死亡的摇篮时几乎产生一种宗教性质的恐惧。贝拿勒斯②的害虫深坑与巴比伦的狮子坑同样使人头晕目眩。根据犹太士师书中的记载，蒂拉发拉查崇敬尼尼微的污物坑。让·德·赖特就是从蒙斯特的沟渠中引出他的假月亮来的，和他相貌酷似的东方的莫卡那，这个蒙着面纱的霍拉桑③先知，从盖许勃的污井中使他的假太阳升起来。 
①罗马帝国后期，指二三五年至四七六年的罗马帝国。
②贝拿勒斯（Bénarès），印度圣城。
③霍拉桑（Khorassan），伊朗一省。　
人类的历史反映在阴渠的历史中。古罗马罪犯尸体示众场叙述了罗马的历史。巴黎的阴渠是一个可怕的老家伙，它曾是坟墓，它曾是避难所。罪恶、智慧、社会上的抗议、信仰自由、思想、盗窃，一切人类法律所追究的或曾追究过的都曾藏在这洞里；十四世纪巴黎的持槌抗税者，十五世纪沿路拦劫的强盗，十六世纪蒙难的新教徒，十七世纪的莫兰①集团，十八世纪的烧足匪徒②都藏在里面。一百年前，夜间行凶者从那儿出来，碰到危险的小偷又溜了回去；树林中有岩穴，巴黎就有阴渠。乞丐，即高卢的流氓，把阴渠当作圣迹区，到了晚上，他们奸猾又凶狠，钻进位于莫布埃街的进出口，好似退入帷幕之中。 
①莫兰（Morin），巫师，一六六三年在巴黎被焚。
②烧足匪徒，在革命动乱时期化装抢劫农村的匪徒，烧受害人之足，迫使他们拿出钱财。
一贯在抢钱死胡同或割喉街干勾当的人晚上在绿径阴沟或于尔博瓦桥排水渠住家是很自然的。有关那儿的回忆数不胜数。各种鬼怪都在这长而寂寞的阴沟中出没，到处是霉烂物和瘴气，这儿那儿有一个通气洞，维庸曾在这洞口和外面的拉伯雷闲谈。
老巴黎的阴渠，是一切排泄物和一切铤而走险者的汇合处。政治经济学的观点认为这是人体的碎屑，而社会哲学的观点则把它看成是渣滓堆。
阴渠，就是城市的良心，一切都在那儿集中，对质。在这个死灰色的地方，有着它的黑暗处，但秘密已不存在。每件东西都显出了原形，或至少显出它最终的形状。垃圾堆的优点就是不撒谎。朴实藏身于此，那里有巴西尔的假面具，但人看见了硬纸也看见了细绳，里外都看到，面具还涂上一层诚实的污泥。司卡班的假鼻子紧挨在一旁。文明社会的一切卑鄙丑物，一旦无用，就都掉入这真相的阴渠中，这是社会上众多日渐变坏之物的终点。它们沉没在那儿，展开示众，这些杂乱的货色是一种自白。这儿，已没有假相，无法再粉饰，污秽脱下了衬衫，赤裸裸一丝不挂，它击溃了空想和幻景，以致原形毕露，显示出命终时的邪恶相，现实和消灭。这儿，一个瓶底承认酗酒行为，一个篮子柄叙述仆役生涯；这儿曾有过文学见解的苹果核①，又变成苹果核了。一个大铜钱上的肖像已完全变绿，该亚法的痰唾与法斯达夫的呕吐物相遇了，在这里，一个从赌博场中出来的金路易撞着了悬挂上吊绳子的钉子，一个惨白的胎儿，用最近狂欢节时为在歌剧院跳舞而穿的有金箔装饰的衣服裹成一卷，一顶审判过人的法官的帽子，躺在这曾是马格东②衬裙的污物旁，这不仅是友爱，而且还是亲密。一切涂脂抹粉的都变成一塌糊涂的形象。最后的面纱终于揭开，阴沟是一个厚颜无耻者，它吐露一切。 
①苹果核，暗指无用的头脑。
②马格东（Margoton），指放荡的妇人。
淫荡败德的坦率令人感到痛快，心情舒畅。当人们在世上长期忍受了以国家利益为重的大道理之后棗诸如那些装腔作势的宣誓、政治上的明智、人类的正义、职业上的正直、应付某种情况的严正以及法官的清廉等，再走进阴沟并见到说明这些事物的污垢，那确实是件快事。
同时这也是一个教训。我们刚才已提到，阴渠反映了历史圣巴托罗缪的鲜血一滴一滴地从铺路石缝中渗入阴沟。大量的暗杀，政治与宗教领域的屠杀，经过这文明的地窖把杀戮后的尸体丢进去。以沉思者的眼光看，一切历史上的凶手都在这儿，在丑恶的昏暗处，跪在地上，用他们当作围腰用的裹尸布的一角，凄惨地抹去他们干的勾当。路易十一和特里斯唐①在那里面，弗朗索瓦一世和杜普拉②在里面，查理九世和他的母亲在里面，黎塞留和路易十三在里面，卢夫瓦在里面，勒泰利埃在里面，阿贝尔和马亚尔也在里面，他们刮着那些石头，想消灭他们为非作歹的痕迹。人们听见拱顶下这些鬼怪的扫帚声；人们在那儿嗅到社会上严重灾祸的恶臭，在一些角落里看到微红的反光。那儿淌着洗过血手后的可怕的水流。 
①特里斯唐（Tristan　1’Hermite），路易十一的道路总监。
②杜普拉（Duprat，1463-1535），弗朗索瓦一世的司法大臣。
社会观察家应当走进这些阴暗处，这是他的实验室的一部分。哲学是思想的显微镜，一切都想避开它，但丝毫也溜不了。推诿强辩都无济于事。遁辞暴露了自己的哪一面呢？厚颜无耻的一面。哲学用正直的目光追踪罪恶，决不允许它逃之夭夭。已经过去而被忘却之事，已经消失而被贬低之事，它都能认出。根据破衣它能恢复王袍，根据烂衫能找出那个妇人，利用污坑它使城市再现，利用泥泞可使习俗再生。从一块碎片它推断出这是双耳尖底瓮还是水罐。凭借羊皮纸上的一个指甲印，它可以认出犹大本土的犹太族和移居的犹太族之间的区别。在剩下的一点残余上它恢复原来的面目，是善，是恶，是真，是假，宫中的血迹，地窖中的墨水污迹，妓院的油渍，经受过的考验，欣然接受的诱惑，呕吐出来的盛宴，品德在卑躬屈膝时留下的褶纹，灵魂因粗俗而变节时留下的迹象，在罗马脚夫的短衫上有着梅沙琳胳膊的迹印。
Part 5 Book 2 Chapter 3 Bruneseau
The sewer of Paris in the Middle Ages was legendary. In the sixteenth century, Henri II. attempted a bore, which failed. Not a hundred years ago, the cess-pool, Mercier attests the fact, was abandoned to itself, and fared as best it might.
Such was this ancient Paris, delivered over to quarrels, to indecision, and to gropings. It was tolerably stupid for a long time. Later on, '89 showed how understanding comes to cities. But in the good, old times, the capital had not much head. It did not know how to manage its own affairs either morally or materially, and could not sweep out filth any better than it could abuses. Everything presented an obstacle, everything raised a question. The sewer, for example, was refractory to every itinerary. One could no more find one's bearings in the sewer than one could understand one's position in the city; above the unintelligible, below the inextricable; beneath the confusion of tongues there reigned the confusion of caverns; Daedalus backed up Babel.
Sometimes the Paris sewer took a notion to overflow, as though this misunderstood Nile were suddenly seized with a fit of rage. There occurred, infamous to relate, inundations of the sewer. At times, that stomach of civilization digested badly, the cess-pool flowed back into the throat of the city, and Paris got an after-taste of her own filth. These resemblances of the sewer to remorse had their good points; they were warnings; very badly accepted, however; the city waxed indignant at the audacity of its mire, and did not admit that the filth should return. Drive it out better.
The inundation of 1802 is one of the actual memories of Parisians of the age of eighty. The mud spread in cross-form over the Place des Victoires, where stands the statue of Louis XIV.; it entered the Rue Saint-Honore by the two mouths to the sewer in the Champs-Elysees, the Rue Saint-Florentin through the Saint-Florentin sewer, the Rue Pierre-a-Poisson through the sewer de la Sonnerie, the Rue Popincourt, through the sewer of the Chemin-Vert, the Rue de la Roquette, through the sewer of the Rue de Lappe; it covered the drain of the Rue des Champs-Elysees to the height of thirty-five centimetres; and, to the South, through the vent of the Seine, performing its functions in inverse sense, it penetrated the Rue Mazarine, the Rue de l'Echaude, and the Rue des Marais, where it stopped at a distance of one hundred and nine metres, a few paces distant from the house in which Racine had lived, respecting, in the seventeenth century, the poet more than the King. It attained its maximum depth in the Rue Saint-Pierre, where it rose to the height of three feet above the flag-stones of the water-spout, and its maximum length in the Rue Saint-Sabin, where it spread out over a stretch two hundred and thirty-eight metres in length.
At the beginning of this century, the sewer of Paris was still a mysterious place. Mud can never enjoy a good fame; but in this case its evil renown reached the verge of the terrible. Paris knew, in a confused way, that she had under her a terrible cavern. People talked of it as of that monstrous bed of Thebes in which swarmed centipedes fifteen long feet in length, and which might have served Behemoth for a bathtub. The great boots of the sewermen never ventured further than certain well-known points. We were then very near the epoch when the scavenger's carts, from the summit of which Sainte-Foix fraternized with the Marquis de Crequi, discharged their loads directly into the sewer. As for cleaning out,-- that function was entrusted to the pouring rains which encumbered rather than swept away. Rome left some poetry to her sewer, and called it the Gemoniae; Paris insulted hers, and entitled it the Polypus-Hole. Science and superstition were in accord, in horror. The Polypus hole was no less repugnant to hygiene than to legend. The goblin was developed under the fetid covering of the Mouffetard sewer; the corpses of the Marmousets had been cast into the sewer de la Barillerie; Fagon attributed the redoubtable malignant fever of 1685 to the great hiatus of the sewer of the Marais, which remained yawning until 1833 in the Rue Saint-Louis, almost opposite the sign of the Gallant Messenger. The mouth of the sewer of the Rue de la Mortellerie was celebrated for the pestilences which had their source there; with its grating of iron, with points simulating a row of teeth, it was like a dragon's maw in that fatal street, breathing forth hell upon men. The popular imagination seasoned the sombre Parisian sink with some indescribably hideous intermixture of the infinite. The sewer had no bottom. The sewer was the lower world. The idea of exploring these leprous regions did not even occur to the police. To try that unknown thing, to cast the plummet into that shadow, to set out on a voyage of discovery in that abyss--who would have dared? It was alarming. Nevertheless, some one did present himself. The cess-pool had its Christopher Columbus.
One day, in 1805, during one of the rare apparitions which the Emperor made in Paris, the Minister of the Interior, some Decres or Cretet or other, came to the master's intimate levee. In the Carrousel there was audible the clanking of swords of all those extraordinary soldiers of the great Republic, and of the great Empire; then Napoleon's door was blocked with heroes; men from the Rhine, from the Escaut, from the Adige, and from the Nile; companions of Joubert, of Desaix, of Marceau, of Hoche, of Kleber; the aerostiers of Fleurus, the grenadiers of Mayence, the pontoon-builders of Genoa, hussars whom the Pyramids had looked down upon, artillerists whom Junot's cannon-ball had spattered with mud, cuirassiers who had taken by assault the fleet lying at anchor in the Zuyderzee; some had followed Bonaparte upon the bridge of Lodi, others had accompanied Murat in the trenches of Mantua, others had preceded Lannes in the hollow road of Montebello. The whole army of that day was present there, in the court-yard of the Tuileries, represented by a squadron or a platoon, and guarding Napoleon in repose; and that was the splendid epoch when the grand army had Marengo behind it and Austerlitz before it.--"Sire," said the Minister of the Interior to Napoleon, "yesterday I saw the most intrepid man in your Empire."--"What man is that?" said the Emperor brusquely, "and what has he done?"--"He wants to do something, Sire."--"What is it?"--"To visit the sewers of Paris." 
This man existed and his name was Bruneseau.
中世纪时，巴黎的阴沟有着传奇的色彩，到了十六世纪，亨利二世曾试图探测一下，但是失败了。近百年来，污坑已被抛弃在一边，听其自然变化了，迈尔西埃①证明了这一点。古老的巴黎正是如此，专事争吵，犹豫不决，暗中摸索，以致长期停留在愚昧阶段。后来在一七八九年才显示出城市怎样具有智慧。但在淳朴的古代，首都不论在精神上和物质上都还不大有头脑，垃圾和流弊一样，却未能得到铲除。一切都成为障碍，处处发生问题。譬如阴渠，它对任何路线都是抗拒的。人们在阴沟里辨不出方向，在城市中意见也不能一致；上面是无法理解，下面是无法理清；在混乱的舌战下面加上混乱的地窖；在代达罗斯②上面垒起了巴别塔③。 
①迈尔西埃（Mercier，1740-1814），法国作家，著有《巴黎景象》。
②代达罗斯，迷宫，源出希腊神话中为克里特国王建造迷宫的建筑师之名。
③巴别塔，《圣经》中挪亚的子孙没有建成的通天塔。　
有时巴黎的阴渠突然泛滥，好象这不为人知的尼罗河突然发怒了。于是就出现了棗说来可耻棗阴渠里的洪水。这文明的肠胃有时消化不良，污物倒流到城市的喉头，巴黎就充满了它的污泥的回味。阴沟倒流与悔悟类似，大有益处，这是警告，但并不受欢迎，巴黎城因泥垢如此猖狂而愤慨了，它不能允许污秽再回来，必须妥善清除。
一八○二年的水灾是八十岁的巴黎人记忆犹新之事。污泥浆在胜利广场，即路易十四的铜像所在处，扩散成十字形，它由爱丽舍广场的两个阴沟出口流到圣奥诺雷街，由圣弗洛朗丹的阴沟口流到圣弗洛朗丹街，由钟声街的沟口流到鱼石街，由绿径街的沟口流到波邦古街，由拉普街的沟口流入洛盖特街；它淹没了爱丽舍广场的街边明沟高达三十五公分；在南边，塞纳河的大沟管起了倒流作用，它侵占了马萨林街、埃旭特街、沼泽街，在一百○九米的地方停止了，离拉辛的旧居正好不过几步路，它在十七世纪，尊重诗人胜过国王。它在圣皮埃尔街水位最高，比排水管高出三尺，在圣沙班街，它的面积最宽处扩展到二百三十八米长。
在本世纪初，巴黎的阴渠仍是一个神秘处所。污泥始终不能获得好评，而这里的坏名声却又引起恐怖。巴黎模模糊糊知道它下面有个可怕的地窖。人们谈起这地窖就如谈到底比斯的庞大污秽坑一样，里面有无数的十五尺长的蜈蚣，这坑可以作为比希莫特①的澡盆。清沟工人的大靴子从不敢冒险越过那几处熟悉的地点。当时人们离清道夫用两轮马车扫除垃圾的时代还不远棗在车顶上圣福瓦和克来基侯爵友好共处棗，垃圾直接就往阴沟中倒，至于疏通阴沟的任务就只好依赖暴雨了。而暴雨却远远不能起到冲洗的作用，反而使阴沟堵塞。罗马还留下一些有关它的污坑的诗，称它为喏木尼，巴黎侮辱它自己的阴渠，称它为臭洞；从科学和迷信方面看，人们一致认为它是恐怖的。臭洞对卫生和传奇同样都很不协调；鬼怪僧侣②坑出现在穆夫达阴渠的臭拱顶下；所有马穆塞③的尸体都被抛入巴利勒利阴沟中。法贡④把一六八五年惊人的恶性热病归咎于沼泽区阴渠的大敞口，直到一八三三年仍在圣路易街上露天敞开着，差不多就在“殷勤服务处”的招牌对面。莫特勒里街的阴沟敞口因产生瘟疫而著名，它那带刺的铁栅栏好象一排牙齿，它在这不幸的街道上好象张开龙嘴向人们吹送着地狱的气息。在群众的想象里巴黎阴暗的排水沟是一种丑恶的无数东西的混合物。阴沟是无底坑。阴沟是巴拉特⑤。连警署也未曾有过去查看一下这些癞病区的想法。探索这不为人知之物，测量它的黑暗，深入发掘这沉渊，谁有这个胆量呀？这是一件令人畏缩的事。可是居然有人自荐。污秽沟自有它的哥伦布。 
①比希莫特（Béhémoth），《圣经》中提及的陆上巨大怪兽，魔鬼的象征。
②鬼怪僧侣（Moine－Bourru），穿僧侣法衣的捣乱鬼，伤害他们遇到的人。
③马穆塞（Marmousets），系指查理五世或查理六世时的顾问团，勃艮第公爵将他们处死或流放。
④法贡（Fagon，1638-1718），路易十四的第一个医生。
⑤巴拉特（barathrum），雅典城西弃置罪犯尸体的山谷。　
在一八○五年，有一天，是皇帝难得在巴黎出现的日子，一个内政大臣叫特克雷或克雷特的，参加了主子的起床接见，听得见崇武门伟大的共和国的和伟大帝国的非凡士兵们佩剑的铿锵声，英雄们拥挤在拿破仑的门口，从莱茵河、埃斯科河、阿迪杰河和尼罗河部队里来的人；茹贝尔、德泽、马索、奥什、克莱贝尔等将军的战友，弗勒律斯的汽艇观察员，美因茨的投弹手，热那亚的架桥兵，金字塔战役的轻骑兵，有着茹诺炮弹硝烟味的炮兵，突击打败了停泊在茹德泽的舰队的装甲兵；有些曾跟随波拿巴在洛迪桥参战，有些曾陪同缪拉在曼图亚作战，还有一些曾赶在拉纳之前到达芒泰贝洛的深洼路。所有当时的军队都集合在杜伊勒里宫的院子里，以一班或一排为代表，守卫着在休息的拿破仑。这是极盛时代，当时的大军已获得马伦哥战役的胜利，并将在奥斯特里茨大败敌军。
“陛下，”拿破仑的内政大臣说，“昨天我见到了一个您的帝国中最勇敢的人。”
“是什么人？”皇帝粗暴地问，“他做了什么事？”
“他想做一件事，陛下。”
“什么事？”
“视察巴黎的阴渠。”
这个人确实是存在的，他名叫勃吕纳梭。
Part 5 Book 2 Chapter 4 BRUNESEAU EXPLORING THE SEWERS
The visit took place.It was a formidable campaign; a nocturnal battle against pestilence and suffocation. It was, at the same time, a voyage of discovery. One of the survivors of this expedition, an intelligent workingman, who was very young at the time, related curious details with regard to it, several years ago, which Bruneseau thought himself obliged to omit in his report to the prefect of police, as unworthy of official style. The processes of disinfection were, at that epoch, extremely rudimentary. Hardly had Bruneseau crossed the first articulations of that subterranean network, when eight laborers out of the twenty refused to go any further. The operation was complicated; the visit entailed the necessity of cleaning; hence it was necessary to cleanse and at the same time, to proceed; to note the entrances of water, to count the gratings and the vents, to lay out in detail the branches, to indicate the currents at the point where they parted, to define the respective bounds of the divers basins, to sound the small sewers grafted on the principal sewer, to measure the height under the key-stone of each drain, and the width, at the spring of the vaults as well as at the bottom, in order to determine the arrangements with regard to the level of each water-entrance, either of the bottom of the arch, or on the soil of the street. They advanced with toil. The lanterns pined away in the foul atmosphere. From time to time, a fainting sewerman was carried out. At certain points, there were precipices. The soil had given away, the pavement had crumbled, the sewer had changed into a bottomless well; they found nothing solid; a man disappeared suddenly; they had great difficulty in getting him out again. On the advice of Fourcroy, they lighted large cages filled with tow steeped in resin, from time to time, in spots which had been sufficiently disinfected. In some places, the wall was covered with misshapen fungi,--one would have said tumors; the very stone seemed diseased within this unbreathable atmosphere.
Bruneseau, in his exploration, proceeded down hill. At the point of separation of the two water-conduits of the Grand-Hurleur, he deciphered upon a projecting stone the date of 1550; this stone indicated the limits where Philibert Delorme, charged by Henri II. with visiting the subterranean drains of Paris, had halted. This stone was the mark of the sixteenth century on the sewer; Bruneseau found the handiwork of the seventeenth century once more in the Ponceau drain of the old Rue Vielle-du-Temple, vaulted between 1600 and 1650; and the handiwork of the eighteenth in the western section of the collecting canal, walled and vaulted in 1740. These two vaults, especially the less ancient, that of 1740, were more cracked and decrepit than the masonry of the belt sewer, which dated from 1412, an epoch when the brook of fresh water of Menilmontant was elevated to the dignity of the Grand Sewer of Paris, an advancement analogous to that of a peasant who should become first valet de chambre to the King; something like Gros-Jean transformed into Lebel.
Here and there, particularly beneath the Court-House, they thought they recognized the hollows of ancient dungeons, excavated in the very sewer itself. Hideous in-pace. An iron neck-collar was hanging in one of these cells. They walled them all up. Some of their finds were singular; among others, the skeleton of an ourang-outan, who had disappeared from the Jardin des Plantes in 1800, a disappearance probably connected with the famous and indisputable apparition of the devil in the Rue des Bernardins, in the last year of the eighteenth century. The poor devil had ended by drowning himself in the sewer.
Beneath this long, arched drain which terminated at the Arche-Marion, a perfectly preserved rag-picker's basket excited the admiration of all connoisseurs. Everywhere, the mire, which the sewermen came to handle with intrepidity, abounded in precious objects, jewels of gold and silver, precious stones, coins. If a giant had filtered this cesspool, he would have had the riches of centuries in his lair. At the point where the two branches of the Rue du Temple and of the Rue Sainte-Avoye separate, they picked up a singular Huguenot medal in copper, bearing on one side the pig hooded with a cardinal's hat, and on the other, a wolf with a tiara on his head.
The most surprising rencounter was at the entrance to the Grand Sewer. This entrance had formerly been closed by a grating of which nothing but the hinges remained. From one of these hinges hung a dirty and shapeless rag which, arrested there in its passage, no doubt, had floated there in the darkness and finished its process of being torn apart. Bruneseau held his lantern close to this rag and examined it. It was of very fine batiste, and in one of the corners, less frayed than the rest, they made out a heraldic coronet and embroidered above these seven letters: LAVBESP. The crown was the coronet of a Marquis, and the seven letters signified Laubespine. They recognized the fact, that what they had before their eyes was a morsel of the shroud of Marat. Marat in his youth had had amorous intrigues. This was when he was a member of the household of the Comte d'Artois, in the capacity of physician to the Stables. From these love affairs, historically proved, with a great lady, he had retained this sheet. As a waif or a souvenir. At his death, as this was the only linen of any fineness which he had in his house, they buried him in it. Some old women had shrouded him for the tomb in that swaddling-band in which the tragic Friend of the people had enjoyed voluptuousness. Bruneseau passed on. They left that rag where it hung; they did not put the finishing touch to it. Did this arise from scorn or from respect? Marat deserved both. And then, destiny was there sufficiently stamped to make them hesitate to touch it. Besides, the things of the sepulchre must be left in the spot which they select. In short, the relic was a strange one. A Marquise had slept in it; Marat had rotted in it; it had traversed the Pantheon to end with the rats of the sewer. This chamber rag, of which Watteau would formerly have joyfully sketched every fold, had ended in becoming worthy of the fixed gaze of Dante.
The whole visit to the subterranean stream of filth of Paris lasted seven years, from 1805 to 1812. As he proceeded, Bruneseau drew, directed, and completed considerable works; in 1808 he lowered the arch of the Ponceau, and, everywhere creating new lines, he pushed the sewer, in 1809, under the Rue Saint-Denis as far as the fountain of the Innocents; in 1810, under the Rue Froidmanteau and under the Salpetriere; in 1811 under the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Peres, under the Rue du Mail, under the Rue de l'Echarpe, under the Place Royale; in 1812, under the Rue de la Paix, and under the Chaussee d'Antin. At the same time, he had the whole net-work disinfected and rendered healthful. In the second year of his work, Bruneseau engaged the assistance of his son-in-law Nargaud.
It was thus that, at the beginning of the century, ancient society cleansed its double bottom, and performed the toilet of its sewer. There was that much clean, at all events.
Tortuous, cracked, unpaved, full of fissures, intersected by gullies, jolted by eccentric elbows, mounting and descending illogically, fetid, wild, fierce, submerged in obscurity, with cicatrices on its pavements and scars on its walls, terrible,--such was, retrospectively viewed, the antique sewer of Paris. Ramifications in every direction, crossings, of trenches, branches, goose-feet, tars,as in military mines, coecum, blind alleys, vaults lined with saltpetre, pestiferous pools, scabby sweats, on the walls, drops dripping from the ceilings, darkness; nothing could equal the horror of this old, waste crypt, the digestive apparatus of Babylon, a cavern, ditch, gulf pierced with streets, a titanic mole-burrow, where the mind seems to behold that enormous blind mole, the past, prowling through the shadows, in the filth which has been splendor.
This, we repeat, was the sewer of the past.
视察进行了。这是一次可怕的战役，在漆黑的夜间向瘟疫和窒息性瓦斯进军。同时也是一次有所发现的旅行。参加这次探险还活着的人之一，当时是一个年轻聪明的工人，几年前他还谈起一些奇异的细节，而当时，勃吕纳梭认为这些细节与他呈给警署署长的报告的公文文体不称而删去了。那时的消毒方式是很简陋的，勃吕纳梭刚越过地下网的头几条支管，二十个工人中就有八个拒绝再往前走。工作是复杂的，视察免不了要疏通，因此必须清除，同时还要测量，去标明水的进口，数清铁栅栏和管口，了解分支的详情，指出流水的分叉处，明确各个蓄水池的界限，探查接在总管上的小管，从拱心石处测量每个沟道的高度，从拱顶开始处到沟槽底测量宽度，最后确定或从阴沟底，或从街面与每一进水口成直角的水准测量纵座标。他们的进展是艰苦的。下沟的梯子经常陷入三尺深的稀泥中，灯笼在沼气中忽明忽暗，不时有清沟工人失去知觉而被抬出去。有些地方简直是深渊。土地下陷，石板地塌了，阴沟变成了暗井，人们找不到立足之地；一个工人忽然失踪了，大家吃力地把他拖了出来。依照福克瓦①的建议，大家在基本上打扫干净的地方，隔一定距离，就用大笼子装满浸透树脂的旧麻点燃起来照明。墙壁上，有些地方长满了畸形的菌，简直就勃吕纳梭在他的探险中是从上游到下游去。在大吼者街，两条水管分开处，他在一块突出的石头上辨认出一五五○年这个日期。这块石头指出费利贝尔·特洛姆在此止步，他曾被亨利二世委任视察巴黎的地下沟道。这块石头是十六世纪留在沟中的记号。勃吕纳梭在明索沟管和老人堂街沟管上发现了十七世纪的手工工程，这是一六○○年到一六五○年建筑的拱管，还有在集流管道西段发现了十八世纪的工程，这是一七四○年开凿和建成的拱管。这两条管路，尤其是年代较近的那条，即一七四○年的工程，看来要比一四一二年环城阴沟的泥水工程更破旧更久远，当时梅尼孟丹清水溪被抬高到巴黎大阴沟的地位，好象一个农民忽然高升，成为国王的第一侍从，一个乡巴佬变成勒贝尔②一样。
大家认为在很多地方，主要在法院下面，发现了建造在沟渠中的古老地牢的秘室。在丑陋的幽静③中，在一间秘室内挂着一个铁枷。所有密室都砌死了，发现了一些古怪的东西：例如一八○○年植物园丢失的猩猩的骸骨，这一丢失大致与十八世纪最后一年中有名的、无可争辩的、在贝纳丹街出现鬼魂的事有关。这个倒霉鬼最后淹死在污沟里。 
①福克瓦（Fourcroy，1755-1809），法国化学家。象肿瘤一样。在这令人窒息的地方，石头本身仿佛都是有病的。
②勒贝尔（Lebel），十九世纪法国军官。
③幽静，原文为拉丁文In　pace。
在通到马利容桥的拱形长巷中，有一个拾破烂的背篓保存得完好无缺，识货的人啧啧称赞。清沟工人终于大胆用手摸索污泥，里面有大量贵重物品，有金银饰物、宝石、硬币。一个巨人如果用筛子去滤这些污泥，便可在他的筛中得到几世纪的财富。在大庙街和圣阿瓦街两根支管的分叉处，人们拾到一个古怪的胡格诺新教徒的铜质纪念章，一面是一头戴着红衣主教冠的猪，另一面是一只头戴罗马教皇三重冕的狼。
最希罕的发现是在大阴渠的进口处。这个进口过去是用铁栅栏关着的，现在只剩下一些铰链。在其中的一个铰链上挂着一块肮脏的不成形的破布棗肯定是在经过这儿时被挂住了棗在黑暗中飘摇，最后成了破布条。勃吕纳梭把灯笼凑近仔细察看这块破布。这是很细的麻纱，在一个比较完整的角上可以看见绣着一个纹章的冠冕，下方有七个字母：LAVBEBSP。这是一个侯爵的冠冕，七个字母的意思是罗贝斯冰，大家认出了在眼前的是一块裹葬马拉的尸布。根据历史的考证，马拉年轻时有过一些风流韵事，这是他在阿图瓦伯爵家当兽医时，和一位贵妇人私通后留下的床单。这是残留物或纪念品。他死后，由于这是他家中唯一的一块较细的料子，因此人们就用它来给他裹尸。老妇人们用这块有过他欢乐的襁褓裹起这悲哀的人民之友，并把他送入墓窟。
勃吕纳梭不理睬这块布。他们让这破布条留在原处，并不毁掉它。这是表示蔑视还是尊敬呢？马拉在这两方面都受之无愧。而且命运在那儿已留下充分的印迹，致使人们产生顾虑，不愿去碰触它。此外，属于坟墓中的东西应当让它留在它所选择的地方。总之，这遗物是古怪的。一位侯爵夫人在里面睡过，马拉在那里面腐烂，它经过了先贤祠，最后来到了这老鼠沟。这块床上的破布，华托曾高兴地画出它所有的褶裥，结果是应受但丁的凝视。
对巴黎地下污水沟的全部视察历时七年，从一八○五年到一八一二年。勃吕纳梭边走边指示，经他领导结束了庞大的工程。一八○八年，他把朋索街的沟槽加深，并到处添设了新沟管，一八○九年，他把沟道通过圣德尼街并延伸到圣婴喷泉，一八一○年延伸到冷大衣街和妇女救济院下面，一八一一年，扩展到小神父新街、玛依街、肩带街、王宫广场，一八一二年延长到和平街和昂坦大街。同时他对全部沟网消毒净化。从第二年起勃吕纳梭就让他女婿纳谷当了他的助手。
就这样，在本世纪初，旧社会消除了它的双层底并打扮了它的阴渠。无论如何，这一次起码是把这些东西打扫干净了。
回顾巴黎过去的阴渠，弯弯曲曲，到处是隙缝裂口，不见石块铺底，坑坑洼洼，有些古怪的拐弯转角，无故升高降低，恶臭，粗陋，野蛮，沉浸在黑暗中，铺沟石疮疤累累，墙上被刀剑砍伤，惊险骇人。阴沟分叉伸向四面八方，壕沟纵横交错，枝枝节节，象鹅掌，象坑道中的星叉道，象盲肠和死胡同；起硝的拱顶，含毒的污水坑，墙上渗出水泡疮的脓水，沟顶往下滴水，到处一片漆黑；没有比这排污水的古老地下墓室更可怕的了，这是巴比伦的消化道，是洞，是坑，是道路四通八达的深渊，是巨大的鼹鼠洞，人们在那过去是荣华富贵的垃圾堆上，仿佛看见了那只瞎眼的大鼹鼠在黑暗中徘徊，这鼹鼠就是往昔。
我们再重复一遍，这就是过去的阴沟。
Part 5 Book 2 Chapter 5 Present Progress
To-day the sewer is clean, cold, straight, correct. It almost realizes the ideal of what is understood in England by the word "respectable." It is proper and grayish; laid out by rule and line; one might almost say as though it came out of a bandbox. It resembles a tradesman who has become a councillor of state. One can almost see distinctly there. The mire there comports itself with decency. At first, one might readily mistake it for one of those subterranean corridors, which were so common in former days, and so useful in flights of monarchs and princes, in those good old times, "when the people loved their kings." The present sewer is a beautiful sewer; the pure style reigns there; the classical rectilinear alexandrine which, driven out of poetry, appears to have taken refuge in architecture, seems mingled with all the stones of that long, dark and whitish vault; each outlet is an arcade; the Rue de Rivoli serves as pattern even in the sewer. However, if the geometrical line is in place anywhere, it is certainly in the drainage trench of a great city. There, everything should be subordinated to the shortest road. The sewer has, nowadays, assumed a certain official aspect. The very police reports, of which it sometimes forms the subject, no longer are wanting in respect towards it. The words which characterize it in administrative language are sonorous and dignified. What used to be called a gut is now called a gallery; what used to be called a hole is now called a surveying orifice. Villon would no longer meet with his ancient temporary provisional lodging. This net-work of cellars has its immemorial population of prowlers, rodents, swarming in greater numbers than ever; from time to time, an aged and veteran rat risks his head at the window of the sewer and surveys the Parisians; but even these vermin grow tame, so satisfied are they with their subterranean palace. The cesspool no longer retains anything of its primitive ferocity. The rain, which in former days soiled the sewer, now washes it. Nevertheless, do not trust yourself too much to it. Miasmas still inhabit it. It is more hypocritical than irreproachable. The prefecture of police and the commission of health have done their best. But, in spite of all the processes of disinfection, it exhales, a vague, suspicious odor like Tartuffe after confession. 
Let us confess, that, taking it all in all, this sweeping is a homage which the sewer pays to civilization, and as, from this point of view, Tartuffe's conscience is a progress over the Augean stables, it is certain that the sewers of Paris have been improved.
It is more than progress; it is transmutation. Between the ancient and the present sewer there is a revolution. What has effected this revolution?
The man whom all the world forgets, and whom we have mentioned, Bruneseau.
今天的阴渠整洁、凉爽、笔直而又端正，它几乎实现了英国称之为“体面”①的那种理想的阴渠。它是体面的，浅灰色的，由直线拉齐，几乎可以说是笔直的。它好比是一个商人当上了政府顾问。里面几乎是明亮的。污泥在里面也循规蹈矩。乍看很可能被当作从前相当普遍的君主和王子逃亡时的一条地下长廊，那时是“老百姓爱戴他们君王”的好时光。今日的阴渠是条漂亮的阴沟，风格淳朴，被赶下诗坛的笔直的十二音节的古典诗好象躲进了这座建筑物之中，似乎已和阴暗微白的长拱廊的每块石块合而为一了，每个排水孔都是一个拱廊，里沃利街在污水沟方面也成了模范区。此外，如果说几何线条在什么地方合适的话，那就肯定是在一个大城市的粪窖中。在那儿，一切都要服从最短的路线。今日的阴渠已具有某种正式的外表。甚至警方在报告中提到它时也不再有失敬之处。官方文件中称呼它的字眼是高雅严肃的，过去叫做肠子的，现在称作长廊；以往人们叫做窟窿的，现在叫做眼孔。维庸将认不出他的临时旧居了。这个地窖网当然仍有它的古得无法追忆的啮齿类居民，现在比以往任何时候都要多；不时有一只有着老须的老鼠，冒险向沟窗外探头察看巴黎人；这只寄生鼠也习惯了，它对它的地下宫殿很满意。污沟已没有以往的狞恶相，从前雨水污染阴沟，现在冲洗一净。但也不能太放心，瘴疠仍然盘据在里面。更恰当地说，它是伪善的，而不是无可非议的。警署和公共卫生委员会也无法解决，尽管用上了一切改善环境卫生的办法，阴沟仍发出一股模糊可疑的气味，就象忏悔后的达尔杜弗一样。 
①“体面”，原文为英文respectable。
无论如何，我们总得承认，打扫是阴渠向文明致敬，从这个观点看，达尔杜弗的良心较之奥革阿斯①的牛棚又前进了一步，巴黎的阴渠无疑得到了改良。 
①奥革阿斯（Augias），希腊厄利斯国王，他的牛棚里养着三千头牛，牛棚有三十年没打扫过。
这不仅是进步，这是蜕变，在古老的阴渠和今日的阴渠之间，曾有过一次革命。谁进行了这次革命呢？
是被众人遗忘而我们提到的勃吕纳梭。
Part 5 Book 2 Chapter 6 Future Progress
The excavation of the sewer of Paris has been no slight task. The last ten centuries have toiled at it without being able to bring it to a termination, any more than they have been able to finish Paris. The sewer, in fact, receives all the counter-shocks of the growth of Paris. Within the bosom of the earth, it is a sort of mysterious polyp with a thousand antennae, which expands below as the city expands above. Every time that the city cuts a street, the sewer stretches out an arm. The old monarchy had constructed only twenty-three thousand three hundred metres of sewers; that was where Paris stood in this respect on the first of January, 1806. Beginning with this epoch, of which we shall shortly speak, the work was usefully and energetically resumed and prosecuted; Napoleon built--the figures are curious--four thousand eight hundred and four metres; Louis XVIII., five thousand seven hundred and nine; Charles X., ten thousand eight hundred and thirty-six; Louis-Philippe, eighty-nine thousand and twenty; the Republic of 1848, twenty-three thousand three hundred and eighty-one; the present government, seventy thousand five hundred; in all, at the present time, two hundred and twenty-six thousand six hundred and ten metres; sixty leagues of sewers; the enormous entrails of Paris. An obscure ramification ever at work; a construction which is immense and ignored.
As the reader sees, the subterranean labyrinth of Paris is to-day more than ten times what it was at the beginning of the century. It is difficult to form any idea of all the perseverance and the efforts which have been required to bring this cess-pool to the point of relative perfection in which it now is. It was with great difficulty 
that the ancient monarchical provostship and, during the last ten years of the eighteenth century, the revolutionary mayoralty, had succeeded in perforating the five leagues of sewer which existed previous to 1806. All sorts of obstacles hindered this operation, some peculiar to the soil, others inherent in the very prejudices of the laborious population of Paris. Paris is built upon a soil which is singularly rebellious to the pick, the hoe, the bore, and to human manipulation. There is nothing more difficult to pierce and to penetrate than the geological formation upon which is superposed the marvellous historical formation called Paris; as soon as work in any form whatsoever is begun and adventures upon this stretch of alluvium, subterranean resistances abound. There are liquid clays, springs, hard rocks, and those soft and deep quagmires which special science calls moutardes.[59] The pick advances laboriously through the calcareous layers alternating with very slender threads of clay, and schistose beds in plates incrusted with oyster-shells, the contemporaries of the pre-Adamite oceans. Sometimes a rivulet suddenly bursts through a vault that has been begun, and inundates the laborers; or a layer of marl is laid bare, and rolls down with the fury of a cataract, breaking the stoutest supporting beams like glass. Quite recently, at Villette, when it became necessary to pass the collecting sewer under the Saint-Martin canal without interrupting navigation or emptying the canal, a fissure appeared in the basin of the canal, water suddenly became abundant in the subterranean tunnel, which was beyond the power of the pumping engines; it was necessary to send a diver to explore the fissure which had been made in the narrow entrance of the grand basin, and it was not without great difficulty that it was stopped up. Elsewhere near the Seine, and even at a considerable distance from the river, as for instance, at Belleville, Grand-Rue and Lumiere Passage, quicksands are encountered in which one sticks fast, and in which a man sinks visibly. Add suffocation by miasmas, burial by slides, and sudden crumbling of the earth. Add the typhus, with which the workmen become slowly impregnated. In our own day, after having excavated the gallery of Clichy, with a banquette to receive the principal water-conduit of Ourcq, a piece of work which was executed in a trench ten metres deep; after having, in the midst of land-slides, and with the aid of excavations often putrid, and of shoring up, vaulted the Bievre from the Boulevard de l'Hopital, as far as the Seine; after having, in order to deliver Paris from the floods of Montmartre and in order to provide an outlet for that river-like pool nine hectares in extent, which crouched near the Barriere des Martyrs, after having, let us state, constructed the line of sewers from the Barriere Blanche to the road of Aubervilliers, in four months, working day and night, at a depth of eleven metres; after having--a thing heretofore unseen-- made a subterranean sewer in the Rue Barre-du-Bec, without a trench, six metres below the surface, the superintendent, Monnot, died. After having vaulted three thousand metres of sewer in all quarters of the city, from the Rue Traversiere-Saint-Antoine to the Rue de l'Ourcine, after having freed the Carrefour Censier-Mouffetard from inundations of rain by means of the branch of the Arbalete, after having built the Saint-Georges sewer, on rock and concrete in the fluid sands, after having directed the formidable lowering of the flooring of the vault timber in the Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth branch, Duleau the engineer died. There are no bulletins for such acts of bravery as these, which are more useful, nevertheless, than the brutal slaughter of the field of battle.
[59] Mustards.
The sewers of Paris in 1832 were far from being what they are to-day. Bruneseau had given the impulse, but the cholera was required to bring about the vast reconstruction which took place later on. It is surprising to say, for example, that in 1821, a part of the belt sewer, called the Grand Canal, as in Venice, still stood stagnating uncovered to the sky, in the Rue des Gourdes. It was only in 1821 that the city of Paris found in its pocket the two hundred and sixty-thousand eighty francs and six centimes required for covering this mass of filth. The three absorbing wells, of the Combat, the Cunette, and Saint-Mande, with their discharging mouths, their apparatus, their cesspools, and their depuratory branches, only date from 1836. The intestinal sewer of Paris has been made over anew, and, as we have said, it has been extended more than tenfold within the last quarter of a century.
Thirty years ago, at the epoch of the insurrection of the 5th and 6th of June, it was still, in many localities, nearly the same ancient sewer. A very great number of streets which are now convex were then sunken causeways. At the end of a slope, where the tributaries of a street or cross-roads ended, there were often to be seen large, square gratings with heavy bars, whose iron, polished by the footsteps of the throng, gleamed dangerous and slippery for vehicles, and caused horses to fall. The official language of the Roads and Bridges gave to these gratings the expressive name of Cassis.[60]
[60] From casser, to break: break-necks.
In 1832, in a number of streets, in the Rue de l'Etoile, the Rue Saint-Louis, the Rue du Temple, the Rue Vielle-duTemple, the Rue Notre-Dame de Nazareth, the Rue Folie-Mericourt, the Quai aux Fleurs, the Rue du Petit-Muse, the Rue du Normandie, the Rue Pont-Aux-Biches, the Rue des Marais, the Faubourg Saint-Martin, the Rue Notre Dame des-Victoires, the Faubourg Montmartre, the Rue Grange-Bateliere, in the Champs-Elysees, the Rue Jacob, the Rue de Tournon, the ancient gothic sewer still cynically displayed its maw. It consisted of enormous voids of stone catch-basins sometimes surrounded by stone posts, with monumental effrontery.
Paris in 1806 still had nearly the same sewers numerically as stated in 1663; five thousand three hundred fathoms. After Bruneseau, on the 1st of January, 1832, it had forty thousand three hundred metres. Between 1806 and 1831, there had been built, on an average, seven hundred and fifty metres annually, afterwards eight and even ten thousand metres of galleries were constructed every year, in masonry, of small stones, with hydraulic mortar which hardens under water, on a cement foundation. At two hundred francs the metre, the sixty leagues of Paris' sewers of the present day represent forty-eight millions.
In addition to the economic progress which we have indicated at the beginning, grave problems of public hygiene are connected with that immense question: the sewers of Paris.
Paris is the centre of two sheets, a sheet of water and a sheet of air. The sheet of water, lying at a tolerably great depth underground, but already sounded by two bores, is furnished by the layer of green clay situated between the chalk and the Jurassic lime-stone; this layer may be represented by a disk five and twenty leagues in circumference; a multitude of rivers and brooks ooze there; one drinks the Seine,the Marne, the Yonne, the Oise, the Aisne, the Cher, the Vienne and the Loire in a glass of water from the well of Grenelle. The sheet of water is healthy, it comes from heaven in the first place and next from the earth; the sheet of air is unhealthy, it comes from the sewer. All the miasms of the cess-pool are mingled with the breath of the city; hence this bad breath. The air taken from above a dung-heap, as has been scientifically proved, is purer than the air taken from above Paris. In a given time, with the aid of progress, mechanisms become perfected, and as light increases, the sheet of water will be employed to purify the sheet of air; that is to say, to wash the sewer. The reader knows, that by "washing the sewer" we mean: the restitution of the filth to the earth; the return to the soil of dung and of manure to the fields. Through this simple act, the entire social community will experience a diminution of misery and an augmentation of health. At the present hour, the radiation of diseases from Paris extends to fifty leagues around the Louvre, taken as the hub of this pestilential wheel.
We might say that, for ten centuries, the cess-pool has been the disease of Paris. The sewer is the blemish which Paris has in her blood. The popular instinct has never been deceived in it. The occupation of sewermen was formerly almost as perilous, and almost as repugnant to the people, as the occupation of knacker, which was so long held in horror and handed over to the executioner. High wages were necessary to induce a mason to disappear in that fetid mine; the ladder of the cess-pool cleaner hesitated to plunge into it; it was said, in proverbial form: "to descend into the sewer is to enter the grave;" and all sorts of hideous legends, as we have said, covered this colossal sink with terror; a dread sink-hole which bears the traces of the revolutions of the globe as of the revolutions of man, and where are to be found vestiges of all cataclysms from the shells of the Deluge to the rag of Marat.
挖掘巴黎的下水道并非是轻而易举的工程。过去十个世纪都在为它劳动而未能结束，如同未能完成巴黎的建筑一样。阴渠确实也受到巴黎扩展的影响。这是地下的一种黑暗的有无数触须的水蝗，城市在上面扩展，它就在下面长大。每逢城市开辟一条路，阴渠就长出一只手臂，在过去君主政体时期只建造了二万三千三百米阴沟，这是一八○六年一月一日巴黎的情况。从那时开始，我们不久还会谈到，工程曾有效地、坚决地被修复并继续下去；拿破仑建造了四千八百○四米，一个奇怪的数字；路易十八，五千七百○九米；查理十世，一万○八百三十六米；路易－菲力浦，八万九千○二十米；一八四八年的共和国，二万三千三百八十一米；目前的政府，七万○五百米；总共到目前为止是二十二万六千六百一十米，这是六十法里的阴渠，成了巴黎庞大的肚肠。黑暗中的分支工程一直在进行，规模宏大而不为人知。
正如我们所见，今日巴黎的地下迷宫，与这个世纪开始时相比已增加了十倍以上。人们很难想象，为使这条下水道达到现在相对完善的程度，必须作何种努力和具备何种坚韧不拔的精神。旧的君主制度的巴黎市政府和十八世纪最后十年的革命市政府好不容易才挖通了一八○六年就已存在的五法里的沟渠。各种障碍阻挡了这一工程，有的是因土壤的性质，有的是因巴黎劳动人民的成见。巴黎建筑在一块铲不动、锄不松、钻不进、人力不易解决的特殊矿床上。在这一地质结构上耸立着具有历史意义的称之为巴黎的奇妙构造，再没有比这一结构更难戳破和打通的了；不论以什么方式，工作一开始并冒险深入这冲积层后，地下的阻力就层出不穷。有稀粘土，有活水泉，有坚石，有软而深的淤泥棗科学的专门名词称之为芥末。十字镐费劲地凿进这一石灰石层，一层层很薄的粘土和一层层镶嵌着亚当时代以前的海中牡蛎壳的结晶片就交替出现了。有时一条河流忽然冲断刚开辟的拱顶，淹没了工人；或者忽然出现一股泥石流，它象一股狂暴的瀑布，象打碎玻璃那样，把最粗的支柱折断。最近，在费耶特，必须既不停航、也不抽干运河水，去把总管安在圣马尔丹运河下面。河床出现了裂口，水突然灌满地下工地，超出了水泵的抽水力，因此只得由一名潜水员去寻找大水池狭窄入口处的裂口，好不容易才把它堵住了。别处，在靠近塞纳河处，甚至在离河还相当远的地方，比如在贝尔维尔、在大道和吕尼埃通道上，人们遇到了能陷没人的无底流沙，在那儿，一个人眼看着就沉没下去。此外尚有令入窒息的腐烂气体、可能把人埋上的塌方、突然的地陷以及工人们慢慢感染上的斑疹伤寒。近来，在挖掘克利希街的地下长廊并用砌道来为乌尔克运河安装（这得在十米深的坑道里施工）一根主要的输水管之后；在顶着塌方挖掘，经常遇到腐烂层，并用支撑加固的情况下，从医院路直至塞纳河，在建成皮埃弗的拱顶之后；为使巴黎避免在蒙马特尔区急流成灾，并使这一有着九公顷之广的在殉教者街便门附近的滞水塘有条出路，人们不分昼夜，在地下十一米处修建了一条从布朗希便门到欧贝维利耶大路的沟道之后；在鸟喙小栅栏街，在不开沟的情况下，在六米深的地下棗真是前所未闻棗建成了一条地下沟管之后，工程指挥蒙诺就去世了。
在城市各处，从圣安东尼横街到鲁尔辛街建成了三千米阴沟之后；在利用弩弓街的支管把税吏街穆夫达街十字路口的雨水灾害排除之后；在用碎石块和混凝土在流沙上砌了路基、筑成了圣乔治街的沟管之后；在指挥了危险的纳泽尔圣母院街的支管的降低工程之后，杜罗工程师就去世了。这样勇敢的功绩竟没有一个公报，其实这比在战场上愚蠢的厮杀有益得多。
在一八三二年，巴黎的阴渠远不是今天这样的，勃吕纳梭曾积极建议，但一直等到发生霍乱，方始定下后来的巨大的重建工程。说来也怪，例如，在一八二一年，象在威尼斯一样，被称为大运河的阴沟的总渠，有一段污秽的滞水在酒葫芦街露天敞着。直到一八二三年，巴黎城才在口袋中找到了遮盖这污水所需的二十六万六千○八十法郎十生丁。战斗便门、古内特、圣芒代的三个排泄口，机械装置、排污水渗井和净化支管的吸水井，是到一八三六年方始出现的。巴黎的下水道，我们已经说过，二十五年来修建一新，并增加了十倍以上。
三十年前，在六月五日和六日起义时期，许多地方基本上还是老阴沟。大多数的街道，当时街心还开裂，现在已隆起了。人们常常在一条街或十字路口的斜坡的最低点看到大的方形粗铁栅栏，铁杠已被行人的脚底磨擦得发亮了，每当车辆经过，情况既滑又险，并使马失足。桥梁建筑正式的术语给这个低点和栅栏一个生动的名称“陷阱”①。一八三二年在无数街道上，明星街、圣路易街、大庙街、老人堂街、纳泽尔圣母院街、梅利古游乐场街、花堤、小麝香街、诺曼底街、牝鹿桥街、沼泽街、圣马尔丹郊区、胜利圣母院街、蒙马特尔郊区、船娘仓街、爱丽舍广场、雅各布街、图尔农街，老哥特式的污水坑，还是不害羞地张着它们的大嘴巴。这是船篷巨大的石缝，有时用界石围着，放肆到了极点。 
①陷阱，原文为拉丁文Cassis。
一八○六年的巴黎沟渠基本上仍是一六六三年考察时的数字：五千三百二十八脱阿斯。在勃吕纳梭之后，一八三二年一月一日，是四万○三百米。从一八○六年到一八三一年，每年平均建造七百五十米；此后，每年在混凝土的地基上，用碎石搅拌水泥建造八千甚至一万米沟廊，造价是二百法郎一米，目前巴黎的六十法里阴渠共用去四千八百万法郎。
除去开始时我们指出的经济方面的进步之外，严重的公共卫生问题是和巴黎阴渠这一巨大问题有关的。
巴黎处在两层之间，一层水和一层空气。这层水聚集在相当深的地层下，这已为两次钻探所证明，这是由一层位于白垩和侏罗纪的石灰石之间的绿砂石所提供的，这片水可用一个圆盘来表示，半径是二十五法里，无数河流、小溪在那儿渗出。我们可在一杯格勒内尔井水中喝到塞纳、马恩、荣纳、瓦兹、埃纳、歇尔、维埃纳和卢瓦尔这些江河的水。这一片水是卫生的，它首先是由天而降，其次是由地下出来的。那层空气则不卫生，它是从沟渠中出来的。一切污水坑的腐烂气息都混在城市的呼吸中，由此而产生这股臭味。从一个粪草堆上取点空气，经过科学证实，比在巴黎上空取的空气还要纯洁，经过了一定的时间，进步起了作用，机械逐渐趋向完善，一切都明朗化了，我们可用这层水净化这层空气，这就是说要冲洗阴渠。我们知道，使阴渠清洁意味着把污泥归还土地，把粪肥送回土地，使肥料回田。这样一件简单的事，对公众来说，将会减少贫困和增进健康。目前，巴黎疾病已扩散到以卢浮宫为中心的方圆五法里地区。
我们可以说，十个世纪以来，污水坑是巴黎疾病的来源，阴沟是这个城市血液的病。在这方面人民的本能从来不会错。过去，修建阴沟的职业几乎和剥马皮卖肉的职业同样危险和使人厌恶，认为它很可怕，因此长期以来就推给刽子手去做。要使一个泥水工下到臭坑就必须付很高的工资，挖井工人犹豫着，不肯把梯子放进污坑里去，那时的俗话说：“下坑如进坟。”各种可怕的传说，我们已经谈过，使这个庞大的沟槽充满了恐怖，这个令人害怕的肮脏潮湿的地方有着地球的变化和人类革命的痕迹，我们可以在那儿找到一切天灾人祸的遗物，从洪水泛滥时期的贝壳一直到马拉的敝衣。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 1 The Sewer and Its Surprises

Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 2 Explanation
On the day of the sixth of June, a battue of the sewers had been ordered. It was feared that the vanquished might have taken to them for refuge, and Prefect Gisquet was to search occult Paris while General Bugeaud swept public Paris; a double and connected operation which exacted a double strategy on the part of the public force, represented above by the army and below by the police. Three squads of agents and sewermen explored the subterranean drain of Paris, the first on the right bank, the second on the left bank, the third in the city. The agents of police were armed with carabines, with bludgeons, swords and poignards.
That which was directed at Jean Valjean at that moment, was the lantern of the patrol of the right bank. 
This patrol had just visited the curving gallery and the three blind alleys which lie beneath the Rue du Cadran. While they were passing their lantern through the depths of these blind alleys, Jean Valjean had encountered on his path the entrance to the gallery, had perceived that it was narrower than the principal passage and had not penetrated thither. He had passed on. The police, on emerging from the gallery du Cadran, had fancied that they heard the sound of footsteps in the direction of the belt sewer. They were, in fact, the steps of Jean Valjean. The sergeant in command of the patrol had raised his lantern, and the squad had begun to gaze into the mist in the direction whence the sound proceeded. 
This was an indescribable moment for Jean Valjean.
Happily, if he saw the lantern well, the lantern saw him but ill. It was light and he was shadow. He was very far off, and mingled with the darkness of the place. He hugged the wall and halted. Moreover, he did not understand what it was that was moving behind him. The lack of sleep and food, and his emotions had caused him also to pass into the state of a visionary. He beheld a gleam, and around that gleam, forms. What was it? He did not comprehend. 
Jean Valjean having paused, the sound ceased.
The men of the patrol listened, and heard nothing, they looked and saw nothing. They held a consultation.
There existed at that epoch at this point of the Montmartre sewer a sort of cross-roads called de service, which was afterwards suppressed, on account of the little interior lake which formed there, swallowing up the torrent of rain in heavy storms. The patrol could form a cluster in this open space. Jean Valjean saw these spectres form a sort of circle. These bull-dogs' heads approached each other closely and whispered together.
The result of this council held by the watch dogs was, that they had been mistaken, that there had been no noise, that it was useless to get entangled in the belt sewer, that it would only be a waste of time, but that they ought to hasten towards Saint-Merry; that if there was anything to do, and any "bousingot" to track out, it was in that quarter.
From time to time, parties re-sole their old insults. In 1832, the word bousingot formed the interim between the word jacobin, which had become obsolete, and the word demagogue which has since rendered such excellent service.
The sergeant gave orders to turn to the left, towards the watershed of the Seine.
If it had occurred to them to separate into two squads, and to go in both directions, Jean Valjean would have been captured. All hung on that thread. It is probable that the instructions of the prefecture, foreseeing a possibility of combat and insurgents in force, had forbidden the patrol to part company. The patrol resumed its march, leaving Jean Valjean behind it. Of all this movement, Jean Valjean perceived nothing, except the eclipse of the lantern which suddenly wheeled round.
Before taking his departure, the Sergeant, in order to acquit his policeman's conscience, discharged his gun in the direction of Jean Valjean. The detonation rolled from echo to echo in the crypt, like the rumbling of that titanic entrail. A bit of plaster which fell into the stream and splashed up the water a few paces away from Jean Valjean, warned him that the ball had struck the arch over his head.
Slow and measured steps resounded for some time on the timber work, gradually dying away as they retreated to a greater distance; the group of black forms vanished, a glimmer of light oscillated and floated, communicating to the vault a reddish glow which grew fainter, then disappeared; the silence became profound once more, the obscurity became complete, blindness and deafness resumed possession of the shadows; and Jean Valjean, not daring to stir as yet, remained for a long time leaning with his back against the wall, with straining ears, and dilated pupils, watching the disappearance of that phantom patrol.
在六月六日的白天，上级命令搜索阴渠。他们担心战败者以此作为避难所，警署署长吉斯凯负责搜查巴黎的隐蔽处，同时由毕若将军肃清巴黎公开的暴民；双重的有联系的作战需要官方武力的双重战略，这股力量上面有军队代表，下面则由警署承担。三个由警察和阴渠清洁工人组成的小队探索着巴黎的地下管道。一队在河右岸，二队在河左岸，三队在市中心。
警察有马枪、棍棒、刀和剑武装着。
此时照着冉阿让的，是河右岸的巡逻队的灯笼。
这组巡逻队刚检查了钟面街下面的弯曲的巷道和三条死胡同。当他们用手提灯笼探照死胡同尽头时，冉阿让在路上已到过巷道口，认为比总渠窄而未进入，他就走过去了。这些警察走出钟面街的巷道时，好象听见有声音从总渠那个方向传来，这确是冉阿让的脚步声。警察班长举起灯笼，那小队开始朝听见声音的那边迷雾中探望。
这对冉阿让是无可言状的一刹那。
幸而，虽然他看清了灯笼，灯笼可照不见他。它是光而他是黑影。他在很远处，隐在那儿的黑色中。他停下来，靠墙缩着。
再说，他也不明白在他后面移动的是什么。失眠、没有进食以及紧张的情绪，使他也进入见到幻影的境界。他见到一个火光，在火光四周有妖魔。这是些什么？他不了解。
冉阿让停下来，声音也没有了。
巡逻队静听后一无所闻。他们看了看，什么也看不见。他们商量了一下。
当时在蒙马特尔这边的阴渠里有一种十字路口叫“值勤处”，后又被取消了，因为那里积水成塘，这是倾盆大雨时雨水的急流在那里遇到了阻碍后形成的。巡逻队就缩在这交叉路口。
冉阿让看见这些妖魔围成一圈。这些猛犬的头靠拢在一起，低声说话。
开会的结果这些守夜犬认为是搞错了，并没有什么声音，也没有什么人在这儿，没有必要钻进总沟渠，这是浪费时间，应该赶紧到圣美里那边去，并认为如有什么事要做或有什么“布桑戈”要追踪，那也是在这个地区。
党派不时给旧的诅咒换上新装，在一八三二年，“布桑戈”这个词替代了已过时的雅各宾派和当时还不通用但后来非常有贡献的德马格派①。 
①德马格派（démagogue），煽动群众者。　
班长下令向左转沿塞纳河坡岸前进。如果他想到分成两组朝两个方向去，冉阿让就被捕了。这真是一发千钧之际。可能警署有指示，估计到会和人数众多的暴动者作战，不准巡逻队分散。巡逻队又开始走了，把冉阿让留在后面，这一切，除了灯笼忽然转向消失外，冉阿让一无所知。
在未离去之前，为了尽到警察的责任，班长向离去的地方，朝着冉阿让的方向开枪射击，枪声在地下坟墓中引起不断回响，就象提坦巨人的肠鸣。一块泥土掉入小股流水中，使水溅到冉阿让前面几步的地方，这告诉他枪弹已打中了他头上的拱顶了。
整齐而缓慢的脚步声在渠道中回响，不断增加的距离使它慢慢弱下去。那群黑影钻进深处，一点微光摇晃着，浮动着，形成了一个圆形的浅红色暗光，照在拱顶上。这圆光逐渐减退，于是消失。深沉的寂静又出现了，又回到了彻底的黑暗中，耳聋眼瞎又重新与黑暗作伴；冉阿让还不敢动弹，很久很久一直靠着墙壁，竖起耳朵，睁大眼睛，望着这鬼影巡逻队的消失。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 3 The "Spun" Man
This justice must be rendered to the police of that period, that even in the most serious public junctures, it imperturbably fulfilled its duties connected with the sewers and surveillance. A revolt was, in its eyes, no pretext for allowing malefactors to take the bit in their own mouths, and for neglecting society for the reason that the government was in peril. The ordinary service was performed correctly in company with the extraordinary service, and was not troubled by the latter. In the midst of an incalculable political event already begun, under the pressure of a possible revolution, a police agent, "spun" a thief without allowing himself to be distracted by insurrection and barricades. 
It was something precisely parallel which took place on the afternoon of the 6th of June on the banks of the Seine, on the slope of the right shore, a little beyond the Pont des Invalides.
There is no longer any bank there now. The aspect of the locality has changed.
On that bank, two men, separated by a certain distance, seemed to be watching each other while mutually avoiding each other. The one who was in advance was trying to get away, the one in the rear was trying to overtake the other.
It was like a game of checkers played at a distance and in silence. Neither seemed to be in any hurry, and both walked slowly, as though each of them feared by too much haste to make his partner redouble his pace.
One would have said that it was an appetite following its prey, and purposely without wearing the air of doing so. The prey was crafty and on its guard.
The proper relations between the hunted pole-cat and the hunting dog were observed. The one who was seeking to escape had an insignificant mien and not an impressive appearance; the one who was seeking to seize him was rude of aspect, and must have been rude to encounter.
The first, conscious that he was the more feeble, avoided the second; but he avoided him in a manner which was deeply furious; any one who could have observed him would have discerned in his eyes the sombre hostility of flight, and all the menace that fear contains. 
The shore was deserted; there were no passers-by; not even a boatman nor a lighter-man was in the skiffs which were moored here and there. 
It was not easy to see these two men, except from the quay opposite, and to any person who had scrutinized them at that distance, the man who was in advance would have appeared like a bristling, tattered, and equivocal being, who was uneasy and trembling beneath a ragged blouse, and the other like a classic and official personage, wearing the frock-coat of authority buttoned to the chin. 
Perchance the reader might recognize these two men, if he were to see them closer at hand.
What was the object of the second man?
Probably to succeed in clothing the first more warmly. 
When a man clothed by the state pursues a man in rags, it is in order to make of him a man who is also clothed by the state. Only, the whole question lies in the color. To be dressed in blue is glorious; to be dressed in red is disagreeable.
There is a purple from below.
It is probably some unpleasantness and some purple of this sort which the first man is desirous of shirking. 
If the other allowed him to walk on, and had not seized him as yet, it was, judging from all appearances, in the hope of seeing him lead up to some significant meeting-place and to some group worth catching. This delicate operation is called "spinning."
What renders this conjecture entirely probable is that the buttoned-up man, on catching sight from the shore of a hackney-coach on the quay as it was passing along empty, made a sign to the driver; the driver understood, evidently recognized the person with whom he had to deal, turned about and began to follow the two men at the top of the quay, at a foot-pace. This was not observed by the slouching and tattered personage who was in advance. 
The hackney-coach rolled along the trees of the Champs-Elysees. The bust of the driver, whip in hand, could be seen moving along above the parapet.
One of the secret instructions of the police authorities to their agents contains this article: "Always have on hand a hackney-coach, in case of emergency."
While these two men were manoeuvring, each on his own side, with irreproachable strategy, they approached an inclined plane on the quay which descended to the shore, and which permitted cab-drivers arriving from Passy to come to the river and water their horses. This inclined plane was suppressed later on, for the sake of symmetry; horses may die of thirst, but the eye is gratified.
It is probable that the man in the blouse had intended to ascend this inclined plane, with a view to making his escape into the Champs-Elysees, a place ornamented with trees, but, in return, much infested with policemen, and where the other could easily exercise violence.
This point on the quay is not very far distant from the house brought to Paris from Moret in 1824, by Colonel Brack, and designated as "the house of Francois I." A guard house is situated close at hand. 
To the great surprise of his watcher, the man who was being tracked did not mount by the inclined plane for watering. He continued to advance along the quay on the shore.
His position was visibly becoming critical.
What was he intending to do, if not to throw himself into the Seine?
Henceforth, there existed no means of ascending to the quay; there was no other inclined plane, no staircase; and they were near the spot, marked by the bend in the Seine towards the Pont de Jena, where the bank, growing constantly narrower, ended in a slender tongue,and was lost in the water. There he would inevitably find himself blocked between the perpendicular wall on his right, the river on his left and in front of him, and the authorities on his heels. 
It is true that this termination of the shore was hidden from sight by a heap of rubbish six or seven feet in height, produced by some demolition or other. But did this man hope to conceal himself effectually behind that heap of rubbish, which one need but skirt? The expedient would have been puerile. He certainly was not dreaming of such a thing. The innocence of thieves does not extend to that point.
The pile of rubbish formed a sort of projection at the water's edge, which was prolonged in a promontory as far as the wall of the quay. 
The man who was being followed arrived at this little mound and went round it, so that he ceased to be seen by the other.
The latter, as he did not see, could not be seen; he took advantage of this fact to abandon all dissimulation and to walk very rapidly. In a few moments, he had reached the rubbish heap and passed round it. There he halted in sheer amazement. The man whom he had been pursuing was no longer there.
Total eclipse of the man in the blouse. 
The shore, beginning with the rubbish heap, was only about thirty paces long, then it plunged into the water which beat against the wall of the quay. The fugitive could not have thrown himself into the Seine without being seen by the man who was following him. What had become of him?
The man in the buttoned-up coat walked to the extremity of the shore, and remained there in thought for a moment, his fists clenched, his eyes searching. All at once he smote his brow. He had just perceived, at the point where the land came to an end and the water began, a large iron grating, low, arched, garnished with a heavy lock and with three massive hinges. This grating, a sort of door pierced at the base of the quay, opened on the river as well as on the shore. A blackish stream passed under it. This stream discharged into the Seine.
Beyond the heavy, rusty iron bars, a sort of dark and vaulted corridor could be descried. The man folded his arms and stared at the grating with an air of reproach.
As this gaze did not suffice, he tried to thrust it aside; he shook it, it resisted solidly. It is probable that it had just been opened, although no sound had been heard, a singular circumstance in so rusty a grating; but it is certain that it had been closed again. This indicated that the man before whom that door had just opened had not a hook but a key.
This evidence suddenly burst upon the mind of the man who was trying to move the grating, and evoked from him this indignant ejaculation: 
"That is too much! A government key!"
Then, immediately regaining his composure, he expressed a whole world of interior ideas by this outburst of monosyllables accented almost ironically: "Come! Come! Come! Come!" 
That said, and in the hope of something or other, either that he should see the man emerge or other men enter, he posted himself on the watch behind a heap of rubbish, with the patient rage of a pointer.
The hackney-coach, which regulated all its movements on his, had, in its turn, halted on the quay above him, close to the parapet. The coachman, foreseeing a prolonged wait, encased his horses' muzzles in the bag of oats which is damp at the bottom, and which is so familiar to Parisians, to whom, be it said in parenthesis, the Government sometimes applies it. The rare passers-by on the Pont de Jena turned their heads, before they pursued their way, to take a momentary glance at these two motionless items in the landscape, the man on the shore, the carriage on the quay.
我们应当公正地承认，即使在局势最严重的时刻，当时的警察仍镇静地尽到他们的道路管理和监视的责任。在他们看来，决不能让坏人把一次暴动当作胡作非为的借口，他们不能因政府多难而对社会有所疏忽。在执行特殊的任务时正常的职务也准确完成，并不受到干扰。在已开始的无数的政治事变中，在可能发生革命的压力下，并没有被起义和街垒所分心，有个警察正在跟踪一个小偷。
六月六日下午，在塞纳河右河滩残废军人院桥过去一点的地方发生的正是这类事件。
今天在那儿已没有河滩了，这一带的面貌现在也已改观。
在这段河滩上，隔着一段距离的两个人好象在互相注视着，一个在躲着另一个。在前面走着的人设法远离，在后面跟着的人则尽量接近。
这好象是远远地无声地在下着一局棋。这一个和那一个似乎都不匆忙，两个人都缓步而行，好象谁都怕因步子太急会使对方加快步伐。
就象一个馋嘴跟着一个猎物，但又不显出有意这样做的神气。那猎物是阴险的，它有所提防。
在被追捕的黄鼠狼和猎狗之间所要求的距离被保持着。设法想逃走的那个人个子不大、面容消瘦；想捕获的那个人身材高大，相貌粗鲁，和他打交道一定很不好受。
第一个，感到自己是最弱的，要逃避第二个；但逃避时神态相当愤怒，谁要是观察他就能看到，他的目光里露出逃窜时阴沉的敌对情绪和在恐惧时感受到的威胁。
河滩荒僻，没有一个过路人；这里那里停泊着的驳船上也没有船夫，也没有装卸工人。
人们只能在河岸对面才容易看清这两个人，在这一距离谁要是观察到他们的话，便可看见前面走的那个好象一个毛发耸立的人，衣衫褴褛，躲躲闪闪，心情焦急，在破罩衫下发抖；而另一个象是个典型的公务人员，穿着那种纽子一直扣到下颏的制服。
读者如果在比较近的地方去看这两个人，那可能是认识他们的。
后面一个人的目的何在呢？
大概要使第一个人穿得暖和一些吧！
当一个穿着国家发的制服的人去追捕一个衣衫褴褛的人时，其目的是使那人也穿上国家发的制服。但颜色是个关键。
穿上蓝色服装是光荣的，穿上红色衣衫是倒霉的。
有一种下等的紫红色①。 
①罗马帝王穿紫袍。此处指囚犯穿的红衣。　
第一个人想逃避的大概是某些烦恼和这类紫红色的服装。
如果另一个让他在前面走而不逮捕他，那是因为，从表面现象看来，希望能发现他去赴一个有意义的约会或到一群值得抓的人那里去。这种微妙的行动便称为“放长线”。
这个推测可能完全正确，因为扣好纽子的人看见河滩上一辆空马车走过，就向车夫做了个手势，车夫也已会意，很明显他知道在跟什么人打交道，就把马转过来并开始慢步在高岸上跟着这两个人。这些并没有被那走在前面的衣衫褴褛的可疑的人所看见。
街车沿着爱丽舍广场的树木滚动着，人们可以在护墙上看见车夫的上半身过去了，他手里拿着马鞭。
警署对警察的秘密指示中有一条，内容是“身边总得有一辆街车备用”。
当他们各自都在进行无可指责的战略时，两人走到了一个通往河滩的斜坡，当时从巴喜来的马车夫可以从这斜坡到河边饮马。为了整齐对称，这个斜坡后来被整修不存在了。马儿渴得要死，但人的眼睛是舒适了。
看来穿罩衫的人要上这斜坡，设法逃入树木成林的爱丽舍广场，但那儿警察密布，是另一个人下手很方便的地方。
河岸的这一处离开一八二四年勃拉克上校从莫雷移到巴黎的房屋不太远，这所房子叫做“弗朗索瓦一世住宅”，附近有一个卫队。
使监视者大为惊奇的是，被追捕者不沿着饮水的斜坡走上来，却继续在河滩上沿着河岸前进。
他的处境显然很危急。
除非是想跳进塞纳河，不然去干什么呢？
从此没有办法再上河岸了，不再有斜坡，也没有阶梯，他已到了塞纳河拐弯处接近耶拿桥的地方，那儿的河滩越来越窄，最后成一细条而在水中淹没，在这里他将不可避免地夹在右边的陡墙和左边及前方的河流中，后面有公安人员跟踪。
这边河滩的尽头确实被一堆六七尺高的不知拆毁了什么而留下的废料挡住了视线。难道这个人以为躲在这堆别人只要一绕就到的瓦砾后就行了？这种应付的方法是幼稚的。他肯定不想这么干。小偷还不至于天真到如此程度。这堆瓦砾在水边堆成小丘，延伸到河岸的高墙那里，就象海岬一样。
被追踪者到了这个小丘就越了过去，使他不再被另外那个人看见。
那个人，他既看不见，也没被人看见，他就利用这点，不再遮掩，飞步前进。一会儿就到了那堆垃圾，绕了过去，在那儿，他吃惊地停了下来，他追捕的人已经不在了。
穿罩衫的人已完全失踪。
从废物堆起河滩的长度连三十步都不到，接着就没入冲击岸墙的水中。
这个逃亡者不可能在跳入塞纳河或爬上河岸时不被跟踪的人望见，他到哪儿去了呢？
穿着扣好纽子的长大衣的人一直走到河滩尽头，在那里沉思片刻，两拳起了痉挛，极目搜索。忽然间他拍着自己的额头。他发现在土地和水的接连处，有一扇宽矮的拱形铁栅门，装有很厚的一把锁和三根粗铰链。这是一种装在河岸下方，半露水面半在水下的铁栅门，一股黑水从下面流出，泻入塞纳河。
在生锈的粗铁栅栏后面，可以清楚地看到一种有拱顶的阴暗长廊。
这个人两臂交叉在胸前，用谴责的神情望着铁栅栏。他望着还不够，还试图推动铁门，他摇它，门却很坚固，摇不动。大概它刚才被打开了，奇怪的是铁栅门已锈成这样，然而没有听见一点声音，但肯定门是又被关上了。这说明这个开门的人用的不是弯钩，而是一把钥匙。
这种明确的证据立刻使摇门者恍然大悟并使他发出这样愤怒的感叹：
“这未免太不象话了！有着一把公家的钥匙！”
然后他又立刻平静下来，一口气喷出带讽刺味的有力的单音节字，表达了他内心的许多想法：
“妙！妙！妙！妙！”
说完后，不知还抱着什么希望，或者是想看那个人再出来，或者想看到别的人进去，他埋伏在那堆废物后面守候着，怀着猎狗那种耐心的愤激。
至于在他的一切举动之后紧跟着的街车也在他上面靠近河栏杆处停下来。马车夫预料到将有长时间的停留，就把马鼻子套在巴黎人很熟悉的打湿了的燕麦麻袋里，顺便提一下，政府有时把袋子套到他们嘴上①。耶拿桥稀少的行人，在走远之前，回头看一下景色中这不动的两点，河滩上的人，河岸边的马车。 
①嘴上了套，使他们不能说话。 
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 4 He Also Bears His Cross
Jean Valjean had resumed his march and had not again paused.
This march became more and more laborious. The level of these vaults varies; the average height is about five feet, six inches, and has been calculated for the stature of a man; Jean Valjean was forced to bend over, in order not to strike Marius against the vault; at every step he had to bend, then to rise, and to feel incessantly of the wall. The moisture of the stones, and the viscous nature of the timber framework furnished but poor supports to which to cling, either for hand or foot. He stumbled along in the hideous dung-heap of the city. The intermittent gleams from the air-holes only appeared at very long intervals, and were so wan that the full sunlight seemed like the light of the moon; all the rest was mist, miasma, opaqueness, blackness. Jean Valjean was both hungry and thirsty; especially thirsty; and this, like the sea, was a place full of water where a man cannot drink. His strength, which was prodigious, as the reader knows, and which had been but little decreased by age, thanks to his chaste and sober life, began to give way, nevertheless. Fatigue began to gain on him; and as his strength decreased, it made the weight of his burden increase. Marius, who was, perhaps, dead, weighed him down as inert bodies weigh. Jean Valjean held him in such a manner that his chest was not oppressed, and so that respiration could proceed as well as possible. Between his legs he felt the rapid gliding of the rats. One of them was frightened to such a degree that he bit him. From time to time, a breath of fresh air reached him through the vent-holes of the mouths of the sewer, and re-animated him. 
It might have been three hours past midday when he reached the belt-sewer.
He was, at first, astonished at this sudden widening. He found himself, all at once, in a gallery where his outstretched hands could not reach the two walls, and beneath a vault which his head did not touch. The Grand Sewer is, in fact, eight feet wide and seven feet high.
At the point where the Montmartre sewer joins the Grand Sewer, two other subterranean galleries, that of the Rue de Provence, and that of the Abattoir, form a square. Between these four ways, a less sagacious man would have remained undecided. Jean Valjean selected the broadest,that is to say, the belt-sewer. But here the question again came up--should he descend or ascend? He thought that the situation required haste, and that he must now gain the Seine at any risk. In other terms, he must descend. He turned to the left.
It was well that he did so, for it is an error to suppose that the belt-sewer has two outlets, the one in the direction of Bercy, the other towards Passy, and that it is, as its name indicates, the subterranean girdle of the Paris on the right bank. The Grand Sewer, which is, it must be remembered, nothing else than the old brook of Menilmontant, terminates, if one ascends it, in a blind sack, that is to say, at its ancient point of departure which was its source, at the foot of the knoll of Menilmontant. There is no direct communication with the branch which collects the waters of Paris beginning with the Quartier Popincourt, and which falls into the Seine through the Amelot sewer above the ancient Isle Louviers. This branch, which completes the collecting sewer, is separated from it, under the Rue Menilmontant itself, by a pile which marks the dividing point of the waters, between upstream and downstream. If Jean Valjean had ascended the gallery he would have arrived, after a thousand efforts, and broken down with fatigue, and in an expiring condition, in the gloom, at a wall. He would have been lost.
In case of necessity, by retracing his steps a little way, and entering the passage of the Filles-du-Calvaire, on condition that he did not hesitate at the subterranean crossing of the Carrefour Boucherat, and by taking the corridor Saint-Louis, then the Saint-Gilles gut on the left, then turning to the right and avoiding the Saint-Sebastian gallery, he might have reached the Amelot sewer, and thence, provided that he did not go astray in the sort of F which lies under the Bastille, he might have attained the outlet on the Seine near the Arsenal. But in order to do this, he must have been thoroughly familiar with the enormous madrepore of the sewer in all its ramifications and in all its openings. Now, we must again insist that he knew nothing of that frightful drain which he was traversing; and had any one asked him in what he was, he would have answered: "In the night."
His instinct served him well. To descend was, in fact, possible safety. 
He left on his right the two narrow passages which branch out in the form of a claw under the Rue Laffitte and the Rue Saint-Georges and the long, bifurcated corridor of the Chaussee d'Antin.
A little beyond an afflu ent, which was, probably, the Madeleine branch,he halted. He was extremely weary. A passably large air-hole, probably the man-hole in the Rue d'Anjou, furnished a light that was almost vivid. Jean Valjean, with the gentleness of movement which a brother would exercise towards his wounded brother, deposited Marius on the banquette of the sewer. Marius' blood-stained face appeared under the wan light of the air-hole like the ashes at the bottom of a tomb. His eyes were closed, his hair was plastered down on his temples like a painter's brushes dried in red wash; his hands hung limp and dead. A clot of blood had collected in the knot of his cravat; his limbs were cold, and blood was clotted at the corners of his mouth; his shirt had thrust itself into his wounds, the cloth of his coat was chafing the yawning gashes in the living flesh. Jean Valjean, pushing aside the garments with the tips of his fingers, laid his hand upon Marius' breast; his heart was still beating. Jean Valjean tore up his shirt, bandaged the young man's wounds as well as he was able and stopped the flowing blood; then bending over Marius, who still lay unconscious and almost without breathing, in that half light, he gazed at him with inexpressible hatred.
On disarranging Marius' garments, he had found two things in his pockets, the roll which had been forgotten there on the preceding evening, and Marius' pocketbook. He ate the roll and opened the pocketbook. On the first page he found the four lines written by Marius. The reader will recall them:
"My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather, M. Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais." 
Jean Valjean read these four lines by the light of the air-hole, and remained for a moment as though absorbed in thought, repeating in a low tone: "Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, number 6, Monsieur Gillenormand." He replaced the pocketbook in Marius' pocket. He had eaten, his strength had returned to him; he took Marius up once more upon his back, placed the latter's head carefully on his right shoulder, and resumed his descent of the sewer. 
The Grand Sewer, directed according to the course of the valley of Menilmontant, is about two leagues long. It is paved throughout a notable portion of its extent.
This torch of the names of the streets of Paris, with which we are illuminating for the reader Jean Valjean's subterranean march, Jean Valjean himself did not possess. Nothing told him what zone of the city he was traversing, nor what way he had made. Only the growing pallor of the pools of light which he encountered from time to time indicated to him that the sun was withdrawing from the pavement, and that the day would soon be over; and the rolling of vehicles overhead, having become intermittent instead of continuous, then having almost ceased, he concluded that he was no longer under central Paris, and that he was approaching some solitary region, in the vicinity of the outer boulevards, or the extreme outer quays. Where there are fewer houses and streets, the sewer has fewer air-holes. The gloom deepened around Jean Valjean. Nevertheless, he continued to advance, groping his way in the dark.
Suddenly this darkness became terrible.
冉阿让又继续走下去，不再停留。
走路已变得越来越困难了。圆拱顶的高度有变化，一般的高度是五尺六寸，这是按照一个人的高度设计的。冉阿让必须弯着腰，这样使马吕斯不致撞着拱顶；他得随时弯腰，接着又竖起身子来不停地摸着墙。潮湿的石头和粘滑的沟槽对手和脚都是不利的支撑点。他在城市的污秽中踉跄前进。间隔着的通风洞的光线相距很远，使大太阳暗淡如月光；此外就是迷雾、腐烂的气息、不透光、黑暗。冉阿让既渴又饥，尤其是渴，这里象在海上一样，到处是水，可是不能喝。他的体力本是异乎寻常的，这我们已经知道，而且很少因年岁而减弱，因为他的生活贞洁简朴，但此刻也开始垮下来了。他感到疲惫，慢慢减弱的体力使负担变重了。马吕斯，可能已经死去，就象不会动的身体那样重。冉阿让背着他，这样为使马吕斯的胸部不致受压，并且也使呼吸能够尽量通畅。他感到老鼠在他的两腿中间迅速地溜过。其中有一只吓得甚至来咬他。从阴沟盖那里不时吹来一阵新鲜空气，使他清醒了一会儿。
他到达总管时大概是下午三点钟。
开始他感到惊讶，阴渠忽然扩大了。
他突然到了一条伸手触不到两边的墙，而且头也碰不到顶的巷道中了。大阴渠确有八尺宽七尺高。
蒙马特尔的阴沟和大阴渠接头的地方，另有两条地下坑道，一条是普罗旺斯街的，另一条是屠宰场的，形成了一个十字路口。在这四条路中，不如他明智的人一定会犹豫不决。冉阿让选择了最宽大的，也就是总沟渠。但这样又有了问题：下坡，还是上坡？他考虑到形势紧急，因此不管何种危险他必须现在就到塞纳河去，换句话说，要下坡。于是他向左转。
他幸亏这样做。要是认为总管有两个出口，一到贝尔西，另一到巴喜，如认为就象名称所指的那样，这是巴黎地下河右边的总管，那就错了。这条大阴渠并非别条，我们该记得，就是过去的梅尼孟丹小河，如果往上走，就通到一条死胡同，也就是它原先的出发点，河的起源处，在梅尼孟丹街的小丘下。它和聚集巴黎水流的从波邦古区起经阿麦洛阴沟在过去的卢维耶岛输入塞纳河的支管没有任何管道直接相联。这条支管，作为总管的辅助管道，就在梅尼孟丹街下面被一块把水分成上游和下游的高地与总管分隔开。如果冉阿让走上坡的沟道，他将在千辛万苦之后、疲惫力竭气虚濒危之时，在黑暗中碰上一堵墙，这样他就完了。
必要时也可以退回几步，走进受难修女街的巷道，只要在布什拉街的地下鹅掌十字路口毫不犹豫地取道圣路易沟管，然后，向左，走圣吉尔街沟管，再向右避开圣塞巴斯蒂安阴沟，他就可能到达阿麦洛街沟，从这里，只要不在巴士底监狱下的“F”形沟道里迷路，就可来到靠近兵工厂的塞纳河出口。但是，要这样走，就必须彻底清楚这个巨大珊瑚形阴渠的所有分岔和直管。可是，我们要再说一遍，冉阿让对他所走的可怕的路线一无所知。如果有人问他在什么地方，他可能回答：“在黑暗里。”
他的本能起了良好的作用，下坡确有可能得救。
他放弃右边两个象爪子一样分岔的拉菲特街和圣乔治街下的沟管和有支管的昂坦大街下的巷道。
走过了一条支流，可能是马德兰教堂的支管，他止步休息。他很劳累。有一个出气洞相当大，大概是昂儒街的洞眼，射进了一道几乎闪亮的光。冉阿让用长兄对受伤弟弟那样轻柔的动作，把马吕斯放在阴沟里的长凳上。马吕斯鲜血模糊的脸在出气洞的白光中显出来就象从坟墓深处显出来一样。他双目紧闭，头发粘在太阳穴上，好象干了的红色画笔，双手垂着一动不动，四肢冰冷，唇角凝着血块。有块血块凝聚在领带结上；衬衫进到伤口里，衣服呢子磨擦着开着大口子的肉。冉阿让用手指把衣服扯开，把手放在他的胸上，心还在跳动。冉阿让撕下自己的衬衫，尽量把伤口包扎好，止住了血。于是，在朦胧的光线中他俯视着一直失去知觉、几乎没有呼吸的马吕斯，用无以名状的仇恨瞧着他。
在解开马吕斯的衣服时，他在口袋里发现两件东西，一块昨晚就忘在那里的面包和马吕斯的笔记本。他吃了面包，把笔记本打开。在第一页上，他发现马吕斯写的几行字。我们还记得是这样写的：
“我叫马吕斯·彭眉胥，请把我的尸体送到我外祖父吉诺曼先生家，地址是：沼泽区，受难修女街六号。”
借着出气洞的光，冉阿让念了这几行字，呆了一会儿，象在沉思，低声重复着：“受难修女街六号，吉诺曼先生。”他把笔记本放回马吕斯的口袋里，吃了面包后，他的体力已恢复，他又背起马吕斯，小心翼翼地把他的头放在自己的右肩上，开始在沟里往下坡走。
这个大阴渠是顺着梅尼孟丹山谷的最深谷底线修建的，大概有二法里长，路的大部分都铺了石块。
我们用巴黎的街名，象火炬一样，为读者照亮了冉阿让在巴黎地下的路线。但冉阿让却没有这个火炬。没有任何东西告诉他，他现在正穿过市中的哪一区或已走过什么街。只有逐渐暗淡下去的间隔着的微光告诉他太阳正离开路面，黄昏即将来临。在他头上车轮的不断滚动声已变得断断续续，接着又几乎象停止了。他得出的结论是他已不在巴黎市中心的下面并且已接近某个荒僻地区，如靠近郊外的马路或河岸的尽头。在房屋和街道较少的地方，阴沟的通风洞也少。冉阿让的四周越来越黑，他仍在暗中摸索前进。
突然这种黑暗变得非常可怕。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 5 In the Case of Sand,as in That of Woman,There Is a Fineness
He felt that he was entering the water, and that he no longer had a pavement under his feet, but only mud. 
It sometimes happens, that on certain shores of Bretagne or Scotland a man, either a traveller or a fisherman, while walking at low tide on the beach far from shore, suddenly notices that for several minutes past, he has been walking with some difficulty. The beach under foot is like pitch; his soles stick fast to it; it is no longer sand, it is bird-lime. The strand is perfectly dry, but at every step that he takes, as soon as the foot is raised, the print is filled with water. The eye, however, has perceived no change; the immense beach is smooth and tranquil, all the sand has the same aspect, nothing distinguishes the soil that is solid from that which is not solid; the joyous little cloud of sand-lice continues to leap tumultuously under the feet of the passer-by. 
The man pursues his way, he walks on, turns towards the land, endeavors to approach the shore. He is not uneasy. Uneasy about what? Only he is conscious that the heaviness of his feet seems to be increasing at every step that he takes. All at once he sinks in. He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly, he is not on the right road; he halts to get his bearings. Suddenly he glances at his feet; his feet have disappeared. The sand has covered them. He draws his feet out of the sand, he tries to retrace his steps, he turns back, he sinks in more deeply than before. The sand is up to his ankles, he tears himself free from it and flings himself to the left, the sand reaches to mid-leg, he flings himself to the right, the sand comes up to his knees. Then, with indescribable terror, he recognizes the fact that he is caught in a quicksand, and that he has beneath him that frightful medium in which neither man can walk nor fish can swim. He flings away his burden, if he have one, he lightens himself, like a ship in distress; it is too late, the sand is above his knees.
He shouts, he waves his hat, or his handkerchief, the sand continually gains on him; if the beach is deserted, if the land is too far away, if the bank of sand is too ill-famed, there is no hero in the neighborhood, all is over, he is condemned to be engulfed. He is condemned to that terrible interment, long, infallible, implacable, which it is impossible to either retard or hasten, which lasts for hours, which will not come to an end, which seizes you erect, free, in the flush of health, which drags you down by the feet, which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout that you utter, draws you a little lower, which has the air of punishing you for your resistance by a redoubled grasp, which forces a man to return slowly to earth, while leaving him time to survey the horizon, the trees, the verdant country, the smoke of the villages on the plain, the sails of the ships on the sea, the birds which fly and sing, the sun and the sky. This engulfment is the sepulchre which assumes a tide, and which mounts from the depths of the earth towards a living man. Each minute is an inexorable layer-out of the dead. The wretched man tries to sit down, to lie down, to climb; every movement that he makes buries him deeper; he straightens himself up, he sinks; he feels that he is being swallowed up; he shrieks, implores, cries to the clouds, wrings his hands, grows desperate. Behold him in the sand up to his belly, he sand reaches to his breast, he is only a bust now. He uplifts his hands, utters furious groans, clenches his nails on the beach, tries to cling fast to that ashes, supports himself on his elbows in order to raise himself from that soft sheath, and sobs frantically; the sand mounts higher. The sand has reached his shoulders, the sand reaches to his throat; only his face is visible now. His mouth cries aloud, the sand fills it; silence. His eyes still gaze forth, the sand closes them, night. Then his brow decreases, a little hair quivers above the sand; a hand projects, pierces the surface of the beach, waves and disappears. Sinister obliteration of a man.
Sometimes a rider is engulfed with his horse; sometimes the carter is swallowed up with his cart; all founders in that strand. It is shipwreck elsewhere than in the water. It is the earth drowning a man. The earth, permeated with the ocean, becomes a pitfall. It presents itself in the guise of a plain, and it yawns like a wave. The abyss is subject to these treacheries.
This melancholy fate, always possible on certain sea beaches, was also possible, thirty years ago, in the sewers of Paris. 
Before the important works, undertaken in 1833, the subterranean drain of Paris was subject to these sudden slides.
The water filtered into certain subjacent strata, which were particularly friable; the foot-way, which was of flag-stones, as in the ancient sewers, or of cement on concrete, as in the new galleries, having no longer an underpinning, gave way. A fold in a flooring of this sort means a crack, means crumbling. The framework crumbled away for a certain length. This crevice, the hiatus of a gulf of mire, was called a fontis, in the special tongue. What is a fontis? It is the quicksands of the seashore suddenly encountered under the surface of the earth; it is the beach of Mont Saint-Michel in a sewer. The soaked soil is in a state of fusion, as it were; all its molecules are in suspension in soft medium; it is not earth and it is not water. The depth is sometimes very great. Nothing can be more formidable than such an encounter. If the water predominates, death is prompt, the man is swallowed up; if earth predominates, death is slow.
Can any one picture to himself such a death? If being swallowed by the earth is terrible on the seashore, what is it in a cess-pool? Instead of the open air, the broad daylight, the clear horizon, those vast sounds, those free clouds whence rains life, instead of those barks descried in the distance, of that hope under all sorts of forms, of probable passers-by, of succor possible up to the very last moment,--instead of all this, deafness, blindness, a black vault, the inside of a tomb already prepared, death in the mire beneath a cover! slow suffocation by filth, a stone box where asphyxia opens its claw in the mire and clutches you by the throat; fetidness mingled with the death-rattle; slime instead of the strand, sulfuretted hydrogen in place of the hurricane, dung in place of the ocean! And to shout, to gnash one's teeth, and to writhe, and to struggle, and to agonize, with that enormous city which knows nothing of it all, over one's head!
Inexpressible is the horror of dying thus! Death sometimes redeems his atrocity by a certain terrible dignity. On the funeral pile, in shipwreck, one can be great; in the flames as in the foam, a superb attitude is possible; one there becomes transfigured as one perishes. But not here. Death is filthy. It is humiliating to expire. The supreme floating visions are abject. Mud is synonymous with shame. It is petty, ugly, infamous. To die in a butt of Malvoisie, like Clarence, is permissible; in the ditch of a scavenger, like Escoubleau, is horrible. To struggle therein is hideous; at the same time that one is going through the death agony, one is floundering about. There are shadows enough for hell, and mire enough to render it nothing but a slough, and the dying man knows not whether he is on the point of becoming a spectre or a frog.
Everywhere else the sepulchre is sinister; here it is deformed.
The depth of the fontis varied, as well as their length and their density, according to the more or less bad quality of the sub-soil. Sometimes a fontis was three or four feet deep, sometimes eight or ten;sometimes the bottom was unfathomable. Here the mire was almost solid, there almost liquid. In the Luniere fontis, it would have taken a man a day to disappear, while he would have been devoured in five minutes by the Philippeaux slough. The mire bears up more or less, according to its density. A child can escape where a man will perish. The first law of safety is to get rid of every sort of load. Every sewerman who felt the ground giving way beneath him began by flinging away his sack of tools, or his back-basket, or his hod.
The fontis were due to different causes: the friability of the soil; some landslip at a depth beyond the reach of man; the violent summer rains; the incessant flooding of winter; long, drizzling showers. Sometimes the weight of the surrounding houses on a marly or sandy soil forced out the vaults of the subterranean galleries and caused them to bend aside, or it chanced that a flooring vault burst and split under this crushing thrust. In this manner, the heaping up of the Parthenon, obliterated, a century ago, a portion of the vaults of Saint-Genevieve hill. When a sewer was broken in under the pressure of the houses, the mischief was sometimes betrayed in the street above by a sort of space, like the teeth of a saw, between the paving-stones; this crevice was developed in an undulating line throughout the entire length of the cracked vault, and then, the evil being visible, the remedy could be promptly applied. It also frequently happened, that the interior ravages were not revealed by any external scar, and in that case, woe to the sewermen. When they entered without precaution into the sewer, they were liable to be lost. Ancient registers make mention of several scavengers who were buried in fontis in this manner. They give many names; among others, that of the sewerman who was swallowed up in a quagmire under the man-hole of the Rue Careme-Prenant, a certain Blaise Poutrain; this Blaise Poutrain was the brother of Nicholas Poutrain, who was the last grave-digger of the cemetery called the Charnier des Innocents, in 1785, the epoch when that cemetery expired. 
There was also that young and charming Vicomte d'Escoubleau, of whom we have just spoken, one of the heroes of the siege of Lerida, where they delivered the assault in silk stockings, with violins at their head. D'Escoubleau, surprised one night at his cousin's, the Duchess de Sourdis', was drowned in a quagmire of the Beautreillis sewer, in which he had taken refuge in order to escape from the Duke. Madame de Sourdis, when informed of his death, demanded her smelling-bottle, and forgot to weep, through sniffling at her salts. In such cases, there is no love which holds fast; the sewer extinguishes it. Hero refuses to wash the body of Leander. Thisbe stops her nose in the presence of Pyramus and says: "Phew!"
他感到他进入水中，在他脚下不再是石块路而是淤泥了。
有时在布列塔尼或苏格兰的某些海滨，一个人，一个旅行者或一个渔民，退潮后在沙滩上走，远离海岸，他忽然发觉几分钟以来他的行走有点困难了。海滩在他脚下就象沥青一样，鞋底粘在上面，这已不是沙粒，而是粘胶了。沙滩完全是干的，但每走一步，当提起双脚时，留下的脚印就灌满了水，尽管如此眼睛却见不到一点变化，辽阔的海滨匀净而安宁，看起来沙滩到处都一个样，无法辨别坚实的和下陷的土地。成群欢乐的海蚜虫继续在行人脚上乱蹦。人继续向前，朝陆地走去，尽力走近海岸。他没有什么不安，有什么可担心呢？不过他已感到，似乎每走一步脚上都增加了重负。忽然他陷了下去。陷下二三寸。他走的路显然不对，于是他停下来另找方向。突然间他朝脚上一看，脚已看不见了。原来沙已把脚埋上。他把脚从沙里拔出，想往回走，他向后转，但陷得更深。沙到了踝骨，他拔出来朝左蹦，沙到了小腿，他朝右蹦，沙到了膝下。于是他变得无可名状地惊恐起来，意识到他已被围困在流沙之中，在他下面是人不能走、鱼不能游的恐怖地带。他如有重负则需扔掉，就象遇难的船卸去一切一样，但也已经太迟了，沙已过了他的膝盖。
他叫喊着，摇着他的帽子或手帕，他越陷越深；如果海滩上没有人，如果离陆地太远，如果这个流沙层是出名的险恶，如果近处没有勇敢的人，那就完了，他就一定陷入流沙之中，一定遭到这种惊心动魄的埋葬，这是漫长的、必然的、毫不容情的，得历时数小时，没完没了，无法延迟也无法加速，当你自由自在地站着十分健康时，它就把你逮住了，它拖着你的脚，你每次试图用力挣扎，每次出声喊叫，就使你更陷落一点，好象在用加倍的搂抱来惩罚你的抗拒，就这样，一个人慢慢地沉入地下，还让他有充分的时间望着天边、树木、葱翠的田野、平原上村庄里冒着的烟、海上的船帆、又飞又唱的鸟儿、太阳和碧空。陷入流沙，也就是坟墓变成海潮，并从地下升到一个活人跟前。每分钟都在进行毫不容情的埋葬。这个可怜人试图坐着、躺下、爬行，一切动作都在埋葬他；他又竖起身来，又沉下去。他感到在被淹没；他吼叫、哀告、向行云呼喊，扭着双臂，他绝望了。此刻流沙已到腹部，流沙又到了胸部，他只剩下上半身了。他伸出双手，狂怒地呻吟，手指痉挛地捏住沙，企图抓住这沙土不往下沉，用手肘撑住，想摆脱这软套子，疯狂地呜咽着；沙在上升。沙到了肩部，到了颈部，现在只看见面部了。嘴在叫喊，沙把它填满，没声了。眼睛还注视着，沙使它们闭上，黑夜。然后额部在下沉，一束头发在沙上颤抖，一只手伸出来，穿过沙面，摇摆，挥动，接着见不到了。一个人凄惨地消失了。
有时骑士和马一同陷下去，有时赶大车的人和车子一同陷下去，全部沉没在沙滩下。这是在别处而不是在水中翻了船，这是土地淹没了人。这种土地，被海洋浸透了，成为陷阱，它象原野一样呈现着，象波涛一样伸展着。这深渊具有这一类的欺诈。
这种阴郁的意外之灾，可能常常发生在这一带或那一带海滨，也可能发生在三十年前巴黎的阴渠中。
在一八三三年动工的重要工程以前，巴黎的地下沟道时常会突然塌陷。
水渗入某些特别容易碎的地下层，无论是老沟中那种铺了底的，或象新沟中那样浇上水硬石灰的混凝土，它一旦失去支撑就弯曲了。在这种地上，一条折就是一道裂缝，一道裂缝就能引起崩塌。沟道可以下陷一长段。这种裂缝，深渊中污泥的龟裂，专门名词称之为地陷。地陷是什么？是海滨流沙突然进入地下，是一条阴沟里的圣米歇尔山的沙滩。土地浸湿以后象已溶解，它的所有分子都处于稀软的状态中，它已不是土地，但也不是水，有时还很深。人遇此情况遭遇极其凶险。如果水占优势，将出现淹没现象，人便迅速死亡，如泥占优势，死亡便缓慢，这就是下陷。
我们能去想象这种死亡吗？如果说海滩上的沉陷是可怕的，那在沟渠中又将如何呢？这和在旷野里不能比，在光天化日之下，丽日当空，碧空万里，众多的音响，行云下满是生命，远处的小船，各种希望，可能会有的过路人，直至最后一刻还可能有得救的希望；但在这里则远远不是这样，这里有的是耳聋眼瞎，有黑色的拱顶和已完工的墓穴，去死在有覆盖的泥沼中，被污秽慢慢地窒息，在石椁中污泥伸爪扼颈，临终时含着恶臭咽气，污泥替代沙粒，硫化氢替代飓风，垃圾替代海洋！呼叫，咬牙，扭捩肢体，挣扎，临终喘息，而在你头上的大城市却一无所闻！
这样死去是种无法形容的恐怖！死亡有时由于有着一定程度的可怕的崇高，因而弥补了它残酷的一面，在遭难的船中，人可能有伟大的表现；在火里也象在水里一样，非常好的表现也可能出现；人在殉难时变了样。但这儿就不行。这种死是不清洁的。这样断气是耻辱的，最后飘浮着的幻影是卑贱的。污泥是耻辱的同义词。这是渺小的，丑陋的，可耻的。死在芳香甘美的葡萄酒大木桶中，象克拉朗斯①那样，这还可以；如果死在清道夫的垃圾坑中，如艾斯古勃洛，那就太可怕了，在里面挣扎是极丑的，临终时还在粘泥中打滚。这里已暗如地狱，污泥成塘，垂死者不知他将变成鬼还是变成癞蛤蟆。 
①克拉朗斯（Clarence），公爵，英王爱德华四世之弟，由于背叛被处死刑，他要求淹死在葡萄酒桶中。
在别的地方坟墓是阴惨的，而这里它是畸形的。
地陷的深度、长度和密度随着地下层的土质的好坏而变化不一，有时塌下三四尺，有时八尺或十尺；有时深不见底。淤泥在这儿差不多已变硬了，而在那儿则又几乎还是液体状态，在吕尼埃地陷消灭一个人要一整天，而在菲利波泥坑，五分钟就可吞没一个人。淤泥的负重程度因它的密度而变。一个孩子可以逃脱的地方，成人就要丧生。人要得救，第一个条件就是扔掉一切负荷。丢掉工具袋，或是背筐或提篮，这就是任何一个通阴渠的工人，当他感到脚下的地下陷时第一件要做的事。
地陷有各种原因：土壤的易碎性；在人力所不能及的地下出现的崩塌；夏季的暴雨；冬季连绵不断的雨水；长期的毛毛雨。有时一块泥灰地或沙土地周围的房屋的重量压在地下沟廊的拱顶上，使它变形，或者沟底在这一重压下折裂。一世纪以前先贤祠的下陷，就这样堵塞了圣热纳维埃夫山上一部分的沟管。当一条阴沟在房屋的压力下坍塌时，在某些情况下这类混乱的情况在上面的反映就是街心出现一条锯齿形裂缝，这条裂缝出现在整段开裂的沟顶上面，此时情况显然不妙，所以抢修还能及时。但有时内部的毁坏在外面没有显露痕迹，在这种情况下，阴渠的清道夫就要遭灾。他们毫无提防地进入通了底的沟，就可能在那里送命。据旧时档案记载，好几个挖井工人就这样埋在陷下去的地里。他们提到了好几个名字，其中一个名叫勃雷士·布脱兰的阴沟清道夫陷入了卡莱姆－卜勒纳街下面崩塌的沟渠中。这个勃雷士·布脱兰就是一七八五年取消的圣婴公墓最后一个埋葬工人尼古拉·布脱兰的兄弟。
还有一个是我们已谈到过的年轻俊美的艾斯古勃洛子爵，莱里达围城战时的英雄之一，他们攻城时，穿着丝袜，用小提琴开路。艾斯古勃洛有一天晚上正在他的表妹苏蒂公爵夫人处，忽然有人来了，为了避开公爵，他隐藏在博特莱伊阴沟的洼地里面被淹死了。苏蒂夫人听到别人向她叙述这一死亡时，便要她的香水瓶来尽量闻醒盐，以致连哭泣都忘了。在这种情况下，不存在经得起考验的爱情，污泥已把它扑灭了。海洛拒绝擦洗利安得①的尸体，蒂丝白在比拉姆②前面捏着鼻孔还说：“呸！” 
①利安得（Léandre），希腊青年，与美神阿佛洛狄忒的女祭司海洛（Héro）相爱，后淹死在赫来斯篷（今达达尼尔海峡）附近。
②比拉姆（Pyrame），巴比伦青年，与蒂丝白（Thisbe）相爱。一日蒂丝白被狮追逐，慌忙中掉下丝巾逃脱。比拉姆见纱巾，疑蒂丝白已死，遂自杀。蒂丝白知比拉姆为己而死，也自杀殉情。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 6 The Fontis
Jean Valjean found himself in the presence of a fontis.
This sort of quagmire was common at that period in the subsoil of the Champs-Elysees, difficult to handle in the hydraulic works and a bad preservative of the subterranean constructions, on account of its excessive fluidity. This fluidity exceeds even the inconsistency of the sands of the Quartier Saint-Georges, which could only be conquered by a stone construction on a concrete foundation, and the clayey strata, infected with gas, of the Quartier des Martyrs, which are so liquid that the only way in which a passage was effected under the gallery des Martyrs was by means of a cast-iron pipe. When, in 1836, the old stone sewer beneath the Faubourg Saint-Honore, in which we now see Jean Valjean, was demolished for the purpose of reconstructing it, the quicksand, which forms the subsoil of the Champs-Elysees as far as the Seine, presented such an obstacle, that the operation lasted nearly six months, to the great clamor of the dwellers on the riverside, particularly those who had hotels and carriages. The work was more than unhealthy; it was dangerous. It is true that they had four months and a half of rain, and three floods of the Seine.
The fontis which Jean Valjean had encountered was caused by the downpour of the preceding day. The pavement, badly sustained by the subjacent sand, had given way and had produced a stoppage of the water. Infiltration had taken place, a slip had followed. The dislocated bottom had sunk into the ooze. To what extent? Impossible to say. The obscurity was more dense there than elsewhere. It was a pit of mire in a cavern of night. 
Jean Valjean felt the pavement vanishing beneath his feet. He entered this slime. There was water on the surface, slime at the bottom. He must pass it. To retrace his steps was impossible. Marius was dying, and Jean Valjean exhausted. Besides, where was he to go? Jean Valjean advanced. Moreover, the pit seemed, for the first few steps, not to be very deep. But in proportion as he advanced, his feet plunged deeper. Soon he had the slime up to his calves and water above his knees. He walked on, raising Marius in his arms, as far above the water as he could. The mire now reached to his knees, and the water to his waist. He could no longer retreat. This mud, dense enough for one man, could not, obviously, uphold two. Marius and Jean Valjean would have stood a chance of extricating themselves singly. Jean Valjean continued to advance, supporting the dying man, who was, perhaps, a corpse.
The water came up to his arm-pits; he felt that he was sinking; it was only with difficulty that he could move in the depth of ooze which he had now reached. The density, which was his support, was also an obstacle. He still held Marius on high, and with an unheard-of expenditure of force, he advanced still; but he was sinking. He had only his head above the water now and his two arms holding up Marius. In the old paintings of the deluge there is a mother holding her child thus.
He sank still deeper, he turned his face to the rear, to escape the water, and in order that he might be able to breathe; anyone who had seen him in that gloom would have thought that what he beheld was a mask floating on the shadows; he caught a faint glimpse above him of the drooping head and livid face of Marius; he made a desperate effort and launched his foot forward; his foot struck something solid; a point of support. It was high time.
He straightened himself up, and rooted himself upon that point of support with a sort of fury. This produced upon him the effect of the first step in a staircase leading back to life. 
The point of support, thus encountered in the mire at the supreme moment, was the beginning of the other water-shed of the pavement, which had bent but had not given way, and which had curved under the water like a plank and in a single piece. Well built pavements form a vault and possess this sort of firmness. This fragment of the vaulting, partly submerged, but solid, was a veritable inclined plane, and, once on this plane, he was safe. Jean Valjean mounted this inclined plane and reached the other side of the quagmire.
As he emerged from the water, he came in contact with a stone and fell upon his knees. He reflected that this was but just, and he remained there for some time, with his soul absorbed in words addressed to God.
He rose to his feet, shivering, chilled, foul-smelling, bowed beneath the dying man whom he was dragging after him, all dripping with slime, and his soul filled with a strange light.
冉阿让面前是一块陷落的地。
当时这类塌陷在爱丽舍广场下面是经常发生的，这里的地下层对水利工程很不利，因为它的流动性极大，所以地下的建筑不够坚实。这种流动性的土壤较之圣乔治区的流沙还更不牢靠，流沙只在石块加混凝土筑成地基后才能加以克服；而流动性的土壤也不比殉教者区恶臭的有沼气的粘土层牢靠，这粘土稀薄到使殉教者区地下长廊的沟道只能用一条铸铁管来沟通。一八三六年，当局拆除并重建圣奥诺雷郊区下面旧的石砌沟渠，这正是冉阿让此刻所在之处，那时从爱丽舍广场直至塞纳河地下都是流沙，这一障碍使工程延长将近六个月，以致引起沿岸住户的强烈抗议，尤其是住大公馆和有马车的住户。工程不但艰巨，而且还非常危险，那时确是降了四个半月的雨，塞纳河的水位也三次升高。
冉阿让遇到的地陷是头天晚上的暴雨造成的。铺路石的下面是沙子，没有坚实的支撑，所以铺路石弯曲，形成了雨水的积聚。雨水既将铺路石浸透，于是坍塌相继而来，沟槽开裂后就陷入了泥沼。塌陷的地方究竟有多长？这无法说清。黑暗在这儿比任何地方都深厚，这是夜之洞穴中的一个泥坑。
冉阿让感到沟道在脚下陷落了，他踏进了泥浆。这里上面是水，下面是淤泥。但他还是得走过去。再转身走回头路已不可能了。现在马吕斯已濒危，冉阿让也已力竭。还有什么路可走呢？所以冉阿让仍继续前进。再说开始在洼地里走了几步，并不感到深，但越向前走，他的脚就越陷越深。不久淤泥深到腿的一半，而水则过了膝头。他一面走，一面用两臂把马吕斯尽量高举，超出水面。现在淤泥已到膝下，而水则到了腰际。他已无法再后退了，越陷越深。这淤泥的稠度可以承受一个人的重量，显然不能承受两个人的。如果马吕斯和冉阿让是单个走过去，则还有可能脱险。冉阿让仍继续往前走，举着这个垂死的人，这也可能是具尸体了。
水到了腋下，他感到自己在沉下去，他在这泥泞深处几乎无法活动。密度既支撑重量，但同时也是障碍。冉阿让一直举着马吕斯，因而就消耗大量体力向前走着，他在陷下去。现在他只剩下头部露出水面了，但两手仍高举着马吕斯。在有些洪水成灾的古代油画中，一个母亲就是这样举着她的孩子的。
他还在下沉，他仰起脸避水来保持呼吸。如果有人在这种黑暗里看见他，还以为这是个面具在暗中漂荡呢；他模糊地看见在他上面马吕斯倒垂的头和青灰色的面容；他拚命使了一下劲，把脚伸向前；他的脚触着了一个不知是什么的硬东西。
这是个支点。好险！再晚一点就不行了。
他竖起身来又弯下去，拚命在这个支点上站稳。他觉得自己好象踏上了生命阶梯上的第一级。
在污泥中危急万分时碰到的这一支点原来是沟道另一边的斜坡的开始，它弯而未断，在水下拱着，好象一整条地板，用石块砌得很好的建筑成一拱形而相当坚固。这一段沟槽，部分已陷入水中，但仍很结实，确是一个斜坡。一踏上这斜坡，人就得救了。冉阿让走上这平坦的斜坡，就走到了泥沼的另一边。
他走出水时，碰到一块石头就跪着跌倒了。他认为确应如此，他就这样待了一会儿，灵魂沉浸在向上帝祈祷的不知怎样的一种言语中。
他又站起来，颤抖着，感到僵冷，恶臭熏人，他弯腰去背这垂死的人，泥浆直淌，心里充满了奇异的光彩。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 7 One Sometimes Runs Aground When One Fancies That One Is Disembarking
He set out on his way once more.
However, although he had not left his life in the fontis, he seemed to have left his strength behind him there. That supreme effort had exhausted him. His lassitude was now such that he was obliged to pause for breath every three or four steps, and lean against the wall. Once he was forced to seat himself on the banquette in order to alter Marius' position, and he thought that he should have to remain there. But if his vigor was dead, his energy was not. He rose again.
He walked on desperately, almost fast, proceeded thus for a hundred paces, almost without drawing breath, and suddenly came in contact with the wall. He had reached an elbow of the sewer, and, arriving at the turn with head bent down, he had struck the wall. He raised his eyes, and at the extremity of the vault, far, very far away in front of him, he perceived a light. This time it was not that terrible light; it was good, white light. It was daylight. Jean Valjean saw the outlet.
A damned soul, who, in the midst of the furnace, should suddenly perceive the outlet of Gehenna, would experience what Jean Valjean felt. It would fly wildly with the stumps of its burned wings towards that radiant portal. Jean Valjean was no longer conscious of fatigue, he no longer felt Marius' weight, he found his legs once more of steel, he ran rather than walked. As he approached, the outlet became more and more distinctly defined. It was a pointed arch, lower than the vault, which gradually narrowed, and narrower than the gallery, which closed in as the vault grew lower. The tunnel ended like the interior of a funnel; a faulty construction, imitated from the wickets of penitentiaries, logical in a prison, illogical in a sewer, and which has since been corrected.
Jean Valjean reached the outlet.
There he halted.
It certainly was the outlet, but he could not get out. 
The arch was closed by a heavy grating, and the grating, which, to all appearance, rarely swung on its rusty hinges, was clamped to its stone jamb by a thick lock, which, red with rust, seemed like an enormous brick. The keyhole could be seen, and the robust latch, deeply sunk in the iron staple. The door was plainly double-locked. It was one of those prison locks which old Paris was so fond of lavishing.
Beyond the grating was the open air, the river, the daylight, the shore, very narrow but sufficient for escape. The distant quays, Paris, that gulf in which one so easily hides oneself, the broad horizon, liberty. On the right, down stream, the bridge of Jena was discernible, on the left, upstream, the bridge of the Invalides; the place would have been a propitious one in which to await the night and to escape. It was one of the most solitary points in Paris; the shore which faces the Grand-Caillou. Flies were entering and emerging through the bars of the grating.
It might have been half-past eight o'clock in the evening. The day was declining.
Jean Valjean laid Marius down along the wall, on the dry portion of the vaulting, then he went to the grating and clenched both fists round the bars; the shock which he gave it was frenzied, but it did not move. The grating did not stir. Jean Valjean seized the bars one after the other, in the hope that he might be able to tear away the least solid, and to make of it a lever wherewith to raise the door or to break the lock. Not a bar stirred. The teeth of a tiger are not more firmly fixed in their sockets. No lever; no prying possible. The obstacle was invincible. There was no means of opening the gate.
Must he then stop there? What was he to do? What was to become of him? He had not the strength to retrace his steps, to recommence the journey which he had already taken. Besides, how was he to again traverse that quagmire whence he had only extricated himself as by a miracle? And after the quagmire, was there not the police patrol, which assuredly could not be twice avoided? And then, whither was he to go? What direction should he pursue? To follow the incline would not conduct him to his goal. If he were to reach another outlet, he would find it obstructed by a plug or a grating. Every outlet was, undoubtedly, closed in that manner. Chance had unsealed the grating through which he had entered, but it was evident that all the other sewer mouths were barred. He had only succeeded in escaping into a prison.
All was over. Everything that Jean Valjean had done was useless. Exhaustion had ended in failure.
They were both caught in the immense and gloomy web of death, and Jean Valjean felt the terrible spider running along those black strands and quivering in the shadows. He turned his back to the grating, and fell upon the pavement, hurled to earth rather than seated, close to Marius, who still made no movement, and with his head bent between his knees. This was the last drop of anguish.
Of what was he thinking during this profound depression? Neither of himself nor of Marius. He was thinking of Cosette.
他又开始上路了。
此外，如果说他没把生命断送在陷坑里，但他也似乎感到已在那儿用完了力气。最后的一把劲使他精疲力尽，现在他每走两三步就要靠在墙上喘口气。有一次他不得不坐在长凳上来改变马吕斯的姿势，他以为自己要待在那儿动不了了。他虽然失去了体力，但毅力却丝毫无损。于是他又站了起来。
他拚命走着，几乎还很快，这样一走上百步不抬头，几乎不呼吸，忽然他撞在墙上。他到了阴沟的拐角处，因为低着头到了转弯处，所以撞了墙。他抬头一望，在地沟的尽头，在他前面很远很远的地方，他见到了亮光，这次，这不是一种凶光，而是吉祥的白色的光，这是白天的光线。
冉阿让望见了出口。
一个堕入地狱的灵魂，在烈火熊熊的炉中，忽然见到地狱的出口，这就是冉阿让的感受。这灵魂用它烧残的翅膀发狂地向光芒四射的大门飞去。冉阿让已不再感到疲惫，也不再觉得马吕斯的重量，他钢铁般的腿力恢复了，他不是走，而是在跑。在他逐渐走近时，出口越来越清晰了，这是一个圆的拱门，比慢慢降低的沟顶矮，没有那随着沟顶降低而逐渐缩小的沟管宽。这沟管出口处象一个漏斗的内部，很可恶地变窄，象拘留所的小门，在狱中是合理的，但在沟中却不合理，后来被改正了。
冉阿让到了出口。
在那儿，他站住了。
这确是出口，但出不去。
半圆门有粗铁栅栏关着，这铁栅栏看来很少在它氧化了的铰链上旋转，它被一把锈得发红、象一块大砖似的厚锁固定在石头门框上。可以看得见锁孔，粗厚的锁闩深深地嵌在铁锁横头里，这锁看得出是双转锁，是监狱用的一种锁，过去在巴黎人们很喜欢用它。
出了铁栅栏那就是野外、河流和阳光，河滩很窄，但走过去是可以的，遥远的河岸，巴黎棗这很容易藏身的深渊，辽阔的天边，还有自由。在河右边下游，还可以辨认出耶拿桥，左边上游是残废军人院桥；待到天黑再逃走，这是个很合适的地方。这是巴黎最僻静的地区之一，河滩对面是大石块路。苍蝇从铁栅栏的空格里飞出飞进。
大致是晚上八点半了，天已快黑。
冉阿让把马吕斯放在墙边沟道上干的地方，然后走到铁栅栏前，两手紧握住铁条，疯狂地摇晃，但一点震荡也没有。铁栅门纹丝不动。冉阿让一根又一根地抓住铁棍，希望能拔下一根不太牢固的来撬门破锁。可是一根铁棍也拔不动。就是老虎牙床上的牙也没有这么牢固。没有撬棍，没有能撬的东西，困难便不能克服。无法开门。
难道就死在这里？怎么办？会发生什么事呢？退回去，重新走那条骇人的已走过的路线，他已没有力气。再说，怎样再穿过这靠奇迹才脱险的洼地呢？走过洼地之后，没有警察巡逻队了吗？当然不可能两次躲过巡逻队。而且，往哪里走？朝什么方向？顺着斜坡不能到达目的地。即使能到达另一个出口，可能又被一个盖子或铁栅栏堵住。所有的出口无疑都是这样关闭的。进来时侥幸遇到了那个开着的铁栅门，但其他沟口肯定是关着的。只有在监牢中越狱才会成功。
一切都完了。冉阿让所作的一切都无济于事，因为上帝不允许。
他们俩都被阴暗而巨大的死网网住，冉阿让感到那只极其可怕的蜘蛛在暗中抖动的黑丝上来回爬行。
他背向铁栅栏，跌倒在地，他是倒地而不是坐下，靠着一直不会动的马吕斯，他的头垂在两膝中。没有出路。他已尝尽了辛酸。
在这沉重的沮丧时刻，他想到了谁？不是他自己，也不是马吕斯，他惦念着珂赛特。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 8 The Torn Coat-Tail
In the midst of this prostration, a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a low voice said to him:
"Half shares."
Some person in that gloom? Nothing so closely resembles a dream as despair. Jean Valjean thought that he was dreaming. He had heard no footsteps. Was it possible? He raised his eyes.
A man stood before him.
This man was clad in a blouse; his feet were bare; he held his shoes in his left hand; he had evidently removed them in order to reach Jean Valjean, without allowing his steps to be heard.
Jean Valjean did not hesitate for an instant. Unexpected as was this encounter, this man was known to him. The man was Thenardier. 
Although awakened, so to speak, with a start, Jean Valjean, accustomed to alarms, and steeled to unforeseen shocks that must be promptly parried, instantly regained possession of his presence of mind. Moreover, the situation could not be made worse, a certain degree of distress is no longer capable of a crescendo, and Thenardier himself could add nothing to this blackness of this night.
A momentary pause ensued.
Thenardier, raising his right hand to a level with his forehead, formed with it a shade, then he brought his eyelashes together, by screwing up his eyes, a motion which, in connection with a slight contraction of the mouth, characterizes the sagacious attention of a man who is endeavoring to recognize another man. He did not succeed. Jean Valjean, as we have just stated, had his back turned to the light, and he was, moreover,so disfigured,so bemired, so bleeding that he would have been unrecognizable in full noonday. On the contrary, illuminated by the light from the grating, a cellar light, it is true, livid, yet precise in its lividness, Thenardier, as the energetic popular metaphor expresses it, immediately "leaped into" Jean Valjean's eyes. This inequality of conditions sufficed to assure some advantage to Jean Valjean in that mysterious duel which was on the point of beginning between the two situations and the two men. The encounter took place between Jean Valjean veiled and Thenardier unmasked.
Jean Valjean immediately perceived that Thenardier did not recognize him. 
They surveyed each other for a moment in that half-gloom, as though taking each other's measure. Thenardier was the first to break the silence.
"How are you going to manage to get out?"
Jean Valjean made no reply. Thenardier continued:
"It's impossible to pick the lock of that gate. But still you must get out of this."
"That is true," said Jean Valjean.
"Well, half shares then."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You have killed that man; that's all right. I have the key."
Thenardier pointed to Marius. He went on:
"I don't know you, but I want to help you. You must be a friend."
Jean Valjean began to comprehend. Thenardier took him for an assassin.
Thenardier resumed:
"Listen, comrade. You didn't kill that man without looking to see what he had in his pockets. Give me my half. I'll open the door for you."
And half drawing from beneath his tattered blouse a huge key, he added:
"Do you want to see how a key to liberty is made? Look here."
Jean Valjean "remained stupid"--the expression belongs to the elder Corneille--to such a degree that he doubted whether what he beheld was real. It was providence appearing in horrible guise, and his good angel springing from the earth in the form of Thenardier.
Thenardier thrust his fist into a large pocket concealed under his blouse, drew out a rope and offered it to Jean Valjean. 
"Hold on," said he, "I'll give you the rope to boot."
"What is the rope for?"
"You will need a stone also, but you can find one outside. There's a heap of rubbish."
"What am I to do with a stone?"
"Idiot, you'll want to sling that stiff into the river, you'll need a stone and a rope, otherwise it would float on the water."
Jean Valjean took the rope. There is no one who does not occasionally accept in this mechanical way.
Thenardier snapped his fingers as though an idea had suddenly occurred to him.
"Ah, see here, comrade, how did you contrive to get out of that slough yonder? I haven't dared to risk myself in it. Phew! You don't smell good."
After a pause he added:
"I'm asking you questions, but you're perfectly right not to answer. It's an apprenticeship against that cursed quarter of an hour before the examining magistrate. And then, when you don't talk at all, you run no risk of talking too loud. That's no matter, as I can't see your face and as I don't know your name, you are wrong in supposing that I don't know who you are and what you want. I twig. You've broken up that gentleman a bit; now you want to tuck him away somewhere. The river, that great hider of folly, is what you want. I'll get you out of your scrape. Helping a good fellow in a pinch is what suits me to a hair."
While expressing his approval of Jean Valjean's silence, he endeavored to force him to talk. He jostled his shoulder in an attempt to catch a sight of his profile, and he exclaimed, without, however, raising his tone: 
"Apropos of that quagmire, you're a hearty animal. Why didn't you toss the man in there?"
Jean Valjean preserved silence.
Thenardier resumed, pushing the rag which served him as a cravat to the level of his Adam's apple, a gesture which completes the capable air of a serious man:
"After all, you acted wisely. The workmen, when they come to-morrow to stop up that hole, would certainly have found the stiff abandoned there, and it might have been possible, thread by thread, straw by straw, to pick up the scent and reach you. Some one has passed through the sewer. Who? Where did he get out? Was he seen to come out? The police are full of cleverness. The sewer is treacherous and tells tales of you. Such a find is a rarity, it attracts attention, very few people make use of the sewers for their affairs, while the river belongs to everybody. The river is the true grave. At the end of a month they fish up your man in the nets at Saint-Cloud. Well, what does one care for that? It's carrion! Who killed that man? Paris. And justice makes no inquiries. You have done well."
The more loquacious Thenardier became, the more mute was Jean Valjean.
Again Thenardier shook him by the shoulder.
"Now let's settle this business. Let's go shares. You have seen my key, show me your money."
Thenardier was haggard, fierce, suspicious, rather menacing, yet amicable.
There was one singular circumstance; Thenardier's manners were not simple; he had not the air of being wholly at his ease; while affecting an air of mystery, he spoke low; from time to time he laid his finger on his mouth, and muttered, "hush!" It was difficult to divine why. There was no one there except themselves. Jean Valjean thought that other ruffians might possibly be concealed in some nook, not very far off, and that Thenardier did not care to share with them.
Thenardier resumed:
"Let's settle up. How much did the stiff have in his bags?"
Jean Valjean searched his pockets.
It was his habit, as the reader will remember, to always have some money about him. The mournful life of expedients to which he had been condemned imposed this as a law upon him. On this occasion, however, he had been caught unprepared. When donning his uniform of a National Guardsman on the preceding evening, he had forgotten, dolefully absorbed as he was, to take his pocket-book. He had only some small change in his fob. He turned out his pocket, all soaked with ooze, and spread out on the banquette of the vault one louis d'or, two five-franc pieces, and five or six large sous.
Thenardier thrust out his lower lip with a significant twist of the neck.
"You knocked him over cheap," said he.
He set to feeling the pockets of Jean Valjean and Marius, with the greatest familiarity. Jean Valjean, who was chiefly concerned in keeping his back to the light, let him have his way.
While handling Marius' coat, Thenardier, with the skill of a pickpocket, and without being noticed by Jean Valjean, tore off a strip which he concealed under his blouse, probably thinking that this morsel of stuff might serve, later on, to identify the assassinated man and the assassin. However, he found no more than the thirty francs.
"That's true," said he, "both of you together have no more than that." 
And, forgetting his motto: "half shares," he took all.
He hesitated a little over the large sous. After due reflection, he took them also, muttering:
"Never mind! You cut folks' throats too cheap altogether."
That done, he once more drew the big key from under his blouse.
"Now, my friend, you must leave. It's like the fair here, you pay when you go out. You have paid, now clear out."
And he began to laugh.
Had he, in lending to this stranger the aid of his key, and in making some other man than himself emerge from that portal, the pure and disinterested intention of rescuing an assassin? We may be permitted to doubt this.
Thenardier helped Jean Valjean to replace Marius on his shoulders, then he betook himself to the grating on tiptoe, and barefooted, making Jean Valjean a sign to follow him, looked out, laid his finger on his mouth, and remained for several seconds, as though in suspense; his inspection finished, he placed the key in the lock. The bolt slipped back and the gate swung open. It neither grated nor squeaked. It moved very softly.
It was obvious that this gate and those hinges, carefully oiled, were in the habit of opening more frequently than was supposed. This softness was suspicious; it hinted at furtive goings and comings, silent entrances and exits of nocturnal men, and the wolf-like tread of crime.
The sewer was evidently an accomplice of some mysterious band. This taciturn grating was a receiver of stolen goods. 
Thenardier opened the gate a little way, allowing just sufficient space for Jean Valjean to pass out, closed the grating again, gave the key a double turn in the lock and plunged back into the darkness, without making any more noise than a breath. He seemed to walk with the velvet paws of a tiger.
A moment later, that hideous providence had retreated into the invisibility.
Jean Valjean found himself in the open air.
他正处在万分颓丧之中，忽然一只手放在他的肩上，一个轻轻的声音向他说：
“两人平分。”
黑暗中难道竟还有人？没有比绝望更象梦境的了。冉阿让以为是在做梦，他没有听见一点脚步声。这可能吗？他抬头一望。
一个人站在他面前。
这个人穿一件罩衫，光着脚，左手拿着鞋，他脱去鞋肯定是为了走近冉阿让而不让人听到他的走路声。
冉阿让一刻也不犹豫，相遇虽然如此突然，但他认得这个人。这就是德纳第。
可以这么说，冉阿让尽管被惊醒，但他对惊慌也早已习惯，他经受过需要快速对付的意外打击，于是立刻恢复了清醒的头脑。何况，处境也不能更为恶劣，困境到了某种程度已无法再升级，德纳第本人也不能使这黑夜更黑。
一刹那间的等待。
德纳第把右手举到额际来遮阳，接着又皱起眉头眨眨眼，这一动作再加上略闭双唇，说明一个精明的人试着去认出另一个人。但他没有认出来。我们刚才说过，冉阿让背着阳光，加上他又变得如此面目全非，满脸的污泥和鲜血，就是在白天，也未必能被人认出来。相反地，铁栅栏的光棗这地窟中的光棗正面照着德纳第，确实是这样，他是惨淡的，但能看得清清楚楚，正如俗话所说，说得很对，冉阿让一眼就认出了德纳第。所处情况的不同使得这一秘密的即将开始的两种地位和两个人之间的决斗将对冉阿让有利。两人相遇，一个是面目看不清楚的冉阿让，另一个是真相毕露的德纳第。
冉阿让立刻发现德纳第没有认出他来。
他们在这半明半暗的地方互相观察了一番，好象在进行较量，德纳第首先打破了沉默：
“你打算怎么出去？”
冉阿让不回答。
德纳第继续说：
“无法用小钩开锁，可是你必须出去。”
“对。”冉阿让说。
“那么对半分。”
“你说什么？”
“你杀了人，好罢，我呢，我有钥匙。”
德纳第用手指着马吕斯，继续说：
“我不认识你，但我愿意帮助你，你得够朋友。”
冉阿让开始懂了，德纳第以为他是一个凶手。
德纳第又说：
“听着，伙伴，你不会没看看兜里有什么就把人杀了。给我一半，我就替你开门。”
他从有着无数洞的罩衫下面露出了一把大钥匙的一半，又加上一句：
“你要见识一下田野的钥匙①是什么样的吗？在这儿。”冉阿让“愣住了”，这是老高乃依的说法，他甚至怀疑所见是否是现实。这是外表看起来可怕的老天爷，以德纳第的形象从地底下钻出来的善良天使。
德纳第把拳头塞进罩衫的一个大口袋里，抽出一根绳索递给冉阿让。
“拿着，”他说，“我还外饶你这根绳子。”
“一根绳子，派什么用处？”
“你还需要一块石头，但你在外边找得到，那儿有一堆废物。”
“派什么用处，一块石头？”
“笨蛋，你既然要把这傻瓜②丢下河，就得有一块石头和一根绳子，不然他就会漂起来。” 
①“拿田野的钥匙”是句成语，意思是“逃之夭夭”。
②傻瓜，原文为黑话pantre。　
冉阿让接过绳子，每个人都会这样机械地接受东西。
德纳第弹了一个响指，好象忽然想起了一件事：
“喂，伙伴，你怎么搞的竟能摆脱那儿的洼地！我没敢冒险去那儿。呸！你好难闻。”
停了一下，他又说：
“我问你话，你不回答是对的，这是学习对付在预审推事前的那难堪的一刻钟。还有，一点不说，就不怕说得太响。我看不清你的脸，又不知道你的姓名，尽管如此，你别以为我就不知道你是什么人，想干什么。我什么都知道。你敲了一下这位先生，现在你要把他藏在一个地方，你需要的是河，这是藏祸之处。我来帮你摆脱窘境。在困难中帮助一个好人，我很乐意。”
他尽管赞许冉阿让的缄默，显然他也在设法使他开口。他推推他的肩膀，想从侧面观察他，并用他一直保持着的不高不低的声音叫道：
“说起洼地来，你真是一个古怪的家伙，为什么你不把这个人丢进去？”
冉阿让保持沉默。
德纳第又说，同时把一块当作领结的小布举到喉结处，这个举动更显示了一个一本正经的人的明智：
“说实话，你这样干可能是聪明的。明天工人来补洞，肯定会找到遗忘在这儿的巴黎人①，他们可能会根据线索，一点一点，找到你的足迹，抓到你。有人经过这阴沟。谁？他打哪儿出去的？有人看见他出去了吗？警察十分机警。阴沟是阴险的，可以告发你。找到这样的东西是罕见的，能引人注意，很少人干事利用阴沟，至于河流则是为众人服务的。河流是真正的坟墓。一个月后，有人在圣克鲁的网里把这人打捞上来。好罢，这有什么关系？不过是一具腐烂的尸体罢了，谁杀了这个人？巴黎。这样，法院根本不过问，你做得对。” 
①巴黎人，原文为黑话pantinois。　
德纳第越是话多，冉阿让也就越缄默。德纳第又摇摇他的肩膀。
“现在，把生意结束一下，要平分，你看见我的钥匙了，让我看看你的钱！”
德纳第一副凶相，就象野兽一样，形状可疑，带点恫吓的神气，然而又表现得很亲善。
有一桩怪事，德纳第的态度很不自然，他的神气很不自在，尽管没有装得很神秘的样子，他却低声说话，不时把手指放在嘴上轻声说：“嘘！”很难使人猜出其中的原因。这儿除了他们两人之外没有别人。冉阿让猜想可能还有其他盗贼藏在近处的角落里而德纳第不打算和他们分赃。
德纳第又说：
“让我们结束吧！那傻瓜的衣袋里究竟有多少钱？”
冉阿让在自己的衣袋里寻找。
我们记得，他的习惯总是要带点钱在身边。他过着随时要应付困难的阴暗的生活，这使他不得不这样做。然而这一次他措手不及，昨晚他穿上他的国民自卫军的军服时，心情颓丧之极，所以忘了带上钱包。他只有少数零钱在他背心的口袋里，总共有三十法郎左右。他翻转口袋，里面浸满了污泥，他把一个金路易和两个五法郎的钱币以及五六个铜币放在沟管的长凳上。
德纳第伸长了下唇，意味深长地扭了一下脖子。
“你杀了他没捞到多少钱。”他说。
他开始放肆地摸摸冉阿让的口袋和马吕斯的口袋。冉阿让主要是注意背着光线，随便他干。在翻着马吕斯的衣服时，德纳第用魔术师般灵巧的动作，设法撕下了一角衣襟藏在他罩衫里面而未被冉阿让看见，大概他想这块破布以后可能会帮助他认出被害者和凶手。他在三十法郎之外再也没有找到什么。
“不错，”他说，“两个人加起来，你们也只有这一点钱。”
他全部拿走了，忘了他所说的“平分”。
对铜币他稍稍犹豫了一下，想了想，他嘟囔着也拿了去：
“没有关系！杀人得这一点钱太少了。”
他说完后，又在罩衫下把大钥匙拉出来：
“现在你得出去了，朋友。这里和集市一样，出去是要付钱的。你既然付了，出去吧。”
于是他笑了起来。
他用钥匙来帮助一个陌生人，让除他之外的另一个人从这道门出去，他是否出于完全无私的目的去救一个凶手？这是值得怀疑的。
德纳第帮助冉阿让把马吕斯背上，事后他踮起赤脚的脚尖走到铁栅栏门前，同时向冉阿让做手势让他跟上来。他望望外面，把手指放在唇边，停了几秒钟；经过观察以后，他把钥匙伸进锁眼。铁闩滑开，门转动了。没有一点轧轧声和吱呀声，动作轻巧，显然这铁栅栏门和铰链都仔细地上了油，开的次数比人们想象的要多，这种轻巧是阴森的。这种轻巧使人感到偷偷地来来去去，静悄悄地出出进进的夜行人以及害人的豺狼的脚步。阴渠肯定是某个秘密集团的同谋。这沉默的铁栅栏门就是窝主。
德纳第半开着门，让冉阿让的身子刚刚能通过，他又关上了门，钥匙在锁中转两道，继而又钻进黑暗处，没发出一点比呼吸更大的声响。他好象是用老虎的毛茸茸的爪子在走路。不久以后，这个可怕的老天爷已看不见了。
冉阿让到了外边。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 9 Marius Produces on Some One Who Is a Judge of the Matter
He allowed Marius to slide down upon the shore.
They were in the open air!
The miasmas, darkness, horror lay behind him. The pure, healthful, living, joyous air that was easy to breathe inundated him. Everywhere around him reigned silence, but that charming silence when the sun has set in an unclouded azure sky. Twilight had descended; night was drawing on, the great deliverer, the friend of all those who need a mantle of darkness that they may escape from an anguish. The sky presented itself in all directions like an enormous calm. The river flowed to his feet with the sound of a kiss. The aerial dialogue of the nests bidding each other good night in the elms of the Champs-Elysees was audible. A few stars, daintily piercing the pale blue of the zenith, and visible to revery alone, formed imperceptible little splendors amid the immensity. Evening was unfolding over the head of Jean Valjean all the sweetness of the infinite. 
It was that exquisite and undecided hour which says neither yes nor no. Night was already sufficiently advanced to render it possible to lose oneself at a little distance and yet there was sufficient daylight to permit of recognition at close quarters.
For several seconds, Jean Valjean was irresistibly overcome by that august and caressing serenity; such moments of oblivion do come to men; suffering refrains from harassing the unhappy wretch; everything is eclipsed in the thoughts; peace broods over the dreamer like night; and, beneath the twilight which beams and in imitation of the sky which is illuminated, the soul becomes studded with stars. Jean Valjean could not refrain from contemplating that vast, clear shadow which rested over him; thoughtfully he bathed in the sea of ecstasy and prayer in the majestic silence of the eternal heavens. Then he bent down swiftly to Marius, as though the sentiment of duty had returned to him, and, dipping up water in the hollow of his hand, he gently sprinkled a few drops on the latter's face. Marius' eyelids did not open; but his half-open mouth still breathed.
Jean Valjean was on the point of dipping his hand in the river once more, when, all at once, he experienced an indescribable embarrassment, such as a person feels when there is some one behind him whom he does not see. 
We have already alluded to this impression, with which everyone is familiar.
He turned round.
Some one was, in fact, behind him, as there had been a short while before.
A man of lofty stature, enveloped in a long coat, with folded arms, and bearing in his right fist a bludgeon of which the leaden head was visible, stood a few paces in the rear of the spot where Jean Valjean was crouching over Marius.
With the aid of the darkness, it seemed a sort of apparition. An ordinary man would have been alarmed because of the twilight, a thoughtful man on account of the bludgeon. Jean Valjean recognized Javert.
The reader has divined, no doubt, that Thenardier's pursuer was no other than Javert. Javert, after his unlooked-for escape from the barricade, had betaken himself to the prefecture of police, had rendered a verbal account to the Prefect in person in a brief audience, had then immediately gone on duty again, which implied-- the note, the reader will recollect, which had been captured on his person--a certain surveillance of the shore on the right bank of the Seine near the Champs-Elysees, which had, for some time past, aroused the attention of the police. There he had caught sight of Thenardier and had followed him. The reader knows the rest.
Thus it will be easily understood that that grating, so obligingly opened to Jean Valjean, was a bit of cleverness on Thenardier's part. Thenardier intuitively felt that Javert was still there; the man spied upon has a scent which never deceives him; it was necessary to fling a bone to that sleuth-hound. An assassin,what a godsend! Such an opportunity must never be allowed to slip. Thenardier, by putting Jean Valjean outside in his stead, provided a prey for the police, forced them to relinquish his scent, made them forget him in a bigger adventure, repaid Javert for his waiting, which always flatters a spy, earned thirty francs, and counted with certainty, so far as he himself was concerned, on escaping with the aid of this diversion.
Jean Valjean had fallen from one danger upon another. 
These two encounters, this falling one after the other, from Thenardier upon Javert, was a rude shock.
Javert did not recognize Jean Valjean, who, as we have stated, no longer looked like himself. He did not unfold his arms, he made sure of his bludgeon in his fist, by an imperceptible movement, and said in a curt, calm voice:
"Who are you?"
"I."
"Who is `I'?"
"Jean Valjean."
Javert thrust his bludgeon between his teeth, bent his knees, inclined his body, laid his two powerful hands on the shoulders of Jean Valjean, which were clamped within them as in a couple of vices, scrutinized him, and recognized him. Their faces almost touched. Javert's look was terrible.
Jean Valjean remained inert beneath Javert's grasp, like a lion submitting to the claws of a lynx.
"Inspector Javert," said he, "you have me in your power. Moreover, I have regarded myself as your prisoner ever since this morning. I did not give you my address with any intention of escaping from you. Take me. Only grant me one favor."
Javert did not appear to hear him. He kept his eyes riveted on Jean Valjean. His chin being contracted, thrust his lips upwards towards his nose, a sign of savage revery. At length he released Jean Valjean, straightened himself stiffly up without bending, grasped his bludgeon again firmly, and, as though in a dream, he murmured rather than uttered this question: 
"What are you doing here? And who is this man?"
He still abstained from addressing Jean Valjean as thou.
Jean Valjean replied, and the sound of his voice appeared to rouse Javert:
"It is with regard to him that I desire to speak to you. Dispose of me as you see fit; but first help me to carry him home. That is all that I ask of you."
Javert's face contracted as was always the case when any one seemed to think him capable of making a concession. Nevertheless, he did not say "no."
Again he bent over, drew from his pocket a handkerchief which he moistened in the water and with which he then wiped Marius' blood-stained brow.
"This man was at the barricade," said he in a low voice and as though speaking to himself. "He is the one they called Marius." 
A spy of the first quality, who had observed everything, listened to everything, and taken in everything, even when he thought that he was to die; who had played the spy even in his agony, and who, with his elbows leaning on the first step of the sepulchre, had taken notes.
He seized Marius' hand and felt his pulse.
"He is wounded," said Jean Valjean.
"He is a dead man," said Javert.
Jean Valjean replied:
"No. Not yet."
"So you have brought him thither from the barricade?" remarked Javert.
His preoccupation must indeed have been very profound for him not to insist on this alarming rescue through the sewer, and for him not to even notice Jean Valjean's silence after his question.
Jean Valjean, on his side, seemed to have but one thought. He resumed:
"He lives in the Marais, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, with his grandfather. I do not recollect his name." 
Jean Valjean fumbled in Marius' coat, pulled out his pocket-book, opened it at the page which Marius had pencilled, and held it out to Javert.
There was still sufficient light to admit of reading. Besides this, Javert possessed in his eye the feline phosphorescence of night birds. He deciphered the few lines written by Marius, and muttered: "Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-duCalvaire, No. 6."
Then he exclaimed: "Coachman!"
The reader will remember that the hackney-coach was waiting in case of need.
Javert kept Marius' pocket-book.
A moment later, the carriage, which had descended by the inclined plane of the watering-place, was on the shore. Marius was laid upon the back seat, and Javert seated himself on the front seat beside Jean Valjean.
The door slammed, and the carriage drove rapidly away, ascending the quays in the direction of the Bastille.
They quitted the quays and entered the streets. The coachman, a black form on his box, whipped up his thin horses. A glacial silence reigned in the carriage. Marius, motionless, with his body resting in the corner, and his head drooping on his breast, his arms hanging, his legs stiff, seemed to be awaiting only a coffin; Jean Valjean seemed made of shadow, and Javert of stone, and in that vehicle full of night, whose interior, every time that it passed in front of a street lantern, appeared to be turned lividly wan, as by an intermittent flash of lightning, chance had united and seemed to be bringing face to face the three forms of tragic immobility, the corpse, the spectre, and the statue.
他把马吕斯轻轻放在河滩上。
他们出来了！
腐烂的气息、黑暗、恐怖已在他的后面。健康、纯洁、新鲜、欢快、可以随意呼吸的空气已充满他的周围。四周一片寂静，这是太阳在碧空西沉时令人心旷神怡的寂静。黄昏来临，夜开始了，这是个大救星，是一切需要以黑影作大衣逃出苦难的人的朋友。苍穹广阔安详，在他脚下河水潺潺，有如接吻。可以听到爱丽舍广场上榆树丛中鸟巢在空中对话，互道晚安。寥寥几颗明星（在浅蓝色的天顶上稍稍有点惹人注目，这只有沉思冥想者才能发现）在无边无际的天空中发出难以辨认的微弱的闪光。夜把无极的一切温存撒在冉阿让的头上。
这是明暗难辨的绝妙时辰，天已黑了，数步之外人就看不清，然而在走近时却还有足够的余晖来辨认。
有几秒钟冉阿让情不自禁地被这庄严而又抚慰人的宁静所侵袭，人每每有这样一种忘怀的时刻，痛苦不再折磨悲惨的人，思想里一切都消逝了，和平就象夜幕笼罩下梦想着的人，在黄昏的余晖里，有如在明亮的天空里那样，心里布满了星星。冉阿让情不自禁地仰望头上这辽阔皎洁的夜色，他堕入冥想，在永恒苍穹庄严的寂静中，他沉浸在祈祷和出神之中，于是突然间，好象又恢复了责任感，他弯腰向着马吕斯，又用手心捧了点水，轻轻地洒几滴在他的脸上。马吕斯的眼睛没睁开，但半开的嘴还有呼吸。
冉阿让正要把手重新伸入河中，忽然间，他感到一种不知什么的干扰，好象有什么人在他身后似的，虽然还没看见。
我们曾在别处提到过这种大家都知道的感觉。
他转过头来。
正象刚才一样，确有一个人在他后面。
一个魁梧的大个子，裹着一件长大衣，两臂交叉在胸前，右拳握着一根可以见到铅锤头的闷棍，站在正蹲在马吕斯身旁的冉阿让后面几步的地方。
由于在薄暮中，这真象鬼魂出现似的，一个普通人在黄昏时见到是要害怕的，一个深思熟虑的人害怕的是闷棍。
冉阿让认出来这是沙威。
读者一定猜到了追捕德纳第的不是别人就是沙威。沙威出乎他的意料离开街垒之后，就到了警署，向警署署长本人作了口头汇报，在简短的接见以后，他就立刻复职，他的职责包括，我们还该记得他身上的字条，监视爱丽舍广场的右河滩，那儿最近已引起公安当局的注意。他在那里见到了德纳第并追踪他。其余的事我们都已知道了。
我们也明白了这扇门如此殷勤地在冉阿让面前打开，是德纳第在耍手腕。德纳第感到沙威一直在这儿，凡是被监视的人都有灵敏的嗅觉，得扔根骨头给这警犬。送上一个凶手，这该是多么意外的收获呀！这是替罪羊，从来不会被拒绝的。德纳第把冉阿让放出去替代他，同时给警察一个猎物，使他放弃追踪，使自己在一桩更大的案件中被忘记，使沙威没有白等，这总会使密探得意，而自己又挣了三十法郎。至于他本人，打算就这样来转移视线脱身。
冉阿让从一个暗礁又撞到另一个暗礁上。
这两次接连的相遇，从德纳第掉到沙威手中，实在使人难堪。
沙威没认出冉阿让，我们已经说过，因为冉阿让已很不象他本人了。沙威不垂下手臂，而用一种觉察不出的动作使拳头抓稳闷棍，并用简短镇定的声音说：
“您是谁？”
“是我。”
“是谁，您？”
“冉阿让。”
沙威用牙咬住闷棍，屈膝弯腰，用两只强大的手放在冉阿让肩上，象两把老虎钳似的把他夹紧，仔细观察，认出了他。他们的脸几乎相碰，沙威的目光令人感到恐怖。
冉阿让在沙威的紧握下毫不动弹，好象狮子在忍受短尾山猫的爪子。
“侦察员沙威，”他说，“您抓住我了。其实，从今天早晨起我早已把自己看作是您的犯人了，我丝毫没有在给了您地址后又设法从您那儿逃脱的打算，您抓住我吧！只是请答应我一件事。”
沙威好象没有听见似的，他眼睛盯住冉阿让，耸起的下巴把嘴唇推向鼻子，这是一种凶狠的沉思着的表现。后来，他放下冉阿让，一下子直起身来，一把抓住闷棍，并且似梦非梦，不象在问而是含含糊糊地说：
“您在这儿干什么？这人又是谁？”
他一直不再用“你”这种称呼来和冉阿让说话。
冉阿让回答时，他的声音好象把沙威唤醒了似的：
“我正想和您说说他的事，您可以随意处理我，但先帮我把他送回家，我只向您要求这一件事。”
沙威的面部起了皱，在旁人看来这是他每次有可能让步时的表现，他并没有拒绝。
他重新弯下腰，从口袋里抽出一块手帕，在水中浸湿，拭去了马吕斯额上的血迹。
“这人曾是街垒里的，”他轻声地好象在自言自语，“就是那个别人管他叫马吕斯的人。”
头等密探，在以为自己要死的时候，还在观察一切，听着一切，听到了一切并收集了一切。在垂死之前还在侦察，靠在坟墓的第一级石阶上，他还在记录。
他抓住了马吕斯的手寻找他的脉搏。
“是一个受了伤的人。”冉阿让说。
“是一个死人。”沙威说。
冉阿让回答：
“不，还没有死。”
“您把他从街垒带到这儿来的吗？”沙威说。
他的心事一定很重，因而他一点也没有追究这个使人不安的从阴沟里把人救出来的事，也没有注意到冉阿让对他的问话默不作答。
冉阿让也好象只有一个念头，他说：
“他住在沼泽区受难修女街，他的外祖父家里……我不记得他外祖父的名字了。”
冉阿让在马吕斯的衣服里搜寻，把笔记本抽出来，翻出马吕斯用铅笔写的一页，递给沙威。
空中还有足够的浮光可以看出字迹。况且沙威的眼睛有着夜鸟那种象猫一样的磷光。他看清了马吕斯写的几行字，嘴里咕哝着：“吉诺曼，受难修女街六号。”
于是他叫了一声：“车夫！”
我们还记得有辆车在等着，以备不时之需。
沙威留下了马吕斯的笔记本。
不久，马车从饮马处斜坡上下来，到了河滩，马吕斯被放在后座长凳上，沙威和冉阿让并排坐在前面长凳上。
车门又关上，马车向前飞跑，上了河岸向巴士底狱的方向驶去。
他们离开河岸到了大街。车夫，象一个黑影坐在他的座位上，鞭打着他那两匹瘦弱的马。车中是冰冷的沉默，马吕斯，一动不动，身体靠在后座角上，头垂在胸前，双臂挂着，两腿僵硬，仿佛只等着一口棺材了。冉阿让就象一个亡魂，沙威好象石像；在漆黑的车中，每次经过路灯时，车内如被间隔的闪电照成灰暗的苍白色，命运把他们结合在一起，好象在使这三个一动不动的悲剧性的尸体、幽灵、石像在共同凄惨地对质。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 10 Return of the Son Who Was Prodigal of His Life
At every jolt over the pavement, a drop of blood trickled from Marius' hair.
Night had fully closed in when the carriage arrived at No. 6, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.
Javert was the first to alight; he made sure with one glance of the number on the carriage gate, and, raising the heavy knocker of beaten iron, embellished in the old style, with a male goat and a satyr confronting each other, he gave a violent peal. The gate opened a little way and Javert gave it a push. The porter half made his appearance yawning, vaguely awake, and with a candle in his hand.
Everyone in the house was asleep. People go to bed betimes in the Marais, especially on days when there is a revolt. This good, old quarter, terrified at the Revolution, takes refuge in slumber, as children, when they hear the Bugaboo coming, hide their heads hastily under their coverlet.
In the meantime Jean Valjean and the coachman had taken Marius out of the carriage, Jean Valjean supporting him under the armpits, and the coachman under the knees.
As they thus bore Marius, Jean Valjean slipped his hand under the latter's clothes, which were broadly rent, felt his breast, and assured himself that his heart was still beating. It was even beating a little less feebly, as though the movement of the carriage had brought about a certain fresh access of life.
Javert addressed the porter in a tone befitting the government, and the presence of the porter of a factious person. 
"Some person whose name is Gillenormand?"
"Here. What do you want with him?"
"His son is brought back."
"His son?" said the porter stupidly.
"He is dead."
Jean Valjean, who, soiled and tattered, stood behind Javert, and whom the porter was surveying with some horror, made a sign to him with his head that this was not so.
The porter did not appear to understand either Javert's words or Jean Valjean's sign.
Javert continued:
"He went to the barricade, and here he is."
"To the barricade?" ejaculated the porter.
"He has got himself killed. Go waken his father."
The porter did not stir.
"Go along with you!" repeated Javert.
And he added:
"There will be a funeral here to-morrow."
For Javert, the usual incidents of the public highway were categorically classed, which is the beginning of foresight and surveillance, and each contingency had its own compartment; all possible facts were arranged in drawers, as it were, whence they emerged on occasion, in variable quantities; in the street, uproar, revolt, carnival, and funeral.
The porter contented himself with waking Basque. Basque woke Nicolette; Nicolette roused great-aunt Gillenormand.
As for the grandfather, they let him sleep on, thinking that he would hear about the matter early enough in any case.
Marius was carried up to the first floor, without any one in the other parts of the house being aware of the fact, and deposited on an old sofa in M. Gillenormand's antechamber; and while Basque went in search of a physician, and while Nicolette opened the linen-presses, Jean Valjean felt Javert touch him on the shoulder. He understood and descended the stairs, having behind him the step of Javert who was following him. 
The porter watched them take their departure as he had watched their arrival, in terrified somnolence.
They entered the carriage once more, and the coachman mounted his box.
"Inspector Javert," said Jean, "grant me yet another favor."
"What is it?" demanded Javert roughly.
"Let me go home for one instant. Then you shall do whatever you like with me."
Javert remained silent for a few moments, with his chin drawn back into the collar of his great-coat, then he lowered the glass and front:
"Driver," said he, "Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7."
每次遇到街石引起的震动，从马吕斯的头发中就掉下一滴血。
街车到了受难修女街六号时已是夜晚了。
沙威第一个下车，在大门上看一眼门牌，就抬起式样古老的沉重的熟铁门锤，锤上饰有公羊和森林之神角力的像，重重敲了一下。门半开了，沙威把门推开。看门人半露出身子，打着呵欠，似醒非醒，手中拿着蜡烛。
房子里所有的人都已入睡。在沼泽区大家睡得很早，尤其在暴动时期。这个老区，被革命吓坏了，就到睡梦中躲避危险，就象孩子们听见妖怪来了，就急忙把头藏进被窝里。
这时冉阿让和车夫把马吕斯从车里抬出来，冉阿让从胁下抱着他，车夫抱着腿部。
冉阿让一面这样抱着马吕斯，一面把手伸进口子撕得很大的衣服，摸摸他的胸口，证实了他的心还在跳。心跳得比刚才有力一些了，好象车子的震动对生命的恢复起了一定的作用。
沙威对看门人说话的声音和政府工作人员对叛乱者的门房说话时的口气是一样的：
“有个叫吉诺曼的人吗？”
“是这儿，您找他有什么事？”
“我们把他的儿子送回来了。”
“他的儿子？”看门人目瞪口呆地说。
“他死了。”
冉阿让，在沙威后面来到，衣服又破又脏，使看门人见了有点厌恶，他向门房摇头表示没有死。
看门人好象既没有懂沙威的话，也没有懂冉阿让摇头所表示的意思。
沙威继续说：
“他到街垒去了，现在在这儿。”
“到街垒去了！”看门人叫了起来。
“他自己去找死。快去把他父亲叫醒。”
看门人不动。
“快去呀！”沙威又说。
并又加上一句：
“明天这里要埋葬人了。”
对沙威来说，街道上经常发生的事故是分门别类排列整齐的。这是警惕和监督的开始，每件偶然事故都有各自的一格；可能发生的事可以说是放在抽屉里，并根据场合，当街上闹事、发生暴动、过狂欢节、有丧事时，就从抽屉里取出一定数量的案卷来。
看门人只叫醒巴斯克。巴斯克叫醒妮珂莱特；妮珂莱特叫醒吉诺曼姨妈。至于外祖父，人家让他睡觉，考虑到他总会很早知道这件事的。
他们把马吕斯抬到二楼，家里其他的人谁也没有见到，他们把他放在吉诺曼先生套间里一张旧长沙发上。巴斯克去找医生，妮珂莱特打开衣柜，这时冉阿让感到沙威碰了一下他的肩头，他明白了，就下楼去，沙威的脚步声在后面跟着他。
看门人望着他们离开，跟望见他们来时一样，带着半睡半醒的恐怖神情。
他们又坐上马车，车夫坐到自己的位子上。
“侦察员沙威，”冉阿让说，“再答应我一件事吧。”
“什么事？”沙威粗暴地问他。
“让我回一趟家，以后随您怎样处理我。”
沙威沉默了片刻，下巴缩进大衣的领子里去，然后放下了前面一块玻璃：
“车夫，”他说，“武人街，七号。”
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 11 Concussion in the Absolute
They did not open their lips again during the whole space of their ride. 
What did Jean Valjean want? To finish what he had begun; to warn Cosette,to tell her where Marius was, to give her, possibly, some other useful information, to take, if he could, certain final measures. As for himself, so far as he was personally concerned, all was over; he had been seized by Javert and had not resisted; any other man than himself in like situation would, perhaps, have had some vague thoughts connected with the rope which Thenardier had given him, and of the bars of the first cell that he should enter; but, let us impress it upon the reader, after the Bishop, there had existed in Jean Valjean a profound hesitation in the presence of any violence, even when directed against himself.
Suicide, that mysterious act of violence against the unknown which may contain, in a measure, the death of the soul, was impossible to Jean Valjean.
At the entrance to the Rue de l'Homme Arme, the carriage halted, the way being too narrow to admit of the entrance of vehicles. Javert and Jean Valjean alighted.
The coachman humbly represented to "monsieur l'Inspecteur," that the Utrecht velvet of his carriage was all spotted with the blood of the assassinated man, and with mire from the assassin. That is the way he understood it. He added that an indemnity was due him. At the same time, drawing his certificate book from his pocket, he begged the inspector to have the goodness to write him "a bit of an attestation."
Javert thrust aside the book which the coachman held out to him, and said:
"How much do you want, including your time of waiting and the drive?"
"It comes to seven hours and a quarter," replied the man, "and my velvet was perfectly new. Eighty francs, Mr. Inspector."
Javert drew four napoleons from his pocket and dismissed the carriage.
Jean Valjean fancied that it was Javert's intention to conduct him on foot to the post of the Blancs-Manteaux or to the post of the Archives, both of which are close at hand.
They entered the street. It was deserted as usual. Javert followed Jean Valjean. They reached No. 7. Jean Valjean knocked. The door opened.
"It is well," said Javert. "Go up stairs."
He added with a strange expression, and as though he were exerting an effort in speaking in this manner:
"I will wait for you here."
Jean Valjean looked at Javert. This mode of procedure was but little in accord with Javert's habits. However, he could not be greatly surprised that Javert should now have a sort of haughty confidence in him, the confidence of the cat which grants the mouse liberty to the length of its claws, seeing that Jean Valjean had made up his mind to surrender himself and to make an end of it. He pushed open the door, entered the house, called to the porter who was in bed and who had pulled the cord from his couch: "It is I!" and ascended the stairs.
On arriving at the first floor, he paused. All sorrowful roads have their stations. The window on the landing-place, which was a sash-window, was open. As in many ancient houses, the staircase got its light from without and had a view on the street. The street-lantern, situated directly opposite, cast some light on the stairs, and thus effected some economy in illumination.
Jean Valjean, either for the sake of getting the air, or mechanically, thrust his head out of this window. He leaned out over the street. It is short, and the lantern lighted it from end to end. Jean Valjean was overwhelmed with amazement; there was no longer any one there.
Javert had taken his departure.
在整个路程中他们不再开口。
冉阿让打算怎么办？结束他已开始的事，通知珂赛特，告诉她马吕斯在什么地方，可能另外给她一些有用的指示，如果可能的话，作些最后的安排。至于他，和他本身有关的，那是完了；他被沙威逮捕了，他不抗拒；如果是另一个人碰到这种处境，可能多少会想起德纳第给他的绳子和他将进入的第一所牢房门上的铁棍；但是，自从见到了主教以后，冉阿让对一切侵犯，包括对自己的侵犯，我们可以肯定说，宗教信仰已使他踌躇不前了。
自尽，这神秘的对未知境界的粗暴行为，在某种程度上意味着灵魂的死亡，对冉阿让是不可能的。
进入武人街口，车子停下，因街道太窄，车子进不去。沙威和冉阿让下了车。
车夫谦恭地向“侦察员先生”提出他车上的乌德勒支丝绒被受害者的血和凶手的泥浆弄脏了。他是这样理解的。他说得给他一笔赔偿费，同时，他从口袋里抽出他的记录本，请侦察员先生替他写上“一点证明”。
沙威把车夫递给他的小本子推回去，并说：
“一共该给你多少，连等的钱和车费在内？”
“一共七小时一刻钟，”车夫回答，“还有我的丝绒是全新的。共八十法郎，侦察员先生。”
沙威在口袋里取出四个金拿破仑，把马车打发走了。
冉阿让猜想沙威想徒步把他带到白大衣商店哨所或历史文物陈列馆哨所那里去，这两处都不远。
他们走进了街，照样空无一人。沙威跟着冉阿让，他们到了七号，冉阿让敲门，门开了。
“好吧，”沙威说，“上去。”
他用奇特的表情好象很费劲地说了这样一句话：
“我在这儿等您。”
冉阿让看看沙威，这做法和沙威的习惯不相符。然而，如果说现在沙威对他有一种高傲的信任，象一只猫给一只小耗子的、和它爪子那么长的一点自由的信任，既然冉阿让决心自首并决心结束一切，沙威的这种做法不会使他太诧异。他推开大门，走进屋子，对睡在床上拉了床边开门绳的门房叫一声：
“是我！”就走上楼去。
上了二楼，他歇了一下。一切痛苦的道路都有停留站。楼梯平台的窗子是一扇吊窗，正敞开着，就象好些老式住宅一样，楼梯在此取光并可望见街道。街上的路灯，正装在对面，还照亮一点楼梯，这样就可以节省照明。
冉阿让可能为了喘一口气，也许是机械地探头望望窗外，俯身看看街心。街道很短，从头到尾有路灯照亮着。冉阿让惊喜得发呆了，没有人了。
沙威已经离去。
Part 5 Book 3 Chapter 12 The Grandfather
Basque and the porter had carried Marius into the drawing-room, as he still lay stretched out, motionless, on the sofa upon which he had been placed on his arrival. The doctor who had been sent for had hastened thither. Aunt Gillenormand had risen.
Aunt Gillenormand went and came, in affright, wringing her hands and incapable of doing anything but saying: "Heavens! is it possible?" At times she added: "Everything will be covered with blood." When her first horror had passed off, a certain philosophy of the situation penetrated her mind, and took form in the exclamation: "It was bound to end in this way!" She did not go so far as: "I told you so!" which is customary on this sort of occasion. At the physician's orders, a camp bed had been prepared beside the sofa. The doctor examined Marius, and after having found that his pulse was still beating, that the wounded man had no very deep wound on his breast, and that the blood on the corners of his lips proceeded from his nostrils, he had him placed flat on the bed, without a pillow, with his head on the same level as his body, and even a trifle lower, and with his bust bare in order to facilitate respiration. Mademoiselle Gillenormand, on perceiving that they were undressing Marius, withdrew. She set herself to telling her beads in her own chamber.
The trunk had not suffered any internal injury; a bullet, deadened by the pocket-book, had turned aside and made the tour of his ribs with a hideous laceration, which was of no great depth, and consequently, not dangerous. The long, underground journey had completed the dislocation of the broken collar-bone, and the disorder there was serious. The arms had been slashed with sabre cuts. Not a single scar disfigured his face; but his head was fairly covered with cuts; what would be the result of these wounds on the head? Would they stop short at the hairy cuticle, or would they attack the brain? As yet, this could not be decided. A grave symptom was that they had caused a swoon, and that people do not always recover from such swoons. Moreover, the wounded man had been exhausted by hemorrhage. From the waist down, the barricade had protected the lower part of the body from injury.
Basque and Nicolette tore up linen and prepared bandages; Nicolette sewed them, Basque rolled them. As lint was lacking, the doctor, for the time being, arrested the bleeding with layers of wadding. Beside the bed, three candles burned on a table where the case of surgical instruments lay spread out. The doctor bathed Marius' face and hair with cold water. A full pail was reddened in an instant. The porter, candle in hand, lighted them.
The doctor seemed to be pondering sadly. From time to time, he made a negative sign with his head, as though replying to some question which he had inwardly addressed to himself. 
A bad sign for the sick man are these mysterious dialogues of the doctor with himself.
At the moment when the doctor was wiping Marius' face, and lightly touching his still closed eyes with his finger, a door opened at the end of the drawing-room, and a long, pallid figure made its appearance.
This was the grandfather.
The revolt had, for the past two days, deeply agitated, enraged and engrossed the mind of M. Gillenormand. He had not been able to sleep on the previous night, and he had been in a fever all day long. In the evening, he had gone to bed very early, recommending that everything in the house should be well barred, and he had fallen into a doze through sheer fatigue.
Old men sleep lightly; M. Gillenormand's chamber adjoined the drawing-room, and in spite of all the precautions that had been taken, the noise had awakened him. Surprised at the rift of light which he saw under his door, he had risen from his bed, and had groped his way thither.
He stood astonished on the threshold, one hand on the handle of the half-open door, with his head bent a little forward and quivering, his body wrapped in a white dressing-gown, which was straight and as destitute of folds as a winding-sheet; and he had the air of a phantom who is gazing into a tomb.
He saw the bed, and on the mattress that young man, bleeding, white with a waxen whiteness, with closed eyes and gaping mouth, and pallid lips, stripped to the waist, slashed all over with crimson wounds, motionless and brilliantly lighted up.
The grandfather trembled from head to foot as powerfully as ossified limbs can tremble, his eyes, whose corneae were yellow on account of his great age, were veiled in a sort of vitreous glitter, his whole face assumed in an instant the earthy angles of a skull, his arms fell pendent, as though a spring had broken, and his amazement was betrayed by the outspreading of the fingers of his two aged hands, which quivered all over, his knees formed an angle in front, allowing, through the opening in his dressing-gown, a view of his poor bare legs, all bristling with white hairs, and he murmured:
"Marius!"
"Sir," said Basque, "Monsieur has just been brought back. He went to the barricade, and . . ."
"He is dead!" cried the old man in a terrible voice. "Ah! The rascal!"
Then a sort of sepulchral transformation straightened up this centenarian as erect as a young man.
"Sir," said he, "you are the doctor. Begin by telling me one thing. He is dead, is he not?"
The doctor, who was at the highest pitch of anxiety, remained silent.
M. Gillenormand wrung his hands with an outburst of terrible laughter.
"He is dead! He is dead! He is dead! He has got himself killed on the barricades! Out of hatred to me! He did that to spite me! Ah! You blood-drinker! This is the way he returns to me! Misery of my life, he is dead!" 
He went to the window, threw it wide open as though he were stifling, and, erect before the darkness, he began to talk into the street, to the night:
"Pierced, sabred, exterminated, slashed, hacked in pieces! Just look at that, the villain! He knew well that I was waiting for him, and that I had had his room arranged, and that I had placed at the head of my bed his portrait taken when he was a little child! He knew well that he had only to come back, and that I had been recalling him for years, and that I remained by my fireside, with my hands on my knees, not knowing what to do, and that I was mad over it! You knew well, that you had but to return and to say:`It is I,' and you would have been the master of the house, and that I should have obeyed you, and that you could have done whatever you pleased with your old numskull of a grandfather! You knew that well, and you said:
"No, he is a Royalist, I will not go! And you went to the barricades, and you got yourself killed out of malice! To revenge yourself for what I said to you about Monsieur le Duc de Berry. It is infamous! Go to bed then and sleep tranquilly!He is dead, and this is my awakening."
The doctor, who was beginning to be uneasy in both quarters, quitted Marius for a moment, went to M. Gillenormand, and took his arm. The grandfather turned round, gazed at him with eyes which seemed exaggerated in size and bloodshot, and said to him calmly:
"I thank you, sir. I am composed, I am a man, I witnessed the death of Louis XVI. I know how to bear events. One thing is terrible and that is to think that it is your newspapers which do all the mischief. You will have scribblers, chatterers, lawyers, orators, tribunes, discussions, progress, enlightenment, the rights of man, the liberty of the press, and this is the way that your children will be brought home to you. Ah! Marius! It is abominable! Killed! Dead before me! A barricade! Ah, the scamp! Doctor, you live in this quarter, I believe? Oh! I know you well. I see your cabriolet pass my window. I am going to tell you. You are wrong to think that I am angry. One does not fly into a rage against a dead man. That would be stupid. This is a child whom I have reared. I was already old while he was very young. He played in the Tuileries garden with his little shovel and his little chair, and in order that the inspectors might not grumble, I stopped up the holes that he made in the earth with his shovel, with my cane. One day he exclaimed: Down with Louis XVIII. And off he went. It was no fault of mine. He was all rosy and blond. His mother is dead. Have you ever noticed that all little children are blond? Why is it so? He is the son of one of those brigands of the Loire, but children are innocent of their fathers' crimes. I remember when he was no higher than that. He could not manage to pronounce his Ds. He had a way of talking that was so sweet and indistinct that you would have thought it was a bird chirping. I remember that once, in front of the Hercules Farnese, people formed a circle to admire him and marvel at him, he was so handsome, was that child! He had a head such as you see in pictures. I talked in a deep voice, and I frightened him with my cane, but he knew very well that it was only to make him laugh. In the morning, when he entered my room, I grumbled, but he was like the sunlight to me, all the same. One cannot defend oneself against those brats. They take hold of you, they hold you fast, they never let you go again. The truth is, that there never was a cupid like that child. Now, what can you say for your Lafayettes, your Benjamin Constants, and your Tirecuir de Corcelles who have killed him? This cannot be allowed to pass in this fashion."
He approached Marius, who still lay livid and motionless, and towhom the physician had returned, and began once more to wring his hands. The old man's pallid lips moved as though mechanically, and permitted the passage of words that were barely audible, like breaths in the death agony:
"Ah! heartless lad! Ah! clubbist! Ah! wretch! Ah! Septembrist!"
Reproaches in the low voice of an agonizing man, addressed to a corpse.
Little by little, as it is always indispensable that internal eruptions should come to the light, the sequence of words returned, but the grandfather appeared no longer to have the strength to utter them, his voice was so weak, and extinct, that it seemed to come from the other side of an abyss:
"It is all the same to me, I am going to die too, that I am. And to think that there is not a hussy in Paris who would not have been delighted to make this wretch happy! A scamp who, instead of amusing himself and enjoying life, went off to fight and get himself shot down like a brute! And for whom? Why? For the Republic! Instead of going to dance at the Chaumiere, as it is the duty of young folks to do! What's the use of being twenty years old? The Republic, a cursed pretty folly! Poor mothers, beget fine boys, do! Come, he is dead. That will make two funerals under the same carriage gate. So you have got yourself arranged like this for the sake of General Lamarque's handsome eyes! What had that General Lamarque done to you? A slasher! A chatter-box! To get oneself killed for a dead man! If that isn't enough to drive any one mad! Just think of it! At twenty! And without so much as turning his head to see whether he was not leaving something behind him! That's the way poor, good old fellows are forced to die alone, now-adays. Perish in your corner, owl! Well, after all, so much the better, that is what I was hoping for, this will kill me on the spot. I am too old,I am a hundred years old, I am a hundred thousand years old, I ought, by rights, to have been dead long ago. This blow puts an end to it. So all is over, what happiness! What is the good of making him inhale ammonia and all that parcel of drugs? You are wasting your trouble, you fool of a doctor! Come, he's dead, completely dead. I know all about it, I am dead myself too. He hasn't done things by half. Yes, this age is infamous, infamous and that's what I think of you, of your ideas, of your systems, of your masters, of your oracles, of your doctors, of your scape-graces of writers, of your rascally philosophers, and of all the revolutions which, for the last sixty years, have been frightening the flocks of crows in the Tuileries! But you were pitiless in getting yourself killed like this, I shall not even grieve over your death, do you understand, you assassin?"
At that moment, Marius slowly opened his eyes, and his glance, still dimmed by lethargic wonder, rested on M. Gillenormand. 
"Marius!" cried the old man. "Marius! My little Marius! My child!My well-beloved son! You open your eyes, you gaze upon me, you are alive, thanks!"
And he fell fainting.
巴斯克和看门人把初到时安放在长沙发上躺着一动不动的马吕斯抬到客厅里。医生，在他们去叫后，也已经赶到，吉诺曼姨妈也已起床了。
吉诺曼姨妈来回走动，慌里慌张，握着自己的双手，做不了什么事，只会说：“上帝呀！这怎么可能呀！”有时，她添上一句：“到处都会沾上血了！”开始时的恐惧过后，对待现实的某种哲学就出现在她的脑海里，她用这样的叫喊来表达：“结果一定是这样的！”她还算没有加上一句：“我早就这样说过！”这是人们在这种场合惯用的一句话。
遵照医生的吩咐，在长沙发旁支起一张帆布床。医生检查了马吕斯，当他知道受伤者的脉搏还在跳，胸部没有重伤，唇角的血来自鼻腔后，医生就让他在床上平卧，不用枕头，头和身体一样平，甚至比身体还稍低一点，上身赤裸，为使呼吸通畅。吉诺曼小姐，看到在脱马吕斯的衣服时就退了出去。她到寝室里去念经。
马吕斯上身没有一点内伤，有颗子弹被皮夹挡住，顺着肋骨偏斜了，造成一个可怕的裂口，但伤口不深，因此没有危险。在地下的长途跋涉使打碎了的锁骨脱了臼，这才是严重的伤。他的两臂有刀伤。脸上没有破相的伤口，可是头上好象布满了刀痕，头上的伤口会产生什么后果呢？伤只停留在头皮的表面吗？还是伤及了头盖骨呢？目前还无法断定。一个严重的症状就是伤口引起了昏迷，这种昏迷不是所有的人都能苏醒过来的。此外，流血已使受伤者极度衰弱。从腰部以下，下半身受到街垒的防护。
巴斯克和妮珂莱特在撕床单和衣衫作绷带，妮珂莱特把布条缝起来，巴斯克把布条卷起来。由于缺少裹伤用的旧布纱团，医生暂用棉花卷止住伤口的血。卧榻旁，三支点燃的蜡烛放在陈列着外科手术用具的桌上。医生用凉水洗净马吕斯的脸和头发。一桶水一会儿就成了红色。看门人手里拿着蜡烛照着亮。
医生好象很忧愁地在思考着。不时摇一下头，仿佛在回答自己心里的问题。医生这种秘密的自问自答对病人来说是不利的表现。
当医生拭着他的面部并用手指轻轻碰碰他一直合着的眼皮时，客厅那头的一扇门打开了，一个苍白的长脸出现了。
这是外祖父。
两天以来，暴动使吉诺曼先生很紧张，他是又气愤又发愁，前晚不能入睡，昨天整天有热度。晚上，他很早就上了床，吩咐家人把屋子都插上插销，他因疲惫而矇眬睡去。
老年人的睡眠，容易惊醒；吉诺曼先生的卧室紧连着客厅，尽管大家很小心，仍有声音把他惊醒了。他看见门缝里漏出烛光，感到很惊奇，他就起床摸着黑出来。
他站在门口，一只手抓住半开的门的把手，头稍向前倾斜而摇晃着，身子裹在一件白晨衣中，直挺挺没有褶子，象件殓衣，他神情惊讶，象一个幽灵在窥视着坟墓。
他看见了床，褥子上鲜血淋淋的年轻人，象白蜡那样惨白，双目紧闭，口张着，嘴唇没有血色，上身赤露着，到处是紫红色的伤口，一动也不动，这一切都被照得清清楚楚。
外祖父骨瘦如柴的躯体从头到脚哆嗦起来，他那因高年而角膜发黄的眼睛，蒙上了一种透明的闪光，整张脸霎时间显出了骷髅般土灰色的棱角，两臂挂下来，好象里面的发条断了似的，他的惊愕表现在两只老而颤抖的手的手指的叉开上。他的膝盖向前弯曲，从打开的晨衣里可以见到他那可怜的白毛耸起的双腿，他低声说：
“马吕斯！”
“老爷，”巴斯克说，“有人把少爷送回来了，他到街垒里去了，而且……”
“他死了！”老人用可怕的声音叫道，“咳！这无赖！”
这时一种阴森森的变态使这个百岁老人象年轻人一样竖直了身子。
“先生，”他说，“您就是医生，先告诉我一件事，他死了，是吗？”
医生，焦急万分，没有回答。
吉诺曼先生扭绞着双手，同时骇人地放声大笑：
“他死了！他死了！他到街垒去让人杀了！为了恨我！为了对付我他才这样干！啊！吸血鬼！这样回来见我！我真是命中遭灾，他死了！”
他走到一扇窗前，把窗打开，好象他感到憋气，面对黑暗站着，向着街对黑夜讲起话来：
“被子弹打穿，被刀刺，割断喉头，毁灭，被撕碎，切成碎块！你们看，这无赖！他明知我在等他，我叫人把他的寝室布置好，我把他小时候的相片放在我床头；他明知他随时都可以回家，他明知多少年来我都在叫他回来，每晚我坐在火炉旁两手放在膝上，不知干什么好，他明知我因而变瘦了！这你全知道，你知道你只要回来，只要说一声‘是我’，你便立刻是家中之主，我就会依从你；你就可以随便摆布你的傻瓜爷爷！这你很清楚，但你说‘不，他是个保王派，我就是不回家！’你就上街垒去，怀着恶意去找死！为了对我曾向你说过的有关德·贝里公爵先生的话进行报复！这是何等的卑鄙！您睡吧，静静地安眠吧！他死了。我醒过来发现的就是这么回事。”
医生开始为这祖孙俩担心了，他离开马吕斯一会儿，走到了吉诺曼先生跟前，挽着他的手臂。外祖父转过身来，用好象睁大而且冲血的眼睛望着他，并且镇静地向他说：
“先生，我谢谢您，我很安静，我是男子汉，我见过路易十六的死，我能忍受事变，有桩事很可怕，就是想到你们的报纸使一切都变坏了，你们可以有拙劣的作家、能说会道的人、律师、演说家、法庭、辩论、进步、光明、人权、出版自由，而结果是别人就这样把你们的孩子送回家来！咳！马吕斯！太惨了！他被杀了！死在我前面！一个街垒！咳！这强盗！医生，我想您是住在这区的吧？啊！我认得您。我从我窗口看见您的车子走过。我告诉您，假如您认为我在发怒，那您就错了。一个人不能对死人发怒。这未免太愚蠢了。他是我抚养大的孩子。那时我已老了，他还很小。他带着他的小椅子和小铲子在杜伊勒里宫花园里玩耍，为了不受看守人员的责备，他一边用小铲在地上挖洞，我就跟着用我的手杖填洞。有一天他叫道‘打倒路易十八！’就走了。这不是我的错呀。他脸色红润，头发金黄。他的母亲已经去世。您有没有注意到所有的小孩都是金黄色的头发？这是什么原因？他是卢瓦尔省一个强盗的孩子。对父辈的罪行孩子是无罪的。我记得当他只有这么一点高的时候，他说不清d字。他说话的声音又温柔又含糊，使人感到象一只小雀。我记得有一次在法尔内斯的《赫拉克勒斯》像前，好些人围着他，大家都在赞叹，都爱慕他，因为这孩子确实很漂亮！他的容貌就象油画里那样。我对他大声嚷嚷，用拐杖吓唬他，但他知道这是闹着玩的。清早，他到我寝室里来，我叱责他，但他使我感到好象被阳光照暖着一样。对这样的孩子大家毫无办法。他们抓住你，缠住你，再也不放你了。确实，再没有比这个孩子更可爱的了。现在，你们认为你们的拉斐德，你们的班加曼·贡斯当，还有你们的狄尔居尔·德·高塞勒①怎么样？是他们杀了我的孩子！这样是不行的。” 
①狄尔居尔·德·高塞勒（Tirecuir　de　Corcelles，1802-1892），法国政治家，曾任驻梵蒂冈大使。
他走近面色惨白仍然一动不动的马吕斯。医生也回到了病人的身边，外祖父又开始扭绞他的手臂。老人家苍白的嘴唇机械地颤动着，吐出一种难以听清的象临终咽气时的话：“咳！没良心的东西！啊！政治集团分子！哼！无赖汉！九月虐杀王党的人！”他用一种临终的人的轻声在责备一个死人。
渐渐地，正如内心的火山总是要爆发一样，外祖父长串的话又开始了，但他好象已无力说出，他的声音已低沉微弱得象来自深渊的底里：
“不管了，我也要死了。你们想想，在巴黎没有一个女人不乐意向这个家伙委身的。这坏蛋不去寻欢作乐，不去尽情享受生活，偏要去打仗，象畜生一样被机枪扫射！究竟是为了谁？为了什么原因？为了共和政府！宁愿不到旭米耶去跳舞，这本该是年轻人的事！二十青春枉然虚度。共和国，好听的卑鄙谬论！可怜的母亲们，你们何苦生下这些美丽的孩子！得了，他死了。大门堂下将会有两起丧事。你被人害成这个模样就是为了博得拉马克将军的欢心！这个拉马克将军给了你什么！一个残暴无知的军人！胡说八道的人！为了一个死人去拼命！怎么不叫人发疯！想想看！才二十岁！也不回头看看身后是否还留下什么！这一下，可怜的老头们只好独自死去。倒毙在你的角落里吧！孤僻鬼！这一下，说实在话，再好没有，正是我所盼望的，也就会把我整死。我已太老了，我已一百岁，我已十万岁。我早就有权死去了。这一下子，成了。一切都完了，好不痛快！何必还要给他闻阿摩尼亚，还有这一大堆药？您是白费力气，傻医生！算了吧，他已死了，完全死了。我是内行，我自己也死了。他于这事倒没有半途而废。说真话，目前这个时代是丑恶的，丑恶的，丑恶的，这是我对你们的看法，对你们的思想，对你们的制度，对你们的主子，对你们的神谕，对你们的医生，对你们的无赖作家，对你们的乞丐哲学家，并对六十年来使杜伊勒里宫的大群乌鸦惊飞四散的所有那些革命的看法。你既毫无怜悯之心，就这样去送死，那我对你的死也毫不感到遗憾，听见了没有，凶手！”
这时，马吕斯慢慢地睁开了眼睛，他的目光仍被昏睡后醒来的惊讶所笼罩，停在吉诺曼先生的脸上。
“马吕斯，”老人大叫，“马吕斯！我的小马吕斯！我的孩子！我亲爱的儿子！你睁开眼了，你望着我，你活回来了，谢谢！”
于是他昏倒了。
Part 5 Book 5 Chapter 1 In Which the Tree with the Zinc Plaster Appears Again
Some time after the events which we have just recorded, Sieur Boulatruelle experienced a lively emotion. 
Sieur Boulatruelle was that road-mender of Montfermeil whom the reader has already seen in the gloomy parts of this book.
Boulatruelle, as the reader may, perchance, recall, was a man who was occupied with divers and troublesome matters. He broke stones and damaged travellers on the highway.
Road-mender and thief as he was, he cherished one dream; he believed in the treasures buried in the forest of Montfermeil. He hoped some day to find the money in the earth at the foot of a tree; in the meanwhile, he lived to search the pockets of passers-by.
Nevertheless, for an instant, he was prudent. He had just escaped neatly. He had been, as the reader is aware, picked up in Jondrette's garret in company with the other ruffians. Utility of a vice: his drunkenness had been his salvation. The authorities had never been able to make out whether he had been there in the quality of a robber or a man who had been robbed. An order of nolle prosequi, founded on his well authenticated state of intoxication on the evening of the ambush, had set him at liberty. He had taken to his heels. He had returned to his road from Gagny to Lagny, to make, under administrative supervision, broken stone for the good of the state, with downcast mien, in a very pensive mood, his ardor for theft somewhat cooled; but he was addicted none the less tenderly to the wine which had recently saved him.
As for the lively emotion which he had experienced a short time after his return to his road-mender's turf-thatched cot, here it is:
One morning, Boulatruelle, while on his way as was his wont, to his work, and possibly also to his ambush, a little before daybreak caught sight, through the branches of the trees, of a man, whose back alone he saw, but the shape of whose shoulders, as it seemed to him at that distance and in the early dusk, was not entirely unfamiliar to him. Boulatruelle, although intoxicated, had a correct and lucid memory, a defensive arm that is indispensable to any one who is at all in conflict with legal order.
"Where the deuce have I seen something like that man yonder?" he said to himself. But he could make himself no answer, except that the man resembled some one of whom his memory preserved a confused trace.
However, apart from the identity which he could not manage to catch, Boulatruelle put things together and made calculations. This man did not belong in the country-side. He had just arrived there. On foot, evidently. No public conveyance passes through Montfermeil at that hour. He had walked all night. Whence came he? Not from a very great distance; for he had neither haversack, nor bundle. From Paris, no doubt. Why was he in these woods? Why was he there at such an hour? What had he come there for? 
Boulatruelle thought of the treasure. By dint of ransacking his memory, he recalled in a vague way that he had already, many years before, had a similar alarm in connection with a man who produced on him the effect that he might well be this very individual.
"By the deuce," said Boulatruelle, "I'll find him again. I'll discover the parish of that parishioner. This prowler of Patron-Minette has a reason, and I'll know it. People can't have secrets in my forest if I don't have a finger in the pie."
He took his pick-axe which was very sharply pointed.
"There now," he grumbled, "is something that will search the earth and a man."
And, as one knots one thread to another thread, he took up the line of march at his best pace in the direction which the man must follow, and set out across the thickets.
When he had compassed a hundred strides, the day, which was already beginning to break, came to his assistance. Footprints stamped in the sand, weeds trodden down here and there, heather crushed, young branches in the brushwood bent and in the act of straightening themselves up again with the graceful deliberation of the arms of a pretty woman who stretches herself when she wakes, pointed out to him a sort of track. He followed it, then lost it. Time was flying. He plunged deeper into the woods and came to a sort of eminence. An early huntsman who was passing in the distance along a path, whistling the air of Guillery, suggested to him the idea of climbing a tree. Old as he was, he was agile. There stood close at hand a beech-tree of great size, worthy of Tityrus and of Boulatruelle. Boulatruelle ascended the beech as high as he was able. 
The idea was a good one. On scrutinizing the solitary waste on the side where the forest is thoroughly entangled and wild, Boulatruelle suddenly caught sight of his man.
Hardly had he got his eye upon him when he lost sight of him.
The man entered, or rather, glided into, an open glade, at a considerable distance, masked by large trees, but with which Boulatruelle was perfectly familiar, on account of having noticed, near a large pile of porous stones, an ailing chestnut-tree bandaged with a sheet of zinc nailed directly upon the bark. This glade was the one which was formerly called the Blaru-bottom. The heap of stones, destined for no one knows what employment, which was visible there thirty years ago, is doubtless still there. Nothing equals a heap of stones in longevity, unless it is a board fence. They are temporary expedients. What a reason for lasting!
Boulatruelle, with the rapidity of joy, dropped rather than descended from the tree. The lair was unearthed, the question now was to seize the beast. That famous treasure of his dreams was probably there. 
It was no small matter to reach that glade. By the beaten paths, which indulge in a thousand teasing zigzags, it required a good quarter of an hour. In a bee-line, through the underbrush, which is peculiarly dense, very thorny, and very aggressive in that locality, a full half hour was necessary. Boulatruelle committed the error of not comprehending this. He believed in the straight line; a respectable optical illusion which ruins many a man. The thicket, bristling as it was, struck him as the best road. 
"Let's take to the wolves' Rue de Rivoli," said he.
Boulatruelle, accustomed to taking crooked courses, was on this occasion guilty of the fault of going straight. 
He flung himself resolutely into the tangle of undergrowth.
He had to deal with holly bushes, nettles, hawthorns, eglantines,thistles, and very irascible brambles. He was much lacerated.
At the bottom of the ravine he found water which he was obliged to traverse.
At last he reached the Blaru-bottom, after the lapse of forty minutes, sweating, soaked, breathless, scratched, and ferocious.
There was no one in the glade. Boulatruelle rushed to the heap of stones. It was in its place. It had not been carried off. 
As for the man, he had vanished in the forest. He had made his escape. Where? in what direction? into what thicket? Impossible to guess. 
And, heartrending to say, there, behind the pile of stones, in front of the tree with the sheet of zinc, was freshly turned earth, a pick-axe, abandoned or forgotten, and a hole.
The hole was empty.
"Thief!" shrieked Boulatruelle, shaking his fist at the horizon.
在我们叙述的事件不久之后，蒲辣秃柳儿老头遇到一件使人震惊的事。
蒲辣秃柳儿老头是孟费郿地方的养路工人，在本书阴暗的部分我们曾多少见到过他。
读者大概还记得，蒲辣秃柳儿是一个干着多种暧昧勾当的人，他打石块，同时在大路上掠夺过往行人。这个人既是挖土工又是强盗，他有一个梦想，他相信在孟费郿森林中有人埋藏了财宝，他希望有那么一天能在某棵大树脚下掘到宝藏；目前，他就在行人的口袋里任意搜括。
可是，现在他也小心谨慎了。他不久前刚侥幸脱险。我们知道他和一伙强盗在容德雷特破屋中一同被捕。恶癖也有用处，他的酗酒救了他，始终没有查明他在那儿究竟是抢人的还是被抢的。由于查明伏击的那个夜晚，他处于酒醉状态，命令规定对他不予追究，释放了他，他恢复了自由。他回到从加尼到拉尼的路上，在官方的监督下，替政府铺碎石路基，垂头丧气，十分沉默，这次抢劫几乎断送了他，所以他对抢劫不怎么来劲了，但醉酒也救了他，因此他就更爱酗酒了。
至于他回到养路工的茅棚不久之后碰到的那件使他震惊的事是这样的：
有一天清早，蒲辣秃柳儿照例去干活，也许也是去他的潜伏地点，他在日出以前就出发了，他在树枝中间看见一个人的背影，在这样一段距离和矇眬的曙光中，他发觉这个人的身材对他不是完全陌生的。蒲辣秃柳儿虽是个醉汉，但却有着正确清晰的记忆力，这是一个与合法秩序有点冲突的人所必需具备的自卫武器。
他在暗想：我究竟在什么地方见过这样一个汉子呢？
但是他无法回答自己，除在他记忆中曾有过一个和这人身材相似的模糊印象之外。
蒲辣秃柳儿虽无法回忆起这人是谁，但他作了一些比较和计算。这个汉子不是本地人，他刚来到。他肯定是步行来的。在这个时辰没有公共车经过孟费郿，他走了一整夜。他从哪里来的？不远。因为他既无背囊，也没有小包裹。他肯定是从巴黎来的。但为什么到这森林里来呢？为什么要在这时候来？他来干什么呢？
蒲辣秃柳儿想到了财宝。由于苦思苦想，他模糊地想起来了，几年前也曾有过类似的相遇，他觉得那个人很可能就是这个汉子。
他一边想，沉思的重负使他低下了头，这是自然的现象，但太不机灵了。当他再抬头时，已经什么也看不见了。那人已在光线矇眬的森林中失去了踪迹。
“见鬼，”蒲辣秃柳儿想，“我会再找到他的。我会找到这个教民所属的教区。这个夜游神一定有他的原因，我迟早会知道。在我的森林中的秘密，不会没有我的份。”
他拿起他那锐利的十字镐。
“就用这个家伙，”他嘟囔着，“既可掘地又可搜身①。”
就象把一根线索接到另一根上那样，他走进了密林。尽量跟着那条汉子可能走的路线走着。
当他跨出百步左右以后，开始亮了的天色帮助了他。沙土上这儿那儿发现有鞋印，践踏过的草丛，踩断的灌木，倒在荆棘中的嫩树枝优美地在慢慢恢复原状，好象一个刚醒过来的漂亮女人伸懒腰时的手臂，对他来说这些都是线索。他跟着这些踪迹，但又失去了。过了一段时间之后，他更深入密林，到了一个高丘地带。一个清晨从远处小径路过的、嘴里吹着吉约利②曲调的猎人使他想起要爬上树去。他虽然年老，但还灵活。那儿有一棵高大的山毛榉，对蒂蒂尔③和蒲辣秃柳儿正合适，蒲辣秃柳儿尽量爬到最高处。 
①“掘地”和“搜身”在法语中是同一个词fouiller。
②吉约利（Cuillery），民歌中的英雄。
③蒂蒂尔（Tityre），维吉尔诗歌中牧羊人的名字。
这个主意不错，正当他极目搜索密林中杂乱荒僻的那部分时，猛然间他看见了那汉子。
可刚一瞥见，又不见了。
那汉子走进，或者说得更恰当些，溜进了林中相当远的一块空地里，这空地被一些大树隐蔽着，但蒲辣秃柳儿很熟悉，因为他曾注意到，在一大堆磨石旁边，有一棵有病的栗树，被一块钉在树皮上的锌牌围绕着。这块空地以前叫布拉于矿地。这堆石块，不知作何用途，在三十年前就有了，肯定现在还在那里。除木栅栏外，再没有比石堆的寿命更长的了。本是暂时堆放，有什么理由久存呢！
蒲辣秃柳儿高兴得迅速从树上连爬带滚而下。兽窟已经找到，问题是要捉住那野兽。那梦想的财宝肯定就在那儿了。
要走到那矿地并不简单。如果走小路，就得绕过无数恼人的弯路，得走上足足一刻钟。走直路要经过这里相当茂密多刺并且伤人的荆棘丛，要走大半个钟头才能到达。蒲辣秃柳儿不懂这一点，这是他的错误。他相信走直路好，这种眼力的幻觉是可贵的，但使很多人失败，荆棘尽管多刺，他却认为是捷径。
“走狼的里沃利路过去。”他说。
蒲辣秃柳儿本来就习惯走弯路，这回他却错误地向前直走。
他果断地钻进了缠手绊脚的荆棘丛。
他得和灌木、荨麻、出楂、野蔷薇、飞廉和一触即怒的黑莓打交道。他被扎得非常厉害。
在一个溪谷谷底，他遇到了不得不越过的河流。四十分钟后，他淌着汗，全身湿透，喘着气，满身是伤，恶狠狠地赶到了布拉于矿地。
矿地里没有人影。
蒲辣秃柳儿跑到石堆跟前。它仍堆在原处，并没有人把它搬走。
至于那汉子，已在林中消失了。他逃跑了。跑到哪里去了呢？往哪边？钻进了哪一个荆棘丛？这就无法猜测了。
而最使人痛心的是，在那堆石块后面，钉有锌牌的树脚下，有刚刚翻动过的泥土，留下的是一把被遗忘或被抛弃了的十字镐，还有一个土穴。
这土穴是空的。
“强盗！”蒲辣秃柳儿大叫起来，两拳向天高举着。
Part 5 Book 5 Chapter 2 Marius, Emerging from Civil War, Makes Ready for Domestic War
For a long time, Marius was neither dead nor alive. For many weeks he lay in a fever accompanied by delirium, and by tolerably grave cerebral symptoms, caused more by the shocks of the wounds on the head than by the wounds themselves.
He repeated Cosette's name for whole nights in the melancholy loquacity of fever, and with the sombre obstinacy of agony. The extent of some of the lesions presented a serious danger, the suppuration of large wounds being always liable to become re-absorbed, and consequently, to kill the sick man, under certain atmospheric conditions; at every change of weather, at the slightest storm, the physician was uneasy.
"Above all things," he repeated, "let the wounded man be subjected to no emotion." The dressing of the wounds was complicated and difficult, the fixation of apparatus and bandages by cerecloths not having been invented as yet, at that epoch. Nicolette used up a sheet "as big as the ceiling," as she put it, for lint. It was not without difficulty that the chloruretted lotions and the nitrate of silver overcame the gangrene. As long as there was any danger, M. Gillenormand, seated in despair at his grandson's pillow, was, like Marius, neither alive nor dead. 
Every day, sometimes twice a day, a very well dressed gentleman with white hair,--such was the description given by the porter,-- came to inquire about the wounded man, and left a large package of lint for the dressings.
Finally, on the 7th of September, four months to a day, after the sorrowful night when he had been brought back to his grandfather in a dying condition, the doctor declared that he would answer for Marius. Convalescence began. But Marius was forced to remain for two months more stretched out on a long chair, on account of the results called up by the fracture of his collar-bone. There always is a last wound like that which will not close, and which prolongs the dressings indefinitely, to the great annoyance of the sick person. 
However, this long illness and this long convalescence saved him from all pursuit. In France, there is no wrath, not even of a public character, which six months will not extinguish. Revolts, in the present state of society, are so much the fault of every one, that they are followed by a certain necessity of shutting the eyes.
Let us add, that the inexcusable Gisquet order, which enjoined doctors to lodge information against the wounded, having outraged public opinion, and not opinion alone, but the King first of all, the wounded were covered and protected by this indignation; and, with the exception of those who had been made prisoners in the very act of combat, the councils of war did not dare to trouble any one. So Marius was left in peace.
M. Gillenormand first passed through all manner of anguish, and then through every form of ecstasy. It was found difficult to prevent his passing every night beside the wounded man; he had his big arm-chair carried to Marius' bedside; he required his daughter to take the finest linen in the house for compresses and bandages. Mademoiselle Gillenormand, like a sage and elderly person, contrived to spare the fine linen, while allowing the grandfather to think that he was obeyed. M. Gillenormand would not permit any one to explain to him, that for the preparation of lint batiste is not nearly so good as coarse linen, nor new linen as old linen. He was present at all the dressings of the wounds from which Mademoiselle Gillenormand modestly absented herself. When the dead flesh was cut away with scissors, he said: "Aie! aie!" Nothing was more touching than to see him with his gentle, senile palsy, offer the wounded man a cup of his cooling-draught. He overwhelmed the doctor with questions. He did not observe that he asked the same ones over and over again.
On the day when the doctor announced to him that Marius was out of danger, the good man was in a delirium. He made his porter a present of three louis. That evening, on his return to his own chamber, he danced a gavotte, using his thumb and forefinger as castanets, and he sang the following song:
"Jeanne est nee a Fougere "Amour, tu vis en elle; Vrai nid d'une bergere; Car c'est dans sa prunelle J'adore son jupon, Que tu mets ton carquois. Fripon. Narquois! 
"Moi, je la chante, et j'aime, Plus que Diane meme, Jeanne et ses durs tetons Bretons."[61]
[61] "Jeanne was born at Fougere, a true shepherd's nest; I adore her petticoat, the rogue. 
"Love, thou dwellest in her; For 'tis in her eyes that thou placest thy quiver, sly scamp!
"As for me, I sing her, and I love, more than Diana herself, Jeanne and her firm Breton breasts."
Then he knelt upon a chair, and Basque, who was watching him through the half-open door, made sure that he was praying. 
Up to that time, he had not believed in God.
At each succeeding phase of improvement, which became more and more pronounced, the grandfather raved. He executed a multitude of mechanical actions full of joy; he ascended and descended the stairs, without knowing why. A pretty female neighbor was amazed one morning at receiving a big bouquet; it was M. Gillenormand who had sent it to her. The husband made a jealous scene. M. Gillenormand tried to draw Nicolette upon his knees. He called Marius, "M. le Baron." He shouted: "Long live the Republic!"
Every moment, he kept asking the doctor: "Is he no longer in danger?" He gazed upon Marius with the eyes of a grandmother. He brooded over him while he ate. He no longer knew himself, he no longer rendered himself an account of himself. Marius was the master of the house, there was abdication in his joy, he was the grandson of his grandson.
In the state of joy in which he then was, he was the most venerable of children. In his fear lest he might fatigue or annoy the convalescent, he stepped behind him to smile. He was content, joyous, delighted, charming, young. His white locks added a gentle majesty to the gay radiance of his visage. When grace is mingled with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an indescribable aurora in beaming old age.
As for Marius, as he allowed them to dress his wounds and care for him, he had but one fixed idea: Cosette.
After the fever and delirium had left him, he did not again pronounce her name, and it might have been supposed that he no longer thought of her. He held his peace, precisely because his soul was there.
He did not know what had become of Cosette; the whole affair of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was like a cloud in his memory; shadows that were almost indistinct, floated through his mind, Eponine, Gavroche, Mabeuf,the Thenardiers,all his friends gloomily intermingled with the smoke of the barricade; the strange passage of M. Fauchelevent through that adventure produced on him the effect of a puzzle in a tempest; he understood nothing connected with his own life, he did not know how nor by whom he had been saved, and no one of those around him knew this; all that they had been able to tell him was, that he had been brought home at night in a hackney-coach, to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; past, present, future were nothing more to him than the mist of a vague idea; but in that fog there was one immovable point, one clear and precise outline, something made of granite, a resolution, a will; to find Cosette once more. For him, the idea of life was not distinct from the idea of Cosette. He had decreed in his heart that he would not accept the one without the other, and he was immovably resolved to exact of any person whatever, who should desire to force him to live,--from his grandfather, from fate, from hell,--the restitution of his vanished Eden. 
He did not conceal from himself the fact that obstacles existed.
Let us here emphasize one detail, he was not won over and was but little softened by all the solicitude and tenderness of his grandfather. In the first place, he was not in the secret; then, in his reveries of an invalid, which were still feverish, possibly, he distrusted this tenderness as a strange and novel thing, which had for its object his conquest. He remained cold. The grandfather absolutely wasted his poor old smile. Marius said to himself that it was all right so long as he, Marius, did not speak, and let things take their course; but that when it became a question of Cosette, he would find another face, and that his grandfather's true attitude would be unmasked. Then there would be an unpleasant scene; a recrudescence of family questions, a confrontation of positions, every sort of sarcasm and all manner of objections at one and the same time, Fauchelevent, Coupelevent, fortune, poverty, a stone about his neck, the future. Violent resistance; conclusion: a refusal. Marius stiffened himself in advance.
And then, in proportion as he regained life, the old ulcers of his memory opened once more, he reflected again on the past, Colonel Pontmercy placed himself once more between M. Gillenormand and him, Marius, he told himself that he had no true kindness to expect from a person who had been so unjust and so hard to his father. And with health, there returned to him a sort of harshness towards his grandfather. The old man was gently pained by this. M. Gillenormand, without however allowing it to appear, observed that Marius, ever since the latter had been brought back to him and had regained consciousness, had not once called him father. It is true that he did not say "monsieur" to him; but he contrived not to say either the one or the other, by means of a certain way of turning his phrases. Obviously, a crisis was approaching.
As almost always happens in such cases, Marius skirmished before giving battle, by way of proving himself. This is called "feeling the ground." One morning it came to pass that M. Gillenormand spoke slightingly of the Convention, apropos of a newspaper which had fallen into his hands, and gave vent to a Royalist harangue on Danton, Saint-Juste and Robespierre.--"The men of '93 were giants," said Marius with severity. The old man held his peace, and uttered not a sound during the remainder of that day.
Marius, who had always present to his mind the inflexible grandfather of his early years, interpreted this silence as a profound concentration of wrath, augured from it a hot conflict, and augmented his preparations for the fray in the inmost recesses of his mind. 
He decided that, in case of a refusal, he would tear off his bandages, dislocate his collar-bone, that he would lay bare all the wounds which he had left, and would reject all food. His wounds were his munitions of war. He would have Cosette or die.
He awaited the propitious moment with the crafty patience of the sick.
That moment arrived.
马吕斯长期处于不死不活的状态。他在几个星期里发着高烧，神志昏迷，加上脑部症状严重，主要是由于头部受伤后受震，而不是由于伤的本身。
他常整夜在凄惨的高烧呓语中以及在阴郁的垂死挣扎时喊着珂赛特的名字。他有些伤口太大，这很危险，大的伤口化脓，在一定的气候影响下，常会外毒内侵，导致死亡。每次气候发生变化，再遇上点暴风雨，医生就提心吊胆。他一再叮嘱不要让病人受一点刺激。包扎伤口是复杂而困难的，当时还没有发明用胶布固定夹板和纱布。妮珂莱特做包伤布用去一条床单，她说：“这和天花板一样大。”好不容易才用氯化洗剂和硝酸银治愈了坏疽。当病情危急时，吉诺曼绝望地守在外孙床前，他和马吕斯一样，不死也不活。
看门的注意到，每天，有时一天两次，有一个衣着整齐的白发老人，来打听病人的消息，并且放下一大包裹伤布。
自从这垂死的人在那凄惨的夜晚被送到他外祖父家整整四个月以后，在九月七日①，医生终于说他保证病人已脱离险境，恢复期开始了。由于锁骨折断引起的后果，马吕斯还得在长椅上躺两个多月。常常会有最后一个不易愈合的伤口，使病人极其厌烦地忍受着长期的包扎。 
①原文如此。事实上，从六月六日晚到九月七日，只过了三个月。
其实这次久病和长期的疗养使他逃脱了追捕，在法国，即使是公众的愤怒，也不会长达六个月而不熄灭。当时社会上的情况，暴动等于是大家的过错，在一定程度上只得睁一只眼闭一只眼。
此外吉斯凯命令医生揭发伤员的那项可耻的通知激怒了舆论，它非但引起公愤，而且首先触怒王上，受伤者受到了这一愤怒的庇护。除去在战斗中当场被俘者之外，军事法庭不敢再找任何一个伤员的麻烦，因此马吕斯这才可以太平无事。
吉诺曼先生先经受了一切痛苦，继而又品尝了各种狂喜。别人很难阻止他整夜陪伴病人，他叫人把他的大靠背椅搬到马吕斯床旁；他要他的女儿把家中最漂亮的麻纱布料做成纱布和绷带。吉诺曼小姐是个既理智又年长的人，她想方设法留下细软的布料，但同时又使外祖父相信他的命令被执行了。吉诺曼先生不允许别人向他解释用粗布裹伤比麻纱好，旧布比新布好。每次包扎伤口他都在旁看着，吉诺曼小姐则羞怯地避开。在用剪刀剪去死肉时，老人叫着“啊唷！”“啊唷！”看到他慈祥地哆嗦着递一杯汤药给病人时，没有比这更感动人的了。他对医生不断地发问，他没有发现自己总是在重复同样的问话。
当医生通知他病人已脱离危险期的那天，这老好人听了惊喜若狂，当天他赏了看门的三个路易。晚上回到自己的寝室时，他用大拇指和食指弹着，代替响板，跳起了嘉禾舞，并且还唱着下面的歌：
让娜生在凤尾草中，
好一个牧羊女的窝棚，
我爱她那惹人的
短裙。
爱神，你活在她心中，
因为在她眼里
有着你那嘲讽人的
箭筒①！
我歌颂她，我更爱，
较之猎神狄安娜，
让娜和她那高耸的布列塔尼人的
乳峰！ 
①爱神用箭射人，谁中箭就会得到爱情。　
然后他跪在一张椅子上，巴斯克在半掩的门缝中观察他，深信他肯定在祈祷。
直到此刻他是不大信上帝的。
明显地病势在日益好转，每有一次新的好转，外祖父就作一次荒谬的行动。他机械地做出许多高兴的动作，无故楼上楼下来回地跑。一个女邻居，挺漂亮的，有一天早晨很惊讶地收到了一大束花，这是吉诺曼先生送她的。丈夫因嫉妒而吵了一架。吉诺曼先生试着把妮珂莱特抱在膝头上。他称马吕斯为男爵先生。他高呼：“共和国万岁！”
他随时都在询问医生：“是不是没有危险了？”他用祖母的目光注视着马吕斯，目不转睛地望着他进餐。他已不认识自己，他自己已不算数了，马吕斯才是家中的主人，欢畅的心情使他让了位，他变成自己外孙的孙子了。”
这种轻松愉快使他成了一个最可尊敬的孩子。为了避免使初愈的人疲乏或厌烦，他就待在病人的后面对他微笑。他心满意足，他快乐、愉快、可爱、年轻。他那银丝白发使焕发的容光更增添了温柔的庄严气派。当脸上的皱纹再加上优雅时，这优雅就更可爱了。在喜气洋洋的老年有着一种无以名之的曙光。
至于马吕斯，他任凭别人替他包伤，护理，心里牢牢地只有一个念头：珂赛特。
自从他摆脱了高烧和昏迷状态以后，他不再念这个名字了，别人可能认为他已经忘记了。正因为他念念不忘，所以他守口如瓶。
他不知道珂赛特怎样了，麻厂街的经过在他的回忆中就象烟雾一样迷蒙，模糊不清的人影在他脑海中飘浮，爱潘妮、伽弗洛什、马白夫、德纳第一家，还有他所有的朋友都阴惨地混合在街垒的硝烟中；割风先生在这次冒险的流血事变中奇怪地露面，使他感到象是风暴中的一个哑谜；他对自己这条命怎么得来的也不清楚，他不了解是什么人，用什么方法救了他，他四周的人也不知道；至多只能告诉他，那天晚上他在街车中被人带到受难修女街来；在他模模糊糊的思想里，过去、现在和将来的事都好象迷雾重重，但在这迷雾中有决不动摇的一点，一个清楚而又准确的轮廓，一个牢不可破的东西，一个决心，一个志愿：要重新找到珂赛特。在他的心里，生命和珂赛特是分不开的；他已作出决定不能得此失彼，无论是谁，是外公、命运或地狱要强使他活着的话，他坚决要求先替他重建失去的乐园。
至于障碍，他并非没有估计到。
在这里我们要着重指出一个细节：外公的关怀和爱护一点没有赢得他的欢心，也很少使他感动。首先他不知道一切内情，其次在他病时的梦幻中，可能当时还在发烧，他对这种溺爱是有警惕的，认为这种新奇的表现，目的是为了要驯服他。他对此是冷淡的。外祖父他老人家可怜的微笑全属枉然。马吕斯暗想只要自己不开口，随人摆布，事情就好办，但是只要一涉及珂赛特，他就会看到另一种面孔，外公就真相毕露了。于是事情就要不好办了；又要重提家庭问题，是否门当户对等，一切讥讽异议又全来了，割风先生，切风先生，金钱，穷苦，贫困，颈上悬着重石，未来。猛烈的反对，下结论，拒绝。马吕斯事前就准备好顽强对抗。
当他逐渐恢复健康时，他心中的不满又出现了，记忆中的老疮疤又裂开了，他回想过去，彭眉胥上校又来到吉诺曼先生和他马吕斯之间，他觉得这个对他父亲如此不公正又如此凶狠的人是不会有真正的善心的。随着健康的增进，他又恢复了那种生硬的态度来对待外祖父。老人温顺地忍受着痛苦。
吉诺曼先生虽不作任何表示，但他察觉自从马吕斯被送回他家中恢复知觉之后，从来没有叫过他一声父亲。但也不称他先生，不错，但他说话时设法同时避开这两种称呼。
事情显然快爆发了。
马吕斯为了试试自己的力量，在作战前先进行一点小接触，在这种情况下是常有的事，这叫做摸底。有一天清晨，吉诺曼先生随手拿到一张报纸，他就对国民公会草率地发表己见，并且脱口说出了保王派对丹东、圣鞠斯特和罗伯斯庇尔的结论。“九三年的人是伟大的，”马吕斯严肃地说。老人立刻住了嘴，并且那一整天都没有再开口。
在马吕斯的脑海中一直保留着早年外祖父那刚强不屈的形象，因此认为这种沉默是强烈怒火的集中表现，这预示着一场激烈的斗争，他在思想深处增强了战斗的准备。
如果被拒绝，他就下定决心扯掉夹板，使锁骨脱臼，把剩下的伤口都敞开不包，拒绝一切饮食。他的伤口，就是他的武器。得到珂赛特或者死去。
他怀着病人所特有的那种阴郁的耐心等待着有利的时机。
这个时机来到了。
Part 5 Book 5 Chapter 3 Marius Attacked
One day, M. Gillenormand, while his daughter was putting in order the phials and cups on the marble of the commode, bent over Marius and said to him in his tenderest accents: "Look here, my little Marius, if I were in your place, I would eat meat now in preference to fish. A fried sole is excellent to begin a convalescence with, but a good cutlet is needed to put a sick man on his feet."
Marius, who had almost entirely recovered his strength, collected the whole of it, drew himself up into a sitting posture, laid his two clenched fists on the sheets of his bed, looked his grandfather in the face, assumed a terrible air, and said:
"This leads me to say something to you."
"What is it?"
"That I wish to marry."
"Agreed," said his grandfather.--And he burst out laughing.
"How agreed?"
"Yes, agreed. You shall have your little girl."
Marius, stunned and overwhelmed with the dazzling shock, trembled in every limb.
M. Gillenormand went on:
"Yes, you shall have her, that pretty little girl of yours. She comes every day in the shape of an old gentleman to inquire after you. Ever since you were wounded, she has passed her time in weeping and making lint. I have made inquiries. She lives in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7. Ah! There we have it! Ah! So you want her! Well, you shall have her. You're caught. You had arranged your little plot, you had said to yourself:--`I'm going to signify this squarely to my grandfather, to that mummy of the Regency and of the Directory, to that ancient beau, to that Dorante turned Geronte; he has indulged in his frivolities also, that he has, and he has had his love affairs, and his grisettes and his Cosettes; he has made his rustle, he has had his wings, he has eaten of the bread of spring; he certainly must remember it.' Ah! You take the cockchafer by the horns. That's good. I offer you a cutlet and you answer me:`By the way, I want to marry.' There's a transition for you! Ah! You reckoned on a bickering! You do not know that I am an old coward. What do you say to that? You are vexed? You did not expect to find your grandfather still more foolish than yourself, you are wasting the discourse which you meant to bestow upon me, Mr. Lawyer, and that's vexatious. Well, so much the worse, rage away. I'll do whatever you wish,and that cuts you short, imbecile! Listen. I have made my inquiries, I'm cunning too; she is charming, she is discreet, it is not true about the lancer, she has made heaps of lint, she's a jewel, she adores you, if you had died, there would have been three of us, her coffin would have accompanied mine. I have had an idea, ever since you have been better, of simply planting her at your bedside, but it is only in romances that young girls are brought to the bedsides of handsome young wounded men who interest them. It is not done. What would your aunt have said to it? You were nude three quarters of the time, my good fellow. Ask Nicolette, who has not left you for a moment, if there was any possibility of having a woman here. And then, what would the doctor have said? A pretty girl does not cure a man of fever. In short, it's all right, let us say no more about it, all's said, all's done, it's all settled, take her. Such is my ferocity. You see, I perceived that you did not love me. I said to myself:`Here now, I have my little Cosette right under my hand, I'm going to give her to him, he will be obliged to love me a little then, or he must tell the reason why.' Ah! So you thought that the old man was going to storm, to put on a big voice, to shout no, and to lift his cane at all that aurora. Not a bit of it. Cosette, so be it; love, so be it; I ask nothing better. Pray take the trouble of getting married, sir. Be happy, my well-beloved child."
That said, the old man burst forth into sobs.
And he seized Marius' head, and pressed it with both arms against his breast, and both fell to weeping. This is one of the forms of supreme happiness.
"Father!" cried Marius.
"Ah, so you love me!" said the old man.
An ineffable moment ensued. They were choking and could not speak.
At length the old man stammered:
"Come! His mouth is unstopped at last. He has said:`Father' to me."
Marius disengaged his head from his grandfather's arms, and said gently:
"But, father, now that I am quite well, it seems to me that I might see her."
"Agreed again, you shall see her to-morrow."
"Father!"
"What?"
"Why not to-day?"
"Well, to-day then. Let it be today. You have called me `father' three times, and it is worth it. I will attend to it. She shall be brought hither. Agreed, I tell you. It has already been put into verse. This is the ending of the elegy of the`Jeune Malade' by Andre Chenier, by Andre Chenier whose throat was cut by the ras . . . by the giants of '93." 
M. Gillenormand fancied that he detected a faint frown on the part of Marius, who, in truth, as we must admit, was no longer listening to him, and who was thinking far more of Cosette than of 1793.
The grandfather, trembling at having so inopportunely introduced Andre Chenier, resumed precipitately: 
"Cut his throat is not the word. The fact is that the great revolutionary geniuses, who were not malicious, that is incontestable, who were heroes, pardi! Found that Andre Chenier embarrassed them somewhat, and they had him guillot . . . that is to say, those great men on the 7th of Thermidor, besought Andre Chenier, in the interests of public safety, to be so good as to go . . ." 
M. Gillenormand, clutched by the throat by his own phrase, could not proceed. Being able neither to finish it nor to retract it, while his daughter arranged the pillow behind Marius, who was overwhelmed with so many emotions, the old man rushed headlong, with as much rapidity as his age permitted, from the bed-chamber, shut the door behind him, and, purple, choking and foaming at the mouth, his eyes starting from his head, he found himself nose to nose with honest Basque, who was blacking boots in the anteroom. He seized Basque by the collar, and shouted full in his face in fury:--"By the hundred thousand Javottes of the devil, those ruffians did assassinate him!"
"Who, sir?"
"Andre Chenier!"
"Yes, sir," said Basque in alarm.
有一天，当吉诺曼先生的女儿正在整理大理石面橱柜上的瓶子杯子时，吉诺曼先生弯下腰用他最温柔的声音向马吕斯说：
“你知道，我的小马吕斯，我要是你，我现在就吃肉而不吃鱼。鲽鱼对开始恢复健康是最恰当的，但是要使病人站起来，就得吃一大块排骨。”
马吕斯已基本上恢复了元气，他集中力量，在床上竖起身子，两拳紧握搁在床单上，望着外祖父的脸，摆出一副吓唬人的样子说：
“说起排骨①，我倒要向你谈件事。”
“什么事？”
“就是我要结婚。”
“早知道了。”外祖父说，于是他哈哈大笑起来。
“怎么，早知道了？”
“是呀，早知道了。你会娶到你那小姑娘的。”
马吕斯呆住了，惊喜得喘不过气来，四肢颤抖着。
吉诺曼先生继续说：
“是呀，你会娶到你那漂亮标致的小姑娘的。她每天让一位老先生来代她探听你的消息。自从你受伤后，她整天哭泣，做纱布。我打听过了。她住在武人街七号。啊，对头了吧！啊！你要她。好吧，你会得到她的。你想不到吧。你用你那小诡计，暗自说道：‘我要向这个外祖父直截了当地把事情说出来，这个摄政时期和督政府时期的木乃伊，这个过去的花花公子，这个变成惹隆德的陶朗特②，他也有过他的风流艳史，也曾谈情说爱，也结交过风骚卖俏的女人，也有过他的珂赛特；他也曾炫耀过，也有过翅膀飞翔过，他也有过青春；他应该记得这些。’我们等着瞧吧。开战。啊！你抓住冒失鬼的角，真不错，我给你一块排骨，而你却回答我：‘说起这个，我要结婚。’你真会改变话题！啊！你是打算和我吵一架的！你还不知道我是个老胆小鬼。你觉得怎么样？你满腹牢骚。你发现你的外公比你还蠢，出乎你意料之外，你准备讲给我听的演说没用了，律师先生，这挺逗的。想发怒，算了。你想干什么我都依你，这使你大吃一惊，傻瓜！听我说，我调查清楚了，我也会搞阴谋，她是个美丽的姑娘，又贤慧，长矛兵的事情不是真的。她做了很多纱布，她是个宝贝，她爱你。假如你死了，我们三个都要同归于尽；她的灵柩会伴着我的。你病情一有点好转，我就打算干脆把她带到你床前来，但是只有在小说里才会这样，立即把姑娘带到她们感兴趣的受了伤的美男子床前。这样做是不恰当的。你姨妈又该怎么说了？你四分之三的时间是赤身露体的，我的孩子。你问问妮珂莱特看，她是一直在你身旁的，有没有办法在这里接待一个妇女。此外医生又该怎么说呢？一个美女不能治愈发烧。总之，好吧，不必再谈论了，说定了，决定了，确定了，娶她吧。你看，我就是这样的残暴。你知道，我看到你对我没有好感，我在考虑该怎么办才能让这个小畜生爱我呢？我想，有了，小珂赛特已在我手里，我要把她给他，他就多少会爱我一点了，不然他就会去说他的道理。啊！你以为老头又要大发雷霆了，大吼大叫，不答应，并且拿起拐杖就打新一代。一点也不会。珂赛特，同意！爱情，同意！我举双手赞成，先生，劳驾你就结婚吧。祝你幸福，我心爱的孩子。” 
①据《圣经·创世记》记载，上帝造第一个人名叫亚当。他取亚当的一根肋骨造成夏娃，这就是亚当的妻子。
②陶朗特（Dorante），代表风流男子。
说完这话，老人突然痛哭起来。
他捧着马吕斯的头，用两臂把它紧贴在他年老的胸前，于是两人都哭起来了。这是种至高无上的幸福的表现。
“我的父亲！”马吕斯喊着。
“啊！你还是爱我的！”老人说。
有那么一会儿难以形容的时刻，他们象窒息了似的说不出话来。
后来老人结结巴巴地说：
“好吧！他想通了。他叫我‘父亲’。”
马吕斯把头从外祖父双臂中脱出来，温和地说：“可是，父亲，现在我既然已经痊愈了，我觉得可以和她见面了。”
“这个也想到了，你明天就可以见到她。”
“父亲！”
“怎么啦？”
“为什么不在今天呢？”
“好吧，今天。就是今天吧。你叫了我三次‘父亲’，这值得我让步。我去想办法，会有人送她来的！都想到了，告诉你。这些情节诗里已有记载，在安德烈·舍尼埃的悲歌《抱病的青年》的结尾处，就是这个被恶棍……被九三年伟大的人物砍了头的安德烈·舍尼埃。”
吉诺曼先生似乎觉得马吕斯皱了一下眉。其实，我们该说清楚，他已不再在听外公说话，在他惊喜若狂的时候，他想珂赛特比想一七九三年多得多。
“砍头这个字眼是不恰当的，事实是那些革命的大天才，他们并无恶意，这是肯定的，他们是英雄，当然喽！他们觉得安德烈·舍尼埃有点碍事，所以把他送上了断……就是说这些大人物，为了公众的利益，在热月七日，请安德烈·舍尼埃去……”
吉诺曼先生被他自己的话卡住，说不下去了，既不能结束，也无法取消。当他的女儿在马吕斯后面整理枕头时，这老人为激情所扰，用他年龄许可的速度，冲出卧室，把门带上，面色通红，喉咙好象被掐，白沫纵横，眼球突出，和在候客室中擦鞋的忠仆巴斯克正打一个照面。他一把抓住巴斯克的衣领，怒冲冲地向他叫道：“我向十万个长舌鬼发誓，这些强盗杀害了他。”
“谁，先生？”
“安德烈·舍尼埃！”
“是，先生。”吓慌了的巴斯克这样回答。
Part 5 Book 5 Chapter 4 Mademoiselle Gillenormand Ends by No Longer Thinking
Cosette and Marius beheld each other once more.
What that interview was like we decline to say. There are things which one must not attempt to depict; the sun is one of them. 
The entire family, including Basque and Nicolette, were assembled in Marius' chamber at the moment when Cosette entered it. 
Precisely at that moment, the grandfather was on the point of blowing his nose; he stopped short, holding his nose in his handkerchief, and gazing over it at Cosette.
She appeared on the threshold; it seemed to him that she was surrounded by a glory.
"Adorable!" he exclaimed.
Then he blew his nose noisily.
Cosette was intoxicated, delighted, frightened, in heaven. She was as thoroughly alarmed as any one can be by happiness. She stammered all pale, yet flushed, she wanted to fling herself into Marius' arms, and dared not. Ashamed of loving in the presence of all these people. People are pitiless towards happy lovers; they remain when the latter most desire to be left alone. Lovers have no need of any people whatever.
With Cosette, and behind her, there had entered a man with white hair who was grave yet smiling, though with a vague and heartrending smile. It was "Monsieur Fauchelevent"; it was Jean Valjean.
He was very well dressed, as the porter had said, entirely in black, in perfectly new garments, and with a white cravat.
The porter was a thousand leagues from recognizing in this correct bourgeois, in this probable notary, the fear-inspiring bearer of the corpse, who had sprung up at his door on the night of the 7th of June, tattered, muddy, hideous, haggard, his face masked in blood and mire, supporting in his arms the fainting Marius; still, his porter's scent was aroused. When M. Fauchelevent arrived with Cosette, the porter had not been able to refrain from communicating to his wife this aside: "I don't know why it is, but I can't help fancying that I've seen that face before."
M. Fauchelevent in Marius' chamber, remained apart near the door. He had under his arm, a package which bore considerable resemblance to an octavo volume enveloped in paper. The enveloping paper was of a greenish hue, and appeared to be mouldy.
"Does the gentleman always have books like that under his arm?" Mademoiselle Gillenormand, who did not like books, demanded in a low tone of Nicolette.
"Well," retorted M. Gillenormand, who had overheard her, in the same tone, "he's a learned man. What then? Is that his fault? Monsieur Boulard, one of my acquaintances, never walked out without a book under his arm either, and he always had some old volume hugged to his heart like that."
And, with a bow, he said aloud: 
"Monsieur Tranchelevent . . ."
Father Gillenormand did not do it intentionally, but inattention to proper names was an aristocratic habit of his. 
"Monsieur Tranchelevent, I have the honor of asking you, on behalf of my grandson, Baron Marius Pontmercy, for the hand of Mademoiselle." 
Monsieur Tranchelevent bowed.
"That's settled," said the grandfather.
And, turning to Marius and Cosette, with both arms extended in blessing, he cried:
"Permission to adore each other!"
They did not require him to repeat it twice. So much the worse! The chirping began. They talked low. Marius, resting on his elbow on his reclining chair, Cosette standing beside him. "Oh, heavens!" murmured Cosette, "I see you once again! It is thou! It is you! The idea of going and fighting like that! But why? It is horrible. I have been dead for four months. Oh! How wicked it was of you to go to that battle! What had I done to you? I pardon you, but you will never do it again. A little while ago, when they came to tell us to come to you, I still thought that I was about to die, but it was from joy. I was so sad! I have not taken the time to dress myself, I must frighten people with my looks! What will your relatives say to see me in a crumpled collar? Do speak! You let me do all the talking. We are still in the Rue de l'Homme Arme. It seems that your shoulder was terrible. They told me that you could put your fist in it. And then, it seems that they cut your flesh with the scissors. That is frightful. I have cried till I have no eyes left. It is queer that a person can suffer like that. Your grandfather has a very kindly air. Don't disturb yourself, don't rise on your elbow, you will injure yourself. Oh! How happy I am! So our unhappiness is over! I am quite foolish. I had things to say to you, and I no longer know in the least what they were. Do you still love me? We live in the Rue de l'Homme Arme. There is no garden. I made lint all the time; stay, sir, look, it is your fault, I have a callous on my fingers."
"Angel!" said Marius.
Angel is the only word in the language which cannot be worn out. No other word could resist the merciless use which lovers make of it.
Then as there were spectators, they paused and said not a word more, contenting themselves with softly touching each other's hands. 
M. Gillenormand turned towards those who were in the room and cried: 
"Talk loud, the rest of you. Make a noise, you people behind the scenes. Come, a little uproar, the deuce! So that the children can chatter at their ease."
And, approaching Marius and Cosette, he said to them in a very low voice:
"Call each other thou. Don't stand on ceremony."
Aunt Gillenormand looked on in amazement at this irruption of light in her elderly household. There was nothing aggressive about this amazement; it was not the least in the world like the scandalized and envious glance of an owl at two turtle-doves, it was the stupid eye of a poor innocent seven and fifty years of age; it was a life which had been a failure gazing at that triumph, love. 
"Mademoiselle Gillenormand senior," said her father to her, "I told you that this is what would happen to you."
He remained silent for a moment, and then added:
"Look at the happiness of others."
Then he turned to Cosette.
"How pretty she is! How pretty she is! She's a Greuze. So you are going to have that all to yourself, you scamp! Ah! My rogue, you are getting off nicely with me, you are happy; if I were not fifteen years too old, we would fight with swords to see which of us should have her. Come now! I am in love with you, mademoiselle. It's perfectly simple. It is your right. You are in the right. Ah! What a sweet, charming little wedding this will make! Our parish is Saint-Denis du Saint Sacrament, but I will get a dispensation so that you can be married at Saint-Paul. The church is better. It was built by the Jesuits. It is more coquettish. It is opposite the fountain of Cardinal de Birague. The masterpiece of Jesuit architecture is at Namur. It is called Saint-Loup. You must go there after you are married. It is worth the journey. Mademoiselle, I am quite of your mind, I think girls ought to marry; that is what they are made for. There is a certain Sainte-Catherine whom I should always like to see uncoiffed.[62] It's a fine thing to remain a spinster, but it is chilly. The Bible says: Multiply. In order to save the people, Jeanne d'Arc is needed; but in order to make people, what is needed is Mother Goose. So, marry, my beauties. I really do not see the use in remaining a spinster! I know that they have their chapel apart in the church, and that they fall back on the Society of the Virgin; but, sapristi, a handsome husband, a fine fellow, and at the expiration of a year, a big, blond brat who nurses lustily, and who has fine rolls of fat on his thighs, and who musses up your breast in handfuls with his little rosy paws, laughing the while like the dawn,--that's better than holding a candle at vespers, and chanting Turris eburnea!" 
[62] In allusion to the expression, coiffer Sainte-Catherine, "to remain unmarried."
The grandfather executed a pirouette on his eighty-year-old heels, and began to talk again like a spring that has broken loose once more: 
"Ainsi, bornant les cours de tes revasseries, Alcippe, il est donc vrai, dans peu tu te maries."[63]
[63] "Thus, hemming in the course of thy musings, Alcippus, it is true that thou wilt wed ere long." 
"By the way!"
"What is it, father?"
"Have not you an intimate friend?"
"Yes, Courfeyrac."
"What has become of him?"
"He is dead."
"That is good."
He seated himself near them, made Cosette sit down, and took their four hands in his aged and wrinkled hands: 
"She is exquisite, this darling. She's a masterpiece, this Cosette! She is a very little girl and a very great lady. She will only be a Baroness, which is a come down for her; she was born a Marquise. What eyelashes she has! Get it well fixed in your noddles, my children, that you are in the true road. Love each other. Be foolish about it. Love is the folly of men and the wit of God. Adore each other. Only," he added, suddenly becoming gloomy, "what a misfortune! It has just occurred to me! More than half of what I possess is swallowed up in an annuity; so long as I live,it will not matter, but after my death, a score of years hence, ah! My poor children, you will not have a sou! Your beautiful white hands, Madame la Baronne, will do the devil the honor of pulling him by the tail."[64]
[64] Tirer le diable par la queue, "to live from hand to mouth."
At this point they heard a grave and tranquil voice say:
"Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent possesses six hundred thousand francs."
It was the voice of Jean Valjean.
So far he had not uttered a single word, no one seemed to be aware that he was there, and he had remained standing erect and motionless, behind all these happy people.
"What has Mademoiselle Euphrasie to do with the question?" inquired the startled grandfather.
"I am she," replied Cosette.
"Six hundred thousand francs?" resumed M. Gillenormand.
"Minus fourteen or fifteen thousand francs, possibly," said Jean Valjean.
And he laid on the table the package which Mademoiselle Gillenormand had mistaken for a book. 
Jean Valjean himself opened the package; it was a bundle of bank-notes. They were turned over and counted. There were five hundred notes for a thousand francs each, and one hundred and sixty-eight of five hundred. In all, five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs.
"This is a fine book," said M. Gillenormand.
"Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!" murmured the aunt.
"This arranges things well, does it not, Mademoiselle Gillenormand senior?" said the grandfather. "That devil of a Marius has ferreted out the nest of a millionaire grisette in his tree of dreams! Just trust to the love affairs of young folks now, will you! Students find studentesses with six hundred thousand francs. Cherubino works better than Rothschild." 
"Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!" repeated Mademoiselle Gillenormand, in a low tone. "Five hundred and eighty-four! One might as well say six hundred thousand!" 
As for Marius and Cosette, they were gazing at each other while this was going on; they hardly heeded this detail.
珂赛特和马吕斯又相见了。
这次会面的情形，我们不必叙述了。有些事是不该试着描绘的，太阳就是其中之一。
当珂赛特进来时，全家人，连巴斯克和妮珂莱特在内，都聚集在马吕斯的卧室里。
她出现在门口，好象有一个光环围绕着她的脸。
正就在这会儿，外祖父准备擤鼻涕，他一下呆住了，鼻子捂在手帕中，从上面瞧着珂赛特：
“真可爱！”他喊了一声。
接着他大声擤鼻子。
珂赛特如痴如醉，心花怒放，惊恐不安，象进了天堂。幸福使她惊慌失措。她吞吞吐吐，面色一阵白一阵红，很想倒入马吕斯怀里而又不敢。当着这些人的面相爱觉得很害羞。大家不会去怜悯一对幸福的情人；当他们正需要单独在一起相爱时，大家却呆着不走开，其实他们毫不需要别人呀。
在珂赛特后面陪着她进来的是一位白发老人，态度庄重，但含着微笑，可这是一种捉摸不定和沉痛的微笑。这是“割风先生”，也就是冉阿让。
正如看门人所说，他的“衣着很讲究”，全身一套黑色的新西服，系着白领带。
看门人一点也认不出这个整齐的资产者，这个可能是个公证人的人原来就是六月七日①晚上那个可怕的背着死尸闯进门来的人；当时他的衣衫褴褛，满身泥污，丑陋不堪，惊慌失色，满脸鲜血和污泥，架着昏迷的马吕斯；可是他作为门房的嗅觉苏醒了。当割风先生和珂赛特来到时，看门人禁不住私下向他的女人说了这样一句话：“不知道为什么，我总觉得我见过这张脸。” 
①原文如此。正确的日期应为六月六日晚上。
割风先生，在马吕斯的房中，好象不和别人在一起似的靠门口呆着，他臂下夹着一个小包，好象一部八开的书，用纸包着，纸发绿色，象霉了似的。
“是不是这位先生手边老带着书？”一点也不爱书本的吉诺曼小姐低声问妮珂莱特。
“就是，”吉诺曼先生听见了她的话也低声回答，“他是一位学者。怎么啦？他有什么不对？我认得的布拉先生也是走路都抱着一本书的。”
于是他一边鞠躬，一边高声打招呼：
“切风先生……”
吉诺曼老爹并非故意这样，但不注意别人的姓名是他的一种贵族作风。
“切风先生，我荣幸地替我的外孙彭眉胥男爵向小姐求婚。”
“切风先生”以鞠躬来致答。
“一言为定了。”外祖父说。
于是他转身向着马吕斯和珂赛特，两臂举起祝福他俩并且叫着：
“允许你们相爱了。”
他们不需要别人说两遍。不管了！两人开始喁喁私语。他们低声说着，马吕斯的胳膊肘支在躺椅上，珂赛特站在他身边。“哦，老天！”珂赛特轻声说，“我总算又见到您了。是你！是您，就这样去打仗！为什么？太可怕了，四个月来我等于死了。哦！您真坏，去参加这次战争！我哪里得罪了您？我原谅您，但是不能再这样干了。刚才有人来叫我们来的时候，我还感到我要死了，但那是快乐得要死。我原先是那么的愁苦！我衣服也没换，一定难看极了。您的家长看见我的衣领都揉皱了，该怎么说呀？您怎么不开口！让我一个人说？我们还是住在武人街。听说您的肩膀很可怕。据说可以放进一个拳头。还听说还用剪刀剪去了肉。这太可怕了。我哭呀哭的，哭得眼睛都肿了。这真怪，一个人能这样痛苦。您的外祖父看起来人很好！您别动，不要撑着手肘，要注意，这样会疼的。哦！我真快乐！不幸的日子结束了！我真傻。我要向您说的话都想不起来了。您还是爱我的吧？我们住在武人街。那儿没有花园。我整天做纱布；这儿，先生，您瞧，这就怪您，我手指上都起了老茧啦！”
“天使！”马吕斯说。
“天使”是语言中唯一屡用不厌的字眼，所有其他的字都被谈恋爱的人重复得无法再用了。
后来，因为有人在旁，他们中止了谈话，只满足于互相轻轻地用手碰一下。
吉诺曼先生转身向那些在房里的人大声说：
“你们尽量大声说话，大家都出点声音，来吧，得有点嘈杂的声音嘛，喂！好让这两个孩子能够随便聊聊。”
于是他走近马吕斯和珂赛特，轻声向他们说：
“别用‘您’这个尊称了，你们不要拘束。”
吉诺曼姨妈惊异地看到光明突然降临到她这陈旧的家中来了，这种惊异毫无恶意，她一点没有用讽刺和嫉妒的枭鸟式的目光来看这对野鸽。这是一个可怜的五十七岁的忠厚长者的呆笨的眼光，她自己错过了青春，现在正在观望爱情的胜利。
“吉诺曼大姑娘，”她的父亲说，“我早已向你说过你会见到这种事的。”
他静默了一下又说：
“瞧瞧别人的幸福呀！”
他又转向珂赛特说：
“她真美丽，真美丽，这是一幅戈洛治的画。你打算一个人独占，坏蛋！啊！调皮鬼，我这一关你总算侥幸逃过，你幸福了，如果我年轻十五岁的话，我们就来比剑，哪一个赢了就归哪一个。你看！小姐，我可爱上你了。这是很自然的，这是你的权利啊！这一来就要举行一个非常好的引人注目的迷人的婚礼啦！圣沙克雷芒的圣德尼教堂是我们教区的，但我会弄到许可证让你们到圣保罗教堂去举行婚礼。那座教堂比较漂亮。那是耶稣会教士建造的。它的建筑优美，正对着红衣主教比拉格的喷泉。耶稣会著名的建筑是在那慕尔，名叫圣路教堂。你们婚后该去参观一下，值得为此去作一次旅行。小姐，我完全同意你们的主张，我赞成女孩子都结婚，她们生来就该如此。有那么一个圣卡特琳，我希望她永远不戴帽子①。做老处女，这不错，但不温暖。《圣经》上说要增加人口。为了拯救国民，我们需要贞德，但是为了增加人口，我们也需要绮葛妮②妈妈。因此，美丽的姑娘们，结婚吧。我不明白做处女有什么意义？我知道她们在教堂里有一间单独的小礼拜堂，她们可以参加童贞圣母善堂；可是，活见鬼，嫁一个漂亮的丈夫，一个正直的男子，一年后，一个金发的婴儿快乐地吮着你的奶，大腿上的脂肪堆得打皱，粉红的小爪子一把一把地乱摸你的乳房，他和晨曦一样欢笑着，这样，总比手中捧着蜡烛在黄昏时去赞颂《象牙塔》③强多啦！” 
①圣卡特琳节这一天，年满二十五岁的未婚姑娘要戴上“圣卡特琳便帽”，算是进入老处女行列了。
②绮葛妮（Gigogne），法国民间故事中一位多子女的妇女。
③《象牙塔》，原文为拉丁文Turris　eburnea，是赞颂圣母马利亚的祈祷文。
九十岁的外祖父用脚跟转了一个身，上足了发条似的继续说：
就这样，你不用再胡思乱想，
阿尔西帕，真的你不久就要结婚了。
“我想起来了！”
“什么事情，父亲？”
“你不是有一个知己的朋友吗？”
“有，古费拉克。”
“他现在怎么样啦？”
“他已经死了。”
“这样也罢。”
他坐近他们，让珂赛特坐下，把他们的四只手抓在他的起皱的老手中。
“这个小宝贝真俊俏，这个珂赛特真是一件杰作！她是个小小的姑娘，又象一个高贵的夫人。她将来只能是个男爵夫人，这未免委屈了她；她生来就该是侯爵夫人才对。看她的睫毛多美！孩子们，你们好好记住：这是理所当然的。你们相亲相爱吧。要有傻劲。爱情本是人干的蠢事，却又是上帝的智慧。你们相爱吧，可是，”他忽带愁容地说，“真不幸！我此刻才想到，我的一大半钱都是终身年金①；我活着的时候，还过得去，但我死后，大概二十年后，啊！我可怜的孩子们，你们将一无所有！到那时候，男爵夫人，你那纤白的手就要过最操劳的日子啦。” 
①积蓄可以变成终身年金，只要放弃本金，只取利息，到死为止。
这时听见有人用严肃安静的声音说：
“欧福拉吉·割风小姐有六十万法郎。”
这是冉阿让的声音。
他一直还没有开过口，大家好象不知道他在那儿，他一动不动站在这些幸福的人后面。
“提到的欧福拉吉小姐是什么人？”外祖父惊愕地问道。
“是我。”珂赛特回答。
“六十万法郎！”吉诺曼先生重复了一遍。
“其中可能少一万四五千法郎。”冉阿让说。
他把那个吉诺曼姨妈以为是书本的纸包放在桌上。
冉阿让自己把包打开，里面是一叠现钞。经过清点后，其中有五百张一千法郎的钞票和一百六十八张五百法郎的钞票，共计是五十八万四千法郎。
“这真是一本好书！”吉诺曼先生说。
“五十八万四千法郎！”吉诺曼姨妈低声说道。
“这样解决了很多问题，对吗，吉诺曼大姑娘？”外祖父又说。“马吕斯这小鬼，他在梦乡树上找到了一个极为富有的姑娘！今天年轻的情侣真有办法！男学生找到了六十万法郎的女学生！小天使比路特希尔德更有办法。”
“五十八万四千法郎！”吉诺曼小姐又轻声重复一遍，“五十八万四千就等于是六十万！”
至于马吕斯和珂赛特，他们这时正互相注视着，对这些细节不很关心。
Part 5 Book 5 Chapter 5 Deposit Your Money in a Forest Rather than with a Notary
The reader has, no doubt, understood, without necessitating a lengthy explanation, that Jean Valjean, after the Champmathieu affair, had been able, thanks to his first escape of a few days' duration, to come to Paris and to withdraw in season, from the hands of Laffitte, the sum earned by him, under the name of Monsieur Madeleine, at Montreuil-sur-Mer; and that fearing that he might be recaptured,-- which eventually happened--he had buried and hidden that sum in the forest of Montfermeil, in the locality known as the Blaru-bottom. The sum, six hundred and thirty thousand francs, all in bank-bills, was not very bulky, and was contained in a box; only, in order to preserve the box from dampness, he had placed it in a coffer filled with chestnut shavings. In the same coffer he had placed his other treasures, the Bishop's candlesticks. It will be remembered that he had carried off the candlesticks when he made his escape from Montreuil-sur-Mer. The man seen one evening for the first time by Boulatruelle, was Jean Valjean. Later on, every time that Jean Valjean needed money, he went to get it in the Blaru-bottom. Hence the absences which we have mentioned. He had a pickaxe somewhere in the heather, in a hiding-place known to himself alone. When he beheld Marius convalescent, feeling that the hour was at hand, when that money might prove of service, he had gone to get it; it was he again, whom Boulatruelle had seen in the woods, but on this occasion, in the morning instead of in the evening. Boulatreulle inherited his pickaxe. 
The actual sum was five hundred and eighty-four thousand, five hundred francs. Jean Valjean withdrew the five hundred francs for himself.--"We shall see hereafter," he thought. 
The difference between that sum and the six hundred and thirty thousand francs withdrawn from Laffitte represented his expenditure in ten years, from 1823 to 1833. The five years of his stay in the convent had cost only five thousand francs.
Jean Valjean set the two candlesticks on the chimney-piece, where they glittered to the great admiration of Toussaint. 
Moreover, Jean Valjean knew that he was delivered from Javert. The story had been told in his presence, and he had verified the fact in the Moniteur, how a police inspector named Javert had been found drowned under a boat belonging to some laundresses, between the Pont au Change and the Pont-Neuf, and that a writing left by this man, otherwise irreproachable and highly esteemed by his superiors, pointed to a fit of mental aberration and a suicide.--"In fact," thought Jean Valjean, "since he left me at liberty, once having got me in his power, he must have been already mad." 
不需要再详细解释，大家已经知道冉阿让在商马第案件之后，幸亏他第一次越狱数日，及时来到巴黎，从拉菲特银行中取出了他在滨海蒙特勒伊用马德兰先生的名字挣得的存款；为了怕再被捕，他把现款深深埋在孟费郿的布拉于矿地里，果然不久，他又被捕。幸亏六十三万法郎的纸币体积不大，放在一个盒里，但为了防备盒子受潮，他把纸盒子放入一个橡木小箱中，里面装满了栗树木屑。在小箱中，他又把他的另一宝物，主教的烛台也放了进去。我们还记得，当他从滨海蒙特勒伊逃跑时，他是带着这一对烛台的。蒲辣秃柳儿有一天傍晚第一次见到的那个人，就是冉阿让。事后每当冉阿让需要钱时，他就到矿地去取。我们提到过的他的几次旅行就是如此。他有一把十字镐藏在灌木丛中一个只有他知道的隐蔽处。当他看见马吕斯已初步恢复健康，他感到需要用款的时候已不远了，就去把钱取了出来；蒲辣秃柳儿在树林中看见的仍是他，这次是在清晨而不在傍晚。蒲辣秃柳儿继承了那把十字镐。
总数是五十八万四千五百法郎。冉阿让留五百法郎自己使用。“以后再看情况吧。”他思忖着。
从拉菲特银行取出的六十三万法郎和目前这笔钱之间的差数就是从一八二三年到一八三三年十年间的开支，在修女院五年只花了五千法郎。
冉阿让把一对闪烁发光的银烛台放在壁炉架上，杜桑看了十分羡慕。
此外，冉阿让知道自己已摆脱了沙威。有人在他面前讲过同时他也见到《通报》上的公告，证实了这件事，警务侦察员沙威淹死在交易所桥和新桥之间的一条洗衣妇的船下面，这个没有犯过错误并且深受长官器重的人，留下了一纸遗书，使人推测到他是因神经错乱而自杀的。“总之，”冉阿让暗想，“他既已抓住了我，又让我自由，毫无疑问，他已经神经失常了。”
Part 5 Book 5 Chapter 6 The Two Old Men Do Everything, Each One After His Own Fashion,to Render Cose
Everything was made ready for the wedding. The doctor, on being consulted, declared that it might take place in February. It was then December. A few ravishing weeks of perfect happiness passed.
The grandfather was not the least happy of them all. He remained for a quarter of an hour at a time gazing at Cosette. 
"The wonderful, beautiful girl!" he exclaimed. "And she has so sweet and good an air! She is, without exception, the most charming girl that I have ever seen in my life. Later on, she'll have virtues with an odor of violets. How graceful! One cannot live otherwise than nobly with such a creature. Marius, my boy, you are a Baron, you are rich, don't go to pettifogging, I beg of you."
Cosette and Marius had passed abruptly from the sepulchre to paradise. The transition had not been softened, and they would have been stunned, had they not been dazzled by it.
"Do you understand anything about it?" said Marius to Cosette.
"No," replied Cosette, "but it seems to me that the good God is caring for us."
Jean Valjean did everything, smoothed away every difficulty, arranged everything, made everything easy. He hastened towards Cosette's happiness with as much ardor, and, apparently with as much joy, as Cosette herself.
As he had been a mayor, he understood how to solve that delicate problem, with the secret of which he alone was acquainted, Cosette's civil status. If he were to announce her origin bluntly, it might prevent the marriage, who knows? He extricated Cosette from all difficulties. He concocted for her a family of dead people, a sure means of not encountering any objections. Cosette was the only scion of an extinct family; Cosette was not his own daughter, but the daughter of the other Fauchelevent. Two brothers Fauchelevent had been gardeners to the convent of the Petit-Picpus. Inquiry was made at that convent; the very best information and the most respectable references abounded; the good nuns, not very apt and but little inclined to fathom questions of paternity, and not attaching any importance to the matter, had never understood exactly of which of the two Fauchelevents Cosette was the daughter. They said what was wanted and they said it with zeal. An acte de notoriete was drawn up. Cosette became in the eyes of the law, Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent. She was declared an orphan, both father and mother being dead. Jean Valjean so arranged it that he was appointed, under the name of Fauchelevent, as Cosette's guardian, with M. Gillenormand as supervising guardian over him. 
As for the five hundred and eighty thousand francs, they constituted a legacy bequeathed to Cosette by a dead person, who desired to remain unknown. The original legacy had consisted of five hundred and ninety-four thousand francs; but ten thousand francs had been expended on the education of Mademoiselle Euphrasie, five thousand francs of that amount having been paid to the convent. This legacy, deposited in the hands of a third party, was to be turned over to Cosette at her majority, or at the date of her marriage. This, taken as a whole, was very acceptable, as the reader will perceive, especially when the sum due was half a million. There were some peculiarities here and there, it is true, but they were not noticed; one of the interested parties had his eyes blindfolded by love, the others by the six hundred thousand francs. 
Cosette learned that she was not the daughter of that old man whom she had so long called father. He was merely a kinsman; another Fauchelevent was her real father. At any other time this would have broken her heart. But at the ineffable moment which she was then passing through, it cast but a slight shadow, a faint cloud, and she was so full of joy that the cloud did not last long. She had Marius. The young man arrived, the old man was effaced; such is life.
And then, Cosette had, for long years, been habituated to seeing enigmas around her; every being who has had a mysterious childhood is always prepared for certain renunciations. 
Nevertheless, she continued to call Jean Valjean: Father.
Cosette, happy as the angels, was enthusiastic over Father Gillenormand. It is true that he overwhelmed her with gallant compliments and presents. While Jean Valjean was building up for Cosette a normal situation in society and an unassailable status, M. Gillenormand was superintending the basket of wedding gifts. Nothing so amused him as being magnificent. He had given to Cosette a robe of Binche guipure which had descended to him from his own grandmother. 
"These fashions come up again," said he, "ancient things are the rage, and the young women of my old age dress like the old women of my childhood."
He rifled his respectable chests of drawers in Coromandel lacquer, with swelling fronts, which had not been opened for years.--"Let us hear the confession of these dowagers," he said, "let us see what they have in their paunches." He noisily violated the pot-bellied drawers of all his wives, of all his mistresses and of all his grandmothers. Pekins, damasks, lampas, painted moires, robes of shot gros de Tours, India kerchiefs embroidered in gold that could be washed, dauphines without a right or wrong side, in the piece, Genoa and Alencon point lace, parures in antique goldsmith's work, ivory bon-bon boxes ornamented with microscopic battles, gewgaws and ribbons-- he lavished everything on Cosette. Cosette, amazed, desperately in love with Marius, and wild with gratitude towards M. Gillenormand, dreamed of a happiness without limit clothed in satin and velvet. Her wedding basket seemed to her to be upheld by seraphim. Her soul flew out into the azure depths, with wings of Mechlin lace. 
The intoxication of the lovers was only equalled, as we have already said, by the ecstasy of the grandfather. A sort of flourish of trumpets went on in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. 
Every morning, a fresh offering of bric-a-brac from the grandfather to Cosette. All possible knickknacks glittered around her. 
One day Marius, who was fond of talking gravely in the midst of his bliss, said, apropos of I know not what incident: 
"The men of the revolution are so great, that they have the prestige of the ages, like Cato and like Phocion, and each one of them seems to me an antique memory."
"Moire antique!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "Thanks, Marius. That is precisely the idea of which I was in search."
And on the following day, a magnificent dress of tea-rose colored moire antique was added to Cosette's wedding presents.
From these fripperies, the grandfather extracted a bit of wisdom.
"Love is all very well; but there must be something else to go with it. The useless must be mingled with happiness. Happiness is 
only the necessary. Season that enormously with the superfluous for me. A palace and her heart. Her heart and the Louvre. Her heart and the grand waterworks of Versailles. Give me my shepherdess and try to make her a duchess. Fetch me Phyllis crowned with corn-flowers, and add a hundred thousand francs income. Open for me a bucolic perspective as far as you can see, beneath a marble colonnade. I consent to the bucolic and also to the fairy spectacle of marble and gold. Dry happiness resembles dry bread. One eats, but one does not dine. I want the superfluous, the useless, the extravagant, excess, that which serves no purpose. I remember to have seen, in the Cathedral of Strasburg, a clock, as tall as a three-story house which marked the hours, which had the kindness to indicate the hour, but which had not the air of being made for that; and which, after having struck midday, or midnight,- midday, the hour of the sun, or midnight, the hour of love,-- or any other hour that you like, gave you the moon and the stars, the earth and the sea, birds and fishes, Phoebus and Phoebe, and a host of things which emerged from a niche, and the twelve apostles, and the Emperor Charles the Fifth, and Eponine, and Sabinus, and a throng of little gilded goodmen, who played on the trumpet to boot. Without reckoning delicious chimes which it sprinkled through the air, on every occasion, without any one's knowing why. Is a petty bald clock-face which merely tells the hour equal to that? For my part, I am of the opinion of the big clock of Strasburg, and I prefer it to the cuckoo clock from the Black Forest." 
M. Gillenormand talked nonsense in connection with the wedding, and all the fripperies of the eighteenth century passed pell-mell through his dithyrambs.
"You are ignorant of the art of festivals. You do not know how to organize a day of enjoyment in this age," he exclaimed. "Your nineteenth century is weak. It lacks excess. It ignores the rich, it ignores the noble. In everything it is clean-shaven. Your third estate is insipid, colorless, odorless, and shapeless. The dreams of your bourgeois who set up, as they express it: a pretty boudoir freshly decorated, violet, ebony and calico. Make way! Make way! The Sieur Curmudgeon is marrying Mademoiselle Clutch-penny. Sumptuousness and splendor. A louis d'or has been stuck to a candle. There's the epoch for you. My demand is that I may flee from it beyond the Sarmatians. Ah! in 1787, I predict that all was lost, from the day when I beheld the Duc de Rohan, Prince de Leon, Duc de Chabot, Duc de Montbazon, Marquis de Sonbise, Vicomte de Thouars, peer of France, go to Longchamps in a tapecu! That has borne its fruits. In this century, men attend to business, they gamble on 'Change, they win money, they are stingy. People take care of their surfaces and varnish them; every one is dressed as though just out of a band-box, washed, soaped, scraped, shaved, combed, waked, smoothed, rubbed, brushed, cleaned on the outside, irreproachable, polished as a pebble, discreet, neat, and at the same time, death of my life, in the depths of their consciences they have dung-heaps and cesspools that are enough to make a cow-herd who blows his nose in his fingers, recoil. I grant to this age the device: `Dirty Cleanliness.' Don't be vexed, Marius, give me permission to speak; I say no evil of the people as you see, I am always harping on your people, but do look favorably on my dealing a bit of a slap to the bourgeoisie. I belong to it. He who loves well lashes well. Thereupon, I say plainly, that now-a-days people marry, but that they no longer know how to marry. Ah! It is true, I regret the grace of the ancient manners. I regret everything about them, their elegance, their chivalry, those courteous and delicate ways, that joyous luxury which every one possessed, music forming part of the wedding, a symphony above stairs, a beating of drums below stairs, the dances, the joyous faces round the table, the fine-spun gallant compliments, the songs, the fireworks, the frank laughter, the devil's own row, the huge knots of ribbon. I regret the bride's garter. The bride's garter is cousin to the girdle of Venus. On what does the war of Troy turn? On Helen's garter, parbleu! Why did they fight, why did Diomed the divine break over the head of Meriones that great brazen helmet of ten points? Why did Achilles and Hector hew each other up with vast blows of their lances? Because Helen allowed Paris to take her garter. With Cosette's garter, Homer would construct the Iliad. He would put in his poem, a loquacious old fellow, like me, and he would call him Nestor. My friends, in bygone days, in those amiable days of yore, people married wisely; they had a good contract, and then they had a good carouse. As soon as Cujas had taken his departure, Gamacho entered. But, in sooth! The stomach is an agreeable beast which demands its due, and which wants to have its wedding also. People supped well, and had at table a beautiful neighbor without a guimpe so that her throat was only moderately concealed. Oh! The large laughing mouths, and how gay we were in those days! Youth was a bouquet; every young man terminated in a branch of lilacs or a tuft of roses; whether he was a shepherd or a warrior; and if, by chance, one was a captain of dragoons, one found means to call oneself Florian. People thought much of looking well. They embroidered and tinted themselves. A bourgeois had the air of a flower, a Marquis had the air of a precious stone. People had no straps to their boots, they had no boots. They were spruce, shining, waved, lustrous, fluttering, dainty, coquettish, which did not at all prevent their wearing swords by their sides. The humming-bird has beak and claws. That was the day of the Galland Indies. One of the sides of that century was delicate, the other was magnificent; and by the green cabbages! People amused themselves. To-day, people are serious. The bourgeois is avaricious, the bourgeoise is a prude; your century is unfortunate. People would drive away the Graces as being too low in the neck. Alas!Beauty is concealed as though it were ugliness. Since the revolution, everything, including the ballet-dancers, has had its trousers; a mountebank dancer must be grave; your rigadoons are doctrinarian. It is necessary to be majestic. People would be greatly annoyed if they did not carry their chins in their cravats. The ideal of an urchin of twenty when he marries, is to resemble M. Royer-Collard. And do you know what one arrives at with that majesty? At being petty. Learn this: joy is not only joyous; it is great. But be in love gayly then, what the deuce! Marry, when you marry, with fever and giddiness, and tumult, and the uproar of happiness! Be grave in church, well and good. But, as soon as the mass is finished, sarpejou! You must make a dream whirl around the bride. A marriage should be royal and chimerical; it should promenade its ceremony from the cathedral of Rheims to the pagoda of Chanteloup. I have a horror of a paltry wedding. Ventregoulette! Be in Olympus for that one day, at least. Be one of the gods. Ah! People might be sylphs. Games and Laughter, argiraspides; they are stupids. My friends, every recently made bridegroom ought to be Prince Aldobrandini. Profit by that unique minute in life to soar away to the empyrean with the swans and the eagles, even if you do have to fall back on the morrow into the bourgeoisie of the frogs. Don't economize on the nuptials, do not prune them of their splendors; don't scrimp on the day when you beam. The wedding is not the housekeeping. Oh! If I were to carry out my fancy, it would be gallant, violins would be heard under the trees. Here is my programme: sky-blue and silver. I would mingle with the festival the rural divinities, I would convoke the Dryads and the Nereids. The nuptials of Amphitrite, a rosy cloud, nymphs with well dressed locks and entirely naked, an Academician offering quatrains to the goddess, a chariot drawn by marine monsters.
"Triton trottait devant, et tirait de sa conque Des sons si ravissants qu'il ravissait quiconque!"[65] 
--there's a festive programme, there's a good one, or else I know nothing of such matters, deuce take it!"
[65] "Triton trotted on before, and drew from his conch-shell sounds so ravishing that he delighted everyone!"
While the grandfather, in full lyrical effusion, was listening to himself, Cosette and Marius grew intoxicated as they gazed freely at each other.
Aunt Gillenormand surveyed all this with her imperturbable placidity. Within the last five or six months she had experienced a certain amount of emotions. Marius returned, Marius brought back bleeding, Marius brought back from a barricade, Marius dead, then living, Marius reconciled, Marius betrothed, Marius wedding a poor girl, Marius wedding a millionairess. The six hundred thousand francs had been her last surprise. Then, her indifference of a girl taking her first communion returned to her. She went regularly to service, told her beads, read her euchology, mumbled Aves in one corner of the house, while I love you was being whispered in the other, and she beheld Marius and Cosette in a vague way, like two shadows. The shadow was herself.
There is a certain state of inert asceticism in which the soul, neutralized by torpor, a stranger to that which may be designated as the business of living, receives no impressions, either human, or pleasant or painful, with the exception of earthquakes and catastrophes. This devotion, as Father Gillenormand said to his daughter, corresponds to a cold in the head. You smell nothing of life. Neither any bad, nor any good odor. 
Moreover, the six hundred thousand francs had settled the elderly spinster's indecision. Her father had acquired the habit of taking her so little into account, that he had not consulted her in the matter of consent to Marius' marriage. He had acted impetuously, according to his wont, having, a despot-turned slave, but a single thought,--to satisfy Marius. As for the aunt,--it had not even occurred to him that the aunt existed, and that she could have an opinion of her own, and, sheep as she was, this had vexed her. Somewhat resentful in her inmost soul, but impassible externally, she had said to herself: "My father has settled the question of the marriage without reference to me; I shall settle the question of the inheritance without consulting him." She was rich, in fact, and her father was not. She had reserved her decision on this point. It is probable that, had the match been a poor one, she would have left him poor. "So much the worse for my nephew! He is wedding a beggar, let him be a beggar himself!" But Cosette's half-million pleased the aunt, and altered her inward situation so far as this pair of lovers were concerned. One owes some consideration to six hundred thousand francs, and it was evident that she could not do otherwise than leave her fortune to these young people, since they did not need it.
It was arranged that the couple should live with the grandfather-- M. Gillenormand insisted on resigning to them his chamber, the finest in the house. "That will make me young again," he said. "It's an old plan of mine. I have always entertained the idea of having a wedding in my chamber."
He furnished this chamber with a multitude of elegant trifles. He had the ceiling and walls hung with an extraordinary stuff, which he had by him in the piece, and which he believed to have emanated from Utrecht with a buttercup-colored satin ground, covered with velvet auricula blossoms.--"It was with that stuff," said he, "that the bed of the Duchesse d'Anville at la Roche-Guyon was draped."-- On the chimney-piece, he set a little figure in Saxe porcelain, carrying a muff against her nude stomach.
M. Gillenormand's library became the lawyer's study, which Marius needed; a study, it will be remembered, being required by the council of the order.
为了婚事家中在准备一切。征求了医生的意见，认为二月份可以举行婚礼。目前还是十二月。几个星期美满幸福的愉快日子过去了。
外祖父同样感到欢乐。他时常久久地凝视着珂赛特。
“奇妙的美姑娘！”他大声说，“她的神情是如此温柔善良！没得说的，我的意中人，这是我生平见到的最俊俏的姑娘。将来她的美德就象紫罗兰一样馨香。这真是一个天仙！应当和她在高贵的环境中相处。马吕斯，我的孩子，你是男爵，你富有，我求你不要再去当律师了。”
珂赛特和马吕斯忽然从坟墓里上升到了天堂。转变是如此突然，他们俩如果不是眼花缭乱，也会目瞪口呆的。
“你明白这是怎么回事吗？”马吕斯问珂赛特。
“不，”珂赛特回答，“但是我感到上帝在瞧着我们。”冉阿让办理一切，铺平道路，调停一切，使事情顺利推进。表面看来他似乎和珂赛特一样愉快，他殷切地盼望着她的幸福能早日来临。
由于他当过市长，他解决了一个为难的问题，只有一个人知道其中奥秘，这就是有关珂赛特的身分问题。直截了当地说出她的出身，谁知道呀！有可能破坏婚事。他为珂赛特排除了一切困难。他把她安排成一个父母双亡的孩子，这样才可以不冒风险。珂赛特是一个孤儿；珂赛特不是他的女儿，而是另一个割风的女儿。割风兄弟俩在小比克布斯做过园丁。派人到修道院去过了，调查后得到很多最好的情况，最值得尊敬的见证；善良的修女们不太懂也不喜欢去追究别人父系方面的问题，她们看不出其中有什么花招，因此始终也没搞清楚小珂赛特究竟是哪一个割风的女儿。她们说了别人需要她们说的话，并且语气诚恳。一个身分证明书已经办妥。根据法律珂赛特就是欧福拉吉·割风小姐了。她被宣称父母双亡。冉阿让以割风的名字，被指定为珂赛特的保护人，又加上吉诺曼先生，这是保护人的代理人。
至于那五十八万四千法郎，是一个不愿具名的人留给珂赛特的遗产。原来的数字是五十九万四千法郎，珂赛特的教育费花去了一万法郎，其中五千法郎付给了修女院。这笔遗产交给第三者保管，应在珂赛特成年后或结婚时交还给她。看来这一切都是合情合理的，尤其加上这五十多万的遗产。但其中也不免有些漏洞，但别人觉察不到。有一个与此有利害关系的人被爱情蒙住了眼睛，其他的人也被六十万法郎蒙蔽过去了。
珂赛特知道了被她叫了很久“父亲”的老人不是她的亲父，而只是一个亲戚；另一个割风才是她的父亲。如果不是此时此刻，她会感到难过的。但目前她在这难以形容的良辰美景中，这不过是点阴影，一点抑郁而已，但她的心情是那么欢快，以致乌云不久就消散了。她有了马吕斯。年轻的男子来到后，那老人就销声匿迹了。人生就是这么回事。
还有，珂赛特多年来，习惯看到她四周有些难解的谜；人凡是经历过这种神秘的幼年时期，对某些事就常常不去深究了。
她仍然称呼冉阿让为“父亲”。
珂赛特心旷神怡，她崇拜吉诺曼老爷爷。他确实向她说了不少赞扬的话，并送给她无数礼物。当冉阿让在替珂赛特创造一个社会上正常的地位和一笔无可指摘的财富时，吉诺曼先生在为她的结婚礼品篮子①作准备。没有比追求豪华更使他起劲的事了。他送了珂赛特一件班希②特产的花边衣服，这是他的亲祖母传给他的。“这种式样又时兴了，”他说，“老古董又风行一时了，在我年老时的少妇穿得象我幼年时的老奶奶一样。” 
①新郎送新娘的一篮礼物。
②班希（Binche），让利时一个著名产花边的城市。
　
他翻着那多年没打开过的科罗曼德尔漆的凸肚式名贵五斗柜。“让这些老古董招供吧，”他说，“看看它们肚里有些什么东西。”他乱翻着那些鼓肚的抽屉，里面塞满了他的妻子、他所有的情妇和上辈的服装。中国花缎、大马士革锦缎、中国丝绸、画了花的绉绸。用火烤过的浮毛的图尔料子衣服、用可以下水洗的金线绣的手帕、几块没有正反面的王妃绸①、热那亚和阿朗松的挑花、老式的金银首饰、以细巧的战争画作装饰的象牙糖果盒、装饰品、缎带，他把所有一切都送给了珂赛特。珂赛特惊喜交集，对马吕斯情深似海，对吉诺曼先生感恩不尽，梦想着一个用绸缎和丝绒交织起来的无比的幸福。她觉得自己的结婚礼品篮子好象被天使托着，她的心好象长着马林花边的翅膀，在蔚蓝的天空里翱翔。 
①在法国里昂制造的一种名贵丝绸。
这对情人如痴如醉，我们已经提到，只有外祖父的狂喜才能与之相比。在受难修女街好象有人吹奏着欢庆的铜管乐。
每天清晨外祖父都送来一些古董给珂赛特。她四周是应有尽有的衬裙花边，就象盛开的花朵一样。
有一天不知从什么话题引起的，很喜欢在幸福中谈论严肃问题的马吕斯说道：
“那些革命时期的人物是如此伟大，他们好象已有好几个世纪的威望，象卡托和伏西翁，他们两人都是自古以来受人凭吊的。”
“古锦①！”吉诺曼高声说，“谢谢，马吕斯，这正是我要找的东西。”
第二天，在珂赛特的结婚礼品篮子里又增加了一件美丽的茶色古锦衣服。
外祖父在这堆衣着上作出了他的智慧的结论：
“爱情，这当然很好，但必须有这些东西作陪衬。幸福需要一些无用的东西。幸福，这仅仅是必需品。要用许多奢侈品来调味。要一个宫殿来迎接爱情，爱情少不了卢浮宫。有了她的爱情，还需要凡尔赛的喷泉。把牧羊女给我，我尽力使她成为公爵夫人。把戴着矢车菊花冠的费莉②带来，给她加上十万利弗的年金。在大理石的柱廊下向我展现出一望无际的田园风光。我赞成牧人的田舍，同时也赞美大理石和金色的仙界。干巴巴的幸福就象吃干面包，吃是吃了，但不是筵席。我要多余的和不是必需品的东西，我要荒诞的、过分的、毫无用处的东西。我记得在斯特拉斯堡的教堂中见过一座有四层楼高的报时钟，它屈尊报时，但它不象是为此而造的，它在报了午时或午夜以后（中午是太阳的时辰，午夜是爱情的时辰），或是报了其他任何一个钟点以后，还为你现出月亮和星星、大地和海洋、鸟和鱼、福玻斯③和菲贝④，从一个窝里钻出无数的玩意儿：有十二个门徒⑤，还有查理五世皇帝⑥，还有爱波妮⑦和沙别纽斯，除此之外还有很多镀金的小人儿在吹着喇叭。还不算那些随时播送出来的、不知为什么发出的响彻云霄的优美钟乐。一个平凡的光秃秃的只能报时的钟能和它相提并论吗？我赞赏斯特拉斯堡的大钟远远胜过仿黑森林杜鹃叫声的报时小钟。”
Part 5 Book 5 Chapter 7 The Effects of Dreams Mingled with Happiness
The lovers saw each other every day. Cosette came with M. Fauchelevent.--"This is reversing things," said Mademoiselle Gillenormand, "to have the bride come to the house to do the courting like this." But Marius' convalescence had caused the habit to become established, and the arm-chairs of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, better adapted to interviews than the straw chairs of the Rue de l'Homme Arme, had rooted it. Marius and M. Fauchelevent saw each other, but did not address each other. It seemed as though this had been agreed upon. Every girl needs a chaperon. Cosette could not have come without M. Fauchelevent. In Marius' eyes, M. Fauchelevent was the condition attached to Cosette. He accepted it. By dint of discussing political matters, vaguely and without precision, from the point of view of the general amelioration of the fate of all men, they came to say a little more than "yes" and "no." Once, on the subject of education, which Marius wished to have free and obligatory, multiplied under all forms lavished on every one, like the air and the sun in a word, respirable for the entire population, they were in unison, and they almost conversed. M. Fauchelevent talked well, and even with a certain loftiness of language--still he lacked something indescribable. M. Fauchelevent possessed something less and also something more, than a man of the world. 
Marius, inwardly, and in the depths of his thought, surrounded with all sorts of mute questions this M. Fauchelevent, who was to him simply benevolent and cold. There were moments when doubts as to his own recollections occurred to him. There was a void in his memory, a black spot, an abyss excavated by four months of agony.--Many things had been lost therein. He had come to the point of asking himself whether it were really a fact that he had seen M. Fauchelevent, so serious and so calm a man, in the barricade.
This was not, however, the only stupor which the apparitions and the disappearances of the past had left in his mind. It must not be supposed that he was delivered from all those obsessions of the memory which force us, even when happy, even when satisfied, to glance sadly behind us. The head which does not turn backwards towards horizons that have vanished contains neither thought nor love. At times, Marius clasped his face between his hands, and the vague and tumultuous past traversed the twilight which reigned in his brain. Again he beheld Mabeuf fall, he heard Gavroche singing amid the grape-shot, he felt beneath his lips the cold brow of Eponine; Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre, Bossuet, Grantaire, all his friends rose erect before him, then dispersed into thin air. Were all those dear, sorrowful, valiant, charming or tragic beings merely dreams? Had they actually existed? The revolt had enveloped everything in its smoke. These great fevers create great dreams. He questioned himself; he felt himself; all these vanished realities made him dizzy. Where were they all then? was it really true that all were dead? A fall into the shadows had carried off all except himself. It all seemed to him to have disappeared as though behind the curtain of a theatre. There are curtains like this which drop in life. God passes on to the following act.
And he himself--was he actually the same man? He, the poor man, was rich; he, the abandoned, had a family; he, the despairing, was to marry Cosette. It seemed to him that he had traversed a tomb, and that he had entered into it black and had emerged from it white, and in that tomb the others had remained. At certain moments, all these beings of the past, returned and present, formed a circle around him, and overshadowed him; then he thought of Cosette, and recovered his serenity; but nothing less than this felicity could have sufficed to efface that catastrophe.
M. Fauchelevent almost occupied a place among these vanished beings. Marius hesitated to believe that the Fauchelevent of the barricade was the same as this Fauchelevent in flesh and blood, sitting so gravely beside Cosette. The first was, probably, one of those nightmares occasioned and brought back by his hours of delirium. However, the natures of both men were rigid, no question from Marius to M. Fauchelevent was possible. Such an idea had not even occurred to him. We have already indicated this characteristic detail.
Two men who have a secret in common, and who, by a sort of tacit agreement, exchange not a word on the subject, are less rare than is commonly supposed.
Once only, did Marius make the attempt. He introduced into the conversation the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and, turning to M. Fauchelevent, he said to him:
"Of course, you are acquainted with that street?"
"What street?"
"The Rue de la Chanvrerie."
"I have no idea of the name of that street," replied M. Fauchelevent, in the most natural manner in the world. 
The response which bore upon the name of the street and not upon the street itself, appeared to Marius to be more conclusive than it really was.
"Decidedly," thought he, "I have been dreaming. I have been subject to a hallucination. It was some one who resembled him. M. Fauchelevent was not there."
这对情人天天见面。珂赛特和割风先生一同来。“事情颠倒过来了，”吉诺曼小姐说，“未婚妻亲自上门来让情人追求。”但马吕斯病后需要疗养，所以养成这个习惯，同时也因为受难修女街的沙发椅比武人街的草垫椅在促膝谈心时更加舒适，所以把她留住了。马吕斯和割风先生相见并不交谈，这好象是有了默契似的。女孩子都需要一个年长的人陪伴，没有割风先生，珂赛特就不可能来。对马吕斯来说，割风先生是珂赛特来到的条件。他接受了。当马吕斯把关于改善全民生活的政治问题含糊而不明确地摊在桌上谈时，他们相互要比说简单的“是”“不”稍稍多说了几句。有一次，关于教育问题，马吕斯认为应该是免费和强迫，应以各种方式使人人受教育，如同得到空气和阳光一样，一句话，要使全民都能受到教育，这时他们的看法一致了，并且相互间几乎是在进行交谈了。马吕斯这时注意到割风先生很会说话，在一定程度上谈吐甚至是高雅的。可是其中好象还缺少点什么。割风先生缺少某种上流社会绅士所具有的东西，但有些地方又有所超越。
在马吕斯的内心和思想深处，对这个仅仅是和气而又冷淡的割风先生有着各种没张口说出的疑问。有时他对自己的回忆发生怀疑。在他的记忆里有个窟窿，一个黑暗的场所，一个被四个月的垂死挣扎掘成的深渊。很多事在里面消失了。他甚至问自己在街垒里是否真见到了这样一位严肃而又镇静的割风先生。
再说过去的种种事物的出现和消逝并不是他思想里惟一感到惊奇的。不要认为他已摆脱了回忆一切的困扰，这些困扰，尽管在快乐的时候，尽管在心满意足的时候，也会使我们忧伤地回顾以往。不回顾消逝了的昨天的人是没有思想和感情的。有时候马吕斯两手托腮，于是骚乱而又模糊的往事就在他脑海深处掠过。他又见到马白夫倒下去，他听见伽弗洛什在枪林弹雨中唱歌，唇下又感到爱潘妮冰冷的额头；安灼拉、古费拉克、让·勃鲁维尔、公白飞、博须埃、格朗泰尔，所有他的朋友在他面前站起来又幻灭了。所有这些宝贵的、苦痛的、勇敢的、可爱的或悲惨的人是梦中之影还是真正存在过的？暴乱把一切都卷入了它的烟雾。这些热火朝天的人都怀着伟大的理想。他暗自发问，他在思索，消逝了的往事使他头晕目眩。他们究竟在哪里呢？难道真的都死去了吗？在黑暗中的一次跌倒，除了他一人之外，就把一切都带走了。他感到所有这一切好象都消失在剧院的一块幕布后面。生活中有着类似的幕落的场面。上帝又转到下一幕去了。
他自己还是原来的那个人吗？他原是穷苦的，但现在已变成富有的了；他是被遗弃的，现在有一个家了；他原是绝望的，现在要和珂赛特结婚了。他感到自己穿过了一座坟墓，进去时是黑的，出来时成白的了。这座坟墓，别人都留在里面没出来。有时这些过去的人，重新回来并出现在他眼前，围着他，使他沮丧；于是他想到珂赛特，心情又恢复了平静。惟有这一幸福才能消除这种灾难的印象。
割风先生几乎也处在这些消失的人中。马吕斯对于街垒中的割风先生是否就是面前这个有血有肉、庄重地坐在珂赛特旁边的割风先生，始终犹豫不敢相信。第一个割风可能是他在昏迷时刻的噩梦里出现而又幻灭了的。此外他俩的性情太不一样，马吕斯不可能向他摆出问题，也不曾想到过要这样做。我们也已经指出过这一特殊的细节。
两个人有个共同的秘密，而这也象一种默契一样，两人对这个问题并不交谈，而这也不象人们所想的那样比较罕见。
只有一次，马吕斯试探了一下。他在谈话中故意提到麻厂街，于是向割风先生转过身去问道：
“您认识这条街吧？”
“什么街？”
“麻厂街。”
“这一街名我没有一点印象。”割风先生回答他时语气非常自然。
他的回答是涉及街名，而不是涉及街道本身，马吕斯觉得这更说明问题。
“无疑的！”他想道，“肯定我做过乱梦。这是我的一种错觉。那是个和他相似的人。割风先生并没有去过那儿。”
Part 5 Book 5 Chapter 8 Two Men Impossible to Find
Marius' enchantment, great as it was, could not efface from his mind other pre-occupations. 
While the wedding was in preparation, and while awaiting the date fixed upon, he caused difficult and scrupulous retrospective researches to be made.
He owed gratitude in various quarters; he owed it on his father's account, he owed it on his own. 
There was Thenardier; there was the unknown man who had brought him, Marius, back to M. Gillenormand. 
Marius endeavored to find these two men, not intending to marry, to be happy, and to forget them, and fearing that, were these debts of gratitude not discharged, they would leave a shadow on his life, which promised so brightly for the future.
It was impossible for him to leave all these arrears of suffering behind him, and he wished, before entering joyously into the future, to obtain a quittance from the past.
That Thenardier was a villain detracted nothing from the fact that he had saved Colonel Pontmercy. Thenardier was a ruffian in the eyes of all the world except Marius.
And Marius, ignorant of the real scene in the battle field of Waterloo, was not aware of the peculiar detail, that his father, so far as Thenardier was concerned was in the strange position of being indebted to the latter for his life, without being indebted to him for any gratitude.
None of the various agents whom Marius employed succeeded in discovering any trace of Thenardier. Obliteration appeared to be complete in that quarter. Madame Thenardier had died in prison pending the trial. Thenardier and his daughter Azelma, the only two remaining of that lamentable group, had plunged back into the gloom. The gulf of the social unknown had silently closed above those beings. On the surface there was not visible so much as that quiver, that trembling, those obscure concentric circles which announce that something has fallen in, and that the plummet may be dropped.
Madame Thenardier being dead, Boulatruelle being eliminated from the case, Claquesous having disappeared, the principal persons accused having escaped from prison, the trial connected with the ambush in the Gorbeau house had come to nothing.
That affair had remained rather obscure. The bench of Assizes had been obliged to content themselves with two subordinates. Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, and Demi-Liard, alias Deux-Milliards, who had been inconsistently condemned, after a hearing of both sides of the case, to ten years in the galleys. Hard labor for life had been the sentence pronounced against the escaped and contumacious accomplices.
Thenardier, the head and leader, had been, through contumacy, likewise condemned to death.
This sentence was the only information remaining about Thenardier, casting upon that buried name its sinister light like a candle beside a bier.
Moreover, by thrusting Thenardier back into the very remotest depths, through a fear of being re-captured, this sentence added to the density of the shadows which enveloped this man. 
As for the other person, as for the unknown man who had saved Marius, the researches were at first to some extent successful, then came to an abrupt conclusion. They succeeded in finding the carriage which had brought Marius to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire on the evening of the 6th of June.
The coachman declared that, on the 6th of June, in obedience to the commands of a police-agent, he had stood from three o'clock in the afternoon until nightfall on the Quai des Champs-Elysees, above the outlet of the Grand Sewer; that, towards nine o'clock in the evening, the grating of the sewer, which abuts on the bank of the river, had opened; that a man had emerged therefrom, bearing on his shoulders another man, who seemed to be dead; that the agent, who was on the watch at that point, had arrested the living man and had seized the dead man; that, at the order of the police-agent, he, the coachman, had taken "all those folks" into his carriage; that they had first driven to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; that they had there deposited the dead man; that the dead man was Monsieur Marius, and that he, the coachman, recognized him perfectly, although he was alive "this time"; that afterwards, they had entered the vehicle again, that he had whipped up his horses; a few paces from the gate of the Archives, they had called to him to halt; that there, in the street,they had paid him and left him, and that the police-agent had led the other man away; that he knew nothing more; that the night had been very dark. 
Marius, as we have said, recalled nothing. He only remembered that he had been seized from behind by an energetic hand at the moment when he was falling backwards into the barricade; then, everything vanished so far as he was concerned.
He had only regained consciousness at M. Gillenormand's.
He was lost in conjectures.
He could not doubt his own identity. Still, how had it come to pass that, having fallen in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he had been picked up by the police-agent on the banks of the Seine, near the Pont des Invalides?
Some one had carried him from the Quartier des Halles to the Champs-Elysees. And how? Through the sewer. Unheard-of devotion! 
Some one? Who?
This was the man for whom Marius was searching.
Of this man, who was his savior, nothing; not a trace; not the faintest indication.
Marius, although forced to preserve great reserve, in that direction, pushed his inquiries as far as the prefecture of police. There, no more than elsewhere, did the information obtained lead to any enlightenment.
The prefecture knew less about the matter than did the hackney-coachman. They had no knowledge of any arrest having been made on the 6th of June at the mouth of the Grand Sewer.
No report of any agent had been received there upon this matter, which was regarded at the prefecture as a fable. The invention of this fable was attributed to the coachman.
A coachman who wants a gratuity is capable of anything, even of imagination. The fact was assured, nevertheless, and Marius could not doubt it, unless he doubted his own identity, as we have just said. 
Everything about this singular enigma was inexplicable. 
What had become of that man, that mysterious man, whom the coachman had seen emerge from the grating of the Grand Sewer bearing upon his back the unconscious Marius, and whom the police-agent on the watch had arrested in the very act of rescuing an insurgent? What had become of the agent himself?
Why had this agent preserved silence? Had the man succeeded in making his escape? Had he bribed the agent? Why did this man give no sign of life to Marius, who owed everything to him? His disinterestedness was no less tremendous than his devotion. Why had not that man appeared again? Perhaps he was above compensation, but no one is above gratitude. Was he dead? Who was the man? What sort of a face had he? No one could tell him this. 
The coachman answered: "The night was very dark." Basque and Nicolette, all in a flutter, had looked only at their young master all covered with blood.
The porter, whose candle had lighted the tragic arrival of Marius, had been the only one to take note of the man in question, and this is the description that he gave:
"That man was terrible."
Marius had the blood-stained clothing which he had worn when he had been brought back to his grandfather preserved, in the hope that it would prove of service in his researches. 
On examining the coat, it was found that one skirt had been torn in a singular way. A piece was missing. 
One evening, Marius was speaking in the presence of Cosette and Jean Valjean of the whole of that singular adventure, of the innumerable inquiries which he had made, and of the fruitlessness of his efforts. The cold countenance of "Monsieur Fauchelevent" angered him.
He exclaimed, with a vivacity which had something of wrath in it:
"Yes, that man, whoever he may have been, was sublime. Do you know what he did, sir? He intervened like an archangel. He must have flung himself into the midst of the battle, have stolen me away, have opened the sewer, have dragged me into it and have carried me through it! He must have traversed more than a league and a half in those frightful subterranean galleries, bent over, weighed down, in the dark, in the cess-pool,--more than a league and a half, sir, with a corpse upon his back! And with what object? With the sole object of saving the corpse. And that corpse I was. He said to himself:There may still be a glimpse of life there, perchance; I will risk my own existence for that miserable spark!' And his existence he risked not once but twenty times! And every step was a danger. The proof of it is, that on emerging from the sewer, he was arrested. Do you know, sir, that that man did all this? And he had no recompense to expect. What was I? An insurgent. What was I? One of the conquered. Oh!if Cosette's six hundred thousand francs were mine . . ."
"They are yours," interrupted Jean Valjean.
"Well," resumed Marius, "I would give them all to find that man once more."
Jean Valjean remained silent.
狂欢的日子虽然使人销魂，但一点也不能抹去马吕斯思想中的其他挂虑。
婚礼正在准备，在等待佳期来临的时候，他设法在对往事作艰苦而又审慎的调查。
在多方面他都应当感恩，他为他的父亲感恩，也为自己报德。
一个是德纳第，还有那个把他马吕斯送回吉诺曼先生家中的陌生人。
马吕斯坚决要找到这两个人，他不愿意自己结婚过着幸福的日子而把他们遗忘，他并担心不把欠下的恩情偿还，会在他这从此将是光辉灿烂的生活中投下阴影。他不愿在他后面欠着未偿的债务，他要在愉快地进入未来生活之前，对过去有一张清账的收据。
德纳第尽管是个恶棍，但不等于池没有拯救过彭眉胥上校。所有的人，除了马吕斯之外，都认为德纳第是个匪徒。
马吕斯不了解当时滑铁卢战场上的真实情况，不知道这样一个特点：他的父亲处在这样一种奇特的境遇中，德纳第是他父亲的救命人，而不是恩人。
马吕斯所任用的各种侦察人员没有一个找得到德纳第的踪迹。似乎和这方面有关的情况已经全部消失了。德纳第的女人在预审时就已死在狱中，德纳第和他的女儿阿兹玛，这凄惨的一伙中仅存的两个人，也已潜入黑暗中。社会上那条不可知的深渊静静地将他们淹没了。水面上见不到一点颤动，一点战栗，也见不到那阴暗的圆形水纹，说明有东西掉在里面，人们可以进行探测。
德纳第的女人死了，蒲辣秃柳儿与本案无关，铁牙失踪了，主要的被告已逃出监狱，戈尔博破屋的绑架案等于流了产。案情仍不清楚，刑事法庭只抓住两个胁从犯：邦灼，又叫春天，又叫比格纳耶；还有半文钱，又叫二十亿，他们被审讯并判处十年苦役。在逃没有到案的同谋则被判处终身苦役。主犯德纳第，也被缺席判了死刑。这一判决是惟一留下来的和德纳第有关的事。在殓尸布裹着的名字上，投下了一道阴森的光，就象灵柩旁的一支蜡烛。
而且，为了害怕再被捕，德纳第被撵到了暗洞的最深处，这个判决使此人埋到深深的黑暗中。
至于另外一个，就是那个救了马吕斯的陌生人，开始寻找时有了点眉目，后来又停止不前了。人们设法找到了六月六日傍晚那辆把马吕斯送到受难修女街的街车。车夫说，六月六日，一个警察命令他“停在”爱丽舍广场的河岸旁、大阴沟的出口处，从下午三时等到傍晚；晚上九时左右，对着河岸的阴沟铁栅栏门开了，一个背着象是死人的汉子从那里走出来，警察正等候着，他逮捕了活人，抓住了死人。在警察的命令下，他，车夫，让“这一伙人”都坐上了他的马车，先到了受难修女街，把死人放下，他说死人就是马吕斯先生，他认得出他，虽然他“这一次”是活的；后来他们又坐上了马车，他还用鞭子赶着马到了离历史文物陈列馆门口不远的地方，叫他停车，在大街上付清车钱，他们便离去了，警察带走了那个人；此外他就一无所知；那时天已经很黑了。
马吕斯，我们已经说过，什么也回忆不起来。他只记得当他在街垒中向后倒下去时，一只强有力的手从后面抓住了他；
他后来不省人事。他到了吉诺曼先生家中方苏醒过来。
他百般推测但得不到解答。
他不能怀疑他自己本人。然而他明明倒在麻厂街，怎么又被警察在塞纳河滩残废军人院桥附近扶起来？是有人把他从菜市场区背到爱丽舍广场来的，怎么背来的？通过下水道。这真是前所未闻的忠忱献身！
有人？什么人？
马吕斯寻找的就是这个人。
关于这个人，他的救命人，没有消息，毫无迹象，连一点征兆也没有。
虽然马吕斯在这方面必须十分审慎，但他已把他的追查扩大到警署去了。可在那儿也和在别处一样，调查的结果并没有解决丝毫问题。警署没有马车夫了解得多，他们一点也不知道六月六日在大下水道铁栅栏那儿逮捕过人，他们没有得到警察方面任何与这方面有关的报告，警署认为这一切纯属编造，是马车夫造的谣。通常一个车夫为了得到一点小费，什么事都干得出来，甚至会去捏造。然而事情是实实在在的，马吕斯无法怀疑，除非怀疑他自己本人，这我们刚刚已经说过了。
所有的一切，在这个离奇的哑谜中，是无法解释的。
这个人，这个神秘的人，马车夫看见他背着昏过去的马吕斯从大下水道的铁栅栏门那里出来，埋伏着的警察当场抓住他在救一个暴动者，他后来怎样了？警察又上哪儿去了？那人是否已经逃跑？为什么这警察要保持缄默？警察受他的贿赂了吗？为什么这个人，马吕斯的救命人，一点不向马吕斯表示他还活在人间呢？这种大公无私的态度和慷慨献身的精神是同样奇伟的。为什么这个人不再露面了呢？可能他不愿要任何酬劳，但没有人不愿接受别人的感激的。他是否已经死去？他是怎样的一个人呢？他的面貌是什么样的？任何人也答不上来。马车夫回答说：“那天晚上天太黑了。”巴斯克和妮珂莱特魂不附体，当时只注意血流满面的年轻的主人。惟独门房，当他用蜡烛照着悲惨的马吕斯来到时，注意到了这个人，下面是他提供的特征：“这个人的神态令人感到恐怖。”
马吕斯把他带回外祖父家时穿的血迹斑斑的衣服保留着，希望能对他的搜索有用，当他仔细看着这件衣服时，发现下摆的一边很古怪地被人撕破了，而且还少了一块。
有一天晚上，马吕斯在珂赛特和冉阿让面前谈起了这桩离奇的遭遇以及他进行的无数得不到结果的查询。“割风先生”冷淡的表情使他很不耐烦。他很激动，几乎发怒似的喊道：
“是的，这个人，不论他是个怎样的人，他做的事真了不起。你知道他做了什么吗，先生？他好象一个大天使那样出现了，他在战火中把我偷出来，打开下水道，把我拖进去，背着我！在这可怕的长廊里弯着腰，屈着膝，在黑暗中，污水中，走了差不多一法里半，先生，背上还要背着一个死尸呢！他的目的何在？只是为了搭救这个死尸。而这个死尸就是我。他对自己说：‘可能还有一线生机，为了这可怜的一线生机，我会冒着生命危险！’而他不只冒了一次生命危险，而是二十次！他的每一步都很危险。证明就是他一出阴沟就被捕了。先生，这人所做的这一切您知道吗？他并不指望任何报酬。我当时是什么人？一个起义者。什么样的人呢？一个败兵。呵！如果珂赛特的六十万法郎是我的……”
“这钱是您的。”冉阿让插了一句。
“那么，”马吕斯接着说，“为了找到这个人，我宁愿花去这笔钱！”
对此冉阿让默不作声。
Part 5 Book 6 Chapter 1 The 16th of February, 1833
The night of the 16th to the 17th of February, 1833, was a blessed night. Above its shadows heaven stood open. It was the wedding night of Marius and Cosette.
The day had been adorable.
It had not been the grand festival dreamed by the grandfather, a fairy spectacle, with a confusion of cherubim and Cupids over the heads of the bridal pair, a marriage worthy to form the subject of a painting to be placed over a door; but it had been sweet and smiling.
The manner of marriage in 1833 was not the same as it is to-day. France had not yet borrowed from England that supreme delicacy of carrying off one's wife, of fleeing, on coming out of church, of hiding oneself with shame from one's happiness, and of combining the ways of a bankrupt with the delights of the Song of Songs. People had not yet grasped to the full the chastity, exquisiteness, and decency of jolting their paradise in a posting-chaise, of breaking up their mystery with clic-clacs, of taking for a nuptial bed the bed of an inn, and of leaving behind them, in a commonplace chamber, at so much a night, the most sacred of the souvenirs of life mingled pell-mell with the tete-a-tete of the conductor of the diligence and the maid-servant of the inn.
In this second half of the nineteenth century in which we are now living, the mayor and his scarf, the priest and his chasuble, the law and God no longer suffice; they must be eked out by the Postilion de Lonjumeau; a blue waistcoat turned up with red, and with bell buttons, a plaque like a vantbrace, knee-breeches of green leather, oaths to the Norman horses with their tails knotted up, false galloons, varnished hat, long powdered locks, an enormous whip and tall boots. France does not yet carry elegance to the length of doing like the English nobility, and raining down on the post-chaise of the bridal pair a hail storm of slippers trodden down at heel and of worn-out shoes, in memory of Churchill, afterwards Marlborough, or Malbrouck, who was assailed on his wedding-day by the wrath of an aunt which brought him good luck. Old shoes and slippers do not, as yet, form a part of our nuptial celebrations; but patience, as good taste continues to spread, we shall come to that.
In 1833, a hundred years ago, marriage was not conducted at a full trot.
Strange to say, at that epoch, people still imagined that a wedding was a private and social festival, that a patriarchal banquet does not spoil a domestic solemnity, that gayety, even in excess, provided it be honest, and decent, does happiness no harm, and that, in short, it is a good and a venerable thing that the fusion of these two destinies whence a family is destined to spring, should begin at home, and that the household should thenceforth have its nuptial chamber as its witness.
And people were so immodest as to marry in their own homes.
The marriage took place, therefore, in accordance with this now superannuated fashion, at M. Gillenormand's house.
Natural and commonplace as this matter of marrying is, the banns to publish, the papers to be drawn up, the mayoralty, and the church produce some complication. They could not get ready before the 16th of February. 
Now, we note this detail, for the pure satisfaction of being exact, it chanced that the 16th fell on Shrove Tuesday. Hesitations, scruples, particularly on the part of Aunt Gillenormand. 
"Shrove Tuesday!" exclaimed the grandfather, "so much the better. There is a proverb:
"`Mariage un Mardi gras N'aura point enfants ingrats.'[66]
[66] "A Shrove-Tuesday marriage will have no ungrateful children."
Let us proceed. Here goes for the 16th! Do you want to delay, Marius?"
"No, certainly not!" replied the lover.
"Let us marry, then," cried the grandfather.
Accordingly, the marriage took place on the 16th, notwithstanding the public merrymaking. It rained that day, but there is always in the sky a tiny scrap of blue at the service of happiness, which lovers see, even when the rest of creation is under an umbrella.
On the preceding evening, Jean Valjean handed to Marius, in the presence of M. Gillenormand, the five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs. 
As the marriage was taking place under the regime of community of property, the papers had been simple.
Henceforth, Toussaint was of no use to Jean Valjean; Cosette inherited her and promoted her to the rank of lady's maid. 
As for Jean Valjean, a beautiful chamber in the Gillenormand house had been furnished expressly for him, and Cosette had said to him in such an irresistible manner: "Father, I entreat you," that she had almost persuaded him to promise that he would come and occupy it.
A few days before that fixed on for the marriage, an accident happened to Jean Valjean; he crushed the thumb of his right hand. This was not a serious matter; and he had not allowed any one to trouble himself about it, nor to dress it, nor even to see his hurt, not even Cosette. Nevertheless, this had forced him to swathe his hand in a linen bandage, and to carry his arm in a sling, and had prevented his signing. M. Gillenormand, in his capacity of Cosette's supervising-guardian, had supplied his place.
We will not conduct the reader either to the mayor's office or to the church. One does not follow a pair of lovers to that extent, and one is accustomed to turn one's back on the drama as soon as it puts a wedding nosegay in its buttonhole. We will confine ourselves to noting an incident which, though unnoticed by the wedding party, marked the transit from the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire to the church of Saint-Paul.
At that epoch, the northern extremity of the Rue Saint-Louis was in process of repaving. It was barred off, beginning with the Rue du Pare-Royal. It was impossible for the wedding carriages to go directly to Saint-Paul. They were obliged to alter their course, and the simplest way was to turn through the boulevard. One of the invited guests observed that it was Shrove Tuesday, and that there would be a jam of vehicles.--"Why?" asked M. Gillenormand--"Because of the maskers."-- "Capital," said the grandfather, "let us go that way. These young folks are on the way to be married; they are about to enter the serious part of life. This will prepare them for seeing a bit of the masquerade." 
They went by way of the boulevard. The first wedding coach held Cosette and Aunt Gillenormand, M. Gillenormand and Jean Valjean. Marius, still separated from his betrothed according to usage, did not come until the second. The nuptial train, on emerging from the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, became entangled in a long procession of vehicles which formed an endless chain from the Madeleine to the Bastille, and from the Bastille to the Madeleine. Maskers abounded on the boulevard. In spite of the fact that it was raining at intervals, Merry-Andrew, Pantaloon and Clown persisted. In the good humor of that winter of 1833, Paris had disguised itself as Venice. Such Shrove Tuesdays are no longer to be seen now-a-days. Everything which exists being a scattered Carnival, there is no longer any Carnival.
The sidewalks were overflowing with pedestrians and the windows with curious spectators. The terraces which crown the peristyles of the theatres were bordered with spectators. Besides the maskers, they stared at that procession--peculiar to Shrove Tuesday as to Longchamps,-- of vehicles of every description, citadines, tapissieres, carioles, cabriolets marching in order, rigorously riveted to each other by the police regulations, and locked into rails, as it were. Any one in these vehicles is at once a spectator and a spectacle. Police-sergeants maintained, on the sides of the boulevard, these two interminable parallel files, moving in contrary directions, and saw to it that nothing interfered with that double current, those two brooks of carriages, flowing, the one down stream, the other up stream, the one towards the Chaussee d'Antin, the other towards the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The carriages of the peers of France and of the Ambassadors, emblazoned with coats of arms, held the middle of the way, going and coming freely. Certain joyous and magnificent trains, notably that of the Boeuf Gras, had the same privilege. In this gayety of Paris, England cracked her whip; Lord Seymour's post-chaise, harassed by a nickname from the populace, passed with great noise.
In the double file, along which the municipal guards galloped like sheep-dogs, honest family coaches, loaded down with great-aunts and grandmothers, displayed at their doors fresh groups of children in disguise, Clowns of seven years of age, Columbines of six, ravishing little creatures, who felt that they formed an official part of the public mirth, who were imbued with the dignity of their harlequinade, and who possessed the gravity of functionaries. 
From time to time, a hitch arose somewhere in the procession of vehicles; one or other of the two lateral files halted until the knot was disentangled; one carriage delayed sufficed to paralyze the whole line. Then they set out again on the march.
The wedding carriages were in the file proceeding towards the Bastille, and skirting the right side of the Boulevard. At the top of the Pont-aux-Choux, there was a stoppage. Nearly at the same moment, the other file, which was proceeding towards the Madeleine, halted also. At that point of the file there was a carriage-load of maskers. 
These carriages, or to speak more correctly, these wagon-loads of maskers are very familiar to Parisians. If they were missing on a Shrove Tuesday, or at the Mid-Lent, it would be taken in bad part, and people would say: "There's something behind that. Probably the ministry is about to undergo a change." A pile of Cassandras, Harlequins and Columbines, jolted along high above the passers-by, all possible grotesquenesses, from the Turk to the savage,Hercules supporting Marquises, fishwives who would have made Rabelais stop up his ears just as the Maenads made Aristophanes drop his eyes, tow wigs, pink tights, dandified hats, spectacles of a grimacer, three-cornered hats of Janot tormented with a butterfly, shouts directed at pedestrians, fists on hips, bold attitudes, bare shoulders, immodesty unchained; a chaos of shamelessness driven by a coachman crowned with flowers; this is what that institution was like. 
Greece stood in need of the chariot of Thespis, France stands in need of the hackney-coach of Vade. 
Everything can be parodied, even parody. The Saturnalia, that grimace of antique beauty, ends, through exaggeration after exaggeration, in Shrove Tuesday; and the Bacchanal, formerly crowned with spraysof vine leaves and grapes, inundated with sunshine, displaying her marble breast in a divine semi-nudity, having at the present day lost her shape under the soaked rags of the North, has finally come to be called the Jack-pudding. 
The tradition of carriage-loads of maskers runs back to the most ancient days of the monarchy. The accounts of Louis XI. allot to the bailiff of the palace "twenty sous, Tournois, for three coaches of mascarades in the cross-roads." In our day, these noisy heaps of creatures are accustomed to have themselves driven in some ancient cuckoo carriage, whose imperial they load down, or they overwhelm a hired landau, with its top thrown back, with their tumultuous groups. Twenty of them ride in a carriage intended for six. They cling to the seats, to the rumble, on the cheeks of the hood, on the shafts. They even bestride the carriage lamps. They stand, sit, lie, with their knees drawn up in a knot, and their legs hanging. The women sit on the men's laps. Far away, above the throng of heads, their wild pyramid is visible.These carriage-loads form mountains of mirth in the midst of the rout. Colle, Panard and Piron flow from it, enriched with slang. This carriage which has become colossal through its freight, has an air of conquest. Uproar reigns in front, tumult behind. People vociferate, shout, howl, there they break forth and writhe with enjoyment; gayety roars; sarcasm flames forth, joviality is flaunted like a red flag; two jades there drag farce blossomed forth into an apotheosis; it is the triumphal car of laughter.
A laughter that is too cynical to be frank. In truth, this laughter is suspicious. This laughter has a mission. It is charged with proving the Carnival to the Parisians.
These fishwife vehicles, in which one feels one knows not what shadows, set the philosopher to thinking. There is government therein. There one lays one's finger on a mysterious affinity between public men and public women.
It certainly is sad that turpitude heaped up should give a sum total of gayety, that by piling ignominy upon opprobrium the people should be enticed, that the system of spying, and serving as caryatids to prostitution should amuse the rabble when it confronts them, that the crowd loves to behold that monstrous living pile of tinsel rags, half dung, half light, roll by on four wheels howling and laughing, that they should clap their hands at this glory composed of all shames, that there would be no festival for the populace, did not the police promenade in their midst these sorts of twenty-headed hydras of joy. But what can be done about it? These be-ribboned and be-flowered tumbrils of mire are insulted and pardoned by the laughter of the public. The laughter of all is the accomplice of universal degradation. Certain unhealthy festivals disaggregate the people and convert them into the populace. And populaces, like tyrants, require buffoons. The King has Roquelaure, the populace has the Merry-Andrew. Paris is a great, mad city on every occasion that it is a great sublime city. There the Carnival forms part of politics. Paris,--let us confess it--willingly allows infamy to furnish it with comedy. She only demands of her masters--when she has masters--one thing: "Paint me the mud." Rome was of the same mind. She loved Nero. Nero was a titanic lighterman.
Chance ordained, as we have just said, that one of these shapeless clusters of masked men and women, dragged about on a vast calash, should halt on the left of the boulevard, while the wedding train halted on the right. The carriage-load of masks caught sight of the wedding carriage containing the bridal party opposite them on the other side of the boulevard. 
"Hullo!" said a masker, "here's a wedding."
"A sham wedding," retorted another. "We are the genuine article."
And, being too far off to accost the wedding party, and fearing also, the rebuke of the police, the two maskers turned their eyes elsewhere. 
At the end of another minute, the carriage-load of maskers had their hands full, the multitude set to yelling, which is the crowd's caress to masquerades; and the two maskers who had just spoken had to face the throng with their comrades, and did not find the entire repertory of projectiles of the fishmarkets too extensive to retort to the enormous verbal attacks of the populace. A frightful exchange of metaphors took place between the maskers and the crowd.
In the meanwhile, two other maskers in the same carriage, a Spaniard with an enormous nose, an elderly air, and huge black moustache, and a gaunt fishwife, who was quite a young girl, masked with a loup,[67] had also noticed the wedding, and while their companions and the passers-by were exchanging insults, they had held a dialogue in a low voice.
[67] A short mask.
Their aside was covered by the tumult and was lost in it. The gusts of rain had drenched the front of the vehicle, which was wide open; the breezes of February are not warm; as the fishwife, clad in a low-necked gown, replied to the Spaniard, she shivered, laughed and coughed.
Here is their dialogue:
"Say, now."
"What, daddy?"
"Do you see that old cove?"
"What old cove?"
"Yonder, in the first wedding-cart, on our side."
"The one with his arm hung up in a black cravat?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"I'm sure that I know him."
"Ah!"
"I'm willing that they should cut my throat, and I'm ready to swear that I never said either you, thou, or I, in my life, if I don't know that Parisian." [pantinois.]
"Paris in Pantin to-day."
"Can you see the bride if you stoop down?"
"No."
"And the bridegroom?"
"There's no bridegroom in that trap."
"Bah!"
"Unless it's the old fellow."
"Try to get a sight of the bride by stooping very low."
"I can't."
"Never mind, that old cove who has something the matter with his paw I know, and that I'm positive." 
"And what good does it do to know him?" 
"No one can tell. Sometimes it does!" 
"I don't care a hang for old fellows, that I don't!"
"I know him."
"Know him, if you want to."
"How the devil does he come to be one of the wedding party?"
"We are in it, too."
"Where does that wedding come from?"
"How should I know?"
"Listen."
"Well, what?"
"There's one thing you ought to do."
"What's that?"
"Get off of our trap and spin that wedding."
"What for?"
"To find out where it goes, and what it is. Hurry up and jump down, trot, my girl, your legs are young." 
"I can't quit the vehicle."
"Why not?"
"I'm hired."
"Ah, the devil!"
"I owe my fishwife day to the prefecture."
"That's true."
"If I leave the cart, the first inspector who gets his eye on me will arrest me. You know that well enough." 
"Yes, I do." 
"I'm bought by the government for to-day."
"All the same, that old fellow bothers me."
"Do the old fellows bother you? But you're not a young girl."
"He's in the first carriage."
"Well?"
"In the bride's trap."
"What then?"
"So he is the father."
"What concern is that of mine?"
"I tell you that he's the father."
"As if he were the only father."
"Listen."
"What?"
"I can't go out otherwise than masked. Here I'm concealed, no one knows that I'm here. But to-morrow, there will be no more maskers. It's Ash Wednesday. I run the risk of being nabbed. I must sneak back into my hole. But you are free."
"Not particularly."
"More than I am, at any rate."
"Well, what of that?"
"You must try to find out where that wedding-party went to."
"Where it went?"
"Yes."
"I know."
"Where is it going then?"
"To the Cadran-Bleu."
"In the first place, it's not in that direction."
"Well! to la Rapee."
"Or elsewhere."
"It's free. Wedding-parties are at liberty."
"That's not the point at all. I tell you that you must try to learn for me what that wedding is, who that old cove belongs to, and where that wedding pair lives."
"I like that! that would be queer. It's so easy to find out a wedding-party that passed through the street on a Shrove Tuesday, a week afterwards. A pin in a hay-mow! It ain't possible!" 
"That don't matter. You must try. You understand me, Azelma."
The two files resumed their movement on both sides of the boulevard, in opposite directions, and the carriage of the maskers lost sight of the "trap" of the bride.
一八三三年二月十六日至十七日之夜是祝福之夜。在它黑影之上，天门打开了。这是马吕斯和珂赛特新婚之夜。
这是喜气洋洋的一天。
这不是外祖父所梦想的奇妙的佳节，一种有小天使和爱神一起出现在新婚夫妇头上的仙境，不是一件可以装饰在门的上方如同婚礼画里的那种喜事，但这是一次甜蜜而欢畅的婚礼。
一八三三年的结婚仪式和今天的不一样。法国还没有采用英国那种无比细腻的把妻子抢走的做法，一出教堂就溜了，含着羞把幸福隐藏起来，将破产者的行径和《雅歌》①里那种狂喜结合起来。让自己的天堂在驿站马车里颠簸，让喀哒喀哒声来打断自己神秘的心情；选一张小旅店的床当作新床，在普通的按夜计费的寝室里留下一生中最神圣的回忆，再加上和马车夫以及旅店侍女的接触，大家还不懂得这一切是多么贞洁、美妙和端庄得体。 
①《雅歌》，《圣经·旧约》中之一篇。　
在我们生活的这十九世纪下半叶，市长和他的肩带，神甫和他的背心，法律和上帝都已经不够了，必须加上朗朱莫驿站的车夫；穿着红翻口袖的蓝上衣，饰有铃铛纽扣的金属臂章，绿色皮裤，咒骂着扎起尾巴的诺曼底双马，假的肩章带，打蜡的帽子，扑了粉的粗头发，很长的马鞭和笨重的靴子。法国也还没有模仿英国贵族的那种优雅做法：把磨损了后跟的拖鞋和旧鞋象下冰雹似的砸在新婚夫妇的驿站马车上，学邱吉尔的样，后称马尔波罗式或马尔勃路克式①，他在结婚那天，姑妈的盛怒给他带来了福气。破鞋和旧拖鞋还没有参加到我们的婚礼中来，不用着急，好的习俗继续在扩展，不久就会到来的。 
①邱吉尔（John　Churchill，duc　de　Marlborough，1650-1722），约翰·邱吉尔，马尔波罗公爵，英国将军，曾在西班牙获胜。在诗歌中，他被称作“马尔勃路克”。
在一八三三年，一百年以前，人们举行婚礼是从容不迫的。
那个时代，也真怪，大家觉得婚礼是私人的喜事，同时也是社会上的礼节，家长式的喜筵并无损于家中盛典的隆重气氛，允许有极端欢乐情绪的表现，只要是正派的，这对幸福毫无损害，还有，这两个命运的结合在家里开始了，这个结合将产生一个家族，新房从此将证明他们是在此成家立业的，这些都是可尊敬的好事。
人们不因在家中成婚而害臊。
因此婚礼就按照现在已经过时的方式，在吉诺曼先生家中举行。举行婚礼，虽然看来是普通而自然的事，但要去公布通知，申请结婚证，跑市政府、教堂，也不免有些复杂，在二月十六日以前无法准备就绪。
碰巧十六日正是星期二，狂欢节的最后一天，我们提到这一细节，只是因为我们喜欢准确。大家犹豫，踌躇，特别是吉诺曼姨妈拿不定主意。
“狂欢节最后一天！”外祖父大声说，“再妙不过了，俗话说：
狂欢节结婚，
没有不孝的子孙。
不管了！决定十六日！你愿意延期吗，你，马吕斯？”
“当然不愿意！”那情人回答。
“结婚吧。”外祖父说。
因此婚礼就在十六日举行了，尽管大家正在庆祝欢腾的节日。那天下雨，但情人总能见到天上有一角照顾幸福的蓝天，其余的世界都在雨伞之下也就不在乎了。
头天，冉阿让当着吉诺曼先生的面，把那五十八万四千法郎交给了马吕斯。
婚姻采取的是夫妻共有财产制，所以婚书很简单。
从此，冉阿让已不再需要杜桑，珂赛特留下了她，并把她提升为贴身女仆。
关于冉阿让，在吉诺曼家中，已特意为他布置了一间漂亮的卧室，而且珂赛特还说“父亲，我求求你”，这使他很难拒绝，她差不多已得到他的诺言来此居住了。
婚期前几天，冉阿让出了点事，他的右手大拇指被压伤了一点点，但并不严重，他不愿任何人，包括珂赛特在内，为这事操心，他不要人替他包伤或看看他的伤口，但不得不用布把手包起来，用绷带吊着手臂，这使他无法签字。吉诺曼先生是珂赛特的代理保护人，于是就代替了他。
我们不把读者带到市政府和教堂里去，因为很少人跟着一对情人来到这些地方，一般的习惯是当剧情发展到新郎上衣翻领饰孔上插上了一束花，大家对演出就转过身去不看了。我们只想提一提一件发生在从受难修女街到圣保罗教堂路上的小事，这是参加婚礼的人没有注意到的。
当时圣路易街北段末端正在翻修。从御花园街起就不通行了。婚礼的车辆不能直接去圣保罗教堂。必须改变路线，最近的路线是从林荫大道绕过去。来宾中有一个人提醒说这天是狂欢节，那边会有很多车辆。吉诺曼先生问：“为什么？”“因为有化装游行。”“妙极了，”外祖父说，“就打那儿过，这两个年轻人结婚后，就要过严肃的家庭生活，让他们看一下狂欢节的化装作为准备吧。”
他们就从林荫大道走。第一辆婚礼轿式马车中坐着珂赛特和吉诺曼姨妈，吉诺曼先生和冉阿让。马吕斯按照惯例，仍与未婚妻分开，只乘坐第二辆。婚礼的行列从受难修女街出发后，就加入了那漫长的车队，形成了两条没完没了的链条，一条从马德兰教堂到巴士底监狱，另一条又从巴士底监狱到马德兰教堂。
林荫大道上全是戴着假面具的人。尽管不时下着雨，滑稽角色、小丑和傻瓜依然在活动。在一八三三年心情舒畅的冬季，巴黎化装成了威尼斯。今天我们已见不到这种狂欢节了。现在一切现象都是扩大了的狂欢节，所以没有什么狂欢节了。
街道两旁挤满了过路人，窗口挤满了好奇的人。在剧院立柱廊周围的大平台上，沿着边挤满了观众。除了观看化装戴假面具的人外，还要看这狂欢节所特有的、象隆桑那样的车队，这些形形式式的车辆，如出租马车、市民马车、带篷大车、皮篷式两轮小车、单马有篷双轮车，它们顺序前进，按警章严格要求，一辆紧跟一辆，好象在铁轨上行驶一般。在这车队中的任何人，他既是观众又在演出。警察把这两条平行的、朝相反方向前进的络绎不绝的车辆控制在林荫大道的两侧，不让这两条河一样的车流发生任何故障，一条往下游去，一条往上游去，一条走向昂坦大街，一条走向圣安东尼郊区。那些带有徽章的法国贵族院议员和公使的车辆可以在大路中央自由来往。有些精彩而欢快的车队，特别是肥牛①车也有这种特权。在巴黎的狂欢中，英国人也挥着他的马鞭，西麦勋爵坐着游览马车招摇过市，这车被起了一个下等人的绰号。 
①肥牛（BoeufGras），狂欢节中盛饰游行的肥牛，表示吃荤的最后一日。
保安警察沿着这两列车队跑来跑去，好象看羊的群狗，车队里有规规矩矩的私人轿式马车，挤满了姨婆和老祖母，在车门口站立着容光焕发的化了装的儿童，七岁的男小丑，六岁的女小所扮的滑稽角色的尊严，态度庄重，犹如官员。
车队不时会在某处发生阻塞，路侧两列车队中的一列就得停下来一直等到疙瘩解开；一辆碍事的车子足以使整个队伍瘫痪，后来又继续前进。
婚礼的车队是在走向巴士底的行列里，沿着大道的右边。走到白菜桥街附近时，停了一下。几乎同时，对面，往马德兰教堂去的那一列车队也停下来了，就在这地方有着一辆载有戴假面具的人的车。
这种车辆，或者说得更确切一点，这些满载戴假面具的人的货车，巴黎人是很熟悉的。如果它们在某个狂欢节或封斋节的中期不出现，人们就会觉得出了事，就会说：“里面肯定有名堂，大概内阁要换人了吧！”一大堆卡桑德①、阿勒甘②、高隆比娜③，高出行人的头，在车中颠簸着，奇形怪状的人物应有尽有，从土耳其人到野人，扶着侯爵夫人的大力士，能使拉伯雷塞住耳朵的满口粗话的女人，同样的情况骂街的泼妇们也会使阿里史托芬垂下眼帘，麻丝做的假发，桃红色的汗衫，衣着讲究的人戴的帽子，扮鬼脸人的眼镜，雅诺④那种会引来蝴蝶的三角帽，冲着行人的怪叫，两拳支在大胯上，姿态大胆放肆，袒着双肩，戴着假面具，真是极其厚颜无耻；这是一伙放任不羁的乱糟糟的角色被一个戴着花冠的马车夫带着游逛，这种车就是这样的一个集体。希腊需要特斯毕斯⑤的四轮载货马车，法国需要瓦代⑥的出租马车。 
①卡桑德（Cassandre），意大利喜剧中的老头，总是被周围的人所欺骗。。
②阿勒甘（Arlequin），意大利喜剧中之人物，身穿各色三角形布头拼凑成的衣服，头戴黑色面具。
③高隆比娜（Colombine），意大利喜剧中聪明伶俐的侍女。
④雅诺（Janot），滑稽丑角。
⑤特斯毕斯（Thespis），希腊悲剧始祖，乘车巡回演出，以马车作为戏台。
⑥瓦代（Vadé，1720-1757），法国滑稽歌曲作家、戏剧家。
一切都可以被滑稽地模仿，甚至连模仿的东西也要被模仿。农神节，这个古代美的模仿，由于不断夸张扩大，后来发展成为狂欢节。酒神节，从前的巴克科斯①头戴葡萄藤，沐浴在日光里，露出绝妙的半裸的身体和大理石的双乳，今天却很憔悴，穿着北方褴褛的湿衣，最后变成了狂欢节戴面具的人。
化装车辆这一传统起源于最古的王朝时代，路易十一的开支中就曾拨给宫中法官“图尔城铸的二十苏作三辆化装竞赛马车在街头活动”的费用，今天这群喧闹的人一般是由老式的双轮马车运载的，他们挤在车子的顶层，或者这群活跃的人是由一辆官办的敞篷四轮马车拖着。六人坐的马车载着二十人。有的坐在位子上，有的坐在可折叠的加座上，有的坐在车篷侧面和辕木上。他们甚至骑在马车的灯笼上。有站着的，卧着的，坐着的，蹲着的，挂着腿的，妇女则坐在男子的膝上。在蠕动的人头上很远就能看到象金字塔那样的一堆狂人。这些满载的车辆，在嘈杂的人群中如同一座欢腾的高山，出现了科莱②、巴那尔③和毕龙④，满口黑话更加强了气氛，他们向群众喷出一大串亵渎的粗话。这辆马车因载人过多，显得无比庞大，有着一种胜利的神情。前面人声喧嚷，后面一片混乱。人们在车里怒吼、吊嗓、乱叫、发怒，高兴得前俯后仰；欢乐在咆哮，讽刺喷出火焰，轻松愉快象帝王一样统治着。两个干瘪的女人演着一台剧情发展已到顶点的滑稽戏，这是欢笑的胜利车。 
①巴克科斯（Bacchus），酒神。
②科莱（Collé，1709-1783），法国民谣戏剧作家。
③巴那尔（Banard，1674-1765），法国民谣戏剧作家。
④毕龙（Piron，1689-1773），法国诗人及歌谣作家。　
这厚颜无耻的笑不是爽朗的笑，的确这种笑是可疑的。这种笑有一项任务，它负责向巴黎人证实狂欢节的来临。
这些下流的车辆，它们使人感到一种莫名其妙的黑暗，会引起哲学家的深思。其中有属于执政者方面的，从那里可以接触到官方和公娼的神秘相似之处。
卑鄙丑态拼凑成逗乐的东西，用下流加无耻来诱惑群众；支持卖淫的私下侦察在和人对峙，它使人开心，群众爱看四轮马车载着这堆活妖怪走过，饰着金箔的敝衣，一半污秽一半光亮，这些人又叫又唱；人们为这由羞耻汇集而成的胜利鼓掌；
如果警察不让这长了二十个头的欢乐水蛇在人群中巡游的话，大家就不认为在过节，这些事实在令人感到可悲。但又有什么办法呢？这些两轮垃圾车装饰着缎带和花朵，被人群的笑声凌辱着又宽恕着。大众的笑是普遍堕落的同谋。有些不健康的节日腐蚀人民，使他们堕为群氓；而群氓和暴君都需要逗乐的小丑。帝王有罗克洛尔①，老百姓则有巴亚斯。当巴黎不是一座卓越的大城时，它就是一座疯狂的大城。狂欢节是政治的一部分。我们应该承认巴黎心甘情愿让无耻在那儿装腔作势。它只向它的大师棗如果它有大师的话棗提出一个要求：“替我把这些污秽抹上脂粉吧。”罗马也有同样的气质，她喜爱尼禄，尼禄是巨人型的装运工。 
①罗克洛尔（Roguelaure，1544-1625），法国元帅，以说风趣话取悦路易十四。
我们刚才提到了一辆大型四轮轻便马车，带着一群畸形的蒙面男女，停在大道的左边，碰巧这时结婚的车辆行列也正停在大道右边。从大道那边到这边，蒙面人的车辆看见了对面新娘的马车。
“咦！”一个蒙面人说，“参加婚礼的人。①”
“假的，”另一个说，“我们才是真的。” 
①法语“婚礼”（noce）这词，可以是“参加婚礼的人群”，也用在“花天酒地”这一短语中。
距离太远，不便向婚礼的行列打招呼，再说又怕警察来干涉，那两个蒙面人就瞧别处去了。
不到一会儿，整个蒙面车里的人都忙乱起来了，群众开始向他们喝倒彩，这是群众对戴假面具人的队伍的一种亲热的表示；刚才谈话的两个蒙面人就得和同伴们一起对付大家，他们用尽了菜市场惯用的所有的谩骂，用那种武器才勉强回击了群众的唇枪舌剑，蒙面人和群众之间交换了一些可怕的隐喻。
这时，另外两个同车的蒙面人，一个有大鼻子、大黑胡子、模样显老的西班牙人和一个瘦小的骂街女子，她还很年轻，戴着假面具，他们也注意到了婚礼车，当他们的伙伴和过路人在互相对骂时，他们正在低声对话。
他们的私语被嘈杂的声音所掩盖，听不见了，阵雨把敞开的车辆淋湿，二月的风又不温暖，这个骂街的袒胸女子，一边在回答西班牙人的话，一边颤抖着，又咳又笑。
这是他们的对话：
“喂！”
“什么？父亲。”
“你看见这个老头了吗？”
“哪个老头？”
“那儿，在婚礼的第一辆马车里，靠我们这边。”
“那个有黑领结手臂挂着的？”
“不错。”
“怎么呢？”
“我肯定认识他。”
“啊！”
“如果我不认识这个巴黎人，我愿让别人砍下我的头，今生又从没说过‘您’、‘你’、‘我’。”① 
①这是段黑话，意思是“我拿脑袋担保，我认得这个巴黎人”。
“今天巴黎只是一个木偶。”
“你弯下腰能看见新娘吗？”
“看不见。”
“新郎呢？”
“这辆车里没有新郎。”
“啊！”
“除非就是另外那个老头。”
“你设法再弯下点腰去，这就能看清新娘了。”
“我办不到。”
“无论如何，这个爪子上有点东西的老头，我肯定认得他。”
“你认得他又有什么用？”
“不知道。也许有用！”
“我对老头不感兴趣。”
“我认得他！”
“随你便去认得他吧。”
“见鬼，他怎么会在婚礼行列中？”
“那我们也一样啊。”
“这婚礼车是从哪儿来的？”
“难道我知道？”
“听着。”
“什么？”
“你应该做件事。”
“什么事？”
“你走下我们的车去跟踪这辆婚礼车。”
“干什么？”
“为了知道它上哪儿去，是什么人的车？快下去，快跑，我的女儿，你年纪轻。”
“我不能离开车子。”
“为什么不能？”
“我是被雇用的。”
“啊，糟了！”
“我替市政府当一天骂街的。”
“不错。”
“如果我离开车子，第一个见到我的警务侦察员就要逮捕我。这你是知道的。”
“是，我知道。”
“今天我是被政府买下的。”
“无论如何，这老头使我烦恼。”
“老头使你烦恼，你又不是一个年轻姑娘。”
“他在第一辆车里。”
“那又怎么样呢？”
“在新娘车里。”
“那又怎么样？”
“因此他是父亲。”
“这与我有什么相干？”
“我告诉你他是父亲。”
“又不是只有这一个父亲。”
“听我说。”
“什么？”
“我嘛，我只能戴着面具出来。在这儿，我是藏着的，别人不知道我在这儿。但是明天就没有面具了。今天星期三是斋期开始。我有被捕的危险。我得钻进我的洞里去。而你是自由的。”
“不太自由。”
“总比我好一些。”
“你的意思是？”
“你要尽量打听到这辆婚礼车到什么地方去？”
“到哪里去？”
“对。”
“我知道。”
“到哪儿去？”
“到蓝钟面街。”
“首先，不是这个方向。”
“那就是到拉白区。”
“也许到别处去。”
“它是自由的。参加婚礼的人是自由的。”
“不仅仅是这点，我告诉你要设法替我了解这婚礼是怎么回事，有这老头在里面，这对新婚夫妇住在哪儿？”
“决不！这才有意思呢。在八天后去找到一家婚礼车在狂欢节路过巴黎的人家难道容易吗？大海捞针！这怎么办得到？”
“不管怎样，要努力。听见没有，阿兹玛？”
两列车队在大道两旁以相反的方向移动，婚礼车逐渐在蒙面车的视野中消失了。
Part 5 Book 6 Chapter 2 Jean Valjean Still Wears His Arm in a Sling
To realize one's dream. To whom is this accorded? There must be elections for this in heaven; we are all candidates, unknown to ourselves; the angels vote. Cosette and Marius had been elected. 
Cosette, both at the mayor's office and at church, was dazzling and touching. Toussaint, assisted by Nicolette, had dressed her. 
Cosette wore over a petticoat of white taffeta, her robe of Binche guipure, a veil of English point, a necklace of fine pearls, a wreath of orange flowers; all this was white, and, from the midst of that whiteness she beamed forth. It was an exquisite candor expanding and becoming transfigured in the light. One would have pronounced her a virgin on the point of turning into a goddess. 
Marius' handsome hair was lustrous and perfumed; here and there, beneath the thick curls, pale lines--the scars of the barricade-- were visible.
The grandfather, haughty, with head held high, amalgamating more than ever in his toilet and his manners all the elegances of the epoch of Barras, escorted Cosette. He took the place of Jean Valjean, who, on account of his arm being still in a sling, could not give his hand to the bride. 
Jean Valjean, dressed in black, followed them with a smile.
"Monsieur Fauchelevent," said the grandfather to him, "this is a fine day. I vote for the end of afflictions and sorrows. Henceforth, there must be no sadness anywhere. Pardieu, I decree joy! Evil has no right to exist. That there should be any unhappy men is, in sooth, a disgrace to the azure of the sky. Evil does not come from man, who is good at bottom. All human miseries have for their capital and central government hell, otherwise, known as the Devil's Tuileries. Good, here I am uttering demagogical words! As far as I am concerned, I have no longer any political opinions; let all me be rich, that is to say, mirthful, and I confine myself to that."
When, at the conclusion of all the ceremonies, after having pronounced before the mayor and before the priest all possible "yesses," after having signed the registers at the municipality and at the sacristy, after having exchanged their rings, after having knelt side by side under the pall of white moire in the smoke of the censer, they arrived, hand in hand, admired and envied by all, Marius in black, she in white, preceded by the suisse, with the epaulets of a colonel, tapping the pavement with his halberd, between two rows of astonished spectators, at the portals of the church, both leaves of which were thrown wide open, ready to enter their carriage again, and all being finished, Cosette still could not believe that it was real. She looked at Marius, she looked at the crowd, she looked at the sky: it seemed as though she feared that she should wake up from her dream. Her amazed and uneasy air added something indescribably enchanting to her beauty. They entered the same carriage to return home, Marius beside Cosette; M. Gillenormand and Jean Valjean sat opposite them; Aunt Gillenormand had withdrawn one degree, and was in the second vehicle.
"My children," said the grandfather, "here you are, Monsieur le Baron and Madame la Baronne, with an income of thirty thousand livres." 
And Cosette, nestling close to Marius, caressed his ear with an angelic whisper: "So it is true. My name is Marius. I am Madame Thou." 
These two creatures were resplendent. They had reached that irrevocable and irrecoverable moment, at the dazzling intersection of all youth and all joy. They realized the verses of Jean Prouvaire; they were forty years old taken together. It was marriage sublimated; these two children were two lilies. They did not see each other, they did not contemplate each other. Cosette perceived Marius in the midst of a glory; Marius perceived Cosette on an altar. And on that altar, and in that glory, the two apotheoses mingling, in the background, one knows not how, behind a cloud for Cosette, in a flash for Marius, there was the ideal thing, the real thing, the meeting of the kiss and the dream, the nuptial pillow. All the torments through which they had passed came back to them in intoxication. It seemed to them that their sorrows, their sleepless nights, their tears, their anguish, their terrors, their despair, converted into caresses and rays of light, rendered still more charming the charming hour which was approaching; and that their griefs were but so many handmaidens who were preparing the toilet of joy. How good it is to have suffered! Their unhappiness formed a halo round their happiness. The long agony of their love was terminating in an ascension.
It was the same enchantment in two souls, tinged with voluptuousness in Marius, and with modesty in Cosette. They said to each other in low tones: "We will go back to take a look at our little garden in the Rue Plumet." The folds of Cosette's gown lay across Marius.
Such a day is an ineffable mixture of dream and of reality. One possesses and one supposes. One still has time before one to divine. The emotion on that day, of being at mid-day and of dreaming of midnight is indescribable. The delights of these two hearts overflowed upon the crowd, and inspired the passers-by with cheerfulness.
People halted in the Rue Saint-Antoine, in front of Saint-Paul, to gaze through the windows of the carriage at the orange-flowers quivering on Cosette's head.
Then they returned home to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Marius, triumphant and radiant, mounted side by side with Cosette the staircase up which he had been borne in a dying condition. The poor, who had trooped to the door, and who shared their purses, blessed them. There were flowers everywhere. The house was no less fragrant than the church; after the incense, roses. They thought they heard voices carolling in the infinite; they had God in their hearts; destiny appeared to them like a ceiling of stars; above their heads they beheld the light of a rising sun. All at once, the clock struck. Marius glanced at Cosette's charming bare arm, and at the rosy things which were vaguely visible through the lace of her bodice, and Cosette, intercepting Marius' glance, blushed to her very hair. 
Quite a number of old family friends of the Gillenormand family had been invited; they pressed about Cosette. Each one vied with the rest in saluting her as Madame la Baronne.
The officer, Theodule Gillenormand, now a captain, had come from Chartres, where he was stationed in garrison, to be present at the wedding of his cousin Pontmercy. Cosette did not recognize him. 
He, on his side, habituated as he was to have women consider him handsome, retained no more recollection of Cosette than of any other woman. 
"How right I was not to believe in that story about the lancer!" said Father Gillenormand, to himself.
Cosette had never been more tender with Jean Valjean. She was in unison with Father Gillenormand; while he erected joy into aphorisms and maxims, she exhaled goodness like a perfume. Happiness desires that all the world should be happy.
She regained, for the purpose of addressing Jean Valjean, inflections of voice belonging to the time when she was a little girl. She caressed him with her smile.
A banquet had been spread in the dining-room.
Illumination as brilliant as the daylight is the necessary seasoning of a great joy. Mist and obscurity are not accepted by the happy. They do not consent to be black. The night, yes; the shadows, no. If there is no sun, one must be made.
The dining-room was full of gay things. In the centre, above the white and glittering table, was a Venetian lustre with flat plates, with all sorts of colored birds, blue, violet, red, and green, perched amid the candles; around the chandelier, girandoles, on the walls, sconces with triple and quintuple branches; mirrors, silverware, glassware, plate, porcelain, faience, pottery, gold and silversmith's work, all was sparkling and gay. The empty spaces between the candelabra were filled in with bouquets, so that where there was not a light, there was a flower. 
In the antechamber, three violins and a flute softly played quartettes by Haydn.
Jean Valjean had seated himself on a chair in the drawing-room, behind the door, the leaf of which folded back upon him in such a manner as to nearly conceal him. A few moments before they sat down to table, Cosette came, as though inspired by a sudden whim, and made him a deep courtesy, spreading out her bridal toilet with both hands, and with a tenderly roguish glance, she asked him: 
"Father, are you satisfied?"
"Yes," said Jean Valjean, "I am content!"
"Well, then, laugh."
Jean Valjean began to laugh.
A few moments later, Basque announced that dinner was served.
The guests, preceded by M. Gillenormand with Cosette on his arm, entered the dining-room, and arranged themselves in the proper order around the table.
Two large arm-chairs figured on the right and left of the bride, the first for M. Gillenormand, the other for Jean Valjean. M. Gillenormand took his seat. The other arm-chair remained empty.
They looked about for M. Fauchelevent.
He was no longer there.
M. Gillenormand questioned Basque.
"Do you know where M. Fauchelevent is?"
"Sir," replied Basque, "I do, precisely. M. Fauchelevent told me to say to you, sir, that he was suffering, his injured hand was paining him somewhat, and that he could not dine with Monsieur le Baron and Madame la Baronne. That he begged to be excused, that he would come to-morrow. He has just taken his departure." 
That empty arm-chair chilled the effusion of the wedding feast for a moment. But, if M. Fauchelevent was absent, M. Gillenormand was present, and the grandfather beamed for two. He affirmed that M. Fauchelevent had done well to retire early, if he were suffering, but that it was only a slight ailment.This declaration sufficed. Moreover, what is an obscure corner in such a submersion of joy? Cosette and Marius were passing through one of those egotistical and blessed moments when no other faculty is left to a person than that of receiving happiness. And then, an idea occurred to M. Gillenormand.--"Pardieu, this armchair is empty. Come hither, Marius. Your aunt will permit it, although she has a right to you. This armchair is for you. That is legal and delightful. Fortunatus beside Fortunata."-- Applause from the whole table. Marius took Jean Valjean's place beside Cosette, and things fell out so that Cosette, who had, at first, been saddened by Jean Valjean's absence, ended by being satisfied with it. From the moment when Marius took his place, and was the substitute, Cosette would not have regretted God himself. She set her sweet little foot, shod in white satin, on Marius' foot. 
The arm-chair being occupied, M. Fauchelevent was obliterated; and nothing was lacking. 
And, five minutes afterward, the whole table from one end to the other, was laughing with all the animation of forgetfulness. 
At dessert, M. Gillenormand, rising to his feet, with a glass of champagne in his hand--only half full so that the palsy of his eighty years might not cause an overflow,--proposed the health of the married pair.
"You shall not escape two sermons," he exclaimed. "This morning you had one from the cure, this evening you shall have one from your grandfather. Listen to me; I will give you a bit of advice: Adore each other. I do not make a pack of gyrations, I go straight to the mark, be happy. In all creation, only the turtle-doves are wise. Philosophers say: Moderate your joys.' I say:`Give rein to your joys.' Be as much smitten with each other as fiends. Be in a rage about it. The philosophers talk stuff and nonsense. I should like to stuff their philosophy down their gullets again. Can there be too many perfumes, too many open rose-buds, too many nightingales singing, too many green leaves, too much aurora in life? Can people love each other too much? Can people please each other too much? Take care, Estelle, thou art too pretty! Have a care, Nemorin, thou art too handsome! Fine stupidity, in sooth! Can people enchant each other too much, cajole each other too much, charm each other too much? Can one be too much alive, too happy? Moderate your joys.Ah, indeed! Down with the philosophers! Wisdom consists in jubilation. Make merry, let us make merry. Are we happy because we are good, or are we good because we are happy? Is the Sancy diamond called the Sancy because it belonged to Harley de Sancy, or because it weighs six hundred carats? I know nothing about it, life is full of such problems; the important point is to possess the Sancy and happiness. Let us be happy without quibbling and quirking. Let us obey the sun blindly. What is the sun? It is love. He who says love, says woman. Ah! Ah! Behold omnipotence--women. Ask that demagogue of a Marius if he is not the slave of that little tyrant of a Cosette. And of his own free will, too, the coward! Woman! There is no Robespierre who keeps his place but woman reigns. I am no longer Royalist except towards that royalty. What is Adam? The kingdom of Eve. No '89 for Eve. There has been the royal sceptre surmounted by a fleur-de-lys, there has been the imperial sceptre surmounted by a globe, there has been the sceptre of Charlemagne, which was of iron, there has been the sceptre of Louis the Great, which was of gold,-- the revolution twisted them between its thumb and forefinger, ha'penny straws; it is done with, it is broken, it lies on the earth, there is no longer any sceptre, but make me a revolution against that little embroidered handkerchief, which smells of patchouli! I should like to see you do it. Try. Why is it so solid? Because it is a gewgaw. Ah! You are the nineteenth century? Well, what then? And we have been as foolish as you. Do not imagine that you have effected much change in the universe, because your trip-gallant is called the cholera-morbus, and because your pourree is called the cachuca. In fact, the women must always be loved. I defy you to escape from that. These friends are our angels. Yes, love, woman, the kiss formsa circle from which I defy you to escape; and, for my own part, I should be only too happy to re-enter it. Which of you has 
seen the planet Venus, the coquette of the abyss, the Celimene of the ocean, rise in the infinite, calming all here below? The ocean is a rough Alcestis. Well, grumble as he will, when Venus appears he is forced to smile. That brute beast submits. We are all made so. Wrath, tempest, claps of thunder, foam to the very ceiling. A woman enters on the scene, a planet rises; flat on your face! Marius was fighting six months ago; to-day he is married. That is well. Yes, Marius, yes, Cosette, you are in the right. Exist boldly for each other, make us burst with rage that we cannot do the same, idealize each other, catch in your beaks all the tiny blades of felicity that exist on earth, and arrange yourselves a nest for life. Pardi, to love, to be loved, what a fine miracle when one is young! Don't imagine that you have invented that. I, too, have had my dream, I, too, have meditated, I, too, have sighed; I, too, have had a moonlight soul. Love is a child six thousand years old. Love has the right to a long white beard. Methusalem is a street arab beside Cupid. For sixty centuries men and women have got out of their scrape by loving. The devil, who is cunning, took to hating man; man, who is still more cunning, took to loving woman. In this way he does more good than the devil does him harm. This craft was discovered in the days of the terrestrial paradise. The invention is old, my friends, but it is perfectly new. Profit by it. Be Daphnis and Chloe, while waiting to become Philemon and Baucis. Manage so that, when you are with each other, nothing shall be lacking to you, and that Cosette may be the sun for Marius, and that Marius may be the universe to Cosette. Cosette, let your fine weather be the smile of your husband; Marius, let your rain be your wife's tears. And let it never rain in your household. You have filched the winning number in the lottery; you have gained the great prize, guard it well, keep it under lock and key, do not squander it, adore each other and snap your fingers at all the rest. Believe what I say to you. It is good sense. And good sense cannot lie. Be a religion to each other. Each man has his own fashion of adoring God. Saperlotte! The best way to adore God is to love one's wife. I love thee! That's my catechism. He who loves is orthodox. The oath of Henri IV. Places sanctity somewhere between feasting and drunkenness. Ventre-saint-gris! I don't belong to the religion of that oath. Woman is forgotten in it. This astonishes me on the part of Henri IV. My friends, long live women! I am old, they say; It's astonishing how much I feel in the mood to be young. I should like to go and listen to the bagpipes in the woods. Children who contrive to be beautiful and contented,--that intoxicates me. I would like greatly to get married, if any one would have me. It is impossible to imagine that God could have made us for anything but this:to idolize, to coo, to preen ourselves, to be dove-like, to be dainty, to bill and coo our loves from morn to night, to gaze at one's image in one's little wife, to be proud, to be triumphant, to plume oneself; that is the aim of life. There, let not that displease you which we used to think in our day, when we were young folks. Ah! Vertu-bamboche! What charming women there were in those days, and what pretty little faces and what lovely lasses! I committed my ravages among them. Then love each other. If people did not love each other, I really do not see what use there would be in having any springtime; and for my own part, I should pray the good God to shut up all the beautiful things that he shows us, and to take away from us and put back in his box, the flowers, the birds, and the pretty maidens. My children, receive an old man's blessing.
The evening was gay, lively and agreeable. The grandfather's sovereign good humor gave the key-note to the whole feast, and each person regulated his conduct on that almost centenarian cordiality. They danced a little, they laughed a great deal; it was an amiable wedding. Goodman Days of Yore might have been invited to it. However, he was present in the person of Father Gillenormand. 
There was a tumult, then silence.
The married pair disappeared.
A little after midnight, the Gillenormand house became a temple.
Here we pause. On the threshold of wedding nights stands a smiling angel with his finger on his lips.
The soul enters into contemplation before that sanctuary where the celebration of love takes place.
There should be flashes of light athwart such houses. The joy which they contain ought to make its escape through the stones of the walls in brilliancy, and vaguely illuminate the gloom. It is impossible that this sacred and fatal festival should not give off a celestial radiance to the infinite. Love is the sublime crucible wherein the fusion of the man and the woman takes place; the being one, the being triple, the being final, the human trinity proceeds from it. This birth of two souls into one, ought to be an emotion for the gloom. The lover is the priest; the ravished virgin is terrified. Something of that joy ascends to God. Where true marriage is, that is to say, where there is love, the ideal enters in. A nuptial bed makes a nook of dawn amid the shadows. If it were given to the eye of the flesh to scan the formidable and charming visions of the upper life, it is probable that we should behold the forms of night, the winged unknowns, the blue passers of the invisible, bend down, a throng of sombre heads,around the luminous house, satisfied, showering benedictions, pointing out to each other the virgin wife gently alarmed, sweetly terrified, and bearing the reflection of human bliss upon their divine countenances. If at that supreme hour, the wedded pair, dazzled with voluptuousness and believing themselves alone, were to listen, they would hear in their chamber a confused rustling of wings. Perfect happiness implies a mutual understanding with the angels. That dark little chamber has all heaven for its ceiling. When two mouths, rendered sacred by love, approach to create, it is impossible that there should not be, above that ineffable kiss, a quivering throughout the immense mystery of stars. 
These felicities are the true ones. There is no joy outside of these joys. Love is the only ecstasy. All the rest weeps. 
To love, or to have loved,--this suffices. Demand nothing more. There is no other pearl to be found in the shadowy folds of life. To love is a fulfilment.
实现自己的梦想，谁有这种可能呢？为此上天一定要进行选择；我们都是没有意识到的候选人；天使在投票。珂赛特和马吕斯中选了。
珂赛特在市政府和教堂里艳丽夺目，非常动人。这是杜桑在妮珂莱特的帮助下替她打扮的。
珂赛特在白色软缎衬裙上面，穿着班希产的镂空花边的连衣裙，披着英国的针织花面纱，带着一串圆润的珍珠项链和戴着一顶桔子花的花冠；这一切都是洁白无瑕，这种雅净的装饰使珂赛特容光焕发。这是绝妙的天真在光明中扩展而且神化了，好象一个贞女正在幻变成为天仙。
马吕斯的美发光亮又芳香，在鬈发下好几处地方可以看到街垒给他带来的几条浅色伤痕。
外祖父华贵而神气，他的服装和姿态高度集中了巴拉斯①时代所有的优雅举止，他引着珂赛特。他代替吊着绷带不能搀扶新娘的冉阿让。 
①巴拉斯（Paul　Barras，1755-1829），子爵，国民公会军司令，督政府的督政官。
冉阿让穿着黑色礼服，含笑跟在后面。
“割风先生，”外祖父向他说，“这是好日子。我投票表决悲痛和忧伤的结束，从今以后任何地方不应再有愁苦存在。我对天发誓！我颁布快乐！苦难没有理由存在。事实上现在还有不幸的人，这是上天的耻辱。痛苦不是人造成的，人的本性是善良的。一切痛苦的首府和中央政府就是地狱，换句话说，就是魔鬼的杜伊勒里宫。好呀，现在我也说起盅惑人心的话来啦！至于我，我已没有政治见解；但愿大家都富裕，就是说都愉快，我只要求这一点。”
所有的仪式都进行了：对市政府和神父的问题的无数次“是”的回答，在市政府和教堂的登记册上签了字，交换了结婚戒指，在香烟缭绕中双双并排跪在白色皱纹布的伞盖下，这之后他们这才手搀手，被大家赞美羡慕。马吕斯穿着黑色礼服，她是一身白，前面是带着上校肩章的教堂侍卫开道，用手中的戟跺响石板，他们走在两列赞叹的来宾中间，从教堂两扇大开着的门里走出来，一切都已结束，准备上车的时候，珂赛特还不相信这是真的。她看看马吕斯，看看大家，看看天，害怕醒来似的。她那种既惊讶又担心的神情，为她增添了一种说不出的魅力。回去时，马吕斯和珂赛特并肩同坐一车；吉诺曼先生和冉阿让坐在他们对面，吉诺曼姨妈退了一级，坐在第二辆车里。“我的孩子，”外祖父说，“你们现在是男爵先生和男爵夫人了，有三万利弗的年金。”于是珂赛特紧挨着马吕斯，在他耳边用天使般的妙音轻声说：“原来是真的。我叫马吕斯，我是‘你’夫人。”
这两个人容光焕发，他们正处在一去不复返、再难寻觅的一刹那，也就是处在整个青春和一切欢乐的光耀炫目的交叉点上。他们实现了让·勃鲁维尔的诗句所说的“他俩相加还不到四十岁”。这是崇高的结合，这两个孩子是两朵百合花。他们不是相互注视，而是相互礼拜。珂赛特觉得马吕斯是在荣光中；马吕斯感到珂赛特是在圣坛上。而在这圣坛上和在这荣光中，这两个神化了的人，其实已不知怎么合而为一了，对珂赛特来说是处在一层彩云之后，对马吕斯来说，则处在火焰般的光芒中。那里有着理想的东西，真实的东西，这就是接吻和梦幻般的相会，以及新婚的枕席。
他们经历过的苦难，回忆起来真令人陶醉。他们觉得现在已成为爱抚和光明的一切悲伤、失眠、流泪、忧虑、惊慌和失望，好象在使即将到来的令人喜悦的时刻变得更有魅力；对欢乐而言，好象悲伤已起到陪衬的作用。受过折磨是何等有益！他们的不幸构成了幸福的光圈。长期恋爱的苦闷使他们的感情升华了。
两个人的心灵同样感到销魂荡魄，马吕斯稍带点情欲，珂赛特则有点羞怯。他们轻声说：“我们再去卜吕梅街看看我们的小花园。”珂赛特的衣服折裥搭在马吕斯的身上。
这样的一天是梦幻和现实的混合。既占有却又是假设。目前还有时间来猜测。这一天，在中午去梦想午夜的情景是一种无法形容的激动情绪。两颗心里都洋溢着动人的幸福，使过路人也感到了轻松愉快。
行人在圣安东尼街圣保罗教堂前面停下来，为了透过马车的玻璃，看桔子花在珂赛特的头上颤动。
然后他们回到受难修女街家中。马吕斯与珂赛特胜利欢乐地并排走上过去人们在它上面拖回垂死的马吕斯的楼梯。穷人们聚集在门口分享他们的施舍，并且祝福新婚夫妇。到处都插满鲜花。家里象教堂里一样充满着芳香；在神香之后现在是玫瑰花。他们似乎听到天上有歌声；上帝在他们心中；他们的前途好象满天的星斗；他们看见了一道初升的阳光在头上闪耀。忽然时钟响了。马吕斯注视着珂赛特那裸露的迷人的粉臂和透过上衣的花边隐约可见的红润的地方，珂赛特察觉了马吕斯的目光，羞得面红耳赤。
很多吉诺曼家的老友都应邀而来，大家围着珂赛特，争先恐后地称她男爵夫人。
军官忒阿杜勒·吉诺曼，现在是上尉了，从他的部队驻扎地夏尔特尔来参加表弟彭眉胥的婚礼，珂赛特没有认出他来。
他呢，对妇女们称他为美男子已习以为常，一点也想不起珂赛特或其他任何女人。
“我幸好没有相信关于这个长矛兵的流言。”吉诺曼老爹心里暗想道。
对冉阿让，珂赛特从没有过此刻这样的温柔和体贴。她和吉诺曼老爹也和协一致；在他把快乐当作箴言准则的同时，如同香气一样她全身也散发着爱和善。幸福的人希望大家都幸福。
她和冉阿让谈话时，又用她幼年时的语气，对他微笑着表示亲热。
一桌酒席设在饭厅里。
亮如白昼的照明是盛大喜宴不可缺的点缀品。欢乐的人不能容忍昏暗和模糊不清。他们不愿呆在黑暗里。夜里，可以；
黑暗，不行。如果没有太阳，就得创造一个。
饭厅是一个摆满赏心悦目物品的大熔炉。正中，在雪白耀眼的饭桌的上方，吊着一盏威尼斯产的金属片制的烛台，上面有着各色的鸟：蓝的，紫的，红的，绿的，都栖息在蜡烛中间；在吊着的烛台四周有多枝的烛台，墙上挂有三重和五重的枝形壁灯反射镜；玻璃、水晶、玻璃器皿，餐具、瓷器、陶器、瓦器、金银器皿，一切都光彩夺目，玲珑可爱。烛台的空隙处，插满了花束，因此，没有烛光的地方就有花朵。
在候见室里有三把小提琴和一支笛子在轻声演奏着海顿的四重奏。
冉阿让坐在客厅里一张靠椅上，在门背后，这敞着的门几乎把他遮住了。上桌吃饭前片刻，珂赛特心血来潮，用双手把她的新娘礼服展开，向他行了个屈膝大礼，她带着温柔而调皮的目光问他：
“父亲，你高兴吗？”
冉阿让说：“我很高兴。”
“那你就笑一笑吧！”
冉阿让就笑起来了。
几分钟以后，巴斯克通知筵席已准备好了。
吉诺曼先生让珂赛特挽着他的手臂走在前面，和跟在后面的宾客一同进入餐厅，大家根据指定的位子，在桌旁入座。
两张大安乐椅摆在新娘的左右两旁。
第一张是吉诺曼先生的，第二张是冉阿让的。吉诺曼先生坐下了。另一张还空着。
大家的目光都在寻找“割风先生”。
他已不在了。
吉诺曼先生问巴斯克：
“你知道割风先生在哪儿吗？”
“老爷，”巴斯克回答，“正是割风先生叫我告诉老爷，他受了伤的手有点痛，他不能陪男爵先生和男爵夫人用餐，他请大家原谅他，他明天早晨来。他刚刚离去。”
这个空着的安乐椅，使喜宴上有片刻感到扫兴。割风先生缺席，但有吉诺曼先生在，外祖父兴致勃勃能抵两个人。他明确地说如果割风先生感到不舒服，那最好早点上床休息，又说，这只是轻微的一点“疼痛”。这点说明够了。更何况在一片欢乐中一个阴暗的角落又算得了什么？珂赛特和马吕斯正处在自私和受祝福的时刻，此时人除了见到幸福之外已没有其他能力了。于是吉诺曼先生灵机一动，“嗨，这椅子空着，你来，马吕斯。虽然按理你应坐在你姨妈旁边，但她会允许你坐过来的。这椅子是属于你的了。这是合法而且亲切的，如同财神挨近了福星。”全桌一致鼓掌。马吕斯便占了珂赛特旁边冉阿让的位子；经过这样的安排，珂赛特本来因冉阿让不在而不乐，结果却感到满意。既然马吕斯当了后补，珂赛特连上帝不在也不会惋惜的。她把她那柔软的穿着白缎鞋的小脚放在马吕斯的脚上。
椅子有人坐了，割风先生已被忘却；大家并不感到有什么欠缺。于是五分钟后，全桌的来宾已经笑逐颜开，什么都忘了。
餐后上水果点心时，吉诺曼先生起立，手中举着一杯不大满的香槟，这是因为他那九十二岁的高龄怕手颤而使酒溢出，他向新婚夫妇祝酒。
“你们逃避不了两次训戒，”他大声说，“早晨你们接受了教士的，晚上要接受外祖父的。听我说，我要劝告你们：‘你们相爱吧！’我不来搬弄一堆华丽的词藻，我直截了当地说，‘你们幸福吧！’天地万物没有比斑鸠更聪明的了。哲学家说欢乐要有分寸。我却说：‘要尽情欢乐，要象魔鬼那样热恋，如痴如醉。’哲学家是在胡诌，我要把他们的哲学塞回到他们的喉咙里去。人们难道会嫌芳香过分，玫瑰花开得过多，歌唱的黄莺太多，翠叶太多，生命中的清晨太多吗？难道人会爱得过火？难道双方会相互喜欢得过火？注意，爱丝特尔，你太美丽了！小心，内莫朗，你太漂亮了！这纯粹是蠢话！难道相互会过分迷恋、过分爱抚、过分使对方陶醉吗？难道生命的活力会过多？幸福会过分？欢乐要节制。呸！打倒哲学家！欢天喜地就是智慧。你们兴高采烈吧，让我们兴高采烈吧！我们感到幸福难道是由于我们善良？还是正因为我们是幸福的所以我们也是善良的呢？桑西所以被称作桑西，是因为它属于哈勒·德·桑西①呢还是因为它重一百○六克拉呢？关于这我一点也不知道；生活中充满了这类难题；重要的是去获得桑西和幸福。幸福吧！不要挑剔，要盲目地服从太阳。太阳是什么，就是爱情呀。提到爱情，就是指女人。啊！啊！无上权威就在这儿，这就是女人。你们问问这个造反的马吕斯，他是不是珂赛特这个小暴君的奴仆。他是心甘情愿的，这胆小鬼！女人！没有站得住脚的罗伯斯庇尔，还是女人掌权。我也只是这个王党的保王党员了。亚当是什么？他是夏娃的王国，对夏娃来说，是没有一七八九年的。有的君主权杖上有朵百合花，有的装着一个地球，查理曼大帝的权杖是铁的，路易十四的是金的，革命把这些权杖用大拇指和食指折断了，好象两文钱的麦秆一样拧弯了，完蛋了，断了，都倒在地上了，不再有权杖了；但是你们给我来造造这块香草味的绣花小手帕的反吧！我倒想瞧瞧你们敢不敢。试试吧。它为什么结实？因为是块布头。啊！你们是属于十九世纪的？那又怎么样呢？我们是属于十八世纪的！我们和你们一样愚蠢。你们管霍乱叫流行性霍乱，称奥弗涅舞蹈为卡朱沙。不要以为你们因此就使宇宙有多大改变，永远都得爱女人。我不信你们能摆脱得了。这些女魔是我们的天使。不错，爱情、女子、接吻，这个圈子你们跳不出来；至于我，我还想钻进去呢。你们之中谁曾见过，金星在天空升起，她是这个深渊上卖弄风情的女郎②。海洋里的色里曼纳，她安抚着下方的一切，好象一个美女在俯视狂涛。海洋是一个粗暴的阿尔赛斯特。它嘟囔也没用，维纳斯一露面，它就得喜笑颜开。这只野兽就被驯服了。我们大家都是这样的忿怒，咆哮，霹雳，怒气冲天。一个女人登上舞台，一颗星星升起，就都服服帖帖了！马吕斯六个月之前还在战斗，今天他结婚了。做得好。不错，马吕斯，对了，珂赛特，你们做得对。你们勇敢地为对方生存吧，特别亲昵，使别人因不能这样做而气得发疯，你们互相崇拜吧！用你们小小的鸟喙拾起地上所有的幸福草，设法用它做成你们一辈子的安乐窝。啊！恋爱，被爱，年轻时候的奇迹！你们不要以为这是你们发明的。我也曾有过幻梦、冥想和叹息，我也曾有过浪漫的心灵。爱神是一个六千岁的小孩。爱神有权长一口长长的白胡须，玛土撒拉在丘比特面前只是一个孩子。六十个世纪以来男女相爱，解决了一切问题，魔鬼，这个狡猾的东西，憎恨男子，男子比他更狡猾，去爱上女子。因此他得到的好处超过魔鬼给他的坏处。这种巧妙的事，自从开天辟地以来就存在了。朋友们，这个发明已经陈旧，可是它还很新颖。你们利用这个发明吧！你们目前可以是达夫尼斯和克罗埃③，将来你们再成为菲利门和波息司④。当你们在一起时，就应该一无所需，珂赛特要成为马吕斯的太阳，马吕斯要成为珂赛特的天地。珂赛特，你的艳阳天就是马吕斯的微笑；马吕斯，你的雨水就是妻子的泪珠，要使你们夫妻生活中永远不下雨。你们的爱情得到宗教的祝福，你们抽到了一个好签，是头彩，要好好保存，锁起来，不要浪费掉，要互敬互爱，此外可以不闻不问。相信我说的话。这是理智的。理智不会骗人。你们要象敬神一样相互敬重。每个人崇拜上帝的方式不同。见鬼！最高明的敬仰上帝的方式，就是爱自己的妻子。我爱你，这就是我的教理。谁爱，谁就是正教派。亨利四世的渎神话是把神圣放在盛宴和陶醉之间。‘畜生！⑤’我不信奉这句粗话的宗教。因为其中女人被忘却了。我很诧异亨利四世的亵渎的话竟会是这个。朋友们，女人万岁！据人说我是老了；我感到多么奇怪自己正越活越年轻。我很想到树林里去听听风笛。这两个孩子都是美而愉快的，这使我陶醉。我也千真万确地想结婚，如果有人愿意的话。不能设想上帝创造我们是为了别的原因，而不是为了狂热地爱，情话绵绵，精心打扮，当小宝贝，做最受女人赞赏的人，从早到晚亲吻爱人，为自己的爱妻自豪，得意洋洋，炫耀自负；这就是生活的目的。这些就是棗希望不要见怪棗我们那个时代，当我们是年轻人时的想法。啊！我发誓！那个时代迷人的女子可多啦，标致的面庞，年轻的少女！我使她们神魂颠倒。因此你们相爱吧。如果不相爱，我真不懂春天有什么用；至于我，我请求上帝，把他给我们看的一切美好的东西都拿回去，收藏起来，重新把花朵、小鸟、美女放进他的宝盒。孩子们，来接受一个老人的祝福吧！” 
①尼古拉·哈勒·德·桑西（Nicolas　Harlay　de　Sancy，1546-1629），法国行政长官，有一颗五十三克拉重的钻石，这颗钻石即名桑西。又桑西与法语中“一百○六”（cent　six）同音，故后面引出一百○六克拉之语。
②维纳斯是罗马神话里爱和美的女神，在法语中又指金星。
③达夫尼斯（Daphnis）和克罗埃（Chloé），希腊小说《达夫尼斯和克罗埃》中的主人公。
④菲利门（Philémon）和波息司（Baucis），神话中人物，象征夫妇恩爱，长寿，同生同死。
⑤这是亨利四世惯用的骂人的话，法文是“肚子－圣人－醉”（ventreBsaintBgris）。
这一晚过得轻松愉快而亲切。外祖父极为舒畅的心情为节日定了调，每个人都为这将近一百岁老人的热诚而行事，大家跳了一会舞，笑声不绝；这是一个亲切的婚礼。真可以邀请“往昔”这位好好先生来参加。其实吉诺曼老爹也就等于是“昔日”这位好好先生了。
有过活跃热闹的场面，现在安静下来了。
新婚夫妇不见了。
午夜刚过，吉诺曼的屋子变成了一所庙宇。
到这里我们止步了。在新婚之夜的房门前，有一个微笑的天使站着，用一个手指按在唇边。
在这欢庆爱情的圣地之前，心灵进入了冥想的境界。
屋子的顶上肯定有微光在闪烁。屋里充满着喜悦的光芒，一定会从墙头的石缝中透露出来，把黑暗微微划破。这个命中注定的圣洁的喜事，不可能不放射出一道神光到太空中去。爱情是融合男人和女人的卓越的熔炉，单一的人，三人一体，最后的人，凡人的三位一体由此产生。两个心灵和合的诞生，一定会感动幽灵。情人是教士；被夺走的处女感到惊恐。这种欢乐多少会传送到上帝那里。真正的崇高的婚姻，即爱情的结合，就有着理想的境界。一张新婚的床在黑夜里是一角黎明，如果允许肉眼看见这些可畏而又迷人的上天的形象，我们可能见到夜里的那些形体，长着翅膀的陌生人，看不见的蓝色的旅客，弯着腰，一簇黑影似的人头，在发光的房屋的周围，他们感到满意，祝福新婚夫妇，互相指着处女新娘，他们也略感紧张，他们神圣的容貌上有着人间幸福的反照。新婚夫妇在至高无上的销魂极乐时刻，认为没有他人在旁，如果倾耳谛听，他们就可以听见簌簌的纷乱的翅膀声。完美的幸福引来了天使的共同的关怀。在这间黑暗的小寝室上面，有整个天空作为房顶。当两人的嘴唇，被爱情所纯化，为了创造而互相接近时，在这个无法形容的接吻上空，辽阔而神秘的繁星，不会没有一阵震颤。
这幸福是真实不虚的，除了这一欢乐外没有其他的欢乐。
唯独爱令人感到心醉神迷。此外一切都是可悲可泣的。
爱和曾爱过，这就够了。不必再作其他希求。在生活的黑暗褶子里，是找不到其他的珍珠的。爱是完满的幸福。
Part 5 Book 6 Chapter 3 The Inseparable
What had become of Jean Valjean?
Immediately after having laughed, at Cosette's graceful command, when no one was paying any heed to him, Jean Valjean had risen and had gained the antechamber unperceived. This was the very room which, eight months before, he had entered black with mud, with blood and powder, bringing back the grandson to the grandfather. The old wainscoting was garlanded with foliage and flowers; the musicians were seated on the sofa on which they had laid Marius down. Basque, in a black coat, knee-breeches, white stockings and white gloves, was arranging roses round all of the dishes that were to be served. Jean Valjean pointed to his arm in its sling, charged Basque to explain his absence, and went away.
The long windows of the dining-room opened on the street. Jean Valjean stood for several minutes, erect and motionless in the darkness, beneath those radiant windows. He listened. The confused sounds of the banquet reached his ear. He heard the loud, commanding tones of the grandfather, the violins, the clatter of the plates, the bursts of laughter, and through all that merry uproar, he distinguished Cosette's sweet and joyous voice. 
He quitted the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, and returned to the Rue de l'Homme Arme.
In order to return thither, he took the Rue Saint-Louis, the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and the Blancs-Manteaux; it was a little longer, but it was the road through which, for the last three months, he had become accustomed to pass every day on his way from the Rue de l'Homme Arme to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, in order to avoid the obstructions and the mud in the Rue Vielle-du-Temple. 
This road, through which Cosette had passed, excluded for him all possibility of any other itinerary. 
Jean Valjean entered his lodgings. He lighted his candle and mounted the stairs. The apartment was empty. Even Toussaint was no longer there. Jean Valjean's step made more noise than usual in the chambers. All the cupboards stood open. He penetrated to Cosette's bedroom. There were no sheets on the bed. The pillow, covered with ticking, and without a case or lace, was laid on the blankets folded up on the foot of the mattress, whose covering was visible, and on which no one was ever to sleep again. All the little feminine objects which Cosette was attached to had been carried away; nothing remained except the heavy furniture and the four walls. Toussaint's bed was despoiled in like manner. One bed only was made up, and seemed to be waiting some one, and this was Jean Valjean's bed.
Jean Valjean looked at the walls, closed some of the cupboard doors, and went and came from one room to another. 
Then he sought his own chamber once more, and set his candle on a table.
He had disengaged his arm from the sling, and he used his right hand as though it did not hurt him. 
He approached his bed, and his eyes rested, was it by chance? was it intentionally? on the inseparable of which Cosette had been jealous, on the little portmanteau which never left him. On his arrival in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, on the 4th of June, he had deposited it on a round table near the head of his bed. He went to this table with a sort of vivacity, took a key from his pocket, and opened the valise.
From it he slowly drew forth the garments in which, ten years before, Cosette had quitted Montfermeil; first the little gown, then the black fichu, then the stout, coarse child's shoes which Cosette might almost have worn still, so tiny were her feet, then the fustian bodice, which was very thick, then the knitted petticoat, next the apron with pockets, then the woollen stockings. These stockings, which still preserved the graceful form of a tiny leg, were no longer than Jean Valjean's hand. All this was black of hue. It was he who had brought those garments to Montfermeil for her. As he removed them from the valise, he laid them on the bed. He fell to thinking. He called up memories. It was in winter, in a very cold month of December, she was shivering, half-naked, in rags, her poor little feet were all red in their wooden shoes. He, Jean Valjean, had made her abandon those rags to clothe herself in these mourning habiliments. The mother must have felt pleased in her grave, to see her daughter wearing mourning for her, and, above all, to see that she was properly clothed, and that she was warm. He thought of that forest of Montfermeil; they had traversed it together, Cosette and he; he thought of what the weather had been, of the leafless trees, of the wood destitute of birds, of the sunless sky; it mattered not, it was charming. He arranged the tiny garments on the bed, the fichu next to the petticoat, the stockings beside the shoes, and he looked at them, one after the other. She was no taller than that, she had her big doll in her arms, she had put her louis d'or in the pocket of that apron, she had laughed, they walked hand in hand, she had no one in the world but him.
Then his venerable, white head fell forward on the bed, that stoical old heart broke, his face was engulfed, so to speak, in Cosette's garments, and if any one had passed up the stairs at that moment, he would have heard frightful sobs.
冉阿让后来怎么样了？
在珂赛特的亲切命令下，冉阿让笑了之后，乘人不备，立刻站起身来，没有人察觉，他走到了候客室。就是在这间屋子里，八个月以前，他满身污泥，又是血，又是灰尘，把外孙送来给外祖父的。那些老式的木器上都有着花和叶的装饰，琴师们坐在过去放置马吕斯的长椅上。巴斯克穿着黑色上衣、短裤、白袜和戴着白手套，把玫瑰花圈放在每一盘要上的菜的四周。冉阿让向他指着自己吊着绷带的手臂，托他解释他缺席的原因，就出去了。
饭厅的格子窗向着大街，冉阿让一动不动地在黑暗中闪亮的窗子下面站了几分钟。他听着。酒席上的嘈杂声传到了他耳边。他听见外祖父那高亢而带有命令口气的讲话、小提琴声、杯盘的叮当声、哈哈大笑声，在整个欢乐的喧哗声中，他能辨别出珂赛特的温柔而愉快的声音。
他离开了受难修女街，回到了武人街。
回家时，他经过圣路易街、圣卡特琳园地街和白大衣商店，这路线比较长，但这是三个月以来，为了避免拥挤和老人堂街的泥泞，他和珂赛特每日从武人街到受难修女街常走的路。
这条珂赛特走过的路，使他摒弃了任何其他路线。
冉阿让回到家。他点起蜡烛上楼。房间是空的。杜桑也不在了。冉阿让在房中的脚步声比往日要响些。所有橱柜都敞开着。他走进珂赛特的房间。床上已没有垫单。细棉布的枕心，没有枕套也没有花边，放在褥子脚头折叠好了的被套上，垫褥露出了麻布套子，没有人再来睡了。一切珂赛特喜爱的女人用的小物品她都带走了；只剩下笨重的木器和四堵墙。杜桑的床也同样剥光了，只有一张床是铺好的，似乎等待着一个人，这就是冉阿让的床。
冉阿让看看墙头，关上几扇橱门，从这间房走到那间房。
然后他回到自己的房中，把蜡烛放在桌上。
他把手从吊带中解出来，他使用右手就象他没有感到疼痛那样。
他走近卧铺，他的目光，不知是偶然还是有意，停留在那“难分难舍的东西”上面，这就是珂赛特过去曾经妒忌过的那只他不离身的小箱子。当他六月四日来到武人街时，便把它放在床头一张独脚小圆桌上。他迅速走向圆桌，从口袋中取出一把钥匙，把小箱子打开。
他慢慢地把十年前珂赛特离开孟费郿时穿的衣服拿出来；先取出黑色小衣服，再取出黑色方围巾，再取出粗笨的童靴，珂赛特现在差不多还能穿得下，因为她的脚很小巧，接着他又取出很厚的粗斜纹布紧身上衣，还有针织品的短裙，又取出有口袋的围裙，再取出毛线袜。这双毛线袜还很可爱的保留着孩子小腿的形状，它比冉阿让的手掌长不了多少。这一切都是黑色的。是他把这些服装带到孟费郿给她穿的。他一边取出衣物，一边放在床上。他在想。他在回忆。那是一个冬季，一个严寒的十二月，她半裸着身体在破衣烂衫中颤抖，可怜的小脚在木鞋中冻得通红。是他冉阿让，使她脱下了这褴褛的衣服，换上了孝服。那位母亲在坟墓中见到女儿在替她戴孝，尤其是见到她有衣服穿而且还很暖和时该有多么高兴啊！他想起了孟费郿的森林；他们是一同穿过的，珂赛特和他；他回想起当时的天气，想起了没有叶子的树，没有鸟的林，没有太阳的天；尽管如此，一切都非常可爱。他把小衣服摆在床上，围巾放在短裙旁，绒袜放在靴子旁，内衣放在连衣裙旁，他一样一样地看。她只有这么高，她怀里抱着她的玩具大娃娃，她把她的金路易放在围裙口袋里，她笑呀笑呀，他们手搀着手向前走，她在世上只有他一个人。
于是他那白发苍苍可敬的头倒到床上，这个镇静的老人的心碎了，他的脸可以说是埋在珂赛特的衣服里，如果这时有人从楼梯上走过，就可以听见沉痛的哀嚎。
Part 5 Book 6 Chapter 4 The Immortal Liver
[68] In allusion to the story of Prometheus.
The old and formidable struggle, of which we have already witnessed so many phases, began once more.
Jacob struggled with the angel but one night. Alas! How many times have we beheld Jean Valjean seized bodily by his conscience, in the darkness, and struggling desperately against it! 
Unheard-of conflict! At certain moments the foot slips; at other moments the ground crumbles away underfoot. How many times had that conscience, mad for the good, clasped and overthrown him! How many times had the truth set her knee inexorably upon his breast! How many times, hurled to earth by the light, had he begged for mercy! How many times had that implacable spark, lighted within him, and upon him by the Bishop, dazzled him by force when he had wished to be blind! How many times had he risen to his feet in the combat, held fast to the rock, leaning against sophism, dragged in the dust, now getting the upper hand of his conscience, again overthrown by it! How many times, after an equivoque, after the specious and treacherous reasoning of egotism, had he heard his irritated conscience cry in his ear: "A trip! You wretch!" How many times had his refractory thoughts rattled convulsively in his throat, under the evidence of duty! Resistance to God. Funereal sweats. What secret wounds which he alone felt bleed! What excoriations in his lamentable existence! How many times he had risen bleeding, bruised, broken, enlightened, despair in his heart, serenity in his soul! and, vanquished, he had felt himself the conqueror. And, after having dislocated, broken, and rent his conscience with red-hot pincers, it had said to him, as it stood over him, formidable, luminous, and tranquil: "Now, go in peace!"
But on emerging from so melancholy a conflict, what a lugubrious peace, alas!
Nevertheless, that night Jean Valjean felt that he was passing through his final combat.
A heart-rending question presented itself.
Predestinations are not all direct; they do not open out in a straight avenue before the predestined man; they have blind courts, impassable alleys, obscure turns, disturbing crossroads offering the choice of many ways. Jean Valjean had halted at that moment at the most perilous of these crossroads.
He had come to the supreme crossing of good and evil. He had that gloomy intersection beneath his eyes. On this occasion once more, as had happened to him already in other sad vicissitudes, two roads opened out before him, the one tempting, the other alarming.
Which was he to take?
He was counselled to the one which alarmed him by that mysterious index finger which we all perceive whenever we fix our eyes on the darkness.
Once more, Jean Valjean had the choice between the terrible port and the smiling ambush. 
Is it then true? the soul may recover; but not fate. Frightful thing! An incurable destiny! 
This is the problem which presented itself to him:
In what manner was Jean Valjean to behave in relation to the happiness of Cosette and Marius? It was he who had willed that happiness, it was he who had brought it about; he had, himself, buried it in his entrails, and at that moment, when he reflected on it, he was able to enjoy the sort of satisfaction which an armorer would experience on recognizing his factory mark on a knife, on withdrawing it, all smoking, from his own breast. 
Cosette had Marius, Marius possessed Cosette. They had everything, even riches. And this was his doing. 
But what was he, Jean Valjean, to do with this happiness, now that it existed, now that it was there? Should he force himself on this happiness? Should he treat it as belonging to him? No doubt, Cosette did belong to another; but should he, Jean Valjean, retain of Cosette all that he could retain? Should he remain the sort of father, half seen but respected, which he had hitherto been? Should he, without saying a word, bring his past to that future? Should he present himself there, as though he had a right, and should he seat himself, veiled, at that luminous fireside? Should he take those innocent hands into his tragic hands, with a smile? Should he place upon the peaceful fender of the Gillenormand drawing-room those feet of his, which dragged behind them the disgraceful shadow of the law? Should he enter into participation in the fair fortunes of Cosette and Marius? Should he render the obscurity on his brow and the cloud upon theirs still more dense? Should he place his catastrophe as a third associate in their felicity? Should he continue to hold his peace? In a word, should he be the sinister mute of destiny beside these two happy beings?
We must have become habituated to fatality and to encounters with it, in order to have the daring to raise our eyes when certain questions appear to us in all their horrible nakedness. Good or evil stands behind this severe interrogation point. What are you going to do? Demands the sphinx.
This habit of trial Jean Valjean possessed. He gazed intently at the sphinx.
He examined the pitiless problem under all its aspects.
Cosette, that charming existence, was the raft of this shipwreck. What was he to do? To cling fast to it, or to let go his hold? 
If he clung to it, he should emerge from disaster, he should ascend again into the sunlight, he should let the bitter water drip from his garments and his hair, he was saved, he should live.
And if he let go his hold?
Then the abyss.
Thus he took sad council with his thoughts. Or, to speak more correctly, he fought; he kicked furiously internally, now against his will, now against his conviction.
Happily for Jean Valjean that he had been able to weep. That relieved him, possibly. But the beginning was savage. A tempest, more furious than the one which had formerly driven him to Arras, broke loose within him. The past surged up before him facing the present; he compared them and sobbed. The silence of tears once opened, the despairing man writhed.
He felt that he had been stopped short.
Alas! in this fight to the death between our egotism and our duty, when we thus retreat step by step before our immutable ideal, bewildered, furious, exasperated at having to yield, disputing the ground, hoping for a possible flight, seeking an escape, what an abrupt and sinister resistance does the foot of the wall offer in our rear!
To feel the sacred shadow which forms an obstacle!
The invisible inexorable, what an obsession!
Then, one is never done with conscience. Make your choice, Brutus; make your choice, Cato. It is fathomless, since it is God. One flings into that well the labor of one's whole life, one flings in one's fortune, one flings in one's riches, one flings in one's success, one flings in one's liberty or fatherland, one flings in one's well-being, one flings in one's repose, one flings in one's joy! More! More! More! Empty the vase! Tip the urn! One must finish by flinging in one's heart.
Somewhere in the fog of the ancient hells, there is a tun like that.
Is not one pardonable, if one at last refuses! Can the inexhaustible have any right? Are not chains which are endless above human strength? Who would blame Sisyphus and Jean Valjean for saying: "It is enough!"
The obedience of matter is limited by friction; is there no limit to the obedience of the soul? If perpetual motion is impossible, can perpetual self-sacrifice be exacted?
The first step is nothing, it is the last which is difficult. What was the Champmathieu affair in comparison with Cosette's marriage and of that which it entailed? What is are-entrance into the galleys, compared to entrance into the void?
Oh, first step that must be descended, how sombre art thou! Oh, second step, how black art thou! 
How could he refrain from turning aside his head this time?
Martyrdom is sublimation, corrosive sublimation. It is a torture which consecrates. One can consent to it for the first hour; one seats oneself on the throne of glowing iron, one places on one's head the crown of hot iron, one accepts the globe of red hot iron, one takes the sceptre of red hot iron, but the mantle of flame still remains to be donned, and comes there not a moment when the miserable flesh revolts and when one abdicates from suffering? 
At length, Jean Valjean entered into the peace of exhaustion.
He weighed, he reflected, he considered the alternatives, the mysterious balance of light and darkness.
Should he impose his galleys on those two dazzling children, or should he consummate his irremediable engulfment by himself? On one side lay the sacrifice of Cosette, on the other that of himself. 
At what solution should he arrive? What decision did he come to?
What resolution did he take? What was his own inward definitive response to the unbribable interrogatory of fatality? What door did he decide to open? Which side of his life did he resolve upon closing and condemning? Among all the unfathomable precipices which surrounded him, which was his choice? What extremity did he accept? To which of the gulfs did he nod his head?
His dizzy revery lasted all night long.
He remained there until daylight, in the same attitude, bent double over that bed, prostrate beneath the enormity of fate, crushed, perchance, alas! With clenched fists, with arms outspread at right angles, like a man crucified who has been un-nailed, and flung face down on the earth. There he remained for twelve hours, the twelve long hours of a long winter's night, ice-cold, without once raising his head, and without uttering a word. He was as motionless as a corpse, while his thoughts wallowed on the earth and soared, now like the hydra, now like the eagle. Any one to behold him thus motionless would have pronounced him dead; all at once he shuddered convulsively, and his mouth, glued to Cosette's garments, kissed them; then it could be seen that he was alive. 
Who could see? Since Jean Valjean was alone, and there was no one there.
The One who is in the shadows.
①“不死的肝脏”，原文为拉丁文“ImmortaleJecur”。普罗米修斯因窃天火给人类，被钉在高加索山的悬崖上，宙斯每天叫一只大鹰啄食他的肝脏，到了夜晚啄食掉的肝脏又恢复原状。
以往可怕的搏斗，我们曾见过好几个回合，现在又开始了。
雅各和天使只搏斗了一宵。可叹的是，我们见到多少次冉阿让在黑暗中被自己的良心所擒，不顾死活地和它搏斗。
闻所未闻的恶斗！有时是失足滑脱，有时是土地塌陷。这颗狂热追求正义的良心多少次把他箍紧而压服！多少次，这个不可逃避的真理，用膝盖压住他的胸膛！多少次，他被光明打翻在地，大声求饶！多少次，主教在他身上，在他内心点燃的这个铁面无私的光明，在他希望看不见时，却照得他眼都发花！多少次，他在斗争中重新站起来，抓住岩石，依仗诡辩，在尘埃里打滚，有时他把良心压在身下，有时又被良心打翻！多少次，在支吾其辞、在以自私为出发点的一种背叛的似是而非的推论之后，他听见愤怒的良心在他耳边狂呼：“阴谋家！无耻！”多少次，他执拗的思想在无可否认的职责前痉挛地辗转不安！对上帝的抗拒。悲伤的流汗。多少暗伤，只有他自己感到仍在流血！他悲惨的一生中有过多少伤痛！多少次他重新站了起来，鲜血淋淋，受了致命伤，碰到挫折，于是恍然大悟，心里绝望，灵魂却宁静了！他虽然失败，但却感到胜利了。他的良心使他四肢脱臼，受到百般折磨，筋断骨折之后，就站在他上面，令人望而生畏，这良心光芒四射，在安详地向他说：“现在，平安无事了！”
但经过这样一场沉痛的搏斗之后，唉！这是多么凄惨的一种平安！
然而这一夜，冉阿让感到他打的是最后一仗。
一个使人心碎的问题出现了。
天命不是一直都是笔直的，它们在命运已经注定的人面前展开的不是一条直的路；有绝路、死胡同①、黑暗的拐弯、令人焦急的多岔道的交叉路口。冉阿让此刻正停留在这样一个最危险的交叉路口上。 
①死胡同，原文为拉丁文cacums。
他已到了最重要的一个善恶交叉的路口。这个暗中的交叉点就在他眼前。这次和以往在痛苦的波折里一样，两条路出现在他面前，一条诱惑他，另一条使他惊骇。究竟走哪一条路呢？
一条可怕的路是，当我们注视黑暗时，就能见到一个神秘的手指在指引着。
冉阿让又一次要在可怕的避风港和诱人的陷阱这两者之间作出选择。
据说灵魂能痊愈而命运则不能。难道这话是真的？多么可怕的事，一个无法挽救的命运！
出现的问题是这样的：
对于珂赛特和马吕斯的幸福冉阿让应抱什么态度？这一幸福是他愿意的，是他一手造成的，是他用尽心血使之实现的，此刻望着这个成果，他感到的满意，正如一个铸剑师看见从他胸口拔出来的热气腾腾的刀上，有自己铸造的标记。
珂赛特有了马吕斯，马吕斯占有了珂赛特。他们应有尽有，也不缺财富。这都是他一手造成的。
但这个幸福，现在既已存在，并且就在眼前，他冉阿让将如何对待？他是否硬要进入这一幸福中去？是否把它看成是属于他的呢？珂赛特当然已归另一个人，但他冉阿让还能保持他和珂赛特间一切能保持的关系吗？和以往一样当作一个偶尔见见面但受到敬重的父亲？他能泰然进入珂赛特的家里去吗？他能一言不发，把他的过去带到这未来的生活中去吗？他是否感到有权进去，并且戴着面罩，坐在这个光明的家庭里？他是否能含着笑用他悲惨的双手来和纯洁的孩子们握手呢？他能把带着法律上不名誉的黑影的双脚放在吉诺曼客厅中安静的壁炉柴架上吗？他能这么进去同珂赛特和马吕斯分享好运吗？他是否要把自己额上的黑影加深并使他们额上的乌云也加厚？他要把他的灾祸搀杂在他们两人的幸福里吗？继续隐瞒下去吗？总之一句话，在这两个幸运儿身旁，他将是命运阴森的哑巴？
当有些可怕的问题赤裸裸地暴露在我们面前时，必须对无数和一系列厄运感到习惯我们才敢正视这些问题。善或恶就在这严厉的问号后面。你打算怎么办呢？斯芬克司在问他。
冉阿让惯于接受这些考验，他目不转睛地看着斯芬克司。
他从各个方面去考虑这个残酷的问题。
珂赛特，这个可爱的生命，是沉溺者得救的木筏。怎么办？
抓紧它，还是松手？
如果抓紧，他可以脱离灾难，又回到阳光下，他可以使苦水从衣服和头发里流干净，他就得救了，他就能活了。
松手吗？
那就是深渊。
他痛苦地和思想协商。或者说得准确一点，他在斗争；拳打脚踢，怒火冲天，内心里有时反对自己的意愿，有时反对自己的信心。
痛哭对冉阿让来说是一种幸福。这样可能使他清醒。但开始时相当猛烈。一阵汹涌的波涛比过去把他推向阿拉斯时还更强烈，象脱了锁链似的在他心里爆发出来。过去又回来和现在正面相对；他比较了一下，于是嚎啕痛哭，眼泪的闸门一开，这个失望的人便哭得直不起腰来。
他感到出路被挡住了。
可叹的是，这种自私心和责任感之间的激烈拳击，当我们在不能剥夺的理想面前一步一步后退时，会心乱如麻，顽强抗拒的，我们为后退而激怒，寸土必争，希望有逃脱的可能，当我们正在寻找出路，忽然在我们后面碰到一堵墙。这是多么可怕的阻碍啊！
感到了神圣的黑影在挡住去路！
严正的冥冥上苍，怎么也摆脱不掉！
因此和良心打交道是没完没了的。布鲁图斯，你就死了心吧！卡托，你死了心吧。为了上帝，良心是无底的坑。我们可以把一生的事业丢进这深井，把家产丢进去，把财富丢进去，把成就丢进去，把自由或祖国丢进去，把舒适丢进去，把安息丢进去，把快乐丢进去。还要！还要！还要！把瓶子倒空！把罐子侧过来！最后还要把自己的心也丢进去。
在古老的地狱某一处的烟雾中，有一个这样的桶。
最后拒绝这样做，难道不能被原谅吗？可以有权没完没了地折磨人吗？漫长的锁链难道不是超过了人的耐力吗？谁会责备西绪福斯和冉阿让，如果他们说：“受够了！”
物质的服从是被磨擦所限制的；难道灵魂的服从没有一个限度？如果永恒的运转是不存在的，是否能要求永久的忠诚呢？
第一步不算什么，最后一步才是艰巨的。商马第事件和珂赛特的婚姻及其后果比起来又算得了什么？和再进牢房和变得一无所有比起来又算得了什么？
啊！要走的这第一步，你是多么暗淡呀！第二步，你是多么黑暗呀！
这一次怎么能不把头掉过去呢？
殉难者有高尚的品德，一种腐蚀性的高尚。这是一种使人圣化的磨难。开始时还能忍受，坐了烧红了的铁宝座，把红铁冠戴在头上，接过火红的铁地球，拿着火红的权杖，还要穿上火焰的外套，悲惨的肉身难道一刻也不能反抗，难道永远没有拒绝肉刑的时候？
最后冉阿让在失望中安静了。
他衡量，默想，他考虑着这个在轮番起落的光明和黑暗的神秘天平。
让这两个前途无限光明的孩子来承担他的徒刑，或是他自己来完成他那无可救药的沉沦。一边是牺牲珂赛特，另一边是牺牲自己。
他作了什么结论？采取了什么决定？他内心对这永不变化的命运的审问，最终将如何作答？他决定打开哪一扇门？他决定关掉并封闭生命中的哪一边？处在四周被深不可测的悬崖围困之中，他的选择是什么？他接受哪一条末路？他向这些深渊中的哪一条点头表示同意？
他经过了一整夜的头晕目眩的苦思。
他用同样的姿势呆到天明，在床上，上身扑在两膝上，被巨大的命运所压服，也许被压垮了，唉！他两拳紧握，两臂伸成直角，好象一个被钉在十字架上刚取下来的人，脸朝地被扔在那里。他呆了十二个小时，一个隆冬漫漫长夜里的十二个小时，他冻得冰凉，但没有抬一下头，也没有说一句话。一动不动，就象死尸一样，这时，他的思潮在地下打滚又腾空，有时象七头蛇，有时象鹰鹫。他一动不动，象个死人；忽然他痉挛地颤抖起来，他贴在珂赛特衣服上的嘴又在吻这些衣服；这时人才看到他是活着的。
谁？人？既然冉阿让是一个人，并没有任何人在旁？
这是个在暗中的“人”。
Part 5 Book 7 Chapter 1 The Seventh Circle and the Eighth Heaven
The days that follow weddings are solitary. People respect the meditations of the happy pair. And also, their tardy slumbers, to some degree. The tumult of visits and congratulations only begins later on. On the morning of the 17th of February, it was a little past midday when Basque, with napkin and feather-duster under his arm, busy in setting his antechamber to rights, heard a light tap at the door. There had been no ring, which was discreet on such a day. Basque opened the door, and beheld M. Fauchelevent.He introduced him into the drawing-room, still encumbered and topsy-turvy, and which bore the air of a field of battle after the joys of the preceding evening.
"Dame, sir," remarked Basque, "we all woke up late."
"Is your master up?" asked Jean Valjean.
"How is Monsieur's arm?" replied Basque.
"Better. Is your master up?"
"Which one? The old one or the new one?"
"Monsieur Pontmercy."
"Monsieur le Baron," said Basque, drawing himself up.
A man is a Baron most of all to his servants. He counts for something with them; they are what a philosopher would call, bespattered with the title, and that flatters them. Marius, be it said in passing, a militant republican as he had proved, was now a Baron in spite of himself. A small revolution had taken place in the family in connection with this title. It was now M. Gillenormand who clung to it, and Marius who detached himself from it. But Colonel Pontmercy had written: "My son will bear my title." Marius obeyed. And then, Cosette, in whom the woman was beginning to dawn, was delighted to be a Baroness. 
"Monsieur le Baron?" repeated Basque. "I will go and see. I will tell him that M. Fauchelevent is here." 
"No. Do not tell him that it is I. Tell him that some one wishes to speak to him in private, and mention no name." 
"Ah!" ejaculated Basque. 
"I wish to surprise him."
"Ah!" ejaculated Basque once more, emitting his second "ah!" as an explanation of the first. 
And he left the room.
Jean Valjean remained alone.
The drawing-room, as we have just said, was in great disorder. It seemed as though, by lending an air, one might still hear the vague noise of the wedding. On the polished floor lay all sorts of flowers which had fallen from garlands and head-dresses. The wax candles, burned to stumps, added stalactites of wax to the crystal drops of the chandeliers. Not a single piece of furniture was in its place. In the corners, three or four arm-chairs, drawn close together in a circle, had the appearance of continuing a conversation. The whole effect was cheerful. A certain grace still lingers round a dead feast. It has been a happy thing. On the chairs in disarray, among those fading flowers, beneath those extinct lights, people have thought of joy. The sun had succeeded to the chandelier, and made its way gayly into the drawing-room.
Several minutes elapsed. Jean Valjean stood motionless on the spot where Basque had left him. He was very pale. His eyes were hollow, and so sunken in his head by sleeplessness that they nearly disappeared in their orbits. His black coat bore the weary folds of a garment that has been up all night. The elbows were whitened with the down which the friction of cloth against linen leaves behind it. 
Jean Valjean stared at the window outlined on the polished floor at his feet by the sun.
There came a sound at the door, and he raised his eyes.
Marius entered, his head well up, his mouth smiling, an indescribable light on his countenance, his brow expanded, his eyes triumphant. He had not slept either.
"It is you, father!" he exclaimed, on catching sight of Jean Valjean; "that idiot of a Basque had such a mysterious air! But you have come too early. It is only half past twelve. Cosette is asleep."
That word: "Father," said to M. Fauchelevent by Marius, signified: supreme felicity. There had always existed, as the reader knows, a lofty wall, a coldness and a constraint between them; ice which must be broken or melted. Marius had reached that point of intoxication when the wall was lowered, when the ice dissolved, and when M. Fauchelevent was to him, as to Cosette, a father. 
He continued: his words poured forth, as is the peculiari ty of divine paroxysms of joy. 
"How glad I am to see you! If you only knew how we missed you yesterday! Good morning, father. How is your hand? Better, is it not?" 
And, satisfied with the favorable reply which he had made to himself, he pursued:
"We have both been talking about you. Cosette loves you so dearly! You must not forget that you have a chamber here, We want nothing more to do with the Rue de l'Homme Arme. We will have no more of it at all. How could you go to live in a street like that, which is sickly, which is disagreeable, which is ugly, which has a barrier at one end, where one is cold, and into which one cannot enter? You are to come and install yourself here. And this very day. Or you will have to deal with Cosette. She means to lead us all by the nose, I warn you. You have your own chamber here, it is close to ours, it opens on the garden; the trouble with the clock has been attended to, the bed is made, it is all ready, you have only to take possession of it. Near your bed Cosette has placed a huge, old, easy-chair covered with Utrecht velvet and she has said to it: `Stretch out your arms to him.' A nightingale comes to the clump of acacias opposite your windows, every spring. In two months more you will have it. You will have its nest on your left and ours on your right. By night it will sing, and by day Cosette will prattle. Your chamber faces due South. Cosette will arrange your books for you, your Voyages of Captain Cook and the other,--Vancouver's and all your affairs. I believe that there is a little valise to which you are attached, I have fixed upon a corner of honor for that. You have conquered my grandfather, you suit him. We will live together. Do you play whist? You will overwhelm my grandfather with delight if you play whist. It is you who shall take Cosette to walk on the days when I am at the courts, you shall give her your arm, you know, as you used to, in the Luxembourg. We are absolutely resolved to be happy. And you shall be included in it, in our happiness, do you hear, father? Come, will you breakfast with us to-day?" 
"Sir," said Jean Valjean, "I have something to say to you. I am an ex-convict."
The limit of shrill sounds perceptible can be overleaped, as well in the case of the mind as in that of the ear. These words: "I am an ex-convict," proceeding from the mouth of M. Fauchelevent and entering the ear of Marius overshot the possible. It seemed to him that something had just been said to him; but he did not know what. He stood with his mouth wide open.
Then he perceived that the man who was addressing him was frightful. Wholly absorbed in his own dazzled state, he had not, up to that moment, observed the other man's terrible pallor. 
Jean Valjean untied the black cravat which supported his right arm, unrolled the linen from around his hand, bared his thumb and showed it to Marius.
"There is nothing the matter with my hand," said he.
Marius looked at the thumb.
"There has not been anything the matter with it," went on Jean Valjean. 
There was, in fact, no trace of any injury. 
Jean Valjean continued: 
"It was fitting that I should be absent from your marriage. I absented myself as much as was in my power. So I invented this injury in order that I might not commit a forgery, that I might not introduce a flaw into the marriage documents, in order that I might escape from signing."
Marius stammered.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"The meaning of it is," replied Jean Valjean, "that I have been in the galleys."
"You are driving me mad!" exclaimed Marius in terror.
"Monsieur Pontmercy," said Jean Valjean, "I was nineteen years in the galleys. For theft. Then, I was condemned for life for theft, for a second offence. At the present moment, I have broken my ban."
In vain did Marius recoil before the reality, refuse the fact, resist the evidence, he was forced to give way. He began to understand, and, as always happens in such cases, he understood too much. An inward shudder of hideous enlightenment flashed through him; an idea which made him quiver traversed his mind. He caught a glimpse of a wretched destiny for himself in the future.
"Say all, say all!" he cried. "You are Cosette's father!"
And he retreated a couple of paces with a movement of indescribable horror.
Jean Valjean elevated his head with so much majesty of attitude that he seemed to grow even to the ceiling.
"It is necessary that you should believe me here, sir; although our oath to others may not be received in law . . ."
Here he paused, then, with a sort of sovereign and sepulchral authority, he added, articulating slowly, and emphasizing the syllables:
". . . You will believe me. I the father of Cosette! Before God, no. Monsieur le Baron Pontmercy, I am a peasant of Faverolles. I earned my living by pruning trees. My name is not Fauchelevent, but Jean Valjean. I am not related to Cosette. Reassure yourself."
Marius stammered:
"Who will prove that to me?"
"I.Since I tell you so."
Marius looked at the man. He was melancholy yet tranquil. No lie could proceed from such a calm. That which is icy is sincere. The truth could be felt in that chill of the tomb.
"I believe you," said Marius.
Jean Valjean bent his head, as though taking note of this, and continued:
"What am I to Cosette? A passer-by. Ten years ago, I did not know that she was in existence. I love her, it is true. One loves a child whom one has seen when very young, being old oneself. When one is old, one feels oneself a grandfather towards all little children. You may, it seems to me, suppose that I have something which resembles a heart. She was an orphan. Without either father or mother. She needed me. That is why I began to love her. Children are so weak that the first comer, even a man like me, can become their protector. I have fulfilled this duty towards Cosette. I do not think that so slight a thing can be called a good action; but if it be a good action, well, say that I have done it. Register this attenuating circumstance. To-day, Cosette passes out of my life; our two roads part. Henceforth, I can do nothing for her. She is Madame Pontmercy. Her providence has changed. And Cosette gains by the change. All is well. As for the six hundred thousand francs, you do not mention them to me, but I forestall your thought, they are a deposit. How did that deposit come into my hands? What does that matter? I restore the deposit. Nothing more can be demanded of me. I complete the restitution by announcing my true name. That concerns me. I have a reason for desiring that you should know who I am."
And Jean Valjean looked Marius full in the face.
All that Marius experienced was tumultuous and incoherent. Certain gusts of destiny produce these billows in our souls.
We have all undergone moments of trouble in which everything within us is dispersed; we say the first things that occur to us, which are not always precisely those which should be said. There are sudden revelations which one cannot bear, and which intoxicate like baleful wine. Marius was stupefied by the novel situation which presented itself to him, to the point of addressing that man almost like a person who was angry with him for this avowal.
"But why," he exclaimed, "do you tell me all this? Who forces you to do so? You could have kept your secret to yourself. You are neither denounced, nor tracked nor pursued. You have a reason for wantonly making such a revelation. Conclude. There is something more. In what connection do you make this confession? What is your motive?"
"My motive?" replied Jean Valjean in a voice so low and dull that one would have said that he was talking to himself rather than to Marius. "From what motive, in fact, has this convict just said`I am a convict'? Well, yes! The motive is strange. It is out of honesty. Stay, the unfortunate point is that I have a thread in my heart, which keeps me fast. It is when one is old that that sort of thread is particularly solid. All life falls in ruin around one; one resists. Had I been able to tear out that thread, to break it, to undo the knot or to cut it, to go far away, I should have been safe. I had only to go away; there are diligences in the Rue Bouloy; you are happy; I am going. I have tried to break that thread, I have jerked at it, it would not break, I tore my heart with it. Then I said:`I cannot live anywhere else than here.' I must stay. Well, yes, you are right, I am a fool, why not simply remain here? You offer me a chamber in this house, Madame Pontmercy is sincerely attached to me, she said to the arm-chair:`Stretch out your arms to him,' your grandfather demands nothing better than to have me, I suit him, we shall live together, and take our meals in common, I shall give Cosette my arm . . . Madame Pontmercy, excuse me, it is a habit, we shall have but one roof, one table, one fire, the same chimney-corner in winter, the same promenade in summer, that is joy, that is happiness, that is everything. We shall live as one family. One family!"
At that word, Jean Valjean became wild. He folded his arms, glared at the floor beneath his feet as though he would have excavated an abyss therein, and his voice suddenly rose in thundering tones: 
"As one family! No. I belong to no family. I do not belong to yours. I do not belong to any family of men. In houses where people are among themselves, I am superfluous. There are families, but there is nothing of the sort for me. I am an unlucky wretch; I am left outside. Did I have a father and mother? I almost doubt it. On the day when I gave that child in marriage, all came to an end. I have seen her happy, and that she is with a man whom she loves, and that there exists here a kind old man, a household of two angels, and all joys in that house, and that it was well, I said to myself:`Enter thou not.' I could have lied, it is true, have deceived you all, and remained Monsieur Fauchelevent. So long as it was for her, I could lie; but now it would be for myself, and I must not. It was sufficient for me to hold my peace, it is true, and all would go on. You ask me what has forced me to speak? a very odd thing; my conscience. To hold my peace was very easy, however. I passed the night in trying to persuade myself to it; you questioned me, and what I have just said to you is so extraordinary that you have the right to do it; well, yes, I have passed the night in alleging reasons to myself, and I gave myself very good reasons, I have done what I could. But there are two things in which I have not succeeded; in breaking the thread that holds me fixed, riveted and sealed here by the heart, or in silencing some one who speaks softly to me when I am alone. That is why I have come hither to tell you everything this morning. Everything or nearly everything. It is useless to tell you that which concerns only myself; I keep that to myself. You know the essential points. So I have taken my mystery and have brought it to you. And I have disembowelled my secret before your eyes. It was not a resolution that was easy to take. I struggled all night long. Ah! You think that I did not tell myself that this was no Champmathieu affair, that by concealing my name I was doing no one any injury, that the name of Fauchelevent had been given to me by Fauchelevent himself, out of gratitude for a service rendered to him, and that I might assuredly keep it, and that I should be happy in that chamber which you offer me, that I should not be in any one's way, that I should be in my own little corner, and that, while you would have Cosette, I should have the idea that I was in the same house with her. Each one of us would have had his share of happiness. If I continued to be Monsieur Fauchelevent, that would arrange everything. Yes, with the exception of my soul. There was joy everywhere upon my surface, but the bottom of my soul remained black. It is not enough to be happy, one must be content. Thus I should have remained Monsieur Fauchelevent, thus I should have concealed my true visage, thus, in the presence of your expansion, I should have had an enigma, thus, in the midst of your full noonday, I should have had shadows, thus, without crying `'ware,' I should have simply introduced the galleys to your fireside, I should have taken my seat at your table with the thought that if you knew who I was, you would drive me from it, I should have allowed myself to be served by domestics who, had they known, would have said: How horrible!' I should have touched you with my elbow, which you have a right to dislike, I should have filched your clasps of the hand! There would have existed in your house a division of respect between venerable white locks and tainted white locks; at your most intimate hours, when all hearts thought themselves open to the very bottom to all the rest, when we four were together, your grandfather, you two and myself, a stranger would have been present! I should have been side by side with you in your existence, having for my only care not to disarrange the cover of my dreadful pit. Thus, I, a dead man, should have thrust myself upon you who are living beings. I should have condemned her to myself forever. You and Cosette and I would have had all three of our heads in the green cap! Does it not make you shudder? I am only the most crushed of men; I should have been the most monstrous of men. And I should have committed that crime every day! And I should have had that face of night upon my visage every day! Every day! And I should have communicated to you a share in my taint every day! Every day! To you, my dearly beloved, my children, to you, my innocent creatures! Is it nothing to hold one's peace? Is it a simple matter to keep silence? No, it is not simple. There is a silence which lies. And my lie, and my fraud and my indignity, and my cowardice and my treason and my crime, I should have drained drop by drop, I should have spit it out, then swallowed it again, I should have finished at midnight and have begun again at midday, and my `good morning' would have lied, and my `good night' would have lied, and I should have slept on it, I should have eaten it, with my bread, and I should have looked Cosette in the face, and I should have responded to the smile of the angel by the smile of the damned soul, and I should have been an abominable villain! Why should I do it? in order to be happy. In order to be happy. Have I the right to be happy? I stand outside of life, Sir."
Jean Valjean paused. Marius listened. Such chains of ideas and of anguishes cannot be interrupted. Jean Valjean lowered his voice once more, but it was no longer a dull voice--it was a sinister voice. 
"You ask why I speak? I am neither denounced, nor pursued, nor tracked, you say. Yes! I am denounced! yes! I am tracked! By whom? By myself. It is I who bar the passage to myself, and I drag myself, and I push myself, and I arrest myself, and I execute myself, and when one holds oneself, one is firmly held."
And, seizing a handful of his own coat by the nape of the neck and extending it towards Marius: 
"Do you see that fist?" he continued. "Don't you think that it holds that collar in such a wise as not to release it? Well! Conscience is another grasp! If one desires to be happy, sir, one must never understand duty; for, as soon as one has comprehended it, it is implacable. One would say that it punished you for comprehending it; but no, it rewards you; for it places you in a hell, where you feel God beside you. One has no sooner lacerated his own entrails than he is at peace with himself."
And, with a poignant accent, he added:
"Monsieur Pontmercy, this is not common sense, I am an honest man. It is by degrading myself in your eyes that I elevate myself in my own. This has happened to me once before, but it was less painful then; it was a mere nothing. Yes, an honest man. I should not be so if, through my fault, you had continued to esteem me; now that you despise me, I am so. I have that fatality hanging over me that, not being able to ever have anything but stolen consideration, that consideration humiliates me, and crushes me inwardly, and, in order that I may respect myself, it is necessary that I should be despised. Then I straighten up again. I am a galley-slave who obeys his conscience. I know well that that is most improbable. But what would you have me do about it? It is the fact. I have entered into engagements with myself; I keep them. There are encounters which bind us, there are chances which involve us in duties. You see, Monsieur Pontmercy, various things have happened to me in the course of my life." 
Again Jean Valjean paused, swallowing his saliva with an effort, as though his words had a bitter after-taste, and then he went on: 
"When one has such a horror hanging over one, one has not the right to make others share it without their knowledge, one has not the right to make them slip over one's own precipice without their perceiving it, one has not the right to let one's red blouse drag upon them, one has no right to slyly encumber with one's misery the happiness of others. It is hideous to approach those who are healthy, and to touch them in the dark with one's ulcer. In spite of the fact that Fauchelevent lent me his name, I have no right to use it; he could give it to me, but I could not take it. A name is an _I_. You see, sir, that I have thought somewhat, I have read a little, although I am a peasant; and you see that I express myself properly. I understand things. I have procured myself an education. Well, yes, to abstract a name and to place oneself under it is dishonest. Letters of the alphabet can be filched, like a purse or a watch. To be a false signature in flesh and blood, to be a living false key, to enter the house of honest people by picking their lock, never more to look straightforward, to forever eye askance, to be infamous within the _I_, no! No! No! No! No! It is better to suffer, to bleed, to weep, to tear one's skin from the flesh with one's nails, to pass nights writhing in anguish, to devour oneself body and soul. That is why I have just told you all this. Wantonly, as you say."
He drew a painful breath, and hurled this final word:
"In days gone by, I stole a loaf of bread in order to live; to-day, in order to live, I will not steal a name." 
"To live!" interrupted Marius. "You do not need that name in order to live?"
"Ah! I understand the matter," said Jean Valjean, raising and lowering his head several times in succession. 
A silence ensued. Both held their peace, each plunged in a gulf of thoughts. Marius was sitting near a table and resting the corner of his mouth on one of his fingers, which was folded back. Jean Valjean was pacing to and fro. He paused before a mirror, and remained motionless. Then, as though replying to some inward course of reasoning, he said, as he gazed at the mirror, which he did not see:
"While, at present, I am relieved."
He took up his march again, and walked to the other end of the drawing-room. At the moment when he turned round, he perceived that Marius was watching his walk. Then he said, with an inexpressible intonation: 
"I drag my leg a little. Now you understand why!"
Then he turned fully round towards Marius:
"And now, sir, imagine this:I have said nothing, I have remained Monsieur Fauchelevent, I have taken my place in your house, I am one of you, I am in my chamber, I come to breakfast in the morning in slippers, in the evening all three of us go to the play, I accompany Madame Pontmercy to the Tuileries, and to the Place Royale, we are together, you think me your equal; one fine day you are there, and I am there, we are conversing, we are laughing; all at once, you hear a voice shouting this name: Jean Valjean!' and behold, that terrible hand, the police, darts from the darkness, and abruptly tears off my mask!"
Again he paused; Marius had sprung to his feet with a shudder. Jean Valjean resumed:
"What do you say to that?"
Marius' silence answered for him.
Jean Valjean continued:
"You see that I am right in not holding my peace. Be happy, be in heaven, be the angel of an angel, exist in the sun, be content therewith, and do not trouble yourself about the means which a poor damned wretch takes to open his breast and force his duty to come forth; you have before you, sir, a wretched man."
Marius slowly crossed the room, and, when he was quite close to Jean Valjean, he offered the latter his hand. 
But Marius was obliged to step up and take that hand which was not offered, Jean Valjean let him have his own way, and it seemed to Marius that he pressed a hand of marble.
"My grandfather has friends," said Marius; "I will procure your pardon."
"It is useless," replied Jean Valjean. "I am believed to be dead, and that suffices. The dead are not subjected to surveillance. They are supposed to rot in peace. Death is the same thing as pardon."
And, disengaging the hand which Marius held, he added, with a sort of inexorable dignity:
"Moreover, the friend to whom I have recourse is the doing of my duty; and I need but one pardon, that of my conscience." 
At that moment, a door at the other end of the drawing-room opened gently half way, and in the opening Cosette's head appeared. They saw only her sweet face, her hair was in charming disorder, her eyelids were still swollen with sleep. She made the movement of a bird, which thrusts its head out of its nest, glanced first at her husband, then at Jean Valjean, and cried to them with a smile, so that they seemed to behold a smile at the heart of a rose:
"I will wager that you are talking politics. How stupid that is, instead of being with me!"
Jean Valjean shuddered.
"Cosette! . . ." stammered Marius.
And he paused. One would have said that they were two criminals.
Cosette, who was radiant, continued to gaze at both of them. There was something in her eyes like gleams of paradise. 
"I have caught you in the very act," said Cosette. "Just now, I heard my father Fauchelevent through the door saying: `Conscience . . . doing my duty . . .' That is politics, indeed it is. I will not have it. People should not talk politics the very next day. It is not right."
"You are mistaken. Cosette," said Marius,"we are talking business. We are discussing the best investment of your six hundred thousand francs . . ."
"That is not it at all " interrupted Cosette. "I am coming. Does any body want me here?" 
And, passing resolutely through the door, she entered the drawing-room.She was dressed in a voluminous white dressing-gown, with a thousand folds and large sleeves which, starting from the neck, fell to her feet. In the golden heavens of some ancient gothic pictures, there are these charming sacks fit to clothe the angels.
She contemplated herself from head to foot in a long mirror, then exclaimed, in an outburst of ineffable ecstasy: 
"There was once a King and a Queen. Oh! How happy I am!"
That said, she made a curtsey to Marius and to Jean Valjean.
"There," said she, "I am going to install myself near you in an easy-chair, we breakfast in half an hour, you shall say anything you like, I know well that men must talk, and I will be very good." 
Marius took her by the arm and said lovingly to her:
"We are talking business."
"By the way," said Cosette, "I have opened my window, a flock of pierrots has arrived in the garden,--Birds, not maskers. To-day is Ash-Wednesday; but not for the birds."
"I tell you that we are talking business, go, my little Cosette, leave us alone for a moment. We are talking figures. That will bore you."
"You have a charming cravat on this morning, Marius. You are very dandified, monseigneur. No, it will not bore me." 
"I assure you that it will bore you."
"No. Since it is you. I shall not understand you, but I shall listen to you. When one hears the voices of those whom one loves, one does not need to understand the words that they utter. That we should be here together--that is all that I desire. I shall remain with you, bah!"
"You are my beloved Cosette! Impossible."
"Impossible!"
"Yes."
"Very good," said Cosette. "I was going to tell you some news. I could have told you that your grandfather is still asleep, that your aunt is at mass, that the chimney in my father Fauchelevent's room smokes, that Nicolette has sent for the chimney-sweep, that Toussaint and Nicolette have already quarrelled, that Nicolette makes sport of Toussaint's stammer. Well, you shall know nothing. Ah! It is impossible? You shall see, gentlemen, that I, in my turn, can say: It is impossible. Then who will be caught? I beseech you, my little Marius, let me stay here with you two."
"I swear to you, that it is indispensable that we should be alone."
"Well, am I anybody?"
Jean Valjean had not uttered a single word. Cosette turned to him:
"In the first place, father, I want you to come and embrace me. What do you mean by not saying anything instead of taking my part? Who gave me such a father as that? You must perceive that my family life is very unhappy. My husband beats me. Come, embrace me instantly."
Jean Valjean approached.
Cosette turned toward Marius.
"As for you, I shall make a face at you."
Then she presented her brow to Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean advanced a step toward her.
Cosette recoiled.
"Father, you are pale. Does your arm hurt you?"
"It is well," said Jean Valjean.
"Did you sleep badly?"
"No."
"Are you sad?"
"No."
"Embrace me if you are well, if you sleep well, if you are content, I will not scold you." 
And again she offered him her brow.
Jean Valjean dropped a kiss upon that brow whereon rested a celestial gleam.
"Smile."
Jean Valjean obeyed. It was the smile of a spectre.
"Now, defend me against my husband."
"Cosette! . . ." ejaculated Marius.
"Get angry, father. Say that I must stay. You can certainly talk before me. So you think me very silly. What you say is astonishing! Business, placing money in a bank a great matter truly. Men make mysteries out of nothing. I am very pretty this morning. Look at me, Marius."
And with an adorable shrug of the shoulders, and an indescribably exquisite pout, she glanced at Marius. 
"I love you!" said Marius.
"I adore you!" said Cosette.
And they fell irresistibly into each other's arms.
"Now," said Cosette, adjusting a fold of her dressing-gown, with a triumphant little grimace, "I shall stay."
"No, not that," said Marius, in a supplicating tone. "We have to finish something."
"Still no?"
Marius assumed a grave tone:
"I assure you, Cosette, that it is impossible."
"Ah! you put on your man's voice, sir. That is well, I go. You, father, have not upheld me. Monsieur my father, monsieur my husband, you are tyrants. I shall go and tell grandpapa. If you think that I am going to return and talk platitudes to you, you are mistaken. I am proud. I shall wait for you now. You shall see, that it is you who are going to be bored without me. I am going, it is well."
And she left the room.
Two seconds later, the door opened once more, her fresh and rosy head was again thrust between the two leaves, and she cried to them: 
"I am very angry indeed."
The door closed again, and the shadows descended once more.
It was as though a ray of sunlight should have suddenly traversed the night, without itself being conscious of it. 
Marius made sure that the door was securely closed.
"Poor Cosette!" he murmured, "when she finds out . . ."
At that word Jean Valjean trembled in every limb. He fixed on Marius a bewildered eye. 
"Cosette! oh yes, it is true, you are going to tell Cosette about this. That is right. Stay, I had not thought of that. One has the strength for one thing, but not for another. Sir, I conjure you, I entreat now, sir, give me your most sacred word of honor, that you will not tell her. Is it not enough that you should know it? I have been able to say it myself without being forced to it, I could have told it to the universe, to the whole world,--it was all one to me. But she, she does not know what it is, it would terrify her. What, a convict! we should be obliged to explain matters to her, to say to her: `He is a man who has been in the galleys.' She saw the chain-gang pass by one day. Oh! My God!" . . . He dropped into an arm-chair and hid his face in his hands. 
His grief was not audible, but from the quivering of his shoulders it was evident that he was weeping. Silent tears, terrible tears. 
There is something of suffocation in the sob. He was seized with a sort of convulsion, he threw himself against the back of the chair as though to gain breath, letting his arms fall, and allowing Marius to see his face inundated with tears, and Marius heard him murmur, so low that his voice seemed to issue from fathomless depths:
"Oh! would that I could die!"
"Be at your ease," said Marius, "I will keep your secret for myself alone." x And, less touched, perhaps, than he ought to have been, but forced, for the last hour, to familiarize himself with something as unexpected as it was dreadful, gradually beholding the convict superposed before his very eyes, upon M. Fauchelevent, overcome, little by little, by that lugubrious reality, and led, by the natural inclination of the situation, to recognize the space which had just been placed between that man and himself, Marius added: 
"It is impossible that I should not speak a word to you with regard to the deposit which you have so faithfully and honestly remitted. That is an act of probity. It is just that some recompense should be bestowed on you. Fix the sum yourself, it shall be counted out to you. Do not fear to set it very high."
"I thank you, sir," replied Jean Valjean, gently.
He remained in thought for a moment, mechanically passing the tip of his fore-finger across his thumb-nail, then he lifted up his voice: 
"All is nearly over. But one last thing remains for me . . ."
"What is it?"
Jean Valjean struggled with what seemed a last hesitation, and, without voice, without breath, he stammered rather than said: 
"Now that you know, do you think, sir, you, who are the master, that I ought not to see Cosette any more?" 
"I think that would be better," replied Marius coldly.
"I shall never see her more," murmured Jean Valjean. And he directed his steps towards the door.
He laid his hand on the knob, the latch yielded, the door opened. Jean Valjean pushed it open far enough to pass through, stood motionless for a second, then closed the door again and turned to Marius. 
He was no longer pale, he was livid. There were no longer any tears in his eyes, but only a sort of tragic flame. His voice had regained a strange c omposure.
"Stay, sir," he said. "If you will allow it, I will come to see her. I assure you that I desire it greatly. If I had not cared to see Cosette, I should not have made to you the confession that I have made, I should have gone away; but, as I desired to remain in the place where Cosette is, and to continue to see her, I had to tell you about it honestly. You follow my reasoning, do you not? It is a matter easily understood. You see, I have had her with me for more than nine years. We lived first in that hut on the boulevard, then in the convent, then near the Luxembourg. That was where you saw her for the first time. You remember her blue plush hat. Then we went to the Quartier des Invalides, where there was a railing on a garden, the Rue Plumet. I lived in a little back court-yard, whence I could hear her piano. That was my life. We never left each other. That lasted for nine years and some months. I was like her own father, and she was my child. I do not know whether you understand, Monsieur Pontmercy, but to go away now, never to see her again, never to speak to her again, to no longer have anything, would be hard. If you do not disapprove of it, I will come to see Cosette from time to time. I will not come often. I will not remain long. You shall give orders that I am to be received in the little waiting-room. On the ground floor. I could enter perfectly well by the back door, but that might create surprise perhaps, and it would be better, I think, for me to enter by the usual door. Truly, sir, I should like to see a little more of Cosette. As rarely as you please. Put yourself in my place, I have nothing left but that. And then, we must be cautious. If I no longer come at all, it would produce a bad effect, it would be considered singular. What I can do, by the way, is to come in the afternoon, when night is beginning to fall."
"You shall come every evening," said Marius, "and Cosette will be waiting for you."
"You are kind, sir," said Jean Valjean.
Marius saluted Jean Valjean, happiness escorted despair to the door, and these two men parted.
①二世纪时托勒密（Ptolémée）创立地心说，每个行星为一重天，最高的行星为七重天，八层为恒星天，此说后被哥白尼（Copernic）推翻。　
婚礼的第二天是静悄悄的，大家尊重幸福的人，让他们单独在一起，也让他们稍迟一点起身。来访和祝贺的喧闹声稍后一点才会开始。二月十七日，中午稍过，当巴斯克臂下夹着抹布和鸡毛掸，正忙着打扫“他的候客室”时，他听见轻轻的敲门声。没有按门铃，在当天这样做是知趣的。巴斯克打开门，见到割风先生。他把他引进客厅，那里东西都零乱地堆放着，就象是咋晚快乐节日后的战场。
“天哪，先生，”巴斯克注意到了，“我们都起迟了。”
“你的主人起床了没有？”冉阿让问。
“先生的手好了没有？”巴斯克回答。
“好些了，你的主人起床了吗？”
“哪一位？老的还是新的？”
“彭眉胥先生。”
“男爵先生？”巴斯克站直了身子说。
身为男爵主要是在他仆人的眼里，有些东西是属于他们的；哲学家称他们为沾头衔之光者，这一点使他们得意。马吕斯，我们顺便提一下，是共和国的战士，他已证实了这一点，现在则违反他的心愿成了男爵。家里曾为这个头衔发生过一次小小的革命；而现在却是吉诺曼先生坚持这点了，马吕斯倒满不在乎。不过彭眉胥上校曾留过话：“吾儿应承袭我的勋位。”马吕斯服从了。还有珂赛特，她已开始成为主妇，也很乐意做男爵夫人。
“男爵先生？”巴斯克又说，“我去看看。我去告诉他割风先生来了。”
“不，不要告诉他是我，告诉他有人要求和他个别谈话，不用说出姓名。”
“啊！”巴斯克说。
“我要使他感到出其不意。”
巴斯克又“啊”了一下。第二个“啊”是他对第一个“啊”的解释。
于是他走了出去。
冉阿让独自留在客厅里。
这个客厅，我们刚才说过，还是乱七八糟的。仔细去听时好象还能隐约听到婚礼的喧哗声。地板上有各种各样的从花环和头上掉下来的花朵。燃烧到头的蜡烛在水晶吊灯上增添了蜡制的钟乳石。没有一件木器摆在原来的地方。在几个角落里，三四把靠近的椅子围成一圈，好象有人还在继续谈天。总的情况看起来还是欢乐的。已过去了的节日，还留下了某种美感。这些都曾是快乐的。在拖乱了的椅子上，在开始枯萎的花朵中，在熄了的灯光下，大家曾想到过欢乐。继吊灯的光辉之后太阳兴高采烈地进入客厅。
几分钟过去了。冉阿让没有动，仍呆在巴斯克离去时的地方。他脸色惨白。他的眼睛因失眠陷进眼眶，几乎看不见了。他的黑色服装现出穿了过夜的皱纹，手肘处沾着呢子和垫单磨擦后起的白色绒毛。冉阿让望着脚边地板上太阳画出来的窗框。
门口发出了声音，他便抬头望。
马吕斯进来了，高昂着头，嘴上带着笑，脸上有着无法形容的光彩，满面春风，目光里充满了胜利的喜悦，原来他也没有睡觉。
“是您呀，父亲！”他看见冉阿让时这样叫道，“这个傻瓜巴斯克一副神秘的样子！您来得太早了，刚十二点半，珂赛特还在睡觉呢！”
马吕斯称割风先生“父亲”的意思是“无比的幸福”。我们知道，在他们之间一直存在着隔阂、冷淡和拘束，存在着要打碎的或融化的冰块。马吕斯陶醉的程度已使隔阂消失，冰雪融化，使他和珂赛特一样把割风先生当作父亲来看待了。
他继续说着，心中冒出说不完的话，这正是圣洁的极度欢乐所应有的表现：
“我真高兴见到您！您不知道昨天我们因您不在而感到多么遗憾！早安，父亲。您的手怎么样了？好些了，是吗？”
于是很满意他对自己作出的好的回答，他又继续说：
“我们俩一直在谈您。珂赛特非常爱您！您不要忘记这里有您的寝室。我们不再需要武人街了，我们真不再需要了。您当初怎么会去住在那样一条街上？它是有病的，愁眉苦脸的，丑陋不堪，一头还有一道栅栏，那里又冷，简直进不去。您来住在这里，今天就来。否则珂赛特要找您算账。我预先通知您，她是准备牵着我们大家的鼻子跟她走的。您看见您的寝室了，它紧挨着我们的房间，窗子向着花园；已经叫人把门上的锁修好了，床也铺好了，房间都整理好了，您只要来住就行了。珂赛特在您的床前放了一张乌德勒支丝绒的老圈手椅，她向它说：‘你伸开两臂迎接他。’每年春天，在您窗前刺槐的花丛里会飞来一只黄莺。两个月以后您就能见到它了。它的巢在您的左边，而我们的窝则在您的右边。晚上它来歌唱，白天有珂赛特的语声。您的房间朝着正南方向。珂赛特会把您的书放在那里，您的《库克将军旅行记》，还有另一本旺古费写的旅行记，以及所有您的东西。我想，还有一只您所珍视的小提箱，我已给它选定了一个体面的角落。您得到了我外祖父的赞赏，您和他谈得来。我们将一起共同生活。您会打惠斯特纸牌吗？您会打惠斯特就更使外祖父喜出望外了。我到法院去的日子，您就带珂赛特去散步，让她搀着您的手臂，您知道，就和从前在卢森堡公园时一样。我们完全决定了要过得十分幸福。而您也来分享我们的幸福，听见吗？父亲？啊，您今天和我们一起进早餐吧？”
“先生，”冉阿让说，“我有一件事要告诉您。我过去是一个苦役犯。”
耳朵听到的尖音有一个对思想和耳朵都可以超过的限度。这几个字“我过去是一个苦役犯”，从冉阿让口中出来，进入马吕斯的耳中，是超出了听到的可能。马吕斯听不见。他觉得有人向他说了话；但他不知道说了些什么，他呆住了。
此刻他才发现，和他说话的人神情骇人，他激动的心情使他直到目前才发现这可怕的惨白面色。
冉阿让解去吊着右手的黑领带，去掉包手的布，把大拇指露出来给马吕斯看。
“我手上什么伤也没有。”他说。
马吕斯看了看大拇指。
“我什么也不曾有过。”冉阿让又说。
手指上的确一点伤痕也没有。
冉阿让继续说：
“你们的婚礼我不到比较恰当，我尽量做到不在场，我假装受了伤，为了避免作假，避免在婚书上加上无效的东西，为了避免签字。”
马吕斯结结巴巴地说：“这是什么意思？”
“意思是说，”冉阿让回答，“我曾被罚，干过苦役。”
“您真使我发疯！”马吕斯恐怖地喊起来。
“彭眉胥先生，”冉阿让说，“我曾在苦役场呆过十九年，因为偷盗。后来我被判处无期徒刑，为了偷盗，也为了重犯。目前，我是一个违反放逐令的人。”
马吕斯想逃避事实，否认这件事，拒绝明显的实情，但都无济于事，结果他被迫屈服。他开始懂了，但他又懂得过了分，在这种情况下总是这样的。他心头感到丑恶的一闪现；一个使他颤抖的念头，在他的脑中掠过。他隐约看到他未来的命运是丑恶的。
“把一切都说出来，全说出来！”他叫着，“您是珂赛特的父亲！”
于是他向后退了两步，表现出无法形容的厌恶。
冉阿让抬起头，态度如此尊严，似乎高大得顶到了天花板。
“您必须相信这一点，先生，虽然我们这种人的誓言，法律是不承认的……”
这时他静默了一下，于是他用一种至高无上而又阴沉的权威口气慢慢地说下去，吐清每一个字，重重地发出每一个音节：
“……您要相信我。珂赛特的父亲，我！在上帝面前发誓，不是的，彭眉胥先生，我是法维洛勒地方的农民。我靠修树枝维持生活。我的名字不是割风，我叫冉阿让。我与珂赛特毫无关系。您放心吧。”
马吕斯含糊地说：
“谁能向我证明？……”
“我，既然我这样说。”
马吕斯望着这个人，他神情沉痛而平静，如此平静的人不可能撒谎。冰冷的东西是诚挚的。在这墓穴般的寒冷中使人感到有着真实的东西。
“我相信您。”马吕斯说。
冉阿让点一下头好象表示知道了，又继续说：
“我是珂赛特的什么人？一个过路人。十年前，我不知道她的存在。我疼她，这是事实。自己老了，看着一个孩子从小长大，是会爱这个孩子的。一个人老了，觉得自己是所有孩子的祖父。我认为，您能这样去想，我还有一颗类似心一样的东西。她是没有父母的孤儿，她需要我。这就是为什么我爱她的原因。孩子是如此软弱，任何一个人，即使象我这样的人，也会做他们的保护人。我对珂赛特尽到了保护人的责任。我并不认为这一点小事当真可以称作善事；但如果是善事，那就算我做了吧。请您记下这一件可以减罪的事。今天珂赛特离开了我的生活；我们开始分道。从今以后我和她毫无关系了。她是彭眉胥夫人。她的靠山已换了人。这一替换对她有利。一切如意。至于那六十万法郎，您不向我提这件事，我比您抢先想到，那是一笔托我保管的钱。那笔款子为什么会在我手中？这有什么关系？我归还这笔款子。别人不能对我有更多的要求。我交出这笔钱并且说出我的真姓名。这是我的事，我本人要您知道我是什么人。”
于是冉阿让正视着马吕斯。
马吕斯此刻的感觉是心乱如麻，茫无头绪。命运里有些狂风会引起心里这样汹涌澎湃的波涛。
我们大家都经历过这种内心极其混乱的时刻，我们说的是头脑里首先想到的话，这些话不一定是真的应该说的。有些突然泄露的事使人承受不了，它好象毒酒，使人昏迷。马吕斯被新出现的情况惊得不知所措，他在说话时甚至象在责怪这人暴露了真情。
“您究竟为什么要向我说这些话呢？”他叫喊着，“什么原因在强迫您说？您尽可以自己保留这个秘密。您既没有被告发，也没有被跟踪，也没有被追捕？您乐意来泄露这事总有个理由，说完它，还有其他的事。根据什么理由您要承认这件事？
为了什么原因？”
“为了什么原因？”冉阿让回答的声音如此低沉而微弱，好象在自言自语而不是在向马吕斯说话。“不错，为了什么原因，这个苦役犯要来说：‘我是一个苦役犯？’是呀！这个原因是很奇怪的，这是为了诚实。您看，最痛苦不过的是有根线牵住了我的心。尤其在人老了的时候，这些线就特别结实，生命四周的一切都可毁掉，而这线却牢不可断。如果我能拔掉这根线，将它拉断，解开或者切除疙瘩，远远地走开，我就可以得救，只要离开就行了；在布洛亚街就有公共马车；你们幸福了，我走了。我也曾设法把线拉断，我抽着，但它却牢不可断，我连心都快拔出来了。于是我说：‘我只有不离开这里才能活下去，我必须待在这里。’真就是这样，您有理，我是一个蠢人，为什么不简简单单地待下来？您在您的家里给了我一间寝室，彭眉胥夫人很爱我，她向这只沙发说：‘伸开两臂迎接他。’您的外祖父巴不得我来陪伴他，他和我合得来，我们大家住在一起，同桌吃饭，珂赛特挽着我的手臂……彭眉胥夫人，请原谅，我叫惯了，我们在一个屋顶下，同桌吃饭，共用一炉火，冬天我们围炉取暖，夏天仍去散步，这些都是何等愉快，何等幸福，这些就是一切。我们同住象一家人一样。一家人！”
提到这两个字，冉阿让变得怕和人交往的样子，他叉起双臂，眼睛盯着脚下的地板，好象要挖一个地洞，他的声音忽然响亮起来了：
“一家人！不可能，我没有家，我，我不是你们家里的人。我不属于人类的家庭。在家庭的生活中我是多余的，世上有的是家，但不是我的。我是不幸的人，流离失所的人。我是否有过一个父亲或一个母亲？我几乎怀疑这一点。我把这孩子嫁出去的那天，一切就结束了，我看到她幸福并和她心爱的人在一起，这里有一个慈祥的老人，一对天使共同生活，幸福美满，一切称心如意了，于是我对自己说：‘你，可不要进去。’我可以说谎，不错，来瞒着你们所有的人，仍旧当割风先生。只要为了她，我就能说谎；但现在是为了我自己，我不该这样做。不错，我只要不说，一切就会照旧，你问我是什么理由迫使我说出来？一个怪理由，就是我的良心。不泄露其实很容易。我曾整夜这样来说服我自己；您让我说出秘密，而我来向您说的事是如此不寻常，您确实有权让我说；真的，我曾整夜给自己找理由，我也给自己找到了很充足的理由，是的，我已尽我所能。但有两件事我没有做到：我既没有把牵住我、钉住我、封住我的心的线割断，又没有，当我一人独处时，让那轻声向我说话的人住口。因此我今早来向您承认一切。一切，或者几乎就是一切。还有一些是不相干的，只涉及我个人的，我就保留下来了。主要的您已知道。因此我把我的秘密交给您，在您面前我说出我的秘密，这并不是一个容易下的决心。我斗争了一整夜，啊！您以为我没有向自己解释这并不是商马第事件，隐瞒我的姓名无损于人，并且割风这个名字是割风为了报恩而亲自送给我的，我完全可以保留它，我在您给我的房中可以过得愉快，我不会碍事，我将待在我的角落里，您有珂赛特，我也感到自己和她同住在一所房子里。每个人都有自己恰如其分的一份幸福，继续做割风先生，这样一切问题都解决了。不错，除了我的良心，到处使我感到快乐，但我心灵深处仍是黑暗的。这样的幸福是不够的，要自己感到满意才行。我这样仍旧当割风先生，我的真面目就隐藏起来了，而在你们心花怒放的时候，我心里藏着一件暧昧的事，在你们的光明磊落中，我还有着我的黑暗；这样，不预先警告，我就径自把徒刑监狱引进了你们的家，我和你们同桌坐着，心中暗自思量，如果你们知道我是谁，一定要把我赶出大门，我让仆从侍候着我，如果他们知道了，一定会叫：‘多么可怕呀！’我把手肘碰着您，而您是有权拒绝的，我可以骗到和你们握手！在你们家里，可敬的白发老人和可耻的白发老人将分享你们的敬重；在你们最亲切的时候，当人人都以为相互都已把心完全敞开，当我们四个人一起的时候，在您的外祖父、你们俩和我之中，就有一个是陌生人！我将和你们在一起共同生活，同时一心想的是不要把我那可怕的井盖揭开。这样我会把我这个死人强加给你们这些活人，我将终身被判过这种生活。您、珂赛特和我，我们三个人将同戴一顶绿帽子！你难道不发抖吗？我只是众人里一个被压得最低的人，因而也就是一个最凶狠的人。而这罪行，我将每日重犯！这一欺骗，我则每日重复！这个黑暗的面具，我每天都要戴着！我的耻辱，每天都要使你们担负一部分！每天！使你们，我亲爱的，我的孩子，我的纯洁的人来负担！隐瞒不算一回事？缄默是容易办到的吗？不，这并不简单。有的缄默等于撒谎。我的谎言，我的假冒的行为，我的不适当的地位，我的无耻，我的背叛，我的罪恶，我将一滴一滴地吞下肚去，吐了又吞，到半夜吞完，中午又重新开始，我说的早安是种欺骗，我说的晚安也会是种欺骗，我将睡在这上面，和着面包吞下去，我将面对珂赛特，我将用囚犯的微笑回答天使的微笑，那我将会是一个万恶的骗子！为了什么目的？为了得到幸福。为了得到幸福，为自己！难道我有权利得到幸福？我是处于生活之外的人啊，先生。”
冉阿让停了下来。马吕斯听着。象这样连贯的思想和悲痛是不能中断的。冉阿让又重新放低语调，但这已不是低沉的声音，而是死气沉沉的声音：
“您问我为什么要说出来？您说我既没有被告发，也没有被跟踪，也没有被追捕。是的，我是被告发了！是的！被跟踪和被追捕了！被谁？被我自己。是我挡住我自己的去路，我自己拖着自己，我自己推着，我自己逮捕自己，我自己执行，当一个人自己捉住自己时，那就是真捉住了。”
于是他一把抓住自己的衣服朝马吕斯靠去：
“您看这个拳头，”他继续说，“您不觉得它揪住这领子是不打算放掉的？好吧！良心完全是另一种拳头呀！如果要做幸福的人，先生，那就永远不应懂得天职，因为，一旦懂得了，它就是铁面无私的。似乎它因为你懂了而惩罚你；不对，它为此而酬报；因为它把你放进一个地狱里去，在那里你感到上帝就在你身旁。剖腹开膛的惩罚刚要结束，自己和自己之间就相安无事了。”
于是他用一种痛心而强调的语气继续说：
“彭眉胥先生，这不合乎常情，我是一个诚实的人。我在您眼里贬低自己，才能在自己眼里抬高自己。我已碰到过一次这样的事，但没有这样沉痛；那不算什么。是的，一个诚实人。如果因我的过错，您还继续尊敬我，那我就不是诚实的人；现在您鄙视我，我才是诚实的。我的命运注定了只能得到骗来的尊重，这种尊重使我内心自卑，并徒增内疚，因此要我自尊，就得受别人的蔑视。这样我才能重新站起来。我是一个不违反良心的苦役犯。我知道这很难使人相信。但我又有什么办法？就是这样。我自己向自己许下诺言；我履行诺言。一些相遇把我们拴住，一些偶然事件使我们负起责任。您看，彭眉胥先生，我一生中遇到的事真是不少啊。”
冉阿让又停顿了一下，用力咽下口水，好象他的话里有一种苦的回味，他又继续说下去：
“当一个人有这样骇人的事在身上时，就无权去瞒人而使别人来共同分担，无权把瘟疫传给别人，无权使别人在一无所知的情况下从他的绝壁往下滑，无权使自己的红帽子①去拖累别人，无权暗中使自己的苦难成为别人幸福的拖累。走近健康的人，暗中把自己看不见的痈疽去碰触别人，这是多么的卑鄙。割风尽管把姓名借给我，我可无权使用；他能给我，我可不能占有。一个名字，是代表本人的。您看，先生，我动了一下脑筋，我读过一点书，虽然我是一个农民；大道理我还能懂得。您看我的言辞还算得体。我自己教育过自己。是啊！诈取一个名字，据为己有，这是不诚实的。字母也象钱包或怀表一样可以被盗。签一个活着的假名，做一个活的假钥匙，撬开锁进入诚实人的家，永不能昂首正视，永远得斜着眼偷看，自己心里真感到耻辱，不行！不行！不行！不行！我宁愿受苦，流血，痛哭，自己用指甲剥下肉上的皮，整夜在痛苦中扭捩打滚，折磨心胸。这就是我来向您讲明这一切的原因，正象您所说的，乐意这样做。” 
①死囚戴红帽子。
他困难地喘着气，并且吐出了最后一句话：
“过去，为了活命，我偷了一块面包；今天，为了活命，我不盗窃名字。”
“为了活命！”马吕斯打断他的话，“您不需要这个名字了？
为了活命。”
“啊！我懂得自己的意思了。”冉阿让缓慢地连续几次抬起了头又低了下去。
一阵沉默。两人都默默无言，各人都沉浸在思想深处。马吕斯坐在桌旁，屈着一指托住嘴角，冉阿让来回踱着，他停在一面镜子前不动，于是，好象在回答心里的推理，他望着镜子但没有看见自己说道：
“只是现在我才如释重负！”
他又开始走，走到客厅的另一头，他回头时发现马吕斯在注视着他走路，于是他用一种无法形容的语气对他说：
“我有点拖着步子走路。您现在知道是什么原因了。”
然后他完全转向马吕斯：
“现在，先生，您请想象一下，我仍是割风先生，我在您家里待下去，我是您家里的人，我在我的寝室里，早晨我穿着拖鞋来进早餐，晚上我们三个人去看戏，我陪彭眉胥夫人到杜伊勒里宫和王宫广场去散步，我们在一起，你们以为我是你们一样的人；有那么一天，我在这儿，你们也在，大家谈天说笑，忽然，你们听见一个声音，叫着这个名字：‘冉阿让！’于是警察这只可怕的手从黑暗中伸出来，突然把我的假面具扯掉了！”
他又沉默了；马吕斯战栗着站了起来，冉阿让又说：
“您觉得怎么样？”
马吕斯用沉默作回答。
冉阿让接着说：
“您看，我没有保持沉默是对的。好好地继续过你们幸福的生活吧！好象在天堂里一样，做一个天使的天使，生活在灿烂的阳光中，请对此感到满足，不要去管一个可怜的受苦人是以什么方式向您开诚布公和尽他的责任的。在您面前是一个悲惨的人，先生。”
马吕斯慢慢地在客厅中穿过，当他走近冉阿让时，向他伸出手来。
但马吕斯是不得不去握那只不向他伸出的手的，冉阿让听凭他握，马吕斯觉得好象握着一只大理石的手。
“我的外祖父有些朋友，”马吕斯说，“我将设法使您获得赦免。”
“无济于事，”冉阿让回答，“别人认为我已死去。这已足够了。死了的人不会再被监视。他们被认为是在静静地腐烂着。
死了，等于是赦免了。”
于是，他把马吕斯握着的手收回来，用一种严酷的自尊语气补充了一句：
“此外，尽我的天职，这就是我要向它求救的那个朋友；我只需要一种赦免，那就是我自己良心的赦免。”
这时，在客厅的那一头，门慢慢地开了一半，在半开的门里露出了珂赛特的头。人们只看到她可爱的面容，头发蓬松，很好看，眼皮还带着睡意。她做了一个小鸟把头伸出鸟巢的动作，先看看她的丈夫，再看看冉阿让，她笑着向他们大声说着，好象是玫瑰花心里的一个微笑：
“我打赌你们在谈政治！真傻，不和我在一起！”
冉阿让打了一个寒噤。
“珂赛特！……”马吕斯吞吞吐吐。接着他停住了。在别人看来好象两个有罪的人。
珂赛特，兴高采烈地继续来回地看着他们两人。她的眼里象是闪耀着天堂里的欢乐。
“我当场抓住你们了，”珂赛特说，“我刚从门外听见我父亲割风说：‘良心……尽他的天职……’这是政治呀，这些。我不爱听。不该第二天就谈政治，这是不公正的。”
“你弄错了，珂赛特，”马吕斯说，“我们在谈生意。我们在谈你的六十万法郎存放在什么地方最好……”
“还有别的，”珂赛特打断他的话，“我来了，你们这里要我来吗？”
她干脆走进门，到了客厅里。她穿着一件白色宽袖百褶晨衣，从颈部一直下垂到脚跟。在那种天上金光闪耀的古老的哥特式油画中，有着这种可以放进一个天使的美丽的宽大衣裳。
她在一面大穿衣镜前从头至脚地注视自己，然后突然用无法形容的狂喜声调大声说：
“从前有一个国王和一个王后。啊！我太高兴了！”
说完这句话，她向马吕斯和冉阿让行了一个屈膝礼。
“就是这样，”她说，“我来坐在你们身旁的沙发椅上，再过半小时就进早餐了，你们尽管谈你们的，我知道男人们是有话要说的，我会乖乖地待着。”
马吕斯挽着她的手臂亲热地向她说：
“我们在谈生意。”
“想起了一件事，”珂赛特回答，“我刚才把窗子打开了，有很多小丑到花园里来了。都是些小鸟，不戴面具。今天是斋期开始，可是小鸟不吃斋呀！”
“我告诉你我们在谈生意，去吧，我亲爱的珂赛特，让我们再谈一下，我们在谈数字，你听了会厌烦的。”
“你今天打了一个漂亮的领结，马吕斯。你很爱俏，大人，不，我不会厌烦。”
“我肯定你会厌烦的。”
“不会，因为是你们，我听不懂你们谈的话，但我能听着你们说话，听见心爱的人的声音，就不用去了解说的是什么了。只要能在一起，这就是我的要求。无论如何，我要和你们待在这儿。”
“你是我亲爱的珂赛特！但这件事不行。”
“不行！”
“对。”
“好吧，”珂赛特又说，“我本来有新闻要告诉你们。我本想告诉你们外祖父还在睡觉，姨妈上教堂去了，我父亲割风房间里的烟囱冒着烟，还有妮珂莱特找来了通烟囱的人，还有杜桑和妮珂莱特已吵了一架，妮珂莱特讥笑杜桑是结巴。好吧，你们什么也不知道。啊！这不行？我也一样，轮到我了，你看吧，先生，我也说：‘不行。’看看哪一个上了当？我求求你，我亲爱的马吕斯，让我和你俩在一起吧！”
“我向你发誓，我们必须单独谈话。”
“那么请
Part 5 Book 7 Chapter 2 The Obscurities Which a Revelation Can Contain
Marius was quite upset.
The sort of estrangement which he had always felt towards the man beside whom he had seen Cosette, was now explained to him. There was something enigmatic about that person, of which his instinct had warned him.
This enigma was the most hideous of disgraces, the galleys. This M. Fauchelevent was the convict Jean Valjean. 
To abruptly find such a secret in the midst of one's happiness resembles the discovery of a scorpion in a nest of turtledoves. 
Was the happiness of Marius and Cosette thenceforth condemned to such a neighborhood? Was this an accomplished fact? Did the acceptance of that man form a part of the marriage now consummated? Was there nothing to be done?
Had Marius wedded the convict as well?
In vain may one be crowned with light and joy, in vain may one taste the grand purple hour of life, happy love, such shocks would force even the archangel in his ecstasy, even the demigod in his glory, to shudder.
As is always the case in changes of view of this nature, Marius asked himself whether he had nothing with which to reproach himself. Had he been wanting in divination? Had he been wanting in prudence? Had he involuntarily dulled his wits? A little, perhaps. Had he entered upon this love affair, which had ended in his marriage to Cosette, without taking sufficient precautions to throw light upon the surroundings? He admitted,--it is thus, by a series of successive admissions of ourselves in regard to ourselves, that life amends us, little by little,--he admitted the chimerical and visionary side of his nature, a sort of internal cloud peculiar to many organizations, and which, in paroxysms of passion and sorrow, dilates as the temperature of the soul changes, and invades the entire man, to such a degree as to render him nothing more than a conscience bathed in a mist. We have more than once indicated this characteristic element of Marius' individuality.
He recalled that, in the intoxication of his love, in the Rue Plumet, during those six or seven ecstatic weeks, he had not even spoke to Cosette of that drama in the Gorbeau hovel, where the victim had taken up such a singular line of silence during the struggle and the ensuing flight. How had it happened that he had not mentioned this to Cosette? Yet it was so near and so terrible! How had it come to pass that he had not even named the Thenardiers, and, particularly, on the day when he had encountered Eponine? He now found it almost difficult to explain his silence of that time. Nevertheless, he could account for it. He recalled his benumbed state, his intoxication with Cosette, love absorbing everything, that catching away of each other into the ideal, and perhaps also, like the imperceptible quantity of reason mingled with this violent and charming state of the soul, a vague, dull instinct impelling him to conceal and abolish in his memory that redoubtable adventure, contact with which he dreaded, in which he did not wish to play ny part, his agency in which he had kept secret, and in which he could be neither narrator nor witness without being an accuser. 
Moreover, these few weeks had been a flash of lightning; there had been no time for anything except love. 
In short, having weighed everything, turned everything over in his mind, examined everything, whatever might have been the consequences if he had told Cosette about the Gorbeau ambush, even if he had discovered that Jean Valjean was a convict, would that have changed him, Marius? Would that have changed her, Cosette? Would he have drawn back? Would he have adored her any the less? Would he have refrained from marrying her? No. Then there was nothing to regret, nothing with which he need reproach himself. All was well. There is a deity for those drunken men who are called lovers. Marius blind, had followed the path which he would have chosen had he been in full possession of his sight. Love had bandaged his eyes, in order to lead him whither? To paradise. 
But this paradise was henceforth complicated with an infernal accompaniment.
Marius' ancient estrangement towards this man, towards this Fauchelevent who had turned into Jean Valjean, was at present mingled with horror. 
In this horror, let us state, there was some pity, and even a certain surprise.
This thief, this thief guilty of a second offence, had restored that deposit. And what a deposit! Six hundred thousand francs. 
He alone was in the secret of that deposit. He might have kept it all, he had restored it all. 
Moreover, he had himself revealed his situation. Nothing forced him to this. If any one learned who he was, it was through himself. In this avowal there was something more than acceptance of humiliation, there was acceptance of peril. For a condemned man, a mask is not a mask, it is a shelter. A false name is security, and he had rejected that false name. He, the galley-slave, might have hidden himself forever in an honest family; he had withstood this temptation. And with what motive? Through a conscientious scruple. He himself explained this with the irresistible accents of truth. In short, whatever this Jean Valjean might be, he was, undoubtedly, a conscience which was awakening. There existed some mysterious re-habilitation which had begun; and, to all appearances, scruples had for a long time already controlled this man. Such fits of justice and goodness are not characteristic of vulgar natures. An awakening of conscience is grandeur of soul.
Jean Valjean was sincere. This sincerity, visible, palpable, irrefragable, evident from the very grief that it caused him, rendered inquiries useless, and conferred authority on all that that man had said. 
Here, for Marius, there was a strange reversal of situations. What breathed from M. Fauchelevent? distrust. What did Jean Valjean inspire? Confidence.
In the mysterious balance of this Jean Valjean which the pensive Marius struck, he admitted the active principle, he admitted the passive principle, and he tried to reach a balance. 
But all this went on as in a storm. Marius, while endeavoring to form a clear idea of this man, and while pursuing Jean Valjean, so to speak, in the depths of his thought, lost him and found him again in a fatal mist.
The deposit honestly restored, the probity of the confession-- these were good. This produced a lightening of the cloud, then the cloud became black once more.
Troubled as were Marius' memories, a shadow of them returned to him.
After all, what was that adventure in the Jondrette attic? Why had that man taken to flight on the arrival of the police, instead of entering a complaint?
Here Marius found the answer. Because that man was a fugitive from justice, who had broken his ban. 
Another question: Why had that man come to the barricade?
For Marius now once more distinctly beheld that recollection which had re-appeared in his emotions like sympathetic ink at the application of heat. This man had been in the barricade. He had not fought there. What had he come there for? In the presence of this question a spectre sprang up and replied: "Javert."
Marius recalled perfectly now that funereal sight of Jean Valjean dragging the pinioned Javert out of the barricade, and he still heard behind the corner of the little Rue Mondetour that frightful pistol shot. Obviously, there was hatred between that police spy and the galley-slave.The one was in the other's way. Jean Valjean had gone to the barricade for the purpose of revenging himself. He had arrived late. He probably knew that Javert was a prisoner there.The Corsican vendetta has penetrated to certain lower strata and has become the law there; it is so simple that it does not astonish souls which are but half turned towards good; and those hearts are so constituted that a criminal, who is in the path of repentance, may be scrupulous in the matter of theft and unscrupulous in the matter of vengeance. Jean Valjean had killed Javert. At least, that seemed to be evident.
This was the final question, to be sure; but to this there was no reply. This question Marius felt like pincers. How had it come to pass that Jean Valjean's existence had elbowed that of Cosette for so long a period?
What melancholy sport of Providence was that which had placed that child in contact with that man? Are there then chains for two which are forged on high? And does God take pleasure in coupling the angel with the demon? So a crime and an innocence can be room-mates in the mysterious galleys of wretchedness? In that defiling of condemned persons which is called human destiny, can two brows pass side by side, the one ingenuous, the other formidable, the one all bathed in the divine whiteness of dawn, the other forever blemished by the flash of an eternal lightning? Who could have arranged that inexplicable pairing off? In what manner, in consequence of what prodigy, had any community of life been established between this celestial little creature and that old criminal? 
Who could have bound the lamb to the wolf, and, what was still more incomprehensible, have attached the wolf to the lamb? For the wolf loved the lamb, for the fierce creature adored the feeble one, for, during the space of nine years, the angel had had the monster as her point of support. Cosette's childhood and girlhood, her advent in the daylight, her virginal growth towards life and light, had been sheltered by that hideous devotion. Here questions exfoliated, so to speak, into innumerable enigmas, abysses yawned at the bottoms of abysses, and Marius could no longer bend over Jean Valjean without becoming dizzy. What was this man-precipice?
The old symbols of Genesis are eternal; in human society, such as it now exists, and until a broader day shall effect a change in it, there will always be two men, the one superior, the other subterranean; the one which is according to good is Abel; the other which is according to evil is Cain. What was this tender Cain? What was this ruffian religiously absorbed in the adoration of a virgin, watching over her, rearing her, guarding her, dignifying her, and enveloping her, impure as he was himself, with purity?
What was that cess-pool which had venerated that innocence to such a point as not to leave upon it a single spot? What was this Jean Valjean educating Cosette? What was this figure of the shadows which had for its only object the preservation of the rising of a star from every shadow and from every cloud?
That was Jean Valjean's secret; that was also God's secret.
In the presence of this double secret, Marius recoiled. The one, in some sort, reassured him as to the other. God was as visible in this affair as was Jean Valjean. God has his instruments. He makes use of the tool which he wills. He is not responsible to men. Do we know how God sets about the work? Jean Valjean had labored over Cosette. He had, to some extent, made that soul. That was incontestable. Well, what then? The workman was horrible; but the work was admirable. God produces his miracles as seems good to him. He had constructed that charming Cosette, and he had employed Jean Valjean. It had pleased him to choose this strange collaborator for himself. What account have we to demand of him? Is this the first time that the dung-heap has aided the spring to create the rose?
Marius made himself these replies, and declared to himself that they were good. He had not dared to press Jean Valjean on all the points which we have just indicated, but he did not confess to himself that he did not dare to do it. He adored Cosette, he possessed Cosette, Cosette was splendidly pure. That was sufficient for him. What enlightenment did he need? Cosette was a light. Does light require enlightenment? He had everything; what more could he desire? All,-- Xis not that enough? Jean Valjean's personal affairs did not concern him. 
And bending over the fatal shadow of that man, he clung fast, convulsively, to the solemn declaration of that unhappy wretch: "I am nothing to Cosette. Ten years ago I did not know that she was in existence."
Jean Valjean was a passer-by. He had said so himself. Well, he had passed. Whatever he was, his part was finished. 
Henceforth, there remained Marius to fulfil the part of Providence to Cosette. Cosette had sought the azure in a person like herself, in her lover, her husband, her celestial male. Cosette, as she took her flight, winged and transfigured, left behind her on the earth her hideous and empty chrysalis, Jean Valjean.
In whatever circle of ideas Marius revolved, he always returned to a certain horror for Jean Valjean. A sacred horror, perhaps, for, as we have just pointed out, he felt a quid divinum in that man. But do what he would, and seek what extenuation he would, he was certainly forced to fall back upon this: the man was a convict; that is to say, a being who has not even a place in the social ladder, since he is lower than the very lowest rung. After the very last of men comes the convict. The convict is no longer, so to speak, in the semblance of the living. The law has deprived him of the entire quantity of humanity of which it can deprive a man.
Marius, on penal questions, still held to the inexorable system, though he was a democrat and he entertained all the ideas of the law on the subject of those whom the law strikes. He had not yet accomplished all progress, we admit. He had not yet come to distinguish between that which is written by man and that which is written by God, between law and right. He had not examined and weighed the right which man takes to dispose of the irrevocable and the irreparable. He was not shocked by the word vindicte. He found it quite simple that certain breaches of the written law should be followed by eternal suffering, and he accepted, as the process of Xivilization, social damnation. He still stood at this point, though safe to advance infallibly later on, since his nature was good, and, at bottom, wholly formed of latent progress. 
In this stage of his ideas, Jean Valjean appeared to him hideous and repulsive. He was a man reproved, he was the convict. That word was for him like the sound of the trump on the Day of Judgment; and, after having reflected upon Jean Valjean for a long time, his final gesture had been to turn away his head. Vade retro.
Marius, if we must recognize and even insist upon the fact, while interrogating Jean Valjean to such a point that Jean Valjean had said: "You are confessing me," had not, nevertheless, put to him two or three decisive questions.
It was not that they had not presented themselves to his mind, but that he had been afraid of them. The Jondrette attic? The barricade? Javert? Who knows where these revelations would have stopped? Jean Valjean did not seem like a man who would draw back, and who knows whether Marius, after having urged him on, would not have himself desired to hold him back?
Has it not happened to all of us, in certain supreme conjunctures, to stop our ears in order that we may not hear the reply, after we have asked a question? It is especially when one loves that one gives way to these exhibitions of cowardice. It is not wise to question sinister situations to the last point, particularly when the indissoluble side of our life is fatally intermingled with them. What a terrible light might have proceeded from the despairing explanations of Jean Valjean, and who knows whether that hideous glare would not have darted forth as far as Cosette? Who knows whether a sort of infernal glow would not have lingered behind it on the brow of that angel? The spattering of a lightning-flash is of the thunder also. Fatality has points of juncture where innocence itself is stamped with crime by the gloomy law of the reflections which give color. The purest figures may forever preserve the reflection of a horrible association. Rightly or wrongly, Marius had been afraid. He already knew too much. He sought to dull his senses rather than to gain further light. 
In dismay he bore off Cosette in his arms and shut his eyes to Jean Valjean.
That man was the night, the living and horrible night. How should he dare to seek the bottom of it? It is a terrible thing to interrogate the shadow. Who knows what its reply will be? The dawn may be blackened forever by it.
In this state of mind the thought that that man would, henceforth, come into any contact whatever with Cosette was a heartrending perplexity to Marius.
He now almost reproached himself for not having put those formidable questions, before which he had recoiled, and from which an implacable and definitive decision might have sprung.He felt that he was too good, too gentle, too weak, if we must say the word.This weakness had led him to an imprudent concession. He had allowed himself to be touched. He had been in the wrong. He ought to have simply and purely rejected Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean played the part of fire, and that is what he should have done, and have freed his house from that man.
He was vexed with himself, he was angry with that whirlwind of emotions which had deafened, blinded, and carried him away. He was displeased with himself.
What was he to do now? Jean Valjean's visits were profoundly repugnant to him. What was the use in having that man in his house? What did the man want? Here, he became dismayed, he did not wish to dig down, he did not wish to penetrate deeply; he did not wish to sound himself. He had promised, he had allowed himself to be drawn into a promise; Jean Valjean held his promise; one must keep one's word even to a convict, above all to a convict. Still, his first duty was to Cosette. In short, he was carried away by the repugnance which dominated him. 
Marius turned over all this confusion of ideas in his mind, passing from one to the other, and moved by all of them. Hence arose a profound trouble.
It was not easy for him to hide this trouble from Cosette, but love is a talent, and Marius succeeded in doing it. 
However, without any apparent object, he questioned Cosette, who was as candid as a dove is white and who suspected nothing; he talked of her childhood and her youth, and he became more and more convinced that that convict had been everything good, paternal and respectable that a man can be towards Cosette. All that Marius had caught a glimpse of and had surmised was real. That sinister nettle had loved and protected that lily.
马吕斯的心里乱极了。
对珂赛特身旁的这人他为什么一直都有着反感，从此就得到了解释，他的本能使他察觉到这人有着一种不知怎样的谜，这个谜，就是最丑的耻辱棗苦役。割风先生就是苦役犯冉阿让。
在他的幸福中突然发现这样一个秘密，正如在斑鸠巢中发现了一只蝎子。
马吕斯和珂赛特的幸福是否从此就得和这人有关？这是否是一个既成的事实？接纳这个人是已缔结婚姻的一个部分？
是否已毫无办法了？
难道马吕斯也娶了这个苦役犯？
尽管头上戴着光明和欢乐的冠冕，尽管在享受一生中黄金时刻的美满爱情，遇到这种打击，即使是欢欣得出神的天使，或是在荣光中神化的人也会被迫战栗起来。
马吕斯扪心自问，是否应归咎自己？这是一个人在这种突然的彻底改变时经常产生的现象。他是否缺少预见？是否太不谨慎？是否无意中鲁莽从事？可能有一点。他是否不够小心，没有把四周的情况了解清楚，就一头钻进这个以和珂赛特结婚告终的爱情故事里？他察觉到，经过一系列的自我观察，生活就是如此一点一点地把我们矫正过来；他察觉到，他的性情具有妄想和梦幻的一面，内在的烟雾是很多体质的特征，当恋爱和痛苦达到极端时，它就扩大了，心灵的温度变了，烟雾就侵占全身，使他只能有一个混沌的意识。我们不止一次地指出过马吕斯个性中这样一种独特的成分。他回想起在卜吕梅街当他陶醉在恋爱中时，在那心醉神迷的六七个星期里，他竟没有向珂赛特提起过戈尔博破屋中那谜一样的悲剧，其中的受害人在斗争里古怪地坚持缄默，后来又潜逃了。他怎么一点也没有向珂赛特谈到？而这是不久前发生的，又是这样骇人！怎么他连德纳第的名字也没有向她提过，尤其是当他遇到爱潘妮的那一天？现在他几乎无法理解他当时的沉默。其实他是意识到的。他想起当时他昏头昏脑，他为珂赛特而感到陶醉，爱情淹没了一切，彼此都陶醉在理想的境界中，也可能有那么一点不易察觉的理智混入了这强烈而又迷人的心境中，有一个模糊的隐隐约约的本能，想隐瞒消除记忆中他害怕接触的这一可怕的遭遇，他不愿在里面担任任何角色，他逃避这件事，他不能既当这件事的叙述者或证明人而同时又不成为揭发人。何况这几个星期一闪就过去了；除了相亲相爱之外，无暇他顾。最后他把一切衡量了一下，在反复检查思考之后，他认为即使他把戈尔博的埋伏绑架案告诉珂赛特，向她提出了德纳第的名字，其后果又该如何呢？即使他发现了冉阿让是一个苦役犯，这样能使自己发生变化吗？会使珂赛特发生变化吗？他是否会退缩？他是否会对珂赛特爱得少一点？他是否会不娶她？不会。这些对已经做了的事会有一点改变吗？不会。因此没有什么可后悔的，没有什么可自责的。一切都很好。这些被称作情人的陶醉者有一个上帝护卫着他们。盲目的马吕斯遵循了一条他清醒时也会选择的路。爱情蒙住了他的眼睛，把他带到什么地方去了呢？带进了天堂。
但这个天堂由于有地狱相随，从此变得复杂了。
过去马吕斯对这个人，这个变成冉阿让的割风的反感现在则又夹杂了厌恶。
在这厌恶中，我们可以说，也有点同情，甚至还有一定的惊奇的成分。
这个盗贼，这个惯犯，归还了一笔款子。一笔什么样的款子？六十万法郎。他是惟一知道这笔钱的秘密的人。他本可全部留下，但他却全部归还了。
此外，他自动暴露了他的身分。没有什么来迫使他暴露。如果有人知道他的底细，那也是由于他自己。他承认了，不仅要忍受耻辱，还要准备灾难临头。对判了刑的人来说，一个假面具不是假面具，而是一个避难所。他拒绝了这个避难所。一个假姓名意味着安全，但他抛弃了这个假姓名。他这个苦役犯尽可永远藏身在一个清白的人家；但他拒绝了这种诱惑。出自什么动机？出自良心的不安。他自己已用无法抑制的真实语气阐述了。总之，不论这冉阿让是个什么样的人，他肯定是个对良心悔悟的人。他心里开始有一种不知什么样的神秘的要重新做人的要求；而且，根据一切现象来看，在很久以前良心上的不安就已支配着这个人。这样极端公正和善良的心是不属于庸俗的人的。良心的觉醒就是灵魂的伟大。
冉阿让是诚实的。这种诚实看得见，摸得到，无可怀疑，单凭他付出的痛苦代价就足以证明，因而一切查问都已没有必要，可以绝对相信这个人所说的一切。这时，对马吕斯来说，位置是古怪地颠倒过来了。割风先生使人产生什么感觉？怀疑。
而从冉阿让那里得出的是什么？信任。
马吕斯经过苦思冥想，对冉阿让作了一份总结，查清了他的功和过，他设法想得到平衡。但这一切就象在一场风暴里一样。马吕斯力图对这个人得出一个明确的看法，可以说他一直追逐到冉阿让的思想深处，失去了线索，接着又在烟雾迷漫的厄运中重新找到了。
款子诚实地归还了，直言不讳地认罪，这些都是好现象。
这好象乌云里片刻的晴朗，接着乌云又变成漆黑的了。
马吕斯的回忆虽然十分混乱，但仍留下了一些模糊的印象。
容德雷特破屋中的那次遭遇究竟是怎么回事？为什么警察一到，这个人非但不告状，反而逃走了？马吕斯在这里找到了回答，原来这个人是个在逃的惯犯。
另一个问题：这个人为什么要到街垒里来？因为马吕斯已清楚地回想起了过去的这件事，现在在他情绪激动时，这事就象密写墨水靠近火一样，又重新显露出来了。这人曾经到街垒里来，但他并没有参加斗争。他来干什么？在这个问题上，一个鬼怪出来作了回答：沙威。马吕斯完全记得当时冉阿让那愁苦的幻影把捆着的沙威拖出了街垒。蒙德都巷子拐角后面可怕的手枪声还在他耳边回响。很可能这奸细和这犯人之间有仇恨。一个妨碍了另一个。冉阿让是到街垒里去复仇的。他来得较迟。大概他知道沙威被囚。科西嘉岛式的复仇①深入到了社会的底层，成为他们的法律；这种复仇平凡得使那些心已一半向善的人也不会感到惊异；他们的心就是这样：一个已走上忏悔之路的罪人，对于盗窃，良心会有所不安，面对复仇则是无所谓的。冉阿让杀死了沙威。至少这件事显然如此。 
①科西嘉岛（Corse），法国在地中海里的岛屿，当地的复仇一直连累到敌对一方的家属。
最后还有一个问题，但这个问题无法作答。马吕斯感到这个问题象把钳子。冉阿让怎么会这样长时期地和珂赛特生活在一起？上天开的是种什么样的可悲的玩笑，要让这个孩子接触到这么一个人？难道上界也铸有双人链，上帝喜欢把天使和魔鬼拴在一起？难道一个罪人和一个纯洁的孩子在神秘的苦难监狱中可以同房作伴？在这被称作人类命运的判刑人的行列里，两个人的额头可以挨得如此近，一个是天真的，另一个是可怕的，一个沐浴着晨曦的神圣白光，另一个永远被一道永恒的闪电照得惨无人色？谁对这莫名其妙的搭配作出了决定？以什么方式？是一种什么样的奇迹使这个圣洁的孩子和老罪犯共同生活在一起？谁把羔羊和豺狼拴在一起？还更使人莫名其妙的是，去把狼拴在羔羊身上？因为狼爱羔羊，因为这野蛮人崇拜这脆弱的人，因为，九年以来，天使依靠恶魔作为支柱。珂赛特的幼年和青春，她的出生，这童贞少女向着生命和光明发育成长，都依靠这丑恶汉子的忠忱护卫。在这一点上，问题一层层解开了，可以说出现了无数的谜，深渊底下又出现深渊，致使马吕斯在俯视冉阿让时不能不晕头转向。这个断崖绝壁似的人究竟是怎么回事呢？
《创世记》里的老信条是永恒的，在一直存在着的人类社会中，直到将来的某一天，一种更大的光明来改变这个社会时，也永远会有两种人，一种是高尚的，另一种是卑下的；向善的是亚伯，作恶的是该隐。那么这个秉性善良的该隐又是什么呢？这个虔诚地一心一意崇拜一个圣女的盗贼，他守卫她，教养她，保护她，使她品格高尚，虽然他本身污秽。这个盗贼是个什么样的人呢？他是垃圾却尊敬一个天真的人，他把她培养得洁白无瑕，这又怎么理解呢？这个教育珂赛特的冉阿让是个什么人？这个黑暗的面孔唯一的目的就是防止阴影和云雾遮蔽一个星辰的升起，这又作何解释呢？
这是冉阿让的秘密，也是上帝的秘密。
在这双重秘密前面，马吕斯在后退。一个秘密可以说已使他对另一个秘密安了心。显而易见上帝和冉阿让一样参预了这一奇遇，上帝有自己的工具，他使用他愿意使用的工具。他对人类负责。我们知道上帝的办法吗？冉阿让在珂赛特身上付出了劳动。他也多少培养了这个灵魂。这是不容置疑的。那又怎么样呢？工匠令人感到恐怖；但作品是杰出的。上帝随心所欲地在显示他的奇迹。他创造出这个可爱的珂赛特，他为此而用上了冉阿让。他乐意挑选这个怪诞的助手。我们有什么可责难他的？难道厩肥是第一次帮助玫瑰花在春天开放吗？
马吕斯自问自答，认为自己这些答案是正确的。在我们所指出的一切论点上，他没敢深挖冉阿让，但又不敢向自己承认他不敢，他深深地爱着珂赛特，珂赛特已经属于他，珂赛特是出奇的纯洁。对此他心满意足。还需要搞清什么呢？珂赛特就是光明。光明还需要再明朗化吗？他已有了一切；还有什么其他的希求呢？应有尽有了，还不满足吗？冉阿让个人的事与他无关。当他对这个人的不幸阴影俯视时，他就紧紧抓住这悲惨的人庄严的声明：“我与珂赛特毫无关系，十年前，我还不知道她的存在呢！”
冉阿让是个过路人。他自己已说过。是啊，他是路过。不管他是什么人，他的任务已经完成。从今以后有马吕斯当珂赛特的靠山。珂赛特在灿烂的蓝天里找到了她的同类，她的情人，她的丈夫，她的卓绝的男人，珂赛特长出双翼神化了，在飞上天时她把她那丑恶的空蛹冉阿让扔在她后面的地下。
无论马吕斯在什么样的思想里打转，归根结底，他对冉阿让总有一定程度的厌恶。可能是种崇敬的厌恶，因为他感到这个人“有神圣的一面”①。无论他怎么处理，无论找什么减罪的情节，最后仍不得不回到这一点：这是一个苦役犯。这就是说在社会的阶梯上，一个连位子都没有的人，因为他处在楼梯的最后一级之下。最末一个人之后才是苦役犯。苦役犯可以说已经不是活着的人的同类。法律在他身上已剥夺了对一个人所能剥夺的全部人格。马吕斯虽然是共和派，但对刑罚却仍赞成严酷的制度，他对待被法律打击的人，看法和法律所判的完全一致。可以说他还没有接受一切进步的思想。他还不能辨别什么是人决定的，什么是上帝决定的，还不能区分法律和权利。人们自封有权处理不能挽回和不能补救的事，马吕斯一点也没研究估量过这种自封的权利。他觉得对成文法的某些破坏要受永久的处罚，这是很容易理解的，他同意社会把有些人罚入地狱是一种文明的做法。他还停留在这一步，当然以听也必然会前进，因为他的天性是善良的，实质上里面含有潜在的进步。
在这种思想范畴里，他觉得冉阿让畸形、讨厌。这是一个恶人，一个苦役犯。这个字眼对他来说就象末日审判时的号角；于是在长时间观察了冉阿让之后，他最后的态度是转过头去，“魔鬼退下”②。 
①“有神圣的一面”，原文为拉丁文，quid　divinum。
②“魔鬼退下”，原文为拉丁文Vade　retro。　
我们应当承认并且还该着重指出马吕斯对冉阿让曾经提过问题，而冉阿让向他说：“你在让我招供。”其实他还并没有提出两三个决定性的问题。并非他想不起这些问题，而是他怕这些问题。容德雷特破屋？街垒？沙威？谁知道揭到什么时候才会有完？冉阿让不象是个畏缩的人。谁知道，如果马吕斯追问后，他是否会希望冉阿让不再说下去？在某些重要关头，我们大家难道不曾遇到过，在提了一个问题之后，自己去塞住耳朵不想听到答复？尤其是在恋爱时期是会有这种懦弱的现象的。过分追究险恶的情况是不谨慎的，尤其当我们自己生活里不能割断的一面又不幸牵涉在里面时。冉阿让失望的解释，可能会暴露出一些可怕的事，谁知道这道丑恶的光是否会波及珂赛特？谁知道在珂赛特天使般的额头上是否已留下这种地狱之光呢？溅出的闪电的光仍属霹雳。天数里有着这种相互的关连，由于阴沉的染色反光律在起作用，无辜的人也会染上罪恶的痕迹，最清白的面容也可以永远保留着可憎的近邻的反射。无论正确与否，马吕斯害怕了。他已知道得太多了。他想含糊过去，并不打算弄清底细。他在失望时昏乱地抱走珂赛特，闭目不看冉阿让。
这个人属于黑暗，属于活生生的可怖的黑夜。他怎么敢追根问底呢？盘问黑影是种恐怖。谁知道它将如何作答。黎明可能会永远被它玷污！
在这种思想状态里，一想到这个人今后将和珂赛特会有某种接触时马吕斯感到惊惶失措。这些可怕的问题，当时他是退缩不敢提，这些问题本可能会使他得出一个毫不容情的一刀两断的决定，他此刻几乎埋怨自己没有把它提出来。他觉得自己心肠太好，太宽厚，也就是说，太懦弱了。这种软弱使他作出了一个不谨慎的让步。他被人感动了。他不该如此。他应该简单而干脆地甩开冉阿让。冉阿让是惹祸的人，他应该牺牲他，把他从家中赶出去。他责怪自己，他怪自己突然被激动搞糊涂了，使自己耳聋眼瞎，被拖着跑了。他对自己感到很不满。
现在怎么办呢？冉阿让的来访使他十分反感。这个人到他家？来有什么用？怎么办？至此他已头昏眼花，他不愿深思，不愿细察，也不愿追问自己。他已经答应了，他被动地答应了；冉阿让得到了他的诺言；即使对一个苦役犯，尤其对一个苦役犯，也决不能食言，然而他首先要负起的责任仍是珂赛特。总之，一种压倒一切的厌恶在支配他。
所有这些想法在马吕斯脑海中混乱地上下翻腾，从一种想法转到另一种，每一种都使他激动，他因而极端惶惑。要在珂赛特面前隐藏起这种情绪是不容易的，但爱情是天才，马吕斯做到了。
此外，他似乎无目的地向珂赛特提了几个问题，天真无邪，洁白如鸽子的珂赛特毫不怀疑；他向她谈到她的幼年和少年时期，于是他越来越深信凡是一个人能具有的善良、慈爱和可敬之处，对珂赛特来说这个苦役犯都是具有的。马吕斯的预感和推测都是正确的。这株可怕的荨麻疼爱并且护卫了这朵百合花。
Part 5 Book 8 Chapter 1 The Lower Chamber
On the following day, at nightfall, Jean Valjean knocked at the carriage gate of the Gillenormand house. It was Basque who received him. Basque was in the courtyard at the appointed hour, as though he had received his orders. It sometimes happens that one says to a servant: "You will watch for Mr. So and so, when he arrives."
Basque addressed Jean Valjean without waiting for the latter to approach him:
"Monsieur le Baron has charged me to inquire whether monsieur desires to go upstairs or to remain below?"
"I will remain below," replied Jean Valjean.
Basque, who was perfectly respectful, opened the door of the waiting-room and said:
"I will go and inform Madame."
The room which Jean Valjean entered was a damp, vaulted room on the ground floor, which served as a cellar on occasion, which opened on the street, was paved with red squares and was badly lighted by a grated window. 
This chamber was not one of those which are harassed by the feather-duster, the pope's head brush, and the broom. The dust rested tranquilly there. Persecution of the spiders was not organized there. A fine web, which spread far and wide, and was very black and ornamented with dead flies, formed a wheel on one of the window-panes. The room, which was small and low-ceiled, was furnished with a heap of empty bottles piled up in one corner.
The wall, which was daubed with an ochre yellow wash, was scaling off in large flakes. At one end there was a chimney-piece painted in black with a narrow shelf. A fire was burning there; which indicated that Jean Valjean's reply: "I will remain below," had been foreseen.
Two arm-chairs were placed at the two corners of the fireplace. Between the chairs an old bedside rug, which displayed more foundation thread than wool, had been spread by way of a carpet. 
The chamber was lighted by the fire on the hearth and the twilight falling through the window. 
Jean Valjean was fatigued. For days he had neither eaten nor slept. He threw himself into one of the arm-chairs. 
Basque returned, set a lighted candle on the chimney-piece and retired. Jean Valjean, his head drooping and his chin resting on his breast, perceived neither Basque nor the candle.
All at once, he drew himself up with a start. Cosette was standing beside him.
He had not seen her enter, but he had felt that she was there.
He turned round. He gazed at her. She was adorably lovely. But what he was contemplating with that profound gaze was not her beauty but her soul.
"Well," exclaimed Cosette, "father, I knew that you were peculiar, but I never should have expected this. What an idea! Marius told me that you wish me to receive you here."
"Yes, it is my wish."
"I expected that reply. Good. I warn you that I am going to make a scene for you. Let us begin at the beginning. Embrace me, father." 
And she offered him her cheek.
Jean Valjean remained motionless.
"You do not stir. I take note of it. Attitude of guilt. But never mind, I pardon you. Jesus Christ said: Offer the other cheek. Here it is."
And she presented her other cheek.
Jean Valjean did not move. It seemed as though his feet were nailed to the pavement.
"This is becoming serious," said Cosette. "What have I done to you? I declare that I am perplexed. You owe me reparation. You will dine with us."
"I have dined."
"That is not true. I will get M. Gillenormand to scold you. Grandfathers are made to reprimand fathers. Come. Go upstairs with me to the drawing-room. Immediately."
"Impossible."
Here Cosette lost ground a little. She ceased to command and passed to questioning.
"But why? and you choose the ugliest chamber in the house in which to see me. It's horrible here."
"Thou knowest . . ."
Jean Valjean caught himself up.
"You know, madame, that I am peculiar, I have my freaks."
Cosette struck her tiny hands together.
"Madame! . . . You know! . . . more novelties! What is the meaning of this?"
Jean Valjean directed upon her that heartrending smile to which he occasionally had recourse:
"You wished to be Madame. You are so."
"Not for you, father."
"Do not call me father."
"What?"
"Call me `Monsieur Jean.' `Jean,' if you like." 
"You are no longer my father? I am no longer Cosette?`Monsieur Jean'? What does this mean? Why, these are revolutions, aren't they? What has taken place? Come, look me in the face. And you won't live with us! And you won't have my chamber! What have I done to you? Has anything happened?" 
"Nothing."
"Well then?"
"Everything is as usual."
"Why do you change your name?"
"You have changed yours, surely."
He smiled again with the same smile as before and added:
"Since you are Madame Pontmercy, I certainly can be Monsieur Jean."
"I don't understand anything about it. All this is idiotic. I shall ask permission of my husband for you to be `Monsieur Jean.' I hope that he will not consent to it. You cause me a great deal of pain. One does have freaks, but one does not cause one's little Cosette grief. That is wrong. You have no right to be wicked, you who are so good."
He made no reply.
She seized his hands with vivacity, and raising them to her face with an irresistible movement, she pressed them against her neck beneath her chin, which is a gesture of profound tenderness. 
"Oh!" she said to him, "be good!"
And she went on:
"This is what I call being good: being nice and coming and living here,-- there are birds here as there are in the Rue Plumet,--living with us, quitting that hole of a Rue de l'Homme Arme, not giving us riddles to guess, being like all the rest of the world, dining with us, breakfasting with us, being my father."
He loosed her hands.
"You no longer need a father, you have a husband."
Cosette became angry.
"I no longer need a father! One really does not know what to say to things like that, which are not common sense!" 
"If Toussaint were here," resumed Jean Valjean, like a person who is driven to seek authorities, and who clutches at every branch, "she would be the first to agree that it is true that I have always had ways of my own. There is nothing new in this. I always have loved my black corner." 
"But it is cold here. One cannot see distinctly. It is abominable, that it is, to wish to be Monsieur Jean! I will not have you say `you' to me.
"Just now, as I was coming hither," replied Jean Valjean, "I saw a piece of furniture in the Rue Saint Louis. It was at a cabinet-maker's. If I were a pretty woman, I would treat myself to that bit of furniture. A very neat toilet table in the reigning style. What you call rosewood, I think. It is inlaid. The mirror is quite large. There are drawers. It is pretty." 
"Hou! The villainous bear!" replied Cosette.
And with supreme grace, setting her teeth and drawing back her lips, she blew at Jean Valjean. She was a Grace copying a cat. 
"I am furious," she resumed. "Ever since yesterday, you have made me rage, all of you. I am greatly vexed. I don't understand. You do not defend me against Marius. Marius will not uphold me against you. I am all alone. I arrange a chamber prettily. If I could have put the good God there I would have done it. My chamber is left on my hands. My lodger sends me into bankruptcy. I order a nice little dinner of Nicolette. We will have nothing to do with your dinner, Madame. And my father Fauchelevent wants me to call him `Monsieur Jean,' and to receive him in a frightful, old, ugly cellar, where the walls have beards, and where the crystal consists of empty bottles, and the curtains are of spiders' webs! You are singular, I admit, that is your style, but people who get married are granted a truce. You ought not to have begun being singular again instantly. So you are going to be perfectly contented in your abominable Rue de l'Homme Arme. I was very desperate indeed there, that I was. What have you against me? You cause me a great deal of grief. Fi!"
And, becoming suddenly serious, she gazed intently at Jean Valjean and added:
"Are you angry with me because I am happy?"
Ingenuousness sometimes unconsciously penetrates deep. This question, which was simple for Cosette, was profound for Jean Valjean. Cosette had meant to scratch, and she lacerated. 
Jean Valjean turned pale.
He remained for a moment without replying, then, with an inexpressible intonation, and speaking to himself, he murmured:"Her happiness was the object of my life. Now God may sign my dismissal. Cosette, thou art happy; my day is over." 
"Ah, you have said thou to me!" exclaimed Cosette. 
And she sprang to his neck. 
Jean Valjean, in bewilderment, strained her wildly to his breast. It almost seemed to him as though he were taking her back. 
"Thanks, father!" said Cosette. 
This enthusiastic impulse was on the point of becoming poignant for Jean Valjean. He gently removed Cosette's arms, and took his hat. 
"Well?" said Cosette. 
"I leave you, Madame, they are waiting for you."
And, from the threshold, he added:
"I have said thou to you. Tell your husband that this shall not happen again. Pardon me." 
Jean Valjean quitted the room, leaving Cosette stupefied at this enigmatical farewell.
第二天，黄昏时刻，冉阿让去敲吉诺曼家的大门。迎接他的是巴斯克。巴斯克恰好在院子里，好象他已接到命令。有时候我们会关照仆人：“你在这儿守着某某人，他就要来了。”
巴斯克未等冉阿让来到跟前就问他：
“男爵先生叫我问先生，要上楼还是待在楼下？”
“在楼下。”冉阿让回答。
巴斯克确是十分恭敬的，他把地下室的门打开了说，“我去通知夫人。”
冉阿让走进了一间有拱顶的潮湿的地下室，有时这是当作酒窖用的。昏暗的光线从一扇有铁栏杆的开向街心的红格玻璃窗里射进来。
这不是一间象其他被拂尘、打扫天花板的掸子以及扫帚经常清理过的房间，灰尘在里面安安静静地堆积着。对蜘蛛的消灭计划还没有建立。一个精致的黑黑的大蛛网张挂着，上面缀满死苍蝇，装腔作势地铺呈在一块窗玻璃上。房间既小又矮，墙角有着一堆空酒瓶。墙壁刷成赭黄色，石灰大片大片剥落。靠里有一个木质的壁炉漆成黑色，炉架窄小，炉中生了火，很明显，这说明他们估计冉阿让的回答是“在下面”。
两把扶手椅放在火炉两旁，在扶手椅之间铺了一块床前小垫，代替地毯，小垫只剩下粗绳，几乎没有羊毛了。
房间利用火炉的光和从窗子透进来的黄昏天色来照明。
冉阿让疲乏不堪。好几天来他不吃也不睡，他倒在一张扶手椅里。
巴斯克进来，把一支燃着的蜡烛放在炉架上又走了。冉阿让低着头，下巴垂在胸口上，没有看见巴斯克，也没看见蜡烛。
忽然他兴奋地站了起来，珂赛特已在他后面。
他没有见她进来，但他感到她进来了。
他转过身来，他打量她，她美丽得令人仰慕。但他用深邃的目光观望的不是美丽的容貌，而是灵魂。
“啊，不错，”珂赛特大声说，“好一种想法！父亲，我知道您有怪癖，但我再也想不到会有这一着。马吕斯告诉我您要我在这里接待您。”
“是的，是我。”
“我已猜到您的回答，好吧，我警告您，我要和您大闹一场。从头开始，父亲，先来吻我。”
她把面颊凑过去。
冉阿让呆呆地不动。
“您动也不动，我看清楚了，这是有罪的表现。算了，我原谅您。耶稣说：‘把另一边面颊转向他①。’在这里。” 
①耶稣曾说过有人打了你右边的面颊，你把左边的也送上去。
她把另一边脸凑过去。
冉阿让一动也不动，好象他的脚已被钉在地上了。
“这可严重了，”珂赛特说，“我怎么得罪您了？我声明要翻脸了，你得和我言归于好。您来和我们一起吃饭。”
“我吃过了。”
“不是真话，我找吉诺曼外祖父来责备您，祖父可以训父亲。快快和我一同上客厅去吧，立刻走。”
“不行。”
到此，珂赛特感到有点拿不住了，她不再命令而转为提问。
“为什么？您挑选家里最简陋的房间来看我，这里真待不住。”
“你知道……”
冉阿让又改口说：
“您知道，夫人，我很特别，我有我的怪癖。”
珂赛特拍着小手。
“夫人！……您知道！……又是件新鲜事！这是什么意思？”
冉阿让向她苦笑，有时他就这样笑着。
“您要当夫人，您是夫人了。”
“但对您可不是，父亲。”
“别再叫我父亲。”
“为什么？”
“叫我让先生，或者让，随您的便。”
“您不是父亲了？我也不是珂赛特了？让先生？这是什么意思？这是革命，这些！发生了什么事？请您看着我。您也不愿来和我们同住！您又不要我的房间！我怎么得罪了您？我怎么得罪您啦？难道发生了什么事？”
“没有。”
“那又为什么呢？”
“一切仍象过去一样。”
“您为什么要改变姓名？”
“您不是也改了，您。”
他仍带着那种微笑对着她并且还说：
“既然您是彭眉胥夫人，我也可以是让先生。”
“我一点也不明白，这一切都是愚蠢的。我要问我的丈夫是否允许我称您让先生，我希望他不同意。您使我多么难受，您有怪癖，但也不必使您的小珂赛特难过呀！这不好。您没有权利变得厉害，您原来是善良的！”
他不回答。
她很快地抓住他的双手，用无法抵抗的举动，把手靠近自己的脸，她又紧紧地把手挨着她的脖子，放在下巴下面，这是一种极温柔的动作。
“啊，”她向他说，“请您仁慈点吧！”
她又继续说：
“我说仁慈是指和气，来住在这里，恢复我们那有益的短时间的散步，这里和卜吕梅街一样也有小鸟，来和我们一起生活，离开武人街那个洞，别让我们来猜谜，和其他人一样，来和我们一起吃饭，和我们一起吃早餐，做我的父亲。”
他把手缩回去。
“您不需要父亲了，您已有了丈夫。”
珂赛特冒火了。
“我不需要父亲了！这种话太不近人情，真令人不知说什么好！”
“如果杜桑在的话，”冉阿让说时好象一个在找靠山、抓住任何树枝就不放的人，“她会第一个承认我真是有我自己的一套习惯。什么事也没有发生，我一直喜欢我的黑暗的角落。”
“这里冷得很，看也看不清。要当让先生，这真糟透了，我不要您对我用‘您’称呼。”
“刚才来的时候，”冉阿让回答，“在圣路易街乌木器店里我看见一件木器，如果我是个漂亮的妇女，我就要把这件木器买到手。一个很好的梳妆台，式样新，我想就是你们所说的香木，上面嵌了花，一面相当大的镜子，有抽屉，很好看。”
“哼！怪人！”珂赛特回答。
于是她用十分可爱的神气，咬紧牙咧开嘴向冉阿让吹气。
这是一个美神在学小猫的动作。
“我气愤得很，”她又说，“从昨天起你们全都在使我发怒，我心里很恼火，我不懂。您不帮我对付马吕斯，马吕斯不支持我对付您。我是孤单的。我布置得很好的一间卧室。如果我能把上帝请来，我也都想请进去。你们把房间甩给我。我的房客跑掉了。我叫妮珂莱特准备一顿美味的晚餐。‘人家不要吃您的晚餐，夫人。’还有我的父亲割风要我叫他让先生，还要我在这个可怕的陈旧简陋的发霉的地窖里接待他，这儿墙上长了胡子，空瓶代替水晶器皿，蛛网代替窗帘！您性情古怪，这我承认，这是您的个性，但对刚结婚的人总得暂时休战。您不该立刻就变得很古怪。您居然能在那可恨的武人街住得很安逸。在那里我本人倒是悲观失望的！您对我有什么不满？您使我十分难过。呸！”
然后，忽而又一本正经，她盯住冉阿让又说：
“您不高兴是因为我幸福了？”
天真的话，有时不自觉地点得十分透。这个问题，对珂赛特来说是简单的，对冉阿让则是严酷的。珂赛特要让他痛一下，结果使他心肝俱裂了。
冉阿让脸色惨白。他停了一下不回答，然后用一种无法形容的声音好象自言自语地轻轻说：
“她的幸福，是我生活的目的。现在上帝可以召唤我去了。
珂赛特，你幸福了，我没有用了。”
“啊！您对我称‘你’了！”珂赛特叫起来。
于是她跳过去抱住他的脖子。
象失去了理智那样冉阿让热烈地把她紧抱在胸前，他好象觉得他又把她找回来了。
“谢谢，父亲！”珂赛特说。
这种激动的感情正要使冉阿让变得非常伤心，他慢慢地离开珂赛特的手臂并且拿起他的帽子。
“怎么啦？”珂赛特说。
冉阿让回答：
“我走了，夫人，别人在等您。”
在到门口时，又加了一句：
“我对您称了‘你’，请告诉您的丈夫，以后我不再这样称呼您了，请原谅我。”
冉阿让出去了。留下珂赛特在为这莫名其妙的告别而发呆。
Part 5 Book 8 Chapter 2 Another Step Backwards
On the following day, at the same hour, Jean Valjean came.
Cosette asked him no questions, was no longer astonished, no longer exclaimed that she was cold, no longer spoke of the drawing-room, she avoided saying either "father" or "Monsieur Jean." She allowed herself to be addressed as you. She allowed herself to be called Madame. Only, her joy had undergone a certain diminution. She would have been sad, if sadness had been possible to her. 
It is probable that she had had with Marius one of those conversations in which the beloved man says what he pleases, explains nothing, and satisfies the beloved woman. The curiosity of lovers does not extend very far beyond their own love.
The lower room had made a little toilet. Basque had suppressed the bottles, and Nicolette the spiders. 
All the days which followed brought Jean Valjean at the same hour. He came every day, because he had not the strength to take Marius' words otherwise than literally. Marius arranged matters so as to be absent at the hours when Jean Valjean came. The house grew accustomed to the novel ways of M. Fauchelevent. Toussaint helped in this direction: "Monsieur has always been like that," she repeated. The grandfather issued this decree:--"He's an original." And all was said. Moreover, at the age of ninety-six, no bond is any longer possible, all is merely juxtaposition; a newcomer is in the way.There is no longer any room; all habits are acquired. M. Fauchelevent, M. Tranchelevent, Father Gillenormand asked nothing better than to be relieved from "that gentleman." He added:--"Nothing is more common than those originals. They do all sorts of queer things. They have no reason. The Marquis de Canaples was still worse. He bought a palace that he might lodge in the garret. These are fantastic appearances that people affect." 
No one caught a glimpse of the sinister foundation. And moreover, who could have guessed such a thing? There are marshes of this description in India. The water seems extraordinary, inexplicable, rippling though there is no wind, and agitated where it should be calm. One gazes at the surface of these causeless ebullitions; one does not perceive the hydra which crawls on the bottom.
Many men have a secret monster in this same manner, a dragon which gnaws them, a despair which inhabits their night. Such a man resembles other men, he goes and comes. No one knows that he bears within him a frightful parasitic pain with a thousand teeth, which lives within the unhappy man, and of which he is dying. No one knows that this man is a gulf. He is stagnant but deep. From time to time, a trouble of which the onlooker understands nothing appears on his surface. A mysterious wrinkle is formed, then vanishes, then re-appears; an air-bubble rises and bursts. It is the breathing of the unknown beast.
Certain strange habits: arriving at the hour when other people are taking their leave, keeping in the background when other people are displaying themselves, preserving on all occasions what may be designated as the wall-colored mantle, seeking the solitary walk, preferring the deserted street, avoiding any share in conversation, avoiding crowds and festivals, seeming at one's ease and living poorly, having one's key in one's pocket, and one's candle at the porter's lodge, however rich one may be, entering by the side door, ascending the private staircase,--all these insignificant singularities, fugitive folds on the surface, often proceed from a formidable foundation. 
Many weeks passed in this manner. A new life gradually took possession of Cosette: the relations which marriage creates, visits, the care of the house, pleasures, great matters. Cosette's pleasures were not costly, they consisted in one thing: being with Marius. The great occupation of her life was to go out with him, to remain with him. It was for them a joy that was always fresh, to go out arm in arm, in the face of the sun, in the open street, without hiding themselves, before the whole world, both of them completely alone. 
Cosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not get on with Nicolette, the soldering of two elderly maids being impossible, and she went away. The grandfather was well; Marius argued a case here and there; Aunt Gillenormand peacefully led that life aside which sufficed for her, beside the new household. Jean Valjean came every day.
The address as thou disappeared, the you, the "Madame," the "Monsieur Jean," rendered him another person to Cosette. The care which he had himself taken to detach her from him was succeeding. She became more and more gay and less and less tender. Yet she still loved him sincerely, and he felt it.
One day she said to him suddenly: "You used to be my father, you are no longer my father, you were my uncle, you are no longer my uncle, you were Monsieur Fauchelevent, you are Jean. Who are you then? I don't like all this. If I did not know how good you are, I should be afraid of you."
He still lived in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, because he could not make up his mind to remove to a distance from the quarter where Cosette dwelt. 
At first, he only remained a few minutes with Cosette, and then went away.
Little by little he acquired the habit of making his visits less brief. One would have said that he was taking advantage of the authorization of the days which were lengthening, he arrived earlier and departed later. 
One day Cosette chanced to say "father" to him. A flash of joy illuminated Jean Valjean's melancholy old countenance.He caught her up: "Say Jean."--"Ah! truly," she replied with a burst of laughter, "Monsieur Jean."--"That is right," said he. And he turned aside so that she might not see him wipe his eyes.
第二天，在同一时刻冉阿让来了。
珂赛特不再问他，不再表示惊讶，不再叫她觉得冷，不再提客厅的事了；她避免称他父亲或让先生，她任他称“您”，任他称“夫人”，只是她的欢乐减弱了。如果她有可能愁闷的话，她会发愁的。
很可能她和马吕斯已作过一次这样的谈话，她的爱人在这次谈话里说了要说的话但不加任何解释，而且还使爱妻满意。相爱的人对爱情之外的事物好奇心是不会太大的。
地下室被稍稍整理了一下。巴斯克拿走了瓶子，妮珂莱特清除了蜘蛛网。
这之后，在这同一时刻冉阿让都来到。他每天来，他没有勇气不照马吕斯所说的来办。马吕斯则设法让自己在冉阿让来时不在家。家里人对割风先生这种新的情况也习惯了。杜桑也帮着解释。“先生一贯就是这样的。”她这样重复着。外祖父作了这样一个结论：“这是一个怪人。”一句话就道尽一切。此外九十岁的人不可能还有什么交往，一切都只是凑合而已，来一个新人不免使人感到拘束，已没有空位置了；一切习惯都已养成。割风先生，切风先生，吉诺曼外祖父觉得最好这位“先生”别来。他还说：“这种怪人是常见的。他们经常做些怪事。什么目的？没有。戈那勃勒侯爵比他更怪。他买了一座宫殿，自己却住在阁楼里。有些人是会有这种古怪的表现的！”
没有人能隐隐约约地感到隐藏着的可怕的东西。谁能去猜这样的事？印度有种沼泽，那里的水好象很特别，无法理解，无风时水生波纹；该平静处却会起浪。人们看到水面无故波涛起伏，但看不到水底有条七头蛇在爬行。
这样很多人都有一种秘密的怪物，一种自己养成的病痛；一条啃啮他们的龙，一种使他们在夜间不得安息的绝望。这种人和其他人一样，来来去去。我们不知道他有着一种痛苦，一种可怕的长着一千颗牙的生物寄生在这悲惨的人的身上，导致他的死亡。我们不知道这人是个深渊，他是死水，深极了。不知什么缘故水面偶尔出现混乱。一圈神秘的水纹，忽然不见了，忽然又出现；一个水泡升上来又破灭了。这是不足道的小事一件，但却很可怕。这是只人所不知的野兽在呼吸。
人有某些古怪的习惯，有人在别人离去时来到，在别人炫耀时隐藏，一切场合他都穿上一件我们称作土墙那种颜色的外衣，专找僻静的小路，喜欢无人走的街。不参加别人的谈话，避开人群和节日，貌似宽裕其实却很清寒，尽管很富，但还总是自己装着钥匙，烛台放在门房里，从小门进来，走隐秘的楼梯，所有这些无关紧要的奇特的举动，诸如涟漪、气泡、水面转瞬即逝的波纹，常常是来自一个可怕的深处。
几个星期就这样过去了。一种新的生活慢慢地支配了珂赛特；婚后有种种事务如拜客、家务、娱乐等这些大事。珂赛特的娱乐并不费钱，主要可以归纳为一项：和马吕斯在一起。和他一同出去，和他待在一起，这是她生活里的大事。他们随时手挽手一同上街，在阳光下，在大路上，不用躲避，就他们两人，出现在众人面前，对他们来说这永远是种新的欢乐。珂赛特有件不称心的事，就是杜桑因和妮珂莱特合不来而离去了。要使两个老处女处得好是不可能的。外祖父身体很好；马吕斯有时为几起诉讼出庭辩护；吉诺曼姨妈安静而知足地在新夫妇身旁过着她的次要地位的生活。冉阿让每日都来。用“你”的称呼不见了，用的是“您”、“夫人”和“让先生”，这样使他在珂赛特面前就不一样了。他设法使珂赛特和他疏远，这已有了成效。她越来越快乐，而温情却一天比一天少下去。其实她仍很爱他，这一点他也感觉得到。有一天她忽然向他说：“您曾是我的父亲，现在不是了，您曾是我的叔叔，现在不是了，您本是割风先生，而现在却成让先生了。您究竟是什么人呢？我不喜欢这些。如果我不知道您是这样的善良，那我见您就会害怕了。”
他仍住在武人街，下不了决心离开珂赛特居住的地区。
开始时他只和珂赛特在一起待上几分钟就走了。
慢慢地他养成了把探望时间延长一点的习惯，就象是由于白天长了，他也可以这样做一样，他来得早一点，离开得晚一点。
有一天珂赛特脱口叫了他一声“父亲”。冉阿让年老阴沉的脸上闪过一道快乐的光，他关照她：“叫让。”“啊，对了，”她一边大笑一边答话，“让先生。”“很好，”他说。他转过身去不让她看见他在擦他的眼睛。
Part 5 Book 8 Chapter 3 They Recall the Garden of the Rue Plumet
This was the last time. After that last flash of light, complete extinction ensued. No more familiarity, no more good-morning with a kiss, never more that word so profoundly sweet: "My father!" He was at his own request and through his own complicity driven out of all his happinesses one after the other; and he had this sorrow, that after having lost Cosette wholly in one day, he was afterwards obliged to lose her again in detail. 
The eye eventually becomes accustomed to the light of a cellar. In short, it sufficed for him to have an apparition of Cosette every day. His whole life was concentrated in that one hour. 
He seated himself close to her, he gazed at her in silence, or he talked to her of years gone by, of her childhood, of the convent, of her little friends of those bygone days. 
One afternoon,--it was on one of those early days in April, already warm and fresh, the moment of the sun's great gayety, the gardens which surrounded the windows of Marius and Cosette felt the emotion of waking, the hawthorn was on the point of budding, a jewelled garniture of gillyflowers spread over the ancient walls, snapdragons yawned through the crevices of the stones, amid the grass there was a charming beginning of daisies, and buttercups, the white butterflies of the year were making their first appearance, the wind, that minstrel of the eternal wedding, was trying in the trees the first notes of that grand, auroral symphony which the old poets called the springtide,--Marius said to Cosette:--"We said that we would go back to take a look at our garden in the Rue Plumet.Let us go thither.We must not be ungrateful."--And away they flitted, like two swallows towards the spring. This garden of the Rue Plumet produced on them the effect of the dawn. They already had behind them in life something which was like the springtime of their love. The house in the Rue Plumet being held on a lease, still belonged to Cosette. They went to that garden and that house. There they found themselves again, there they forgot themselves. That evening, at the usual hour, Jean Valjean came to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.--"Madame went out with Monsieur and has not yet returned," Basque said to him. He seated himself in silence, and waited an hour. Cosette did not return. He departed with drooping head.
Cosette was so intoxicated with her walk to "their garden," and so joyous at having "lived a whole day in her past," that she talked of nothing else on the morrow. She did not notice that she had not seen Jean Valjean.
"In what way did you go thither?" Jean Valjean asked her."
"On foot."
"And how did you return?"
"In a hackney carriage."
For some time, Jean Valjean had noticed the economical life led by the young people. He was troubled by it. Marius' economy was severe, and that word had its absolute meaning for Jean Valjean. He hazarded a query:
"Why do you not have a carriage of your own? A pretty coupe would only cost you five hundred francs a month. You are rich."
"I don't know," replied Cosette.
"It is like Toussaint," resumed Jean Valjean. "She is gone. You have not replaced her. Why?" 
"Nicolette suffices."
"But you ought to have a maid."
"Have I not Marius?"
"You ought to have a house of your own, your own servants, a carriage, a box at the theatre. There is nothing too fine for you. Why not profit by your riches? Wealth adds to happiness." 
Cosette made no reply.
Jean Valjean's visits were not abridged. Far from it. When it is the heart which is slipping, one does not halt on the downward slope. 
When Jean Valjean wished to prolong his visit and to induce forgetfulness of the hour, he sang the praises of Marius; he pronounced him handsome, noble, courageous, witty, eloquent, good. Cosette outdid him. Jean Valjean began again. They were never weary. Marius--that word was inexhaustible; those six letters contained volumes. In this manner, Jean Valjean contrived to remain a long time. 
It was so sweet to see Cosette, to forget by her side! It alleviated his wounds. It frequently happened that Basque came twice to announce: "M. Gillenormand sends me to remind Madame la Baronne that dinner is served."
On those days, Jean Valjean was very thoughtful on his return home.
Was there, then, any truth in that comparison of the chrysalis which had presented itself to the mind of Marius? Was Jean Valjean really a chrysalis who would persist, and who would come to visit his butterfly?
One day he remained still longer than usual. On the following day he observed that there was no fire on the hearth.--"Hello!" he thought. "No fire."--And he furnished the explanation for himself.--"It is perfectly simple. It is April. The cold weather has ceased."
"Heavens! How cold it is here!" exclaimed Cosette when she entered.
"Why, no," said Jean Valjean.
"Was it you who told Basque not to make a fire then?"
"Yes, since we are now in the month of May."
"But we have a fire until June. One is needed all the year in this cellar."
"I thought that a fire was unnecessary."
"That is exactly like one of your ideas!" retorted Cosette.
On the following day there was a fire. But the two arm-chairs were arranged at the other end of the room near the door. "--What is the meaning of this?" thought Jean Valjean.
He went for the arm-chairs and restored them to their ordinary place near the hearth.
This fire lighted once more encouraged him, however. He prolonged the conversation even beyond its customary limits. As he rose to take his leave, Cosette said to him:
"My husband said a queer thing to me yesterday."
"What was it?"
"He said to me: `Cosette, we have an income of thirty thousand livres. Twenty-seven that you own, and three that my grandfather gives me.' I replied: That makes thirty.' He went on: Would you have the courage to live on the three thousand?' I answered:` Yes, on nothing. Provided that it was with you.' And then I asked: Why do you say that to me?' He replied: I wanted to know.'"
Jean Valjean found not a word to answer. Cosette probably expected some explanation from him; he listened in gloomy silence. He went back to the Rue de l'Homme Arme; he was so deeply absorbed that he mistook the door and instead of entering his own house, he entered the adjoining dwelling. It was only after having ascended nearly two stories that he perceived his error and went down again. 
His mind was swarming with conjectures. It was evident that Marius had his doubts as to the origin of the six hundred thousand francs, that he feared some source that was not pure, who knows? That he had even, perhaps, discovered that the money came from him, Jean Valjean, that he hesitated before this suspicious fortune, and was disinclined to take it as his own,--preferring that both he and Cosette should remain poor, rather than that they should be rich with wealth that was not clean.
Moreover, Jean Valjean began vaguely to surmise that he was being shown the door.
On the following day, he underwent something like a shock on entering the ground-floor room. The arm-chairs had disappeared. There was not a single chair of any sort.
"Ah, what's this!" exclaimed Cosette as she entered,"no chairs! Where are the arm-chairs?"
"They are no longer here," replied Jean Valjean. 
"This is too much!"
Jean Valjean stammered:
"It was I who told Basque to remove them."
"And your reason?"
"I have only a few minutes to stay to-day."
"A brief stay is no reason for remaining standing."
"I think that Basque needed the chairs for the drawing-room.
"Why?"
"You have company this evening, no doubt."
"We expect no one."
Jean Valjean had not another word to say.
Cosette shrugged her shoulders.
"To have the chairs carried off! The other day you had the fire put out. How odd you are!" 
"Adieu!" murmured Jean Valjean.
He did not say: "Adieu, Cosette." But he had not the strength to say: "Adieu, Madame." 
He went away utterly overwhelmed.
This time he had understood.
On the following day he did not come. Cosette only observed the fact in the evening.
"Why," said she, "Monsieur Jean has not been here today."
And she felt a slight twinge at her heart, but she hardly perceived it, being immediately diverted by a kiss from Marius.
On the following day he did not come. 
Cosette paid no heed to this, passed her evening and slept well that night, as usual, and thought of it only when she woke. She was so happy! She speedily despatched Nicolette to M. Jean's house to inquire whether he were ill, and why he had not come on the previous evening. Nicolette brought back the reply of M. Jean that he was not ill. He was busy. He would come soon. As soon as he was able. Moreover, he was on the point of taking a little journey. Madame must remember that it was his custom to take trips from time to time. They were not to worry about him. They were not to think of him.
Nicolette on entering M. Jean's had repeated to him her mistress' very words. That Madame had sent her to inquire why M. Jean bad not come on the preceding evening."--It is two days since I have been there," said Jean Valjean gently.
But the remark passed unnoticed by Nicolette, who did not report it to Cosette.
这是最后一次了。这最后的微光一过，就出现了完全的熄灭。不再有亲近的表示，见面问好时不再接吻，不再听到“父亲”这个非常温暖的称呼了！是他，按照自己的要求和自己计划好的，接连把自己的一切幸福赶走；他受的苦难是在一天之内先是整个地失去珂赛特，后来还得一点一点地失去她。
眼睛已经对地窖里的光线习惯了。总之，每天见珂赛特一面，他已感到满足。他的生活都集中在这一刻里。他坐在她身旁，静静地望着她，或者和她谈谈过去的那些年，她的童年时期，她在修女院的情景和她那时的小朋友。
有一天下午棗在四月初，天气已经暖了，但还有点凉意，正是阳光明媚的时刻，马吕斯和珂赛特窗外的花园已经苏醒，山楂花即将开放，一排紫罗兰艳丽得象宝石，在老墙上开放，粉红的狼嘴花在石缝里张着大口，小白菊和金毛莨可爱地出现在绿草丛中，今年的白蝴蝶也初次露面。风，这个天长地久的喜事吹鼓手，在树林中开始演奏晨曦的大交响乐，老诗人则称之为新春。马吕斯向珂赛特说：“我们说过要去看看我们卜吕梅街的花园，这就去吧，别成为忘恩负义的人。”于是他俩就去了，好象两只燕子飞向春天一样。他们感到这卜吕梅街的花园好象他们的黎明。他们已在生活里留下了某种类似爱情的春天的东西。卜吕梅街的房子原有租赁契约，现在还属于珂赛特。他们到那个花园和房屋里去。他们又在那儿聚首，并在那里忘记了一切。晚上，在惯常的时刻，冉阿让来到受难修女街。“夫人和先生一同出去了，还没有回来。”巴斯克向他说。他静坐等了一小时，珂赛特还没有回来。他低下头就走了。珂赛特对这次重访“他们的花园”心醉神迷，并且为“整整一天生活在她的过去”而非常快乐，第二天她除了这件事之外没谈过别的，她没有注意到她没有见到冉阿让。
“你们是怎么去的？”冉阿让问她。
“走去的。”
“回来呢？”
“坐街车。”
近来，冉阿让注意到年轻的夫妇在节俭过日子，他为此感到烦恼。节俭是马吕斯严格遵守的，而这个词对冉阿让则完全有它的意义。他试探着问了一句：
“为什么你们不自备一辆车呢？一辆漂亮的轿式马车一个月只花五百法郎，你们是富裕的。”
“我不知道。”珂赛特回答。
“就拿杜桑来说吧，”冉阿让说，“她走了，您也不添个人，为什么？”
“有妮珂莱特就够了。”
“您应该有一个收拾房间的女仆呀。”
“我不是有马吕斯吗？”
“你们应该有自己的房子，自己的仆人，一辆马车和戏院里的包厢，对您来说没有一样东西会太过分的。为什么不利用你们的财富？财富是增添幸福的呀！”
珂赛特不作声。
冉阿让来访的时间并没有缩短，恰好相反，如果心在向下滑，就不会在坡上停住。
当冉阿让想延长他的访问而使人忘却时间时，他就称赞马吕斯；他觉得他是美男子，高贵、勇敢、有智慧、有口才、心地好。珂赛特更加以补充。冉阿让重又开始赞颂，简直说不完。马吕斯，这个名字的涵义是无穷无尽的，六个字母拼成的名字包含好几本书的内容。这样冉阿让就能多待一会儿。看到珂赛特在他身旁忘记一切，这对他是何等的温暖！这是他伤口的敷料。好几次巴斯克一连通知两遍：“吉诺曼先生叫我提醒男爵夫人，晚餐已经准备好了。”
在这些日子里，冉阿让就心事重重地回家去。
马吕斯曾想到把他比作蝶蛹，难道其中有着真实的一面？
冉阿让难道是个蝶蛹，它坚持不懈地来看望他的蝴蝶？
有一天他比往常还待得久一点。第二天他注意到火炉里没有生火。“咦！”他在想，“没有火了。”他自己又这样解释：“很简单，已经到了四月。冷天已经过去了！”
“上帝！这里真冷！”珂赛特进来时喊着。
“不冷嘛！”冉阿让说。
“那么是您叫巴斯克不要生火的？”
“是的，我们快到五月了。”
“但我们到六月还要生火。在这地窖里，全年都得生火。”
“我认为不要火了。”
“这又是您的怪主意！”珂赛特说。
第二天，火又生起了。但那两把扶手椅摆到门口去了。
“这是什么意思？”冉阿让思忖着。
他去把椅子搬过来放在火炉旁。
重新燃起的炉火给了他勇气。他使他们的谈天又比平时长了一点。当他站起来要走时，珂赛特说：
“昨天我的丈夫和我谈了一桩怪事。”
“什么事？”
“他和我说：‘珂赛特，我们有三万利弗的年金，你有二万七千，外祖父给我三千。’我说：‘一共有三万。’他又说：‘你有勇气用那三千法郎生活吗？’我回答说：‘可以，没有钱也行，只要和你在一起。’事后我问他：‘为什么你对我说这些话？’他回答我：‘为了想了解一下。’”
冉阿让找不到话可说。珂赛特大概等着他的解释，他忧郁地静听着。他回到武人街；由于全神贯注在这件事上致使他走错大门。他没有进入自己的家，却走进了隔壁的房子，几乎走到了三楼才发觉自己错了，这才又折了回来。 
此外冉阿让开始隐约感到主人有逐客之意。
下一天，他走进地下室时感到一阵震惊，扶手椅不见了，连一把普通的椅子也没有。
“啊，怎么啦！”珂赛特进来叫着，“没有扶手椅了，到哪去了？”
“它们不在了。”冉阿让回答。
“这太不象话！”
冉阿让结结巴巴地说：
“是我叫巴斯克搬走的。”
“原因是什么？”
“今天我只呆几分钟。”
“呆一会儿也没有理由要站着。”
“我想巴斯克客厅里需要扶手椅吧！”
“为什么？”
“你们今晚可能有客人。”
“今晚一个客人也没有。”
冉阿让再没有话可说了。
珂赛特耸耸肩。
“叫人把扶手椅搬走！那天又叫人熄火，您真古怪。”
“再见。”冉阿让轻声说。
他没有说：“再见，珂赛特。”但也没有勇气说：“再见，夫人。”
他心情沉重地走了出来。
这一次他明白了。
第二天他没有来。珂赛特到了晚上才发觉。
“咦，”她说，“今天让先生没有来。”
她心中有点抑郁，但并不明显，马吕斯的一吻就使她忘了此事。
以后的日子，他也没有再来。
珂赛特没有注意，她度过她的晚上，睡她的觉，好象平时一样，只在醒来时才想到。她是如此幸福！她很快就差妮珂莱特到让先生家去问问是否病了，为什么昨晚没有来。妮珂莱特带回让先生的回话，他一点没有病。他很忙，他很快就会来，他尽量早点来。再说，他要出去作一次短期的旅行。夫人应该记得他的习惯是不时要出去作一次旅行的，不要为他担心，不要惦记他。
当妮珂莱特走进让先生家时，她把她主妇的原话向他重复一遍：“夫人叫我来问问为什么让先生昨晚没有来。”“我两天没有去了。”冉阿让和气地说。
但他提到的这一点，妮珂莱特并没有记住，回去也没有对珂赛特说。
Part 5 Book 8 Chapter 4 Attraction and Extinction
During the last months of spring and the first months of summer in 1833, the rare passersby in the Marais, the petty shopkeepers, the loungers on thresholds, noticed an old man neatly clad in black, who emerged every day at the same hour, towards nightfall, from the Rue de l'Homme Arme, on the side of the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie, passed in front of the Blancs Manteaux, gained the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and, on arriving at the Rue de l'Echarpe, turned to the left, and entered the Rue Saint-Louis. 
There he walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point which seemed to be a star to him, which never varied, and which was no other than the corner of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. The nearer he approached the corner of the street the more his eye lighted up; a sort of joy illuminated his pupils like an inward aurora, he had a fascinated and much affected air, his lips indulged in obscure movements, as though he were talking to some one whom he did not see, he smiled vaguely and advanced as slowly as possible. One would have said that, while desirous of reaching his destination, he feared the moment when he should be close at hand. When only a few houses remained between him and that street which appeared to attract him his pace slackened, to such a degree that, at times, one might have thought that he was no longer advancing at all. The vacillation of his head and the fixity of his eyeballs suggested the thought of the magnetic needle seeking the pole. Whatever time he spent on arriving, he was obliged to arrive at last; he reached the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; then he halted, he trembled, he thrust his head with a sort of melancholy timidity round the corner of the last house, and gazed into that street, and there was in that tragic look something which resembled the dazzling light of the impossible, and the reflection from a paradise that was closed to him. Then a tear, which had slowly gathered in the corner of his lids, and had become large enough to fall, trickled down his cheek, and sometimes stopped at his mouth. The old man tasted its bitter flavor. Thus he remained for several minutes as though made of stone, then he returned by the same road and with the same step, and, in proportion as he retreated, his glance died out.
Little by little, this old man ceased to go as far as the corner of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; he halted half way in the Rue Saint-Louis; sometimes a little further off, sometimes a little nearer. 
One day he stopped at the corner of the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine and looked at the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire from a distance. Then he shook his head slowly from right to left, as though refusing himself something, and retraced his steps.
Soon he no longer came as far as the Rue Saint-Louis. He got as far as the Rue Pavee, shook his head and turned back; then he went no further than the Rue des Trois-Pavillons; then he did not overstep the Blancs-Manteaux. One would have said that he was a pendulum which was no longer wound up, and whose oscillations were growing shorter before ceasing altogether.
Every day he emerged from his house at the same hour, he undertook the same trip, but he no longer completed it, and, perhaps without himself being aware of the fact, he constantly shortened it. His whole countenance expressed this single idea: What is the use?-- His eye was dim; no more radiance. His tears were also exhausted; they no longer collected in the corner of his eye-lid; that thoughtful eye was dry. The old man's head was still craned forward; his chin moved at times; the folds in his gaunt neck were painful to behold. Sometimes, when the weather was bad, he had an umbrella under his arm, but he never opened it.
The good women of the quarter said: "He is an innocent." The children followed him and laughed.
在一八三三年晚春和初夏的时候，沼泽区稀少的过路人，店里的商人，站在门口的闲人，都注意到一个穿着整洁的黑色服装的老人，每天黄昏在一定的时候，从武人街出来，靠圣十字架街那一边，走过白大衣商店，经圣卡特琳园地街，到披肩街，再向左转走进圣路易街。
到了这里他就放慢脚步，头冲向前，什么也看不见，什么也听不到，目不转睛地注视着一个目标，这对他是一个星光闪烁的地方，这不是别的，就是受难修女街的转角。他越走近这条街的拐角，他的眼睛就越射出光芒，某种欢乐，好象内在的晨曦，使他眼珠发亮，他的神情象是被吸引，又象被感动，他的嘴唇微微颤动着，好象在向一个看不见的人说话，他恍惚在微笑，于是他尽量越走越慢。好象他一方面想走到，同时又怕已走得太近。当他离这条好象吸引他的街只有几幢房子远的地方，他的脚步缓慢得有时会使人以为他并不在走。他的头摇摆着，目光固定，好象指南针在寻找两极。虽然他拖延到达的时间，但终究也到了；到了受难修女街后，就停下来，浑身发抖，带着一种忧郁的胆怯神气，把头从最后一幢房屋的角落里伸出来，望着这条街，他那凄惨的目光好象因一件办不到的事而眼花，又好象是关闭了的天堂的反射。于是一滴眼泪，一点一点地积聚在眼角上，聚成了大泪珠就掉下来，流在腮上，有时停在嘴角边。老人尝到了泪水的苦味。他这样待上几分钟，好象石头人一样；后来他又走原路回去，以同样的步伐，越走越远，他的目光也随之暗淡下来。
慢慢地，这老人已不再走到受难修女街的拐角上，他停在圣路易街的半路上；有时远一点，有时近一点。有一天，他停在圣卡特琳园地街的拐角上，远远望着受难修女街。接着他静静地摇着头，好象拒绝自己的一点要求，就折了回去。
不久，他连圣路易街也走不到了。他走到铺石街，摇摇脑袋就往回走；后来他不超过三亭街；最后他不超过白大衣商店；好比一个没有拧上发条的钟，钟摆摇晃的距离逐渐缩短，在等待完全的停止。
天他在同一时间走出家门，他开始他的原路程，但不再走完，也许他不自觉地不断在缩短。他整个面部表情说明了这惟一的想法：何苦来呢！眼睛已没有神，没有光彩；泪珠也已干了，它不再积在眼角上；沉思的眼睛是干涩的，老人的头却总是冲向前；下巴有时摆动；可怜他脖子瘦得打皱。有时天气不好，他手臂下挟着一把伞，他从不打开，那个地区的妇女说：
“这是个傻子。”孩子们跟在他后面笑。
Part 5 Book 9 Chapter 1 Pity for the Unhappy, but Indulgence for the Happy
It is a terrible thing to be happy! How content one is! How all-sufficient one finds it! How, being in possession of the false object of life, happiness, one forgets the true object, duty! Let us say, however, that the reader would do wrong were he to blame Marius. Marius, as we have explained, before his marriage, had put no questions to M. Fauchelevent, and, since that time, he had feared to put any to Jean Valjean. He had regretted the promise into which he had allowed himself to be drawn. He had often said to himself that he had done wrong in making that concession to despair. He had confined himself to gradually estranging Jean Valjean from his house and to effacing him, as much as possible, from Cosette's mind. He had, in a manner, always placed himself between Cosette and Jean Valjean, sure that, in this way, she would not perceive nor think of the latter. It was more than effacement, it was an eclipse.
Marius did what he considered necessary and just. He thought that he had serious reasons which the reader has already seen, and others which will be seen later on, for getting rid of Jean Valjean without harshness, but without weakness.
Chance having ordained that he should encounter, in a case which he had argued, a former employee of the Laffitte establishment, he had acquired mysterious information, without seeking it, which he had not been able, it is true, to probe, out of respect for the secret which he had promised to guard, and out of consideration for Jean Valjean's perilous position. He believed at that moment that he had a grave duty to perform: the restitution of the six hundred thousand francs to some one whom he sought with all possible discretion. In the meanwhile, he abstained from touching that money.
As for Cosette, she had not been initiated into any of these secrets; but it would be harsh to condemn her also. 
There existed between Marius and her an all-powerful magnetism, which caused her to do, instinctively and almost mechanically, what Marius wished. She was conscious of Marius' will in the direction of "Monsieur Jean," she conformed to it. Her husband had not been obliged to say anything to her; she yielded to the vague but clear pressure of his tacit intentions, and obeyed blindly. Her obedience in this instance consisted in not remembering what Marius forgot. She was not obliged to make any effort to accomplish this. Without her knowing why herself, and without his having any cause to accuse her of it, her soul had become so wholly her husband's that that which was shrouded in gloom in Marius' mind became overcast in hers.
Let us not go too far, however; in what concerns Jean Valjean, this forgetfulness and obliteration were merely superficial. She was rather heedless than forgetful. At bottom, she was sincerely attached to the man whom she had so long called her father; but she loved her husband still more dearly. This was what had somewhat disturbed the balance of her heart, which leaned to one side only.
It sometimes happened that Cosette spoke of Jean Valjean and expressed her surprise. Then Marius calmed her: "He is absent, I think. Did not he say that he was setting out on a journey?"--"That is true," thought Cosette. "He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion. But not for so long." Two or three times she despatched Nicolette to inquire in the Rue de l'Homme Arme whether M. Jean had returned from his journey. Jean Valjean caused the answer "no" to be given. 
Cosette asked nothing more, since she had but one need on earth, Marius. 
Let us also say that, on their side, Cosette and Marius had also been absent. They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette to his father's grave.
Marius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean. Cosette allowed it.
Moreover that which is called, far too harshly in certain cases, the ingratitude of children, is not always a thing so deserving of reproach as it is supposed. It is the ingratitude of nature. Nature, as we have elsewhere said, "looks before her." Nature divides living beings into those who are arriving and those who are departing. Those who are departing are turned towards the shadows, those who are arriving towards the light. Hence a gulf which is fatal on the part of the old, and involuntary on the part of the young. This breach, at first insensible, increases slowly, like all separations of branches. The boughs, without becoming detached from the trunk, grow away from it. It is no fault of theirs. Youth goes where there is joy, festivals, vivid lights, love. Old age goes towards the end. They do not lose sight of each other, but there is no longer a close connection. Young people feel the cooling off of life; old people, that of the tomb. Let us not blame these poor children.
幸福的人们不免心狠！自己是多么满足！此外就一无所需了！当他们得到了幸福这个人生的假目的之后，竟把天职这个真目的忘掉了！
然而，说到这事，如果去责怪马吕斯那是不公正的。
马吕斯，我们已经解释过，在结婚前没有盘问过割风先生，此后，他又怕去盘问冉阿让。他对他被动地答应下的诺言感到后悔。他多次感到对失望者的让步是错误的。他只能慢慢地使冉阿让离开他的家，并尽力使珂赛特忘记他。他设法常使自己处于珂赛特和冉阿让之间，这样她肯定不会再看到冉阿让，也不会再去想他。这比忘却更进一步，这等于是消失了。
马吕斯做他认为必须要做的和公正的事，他觉得他有充分理由采取不生硬和坚决的措施摆脱冉阿让，有些理由很重要，这我们已经知道，还有其他的以后我们还将知道。他偶然在他辩护的一件讼事中遇到一个拉菲特银行过去的职员，他没有去寻找就得到了一些保密的材料，这些材料确实是他无法深究的，因为他要遵守他不泄密的诺言，又要顾到冉阿让的危险处境。他认为，此刻他有一件重要的任务要完成，这就是把这六十万法郎归还他在尽量审慎地寻找的原主。目前他不动用此款。
至于珂赛特，她对这些秘密一无所知；要责备她，也未免太苛刻了。
在马吕斯和她之间有一种最强的磁力，能使她出自本能或几乎机械地照马吕斯的愿望行事。她感到对“让先生”，马吕斯有一定的主意；她就顺从。她的丈夫不用向她说什么，她感到了他那虽没说出但很明显的意图的压力而盲从他。她的服从主要在于不去回忆马吕斯已忘却的事。她毫不费力地做到了。她自己也不知为什么，对此也无可谴责，她的心已变得和丈夫的毫无区别，因此马吕斯思想里被阴影遮蔽的东西，在她思想里也变得暗淡了。
然而我们也不必过多地去追究、对冉阿让，这种忘怀和删除只是表面的。她主要是由于疏忽而不是忘记。其实，她很爱这个很久以来就被她称作父亲的人。但她更爱她的丈夫。因此在她内心的天平上有点向一边倾斜的现象。
有时珂赛特谈起了冉阿让而感到诧异，于是马吕斯安慰她说：“我想他不在家，他不是说要去旅行吗？”“不错，”珂赛特暗想，“他是经常这样离开的。但不会这么久。”她曾打发妮珂莱特到武人街去过两三次，问问让先生旅行回来了没有。冉阿让关照回答说没有。
珂赛特不再多问，她在世上唯一所需的人是马吕斯。
我们还要谈到，马吕斯和珂赛特他们也曾离开过家，他们到过维尔农。马吕斯带珂赛特去上他父亲的坟。
马吕斯慢慢地使珂赛特摆脱了冉阿让，珂赛特听从他的摆布。
此外，人们在某些情况下说孩子们忘恩负义，也是过于严厉的，其实这并不象人所想的那样有罪。这种忘怀是属于自然现象。自然，我们在别处提到过，这就是“向前观望”。自然把众生分为到达的和离去的两种。离去的面向阴暗，到达的则向着光明。从这里产生的距离对老人是不利的，而在青年方面则是属于无意识。这种距离，在初期还感觉不到，慢慢地扩展下去就好比树的分枝，细枝虽不脱离树干，但已逐渐远离。这不是他们的过错。青年趋向欢乐、节日、炫目的光彩和爱情，而老人则趋向尽头。虽然互相见面，但已失去紧密的联系。生活使年轻人的感情淡漠，而坟墓则冲淡老年人的感情。不要错怪这些无辜的孩子们。
Part 5 Book 9 Chapter 2 Last Flickerings of a Lamp Without Oil
One day, Jean Valjean descended his staircase, took three steps in the street, seated himself on a post, on that same stone post where Gavroche had found him meditating on the night between the 5th and the 6th of June; he remained there a few moments, then went up stairs again. This was the last oscillation of the pendulum. On the following day he did not leave his apartment. On the day after that, he did not leave his bed.
His portress, who prepared his scanty repasts, a few cabbages or potatoes with bacon, glanced at the brown earthenware plate and exclaimed: "But you ate nothing yesterday, poor, dear man!" 
"Certainly I did," replied Jean Valjean. 
"The plate is quite full." 
"Look at the water jug. It is empty." 
"That proves that you have drunk; it does not prove that you have eaten."
"Well," said Jean Valjean, "what if I felt hungry only for water?" 
"That is called thirst, and, when one does not eat at the same time, it is called fever." 
"I will eat to-morrow."
"Or at Trinity day. Why not to-day? Is it the thing to say: I will eat to-morrow'? The idea of leaving my platter without even touching it! My ladyfinger potatoes were so good!" 
Jean Valjean took the old woman's hand: 
"I promise you that I will eat them," he said, in his benevolent voice.
"I am not pleased with you," replied the portress.
Jean Valjean saw no other human creature than this good woman. There are streets in Paris through which no one ever passes, and houses to which no one ever comes. He was in one of those streets and one of those houses.
While he still went out, he had purchased of a coppersmith, for a few sous, a little copper crucifix which he had hung up on a nail opposite his bed. That gibbet is always good to look at. 
A week passed, and Jean Valjean had not taken a step in his room. He still remained in bed. The portress said to her husband:--"The good man upstairs yonder does not get up, he no longer eats, he will not last long. That man has his sorrows, that he has. You won't get it out of my head that his daughter has made a bad marriage."
The porter replied, with the tone of marital sovereignty: 
"If he's rich, let him have a doctor. If he is not rich, let him go without. If he has no doctor he will die." 
"And if he has one?" 
"He will die," said the porter. 
The portress set to scraping away the grass from what she called her pavement, with an old knife, and, as she tore out the blades, she grumbled:
"It's a shame. Such a neat old man! He's as white as a chicken." 
She caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed the end of the street; she took it upon herself to request him to come up stairs.
"It's on the second floor," said she. "You have only to enter. As the good man no longer stirs from his bed, the door is always unlocked."
The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him. 
When he came down again the portress interrogated him: 
"Well, doctor?" 
"Your sick man is very ill indeed."
"What is the matter with him?"
"Everything and nothing. He is a man who, to all appearances, has lost some person who is dear to him. People die of that." 
"What did he say to you?" 
"He told me that he was in good health."
"Shall you come again, doctor?"
"Yes," replied the doctor. "But some one else besides must come."
有一天冉阿让下楼，在街上走了两三步后，在一块界石上坐了下来。六月五日至六日的那天晚上，伽弗洛什就是看到他坐在这块石块上沉思的；他在这儿待了几分钟，又上楼去了。这是钟摆最后的摇晃。第二天他没出房门。第三天，他没下床。
他的门房，替他做简单的饭菜，一点蔬菜或几个土豆加点猪油，她看看棕色的陶土盘叫道：
“怎么您昨天没有吃东西，可怜的好人！”
“吃了。”冉阿让回答。
“碟子是满的。”
“您看那水罐，它空了。”
“这说明您只喝了水，这并不等于吃了饭。”
冉阿让说：“我要是只想喝水呢？”
“这叫做口渴，如果不同时进餐，这就叫发烧。”
“我明天吃。”
“或者在圣三节吃。为什么今天不吃呢？难道有这种说法：‘我明天吃！’把我做的菜整盘都剩下！我烧的白菜味道好着呢！”
冉阿让握着老妇人的手：
“我答应您吃掉它。”他用和善的语气对她说。
“我对您很不满意。”看门的回答。
冉阿让除了这个妇人之外，很少见到其他人。巴黎有些无人走过的街道和无人进去的房屋。他住的就是这样的街道和这样的房屋。
当他还能上街时，他从锅匠那儿用几个苏买到一个小的铜十字架，挂在床前钉子上。望着这个绞刑架总是有益的。
一个星期过去了，冉阿让没有在房里走动一步。他老是躺着。看门的对她丈夫说：“上面的老人不起床了，也不吃东西，他活不多久了。他很难过。我非常相信他的女儿一定嫁得不好。”
看门的男人用丈夫的权威口气回答说：
“要是他有钱，就该请医生来看看。如果没钱，他就没有医生。如果没有医生，他就得死去。”
“如果他有一个呢？”
“他也会死的。”看门的男人说。
看门的女人用一把旧刀，把门前被她称作是她的铺路石石缝里长出的青草除去，一边除一边嘟囔着：
“可怜，一个这样正直的老人！他清白得象子鸡一样。”
她看见街末一个本区的医生走过，就自作主张请他上楼。
“在三楼，”她向他说，“您进去好了。那老人睡在床上不能动了，钥匙一直插在门上锁眼里。”
医生看了冉阿让，并和他说了话。
当他下楼后，看门的女人问他：
“怎么样，医生？”
“您的病人病得厉害。”
“是什么病？”
“什么病都有，但又没有病。看来这人失去了一个亲人，这会送命的。”
“他对您说些什么？”
“他说他身体很好。”
“您还来吗，医生？”
“来，”医生回答，“但需要另一个人回来。”
Part 5 Book 9 Chapter 4 A Bottle of Ink Which Only Succeeded in Whitening
That same day, or to speak more accurately, that same evening, as Marcus Left the table, and was on the point of withdrawing to his study, Having a case to look over, Basque handed him a letter saying: "The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber." 
Cossets had taken the grandfather's arm and were strolling in the garden.
A letter, like a man, may have an unprepossessing exterior. Coarse paper, coarsely folded--the very sight of certain missives Is displeasing.
The letter, which Basque had brought, was of this sort.
Marius took it. It smelled of tobacco. Nothing evokes a memory like an odor. Marius recognized that tobacco. He looked at the superscription: "To Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron Pommerci. At his hotel." The recognition of the tobacco caused him to recognize the writing as well. It may be said that amazement has its lightning flashes. 
Marius was, as it were, illuminated by one of these flashes.
The sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just revived a whole world within him. This was certainly the paper, the fashion of folding, the dull tint of ink; it was certainly the well-known handwriting, especially was it the same tobacco.
The Jondrette garret rose before his mind.
Thus, strange freak of chance! One of the two scents which he had so diligently sought, the one in connection with which he had lately again exerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost, had come and presented itself to him of its own accord.
He eagerly broke the seal, and read:
"Monsieur le Baron:--If the Supreme Being had given me the talents, I might have been baron Thenard, member of the Institute [academy of ciences], but I am not. I only bear the same as him, happy if this memory recommends me to the eccellence of your kindnesses. The benefit with which you will honor me will be reciprocle. I am in possession of a secret concerning an individual. This individual concerns you. I hold the secret at your disposal desiring to have the honor to be huseful to you. I will furnish you with the simple means of driving from your honorabel family that individual who has no right there, madame la baronne being of lofty birth.The sanctuary of virtue cannot cohabit longer with crime without abdicating.
I awate in the entichamber the orders of monsieur le baron. "With respect."
The letter was signed "Thenard." 
This signature was not false. It was merely a trifle abridged.
Moreover, the rigmarole and the orthography completed the revelation. The certificate of origin was complete. 
Marius' emotion was profound. After a start of surprise, he underwent a feeling of happiness. If he could now but find that other man of whom he was in search, the man who had saved him, Marius, there would be nothing left for him to desire.
He opened the drawer of his secretary, took out several bank-notes, put them in his pocket, closed the secretary again, and rang the bell. Basque half opened the door.
"Show the man in," said Marius.
Basque announced:
"Monsieur Thenard."
A man entered.
A fresh surprise for Marius. The man who entered was an utter stranger to him.
This man, who was old, moreover, had a thick nose, his chin swathed in a cravat, green spectacles with a double screen of green taffeta over his eyes, and his hair was plastered and flattened down on his brow on a level with his eyebrows like the wigs of English coachmen in "high life." His hair was gray. He was dressed in black from head to foot, in garments that were very threadbare but clean; a bunch of seals depending from his fob suggested the idea of a watch. He held in his hand an old hat! He walked in a bent attitude, and the curve in his spine augmented the profundity of his bow. 
The first thing that struck the observer was, that this personage's coat, which was too ample although carefully buttoned, had not been made for him.
Here a short digression becomes necessary.
There was in Paris at that epoch, in a low-lived old lodging in the Rue Beautreillis, near the Arsenal, an ingenious Jew whose profession was to change villains into honest men. Not for too long, which might have proved embarrassing for the villain. The change was on sight, for a day or two, at the rate of thirty sous a day, by means of a costume which resembled the honesty of the world in general as nearly as possible. This costumer was called "the Changer"; the pickpockets of Paris had given him this name and knew him by no other. He had a tolerably complete wardrobe. The rags with which he tricked out people were almost probable. He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his shop hung a social status, threadbare and worn; here the suit of a magistrate, there the outfit of a Cure, beyond the outfit of a banker, in one corner the costume of a retired military man, elsewhere the habiliments of a man of letters, and further on the dress of a statesman. 
This creature was the costumer of the immense drama which knavery plays in Paris. His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged, and into which roguery retreated. A tattered knave arrived at this dressing-room, deposited his thirty sous and selected, according to the part which he wished to play, the costume which suited him, and on descending the stairs once more, the knave was a somebody. On the following day, the clothes were faithfully returned, and the Changer, who trusted the thieves with everything, was never robbed. There was one inconvenience about these clothes, they "did not fit"; not having been made for those who wore them, they were too tight for one, too loose for another and did not adjust themselves to any one. Every pickpocket who exceeded or fell short of the human average was ill at his ease in the Changer's costumes. It was necessary that one should not be either too fat or too lean. The changer had foreseen only ordinary men. He had taken the measure of the species from the first rascal who came to hand, who is neither stout nor thin, neither tall nor short. Hence adaptations which were sometimes difficult and from which the Changer's clients extricated themselves as best they might. So much the worse for the exceptions! The suit of the statesman, for instance, black from head to foot, and consequently proper, would have been too large for Pitt and too small for Castelcicala. The costume of a statesman was designated as follows in the Changer's catalogue; we copy:
"A coat of black cloth, trowsers of black wool, a silk waistcoat, boots and linen." On the margin there stood: ex-ambassador, and a note which we also copy: "In a separate box, a neatly frizzed peruke, green glasses, seals, and two small quills an inch long, wrapped in cotton." All this belonged to the statesman, the ex-ambassador. This whole costume was, if we may so express ourselves, debilitated; the seams were white, a vague button-hole yawned at one of the elbows; moreover, one of the coat buttons was missing on the breast; but this was only detail; as the hand of the statesman should always be thrust into his coat and laid upon his heart, its function was to conceal the absent button. 
If Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of Paris, he would instantly have recognized upon the back of the visitor whom Basque had just shown in, the statesman's suit borrowed from the pick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.
Marius' disappointment on beholding another man than the one whom he expected to see turned to the newcomer's disadvantage. 
He surveyed him from head to foot, while that personage made exaggerated bows, and demanded in a curt tone: 
"What do you want?" 
The man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing smile of a crocodile will furnish some idea: 
"It seems to me impossible that I should not have already had the honor of seeing Monsieur le Baron in society. I think I actually did meet monsieur personally, several years ago, at the house of Madame la Princesse Bagration and in the drawing-rooms of his Lordship the Vicomte Dambray, peer of France."
It is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to recognize some one whom one does not know. 
Marius paid attention to the manner of this man's speech. He spied on his accent and gesture, but his disappointment increased; the pronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the dry, shrill tone which he had expected.
He was utterly routed.
"I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray," said he. "I have never set foot in the house of either of them in my life." 
The reply was ungracious. The personage, determined to be gracious at any cost, insisted.
"Then it must have been at Chateaubriand's that I have seen Monsieur! I know Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes says to me: Thenard, my friend . . . won't you drink a glass of wine with me?'"
Marius' brow grew more and more severe:
"I have never had the honor of being received by M. de Chateaubriand. Let us cut it short. What do you want?"
The man bowed lower at that harsh voice.
"Monsieur le Baron, deign to listen to me. There is in America, in a district near Panama, a village called la Joya. That village is composed of a single house, a large, square house of three stories, built of bricks dried in the sun, each side of the square five hundred feet in length, each story retreating twelve feet back of the story below, in such a manner as to leave in front a terrace which makes the circuit of the edifice, in the centre an inner court where the provisions and munitions are kept; no windows, loopholes, no doors, ladders, ladders to mount from the ground to the first terrace, and from the first to the second, and from the second to the third, ladders to descend into the inner court, no doors to the chambers, trap-doors, no staircases to the chambers, ladders; in the evening the traps are closed, the ladders are withdrawn carbines and blunderbusses trained from the loopholes; no means of entering, a house by day, a citadel by night, eight hundred inhabitants,-- that is the village. Why so many precautions? because the country is dangerous; it is full of cannibals. Then why do people go there? because the country is marvellous; gold is found there." 
"What are you driving at?" interrupted Marius, who had passed from disappointment to impatience. 
"At this, Monsieur le Baron. I am an old and weary diplomat. Ancient civilization has thrown me on my own devices. I want to try savages."
"Well?"
"Monsieur le Baron, egotism is the law of the world. The proletarian peasant woman, who toils by the day, turns round when the diligence passes by, the peasant proprietress, who toils in her field, does not turn round. The dog of the poor man barks at the rich man, the dog of the rich man barks at the poor man. Each one for himself. Self-interest--that's the object of men. Gold, that's the loadstone."
"What then? Finish."
"I should like to go and establish myself at la Joya. There are three of us. I have my spouse and my young lady; a very beautiful girl. The journey is long and costly. I need a little money." 
"What concern is that of mine?" demanded Marius.
The stranger stretched his neck out of his cravat, a gesture characteristic of the vulture, and replied with an augmented smile. 
"Has not Monsieur le Baron perused my letter?"
There was some truth in this. The fact is, that the contents of the epistle had slipped Marius' mind. He had seen the writing rather than read the letter. He could hardly recall it. But a moment ago a fresh start had been given him. He had noted that detail: "my spouse and my young lady."
He fixed a penetrating glance on the stranger. An examining judge could not have done the look better. He almost lay in wait for him. 
He confined himself to replying: 
"State the case precisely." 
The stranger inserted his two hands in both his fobs, drew himself up without straightening his dorsal column, but scrutinizing Marius in his turn, with the green gaze of his spectacles. 
"So be it, Monsieur le Baron. I will be precise. I have a secret to sell to you."
"A secret?"
"A secret."
"Which concerns me?"
"Somewhat."
"What is the secret?"
Marius scrutinized the man more and more as he listened to him. 
"I commence gratis," said the stranger. "You will see that I am interesting."
"Speak."
"Monsieur le Baron, you have in your house a thief and an assassin."
Marius shuddered.
"In my house? no," said he.
The imperturbable stranger brushed his hat with his elbow and went on:
"An assassin and a thief. Remark, Monsieur le Baron, that I do not here speak of ancient deeds, deeds of the past which have lapsed, which can be effaced by limitation before the law and by repentance before God. I speak of recent deeds, of actual facts as still unknown to justice at this hour. I continue. This man has insinuated himself into your confidence, and almost into your family under a false name. I am about to tell you his real name. And to tell it to you for nothing."
"I am listening."
"His name is Jean Valjean."
"I know it."
"I am going to tell you, equally for nothing, who he is."
"Say on."
"He is an ex-convict."
"I know it."
"You know it since I have had the honor of telling you."
"No. I knew it before."
Marius' cold tone, that double reply of "I know it," his laconicism, which was not favorable to dialogue, stirred up some smouldering wrath in the stranger. He launched a furious glance on the sly at Marius, which was instantly extinguished. Rapid as it was, this glance was of the kind which a man recognizes when he has once beheld it; it did not escape Marius. Certain flashes can only proceed from certain souls; the eye, that vent-hole of the thought, glows with it; spectacles hide nothing; try putting a pane of glass over hell!
The stranger resumed with a smile:
"I will not permit myself to contradict Monsieur le Baron. In any case, you ought to perceive that I am well informed. Now what I have to tell you is known to myself alone. This concerns the fortune of Madame la Baronne. It is an extraordinary secret. It is for sale-- I make you the first offer of it. Cheap. Twenty thousand francs." 
"I know that secret as well as the others," said Marius.
The personage felt the necessity of lowering his price a trifle.
"Monsieur le Baron, say ten thousand francs and I will speak."
"I repeat to you that there is nothing which you can tell me. I know what you wish to say to me."
A fresh flash gleamed in the man's eye. He exclaimed:
"But I must dine to-day, nevertheless. It is an extraordinary secret, I tell you. Monsieur le Baron, I will speak. I speak. Give me twenty francs."
Marius gazed intently at him:
"I know your extraordinary secret, just as I knew Jean Valjean's name, just as I know your name."
"My name?"
"Yes."
"That is not difficult, Monsieur le Baron. I had the honor to write to you and to tell it to you. Thenard." 
"--Dier."
"Hey?"
"Thenardier."
"Who's that?"
In danger the porcupine bristles up, the beetle feigns death, the old guard forms in a square; this man burst into laughter. 
Then he flicked a grain of dust from the sleeve of his coat with a fillip.
Marius continued:
"You are also Jondrette the workman, Fabantou the comedian, Genflot the poet, Don Alvares the Spaniard, and Mistress Balizard." 
"Mistress what?"
"And you kept a pot-house at Montfermeil." 
"A pot-house! Never."
"And I tell you that your name is Thenardier."
"I deny it."
"And that you are a rascal. Here."
And Marius drew a bank-note from his pocket and flung it in his face.
"Thanks! Pardon me! five hundred francs! Monsieur le Baron!"
And the man, overcome, bowed, seized the note and examined it.
"Five hundred francs!" he began again, taken aback. And he stammered in a low voice: "An honest rustler."[69]
[69] Un fafiot serieux. Fafiot is the slang term for a bank-bill, derived from its rustling noise. 
Then brusquely:
"Well, so be it!" he exclaimed. "Let us put ourselves at our ease." 
And with the agility of a monkey, flinging back his hair, tearing off his spectacles, and withdrawing from his nose by sleight of hand the two quills of which mention was recently made, and which the reader has also met with on another page of this book, he took off his face as the man takes off his hat.
His eye lighted up; his uneven brow, with hollows in some places and bumps in others, hideously wrinkled at the top, was laid bare, his nose had become as sharp as a beak; the fierce and sagacious profile of the man of prey reappeared.
"Monsieur le Baron is infallible," he said in a clear voice whence all nasal twang had disappeared, "I am Thenardier." 
And he straightened up his crooked back.
Thenardier, for it was really he, was strangely surprised; he would have been troubled, had he been capable of such a thing. He had come to bring astonishment, and it was he who had received it. This humiliation had been worth five hundred francs to him, and, taking it all in all, he accepted it; but he was none the less bewildered.
He beheld this Baron Pontmercy for the first time, and, in spite of his disguise, this Baron Pontmercy recognized him, and recognized him thoroughly. And not only was this Baron perfectly informed as to Thenardier, but he seemed well posted as to Jean Valjean. Who was this almost beardless young man, who was so glacial and so generous, who knew people's names, who knew all their names, and who opened his purse to them, who bullied rascals like a judge, and who paid them like a dupe?
Thenardier, the reader will remember, although he had been Marius' neighbor, had never seen him, which is not unusual in Paris; he had formerly, in a vague way, heard his daughters talk of a very poor young man named Marius who lived in the house. He had written to him, without knowing him, the letter with which the reader is acquainted.
No connection between that Marius and M. le Baron Pontmercy was possible in his mind.
As for the name Pontmercy, it will be recalled that, on the battlefield of Waterloo, he had only heard the last two syllables, for which he always entertained the legitimate scorn which one owes to what is merely an expression of thanks.
However, through his daughter Azelma, who had started on the scent of the married pair on the 16th of February, and through his own personal researches, he had succeeded in learning many things, and, from the depths of his own gloom, he had contrived to grasp more than one mysterious clew. He had discovered, by dint of industry, or, at least, by dint of induction, he had guessed who the man was whom he had encountered on a certain day in the Grand Sewer. From the man he had easily reached the name. He knew that Madame la Baronne Pontmercy was Cosette. But he meant to be discreet in that quarter.
Who was Cosette? He did not know exactly himself. He did, indeed, catch an inkling of illegitimacy, the history of Fantine had always seemed to him equivocal; but what was the use of talking about that? In order to cause himself to be paid for his silence? He had, or thought he had, better wares than that for sale. And, according to all appearances, if he were to come and make to the Baron Pontmercy this revelation--and without proof: "Your wife is a bastard," the only result would be to attract the boot of the husband towards the loins of the revealer. 
From Thenardier's point of view, the conversation with Mari us had not yet begun. He ought to have drawn back, to have modified his strategy, to have abandoned his position, to have changed his front; but nothing essential had been compromised as yet, and he had five hundred francs in his pocket. Moreover, he had something decisive to say, and, even against this very well-informed and well-armed Baron Pontmercy, he felt himself strong. For men of Thenardier's nature, every dialogue is a combat. In the one in which he was about to engage, what was his situation? He did not know to whom he was speaking, but he did know of what he was speaking, he made this rapid review of his inner forces, and after having said: "I am Thenardier," he waited. 
Marius had become thoughtful. So he had hold of Thenardier at last. That man whom he had so greatly desired to find was before him. He could honor Colonel Pontmercy's recommendation. 
He felt humiliated that that hero should have owned anything to this villain, and that the letter of change drawn from the depths of the tomb by his father upon him, Marius, had been protested up to that day. It also seemed to him, in the complex state of his mind towards Thenardier, that there was occasion to avenge the Colonel for the misfortune of having been saved by such a rascal. In any case, he was content. He was about to deliver the Colonel's shade from this unworthy creditor at last, and it seemed to him that he was on the point of rescuing his father's memory from the debtors' prison. By the side of this duty there was another-- to elucidate, if possible, the source of Cosette's fortune. The opportunity appeared to present itself. Perhaps Thenardier knew something. It might prove useful to see the bottom of this man.
He commenced with this.
Thenardier had caused the "honest rustler" to disappear in his fob, and was gazing at Marius with a gentleness that was almost tender. 
Marius broke the silence.
"Thenardier, I have told you your name. Now, would you like to have me tell you your secret--the one that you came here to reveal to me? I have information of my own, also. You shall see that I know more about it than you do. Jean Valjean, as you have said, is an assassin and a thief. A thief, because he robbed a wealthy manufacturer, whose ruin he brought about. An assassin, because he assassinated police-agent Javert."
"I don't understand, sir," ejaculated Thenardier.
"I will make myself intelligible. In a certain arrondissement of the Pas de Calais, there was, in 1822, a man who had fallen out with justice, and who, under the name of M. Madeleine, had regained his status and rehabilitated himself. This man had become a just man in the full force of the term. In a trade, the manufacture of black glass goods, he made the fortune of an entire city. As far as his personal fortune was concerned he made that also, but as a secondary matter, and in some sort, by accident. He was the foster-father of the poor. He founded hospitals, opened schools, visited the sick, dowered young girls, supported widows, and adopted orphans; he was like the guardian angel of the country. He refused the cross, he was appointed Mayor. A liberated convict knew the secret of a penalty incurred by this man in former days; he denounced him, and had him arrested, and profited by the arrest to come to Paris and cause the banker Laffitte,--I have the fact from the cashier himself,--by means of a false signature, to hand over to him the sum of over half a million which belonged to M. Madeleine. This convict who robbed M. Madeleine was Jean Valjean. As for the other fact, you have nothing to tell me about it either. Jean Valjean killed the agent Javert; he shot him with a pistol. I, the person who is speaking to you, was present." 
Thenardier cast upon Marius the sovereign glance of a conquered man who lays his hand once more upon the victory, and who has just regained, in one instant, all the ground which he has lost. But the smile returned instantly. The inferior's triumph in the presence of his superior must be wheedling.
Thenardier contented himself with saying to Marius: 
"Monsieur le Baron, we are on the wrong track."
And he emphasized this phrase by making his bunch of seals execute an expressive whirl.
"What!" broke forth Marius, "do you dispute that? These are facts."
"They are chimeras. The confidence with which Monsieur le Baron honors me renders it my duty to tell him so. Truth and justice before all things. I do not like to see folks accused unjustly. Monsieur le Baron, Jean Valjean did not rob M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean did not kill Javert."
"This is too much! How is this?"
"For two reasons."
"What are they? Speak."
"This is the first: he did not rob M. Madeleine, because it is Jean Valjean himself who was M. Madeleine." 
"What tale are you telling me?"
"And this is the second: he did not assassinate Javert, because the person who killed Javert was Javert."
"What do you mean to say?"
"That Javert committed suicide."
"Prove it! Prove it!" cried Marius beside himself.
Thenardier resumed, scanning his phrase after the manner of the ancient Alexandrine measure:
"Police-agent-Ja-vert-was-found-drowned-un-der-a-boat-of-the-Pont-au-Change."
"But prove it!"
Thenardier drew from his pocket a large envelope of gray paper, which seemed to contain sheets folded in different sizes. 
"I have my papers," he said calmly.
And he added:
"Monsieur le Baron, in your interests I desired to know Jean Valjean thoroughly. I say that Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine are one and the same man, and I say that Javert had no other assassin than Javert. If I speak, it is because I have proofs. Not manuscript proofs-- writing is suspicious, handwriting is complaisant,--but printed proofs."
As he spoke, Thenardier extracted from the envelope two copies of newspapers, yellow, faded, and strongly saturated with tobacco. One of these two newspapers, broken at every fold and falling into rags, seemed much older than the other.
"Two facts, two proofs," remarked Thenardier. And he offered the two newspapers, unfolded, to Marius, 
The reader is acquainted with these two papers. One, the most ancient, a number of the Drapeau Blanc of the 25th of July, 1823, the text of which can be seen in the first volume, established the identity of M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean.
The other, a Moniteur of the 15th of June, 1832, announced the suicide of Javert, adding that it appeared from a verbal report of Javert to the prefect that, having been taken prisoner in the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he had owed his life to the magnanimity of an insurgent who, holding him under his pistol, had fired into the air, instead of blowing out his brains. 
Marius read. He had evidence, a certain date, irrefragable proof, these two newspapers had not been printed expressly for the purpose of backing up Thenardier's statements; the note printed in the Moniteur had been an administrative communication from the Prefecture of Police. Marius could not doubt.
The information of the cashier-clerk had been false, and he himself had been deceived.
Jean Valjean, who had suddenly grown grand, emerged from his cloud. Marius could not repress a cry of joy. 
"Well, then this unhappy wretch is an admirable man! The whole of that fortune really belonged to him! He is Madeleine, the providence of a whole countryside! He is Jean Valjean, Javert's savior! He is a hero! He is a saint!" 
"He's not a saint, and he's not a hero!" said Thenardier. "He's an assassin and a robber." 
And he added, in the tone of a man who begins to feel that he possesses some authority:
"Let us be calm."
Robber, assassin--those words which Marius thought had disappeared and which returned, fell upon him like an ice-cold shower-bath. 
"Again!" said he.
"Always," ejaculated Thenardier. "Jean Valjean did not rob Madeleine, but he is a thief. He did not kill Javert, but he is a murderer." 
"Will you speak," retorted Marius, "of that miserable theft, committed forty years ago, and expiated, as your own newspapers prove, by a whole life of repentance, of self-abnegation and of virtue?" 
"I say assassination and theft, Monsieur le Baron, and I repeat that I am speaking of actual facts. What I have to reveal to you is absolutely unknown. It belongs to unpublished matter. And perhaps you will find in it the source of the fortune so skilfully presented to Madame la Baronne by Jean Valjean. I say skilfully, because, by a gift of that nature it would not be so very unskilful to slip into an honorable house whose comforts one would then share, and, at the same stroke, to conceal one's crime, and to enjoy one's theft, to bury one's name and to create for oneself a family." 
"I might interrupt you at this point," said Marius, "but go on." 
"Monsieur le Baron, I will tell you all, leaving the recompense to your generosity. This secret is worth massive gold. You will say to me: Why do not you apply to Jean Valjean?' For a very simple reason; I know that he has stripped himself, and stripped himself in your favor, and I consider the combination ingenious; but he has no longer a son, he would show me his empty hands, and, since I am in need of some money for my trip to la Joya, I prefer you, you who have it all, to him who has nothing. I am a little fatigued, permit me to take a chair."
Marius seated himself and motioned to him to do the same.
Thenardier installed himself on a tufted chair, picked up his two newspapers, thrust them back into their envelope, and murmured as he pecked at the Drapeau Blanc with his nail: "It cost me a good deal of trouble to get this one." 
That done he crossed his legs and stretched himself out on the back of the chair, an attitude characteristic of people who are sure of what they are saying, then he entered upon his subject gravely, emphasizing his words:
"Monsieur le Baron, on the 6th of June, 1832, about a year ago, on the day of the insurrection, a man was in the Grand Sewer of Paris, at the point where the sewer enters the Seine, between the Pont des Invalides and the Pont de Jena."
Marius abruptly drew his chair closer to that of Thenardier. Thenardier noticed this movement and continued with the deliberation of an orator who holds his interlocutor and who feels his adversary palpitating under his words:
"This man, forced to conceal himself, and for reasons, moreover, which are foreign to politics, had adopted the sewer as his domicile and had a key to it. It was, I repeat, on the 6th of June; it might have been eight o'clock in the evening. The man hears a noise in the sewer. Greatly surprised, he hides himself and lies in wait. It was the sound of footsteps, some one was walking in the dark, and coming in his direction. Strange to say, there was another man in the sewer besides himself. The grating of the outlet from the sewer was not far off. A little light which fell through it permitted him to recognize the newcomer, and to see that the man was carrying something on his back. He was walking in a bent attitude. The man who was walking in a bent attitude was an ex-convict, and what he was dragging on his shoulders was a corpse. Assassination caught in the very act, if ever there was such a thing. As for the theft, that is understood; one does not kill a man gratis. This convict was on his way to fling the body into the river. One fact is to be noticed, that before reaching the exit grating, this convict, who had come a long distance in the sewer, must, necessarily, have encountered a frightful quagmire where it seems as though he might have left the body, but the sewermen would have found the assassinated man the very next day, while at work on the quagmire, and that did not suit the assassin's plans. He had preferred to traverse that quagmire with his burden, and his exertions must have been terrible, for it is impossible to risk one's life more completely; I don't understand how he could have come out of that alive." 
Marius' chair approached still nearer. Thenardier took advantage of this to draw a long breath. He went on: 
"Monsieur le Baron, a sewer is not the Champ de Mars. One lacks everything there, even room. When two men are there, they must meet. That is what happened. The man domiciled there and the passer-by were forced to bid each other good-day, greatly to the regret of both. The passer-by said to the inhabitant:--"You see what I have on my back, I must get out, you have the key, give it to me." That convict was a man of terrible strength. There was no way of refusing. Nevertheless, the man who had the key parleyed, simply to gain time. He examined the dead man, but he could see nothing, except that the latter was young, well dressed, with the air of being rich, and all disfigured with blood. While talking, the man contrived to tear and pull off behind, without the assassin perceiving it, a bit of the assassinated man's coat. A document for conviction, you understand; a means of recovering the trace of things and of bringing home the crime to the criminal. He put this document for conviction in his pocket. After which he opened the grating, made the man go out with his embarrassment on his back, closed the grating again, and ran off, not caring to be mixed up with the remainder of the adventure and above all, not wishing to be present when the assassin threw the assassinated man into the river. Now you comprehend. The man who was carrying the corpse was Jean Valjean; the one who had the key is speaking to you at this moment; and the piece of the coat . . ."
Thenardier completed his phrase by drawing from his pocket, and holding, on a level with his eyes, nipped between his two thumbs and his two forefingers, a strip of torn black cloth, all covered with dark spots.
Marius had sprung to his feet, pale, hardly able to draw his breath, with his eyes riveted on the fragment of black cloth, and, without uttering a word, without taking his eyes from that fragment, he retreated to the wall and fumbled with his right hand along the wall for a key which was in the lock of a cupboard near the chimney. 
He found the key, opened the cupboard, plunged his arm into it without looking, and without his frightened gaze quitting the rag which Thenardier still held outspread.
But Thenardier continued:
"Monsieur le Baron, I have the strongest of reasons for believing that the assassinated young man was an opulent stranger lured into a trap by Jean Valjean, and the bearer of an enormous sum of money." 
"The young man was myself, and here is the coat!" cried Marius, and he flung upon the floor an old black coat all covered with blood. 
Then, snatching the fragment from the hands of Thenardier, he crouched down over the coat, and laid the torn morsel against the tattered skirt. The rent fitted exactly, and the strip completed the coat. 
Thenardier was petrified. 
This is what he thought: "I'm struck all of a heap."
Marius rose to his feet trembling, despairing, radiant.
He fumbled in his pocket and stalked furiously to Thenardier, presenting to him and almost thrusting in his face his fist filled with bank-notes for five hundred and a thousand francs. 
"You are an infamous wretch! you are a liar, a calumniator, a villain. You came to accuse that man, you have only justified him; you wanted to ruin him, you have only succeeded in glorifying him. And it is you who are the thief! And it is you who are the assassin! I saw you, Thenardier Jondrette, in that lair on the Rue de l'Hopital. I know enough about you to send you to the galleys and even further if I choose. Here are a thousand francs, bully that you are!" 
And he flung a thousand franc note at Thenardier. 
"Ah! Jondrette Thenardier, vile rascal! Let this serve you as a lesson, you dealer in second-hand secrets, merchant of mysteries, rummager of the shadows, wretch! Take these five hundred francs and get out of here! Waterloo protects you."
"Waterloo!" growled Thenardier, pocketing the five hundred francs along with the thousand.
"Yes, assassin! You there saved the life of a Colonel. . ."
"Of a General," said Thenardier, elevating his head.
"Of a Colonel!" repeated Marius in a rage. "I wouldn't give a ha'penny for a general. And you come here to commit infamies! I tell you that you have committed all crimes. Go! Disappear! Only be happy, that is all that I desire. Ah! monster! Here are three thousand francs more. Take them. You will depart to-morrow, for America, with your daughter; for your wife is dead, you abominable liar. I shall watch over your departure, you ruffian, and at that moment I will count out to you twenty thousand francs. Go get yourself hung elsewhere!"
"Monsieur le Baron!" replied Thenardier, bowing to the very earth, "eternal gratitude." And Thenardier left the room, understanding nothing, stupefied and delighted with this sweet crushing beneath sacks of gold, and with that thunder which had burst forth over his head in bank-bills. 
Struck by lightning he was, but he was also content; and he would have been greatly angered had he had a lightning rod to ward off such lightning as that.
Let us finish with this man at once. 
Two days after the events which we are at this moment narrating, he set out, thanks to Marius' care, for America under a false name, with his daughter Azelma, furnished with a draft on New York for twenty thousand francs.
The moral wretchedness of Thenardier, the bourgeois who had missed his vocation, was irremediable. He was in America what he had been in Europe. Contact with an evil man sometimes suffices to corrupt a good action and to cause evil things to spring from it. With Marius' money, Thenardier set up as a slave-dealer. 
As soon as Thenardier had left the house, Marius rushed to the garden, where Cosette was still walking. 
"Cosette! Cosette!" he cried."Come! Come quick! Let us go. Basque, a carriage! Cosette, come. Ah! My God! It was he who saved my life! Let us not lose a minute! Put on your shawl." 
Cosette thought him mad and obeyed.
He could not breathe, he laid his hand on his heart to restrain its throbbing. He paced back and forth with huge strides, he embraced Cosette: 
"Ah! Cosette! I am an unhappy wretch!" said he. 
Marius was bewildered.He began to catch a glimpse in Jean Valjean of some indescribably lofty and melancholy figure. An unheard-of virtue, supreme and sweet, humble in its immensity, appeared to him. The convict was transfigured into Christ. 
Marius was dazzled by this prodigy. He did not know precisely what he beheld, but it was grand. 
In an instant, a hackney-carriage stood in front of the door. 
Marius helped Cosette in and darted in himself.
"Driver," said he, "Rue de l'Homme Arme, Number 7."
The carriage drove off.
"Ah! what happiness!" ejaculated Cosette. "Rue de l'Homme Arme, I did not dare to speak to you of that. We are going to see M. Jean."
"Thy father! Cosette, thy father more than ever. Cosette, I guess it. You told me that you had never received the letter that I sent you by Gavroche. It must have fallen into his hands. Cosette, he went to the barricade to save me. As it is a necessity with him to be an angel, he saved others also; he saved Javert. He rescued me from that gulf to give me to you. He carried me on his back through that frightful sewer. Ah! I am a monster of ingratitude. Cosette, after having been your providence, he became mine. Just imagine, there was a terrible quagmire enough to drown one a hundred times over, to drown one in mire. Cosette! he made me traverse it. I was unconscious; I saw nothing, I heard nothing, I could know nothing of my own adventure. We are going to bring him back, to take him with us, whether he is willing or not, he shall never leave us again. If only he is at home! Provided only that we can find him, I will pass the rest of my life in venerating him. Yes, that is how it should be, do you see, Cosette? Gavroche must have delivered my letter to him. All is explained. You understand."
Cosette did not understand a word.
"You are right," she said to him.
Meanwhile the carriage rolled on.
就在这一天，或者说得更清楚一些，就在这一晚，马吕斯吃完晚饭到回到办公室，因为有一份案卷要研究，这时巴斯克递给他一封信并且说：“写这信的人在候客室里。”
珂赛特挽着外祖父的手臂在花园里散步。
一封信，跟一个人一样，也可以有一种不端正的外表。粗糙的纸张，笨拙的折叠法，有些信只要一看就使人不高兴。巴斯克拿来的信就是属于这一类的。
马吕斯接过来，信上有一股烟叶味。没有再比一种气味更能使人回忆起往事了。马吕斯想起了这种烟味。他看信封上的地名：送给先生，彭眉胥男爵先生，他的公馆。熟悉的烟味使他认出笔迹。我们可以说惊愕是会发出闪光的，马吕斯好象被这样的一闪照得清醒了。
烟味，这神秘的备忘录，使他想起了许多事。正就是这种纸张，这种折叠方式，淡淡的墨水，熟悉的笔迹，尤其是烟味，容德雷特的破屋在他的眼前出现了。
如此奇特的巧遇！他曾再三寻找的两种踪迹之一，这是不久前他还全力以赴去寻找、后来认为永远消失了的，不料竟自己送上门来了。
他迫不及待地拆开信念着：
男爵先生：
如果上帝赐给我天才的话，我本可成为德纳男爵、院士（可学完），但是我不是。我仅和他同名，如果这件事能使我获得您的关照，我将感到荣幸。如蒙您恩赐，我将报答。我拈有一个关鱼某人的秘密。这人又与您有关。我可以把这秘密告诉您，希望能荣幸地为您福务。我奉上一个最简单的办法，把这无权留在您尊贵的家庭里的人区逐出去，男爵夫人出身是高贵的，道德的圣地不能再与罪恶童居而不有损于自身。
我在候客实等呆男爵先生的命令。
敬颂
大安
这封信的签名是“德纳”。
签的名不假，只是缩减了一点。
此外文字不知所云和别字连篇充分暴露了真情。这个身分证已经完备，不容再怀疑了。
马吕斯的情绪十分激动，惊愕之后，他感到了幸运。但愿现在再能找到他寻找的另一个人，那个救了他马吕斯的人，那么他就别无他求了。
他把写字台的抽屉打开拿出几张钞票，放入口袋，关上抽屉就按铃。巴斯克半开着门。
“带他进来。”马吕斯说。
巴斯克通报：
“德纳先生。”
一个人走了进来。
马吕斯又感到惊讶。进来的人他完全不认识。
这人年老，长着一个大鼻子，下巴隐藏在领结里，戴着绿色眼镜，加上双层绿绸遮光帽檐。头发光滑直齐眉梢，好象英国上流社会①马车夫的假发。他的头发花白。全身黑服，是一种磨损了的黑色，但还干净；一串装饰品在背心口袋上吊着，使人猜想是表链。他手里拿着一顶旧帽子，驼着背走路，鞠躬的深度使得背更驼了。 
①上流社会，原文为英文high　life。
一见面就使人注意到这人的衣服太肥大，虽然仔细扣上纽子，仍不象是为他缝制的。
这里有必要加一点题外的话。
当时在巴黎博特莱伊街，靠近兵工厂的地方，在一所不三不四的老房子里住着一个精明的犹太人，他的职业是把一个坏蛋化装成正派人。时间不要太久，不然，坏蛋会感到拘束。这种化装立即奏效，可以维持一两天，代价是三十个苏一天，办法是穿一套与一般正派人的穿着非常相似的服装。这个服装出租者的名字叫“更换商”，这是巴黎的扒手们送给他的绰号，不知道他的真姓名叫什么。他的服装室相当齐全。他用来打扮人的那些旧衣烂衫基本上还过得去。他划分专业和类型；在他铺子的每个钉子上都挂有社会上某种地位的人的磨损和起皱的服装，这里是行政官员的服装，那里是教士的服装，那里又是银行家的服装，在一个角落里又有着退伍军人的服装，而在另一处则是文人的服装，远一点的地方还有着政界人士的服装。这个人是诈骗犯在巴黎演出大型戏剧时的化装人。他的陋室是盗贼和骗子进出的后台。一个褴褛的坏蛋走进这个服装室，放下三十个苏，挑选适合他今天要演出的角色的服装，当他走下阶梯时，这个坏蛋就已变成一个人物了。第二天，衣服又很诚实地被送回来。这个“更换商”，他把一切都信托给小偷，也从未被盗窃过。这些服装有一个缺点，“不合身”，因为不是为穿衣的人定做的，对有些人太瘦，对有些人则太肥，没有一个人穿了合身。任何一个比普通身材高大或矮小的坏蛋，穿了“更换商”的服装都感到不自在。不能太胖或太瘦，“更换商”只考虑到一般的身材。他随便找一个乞丐来量体裁衣，那个人不胖，不瘦，不高也不矮。因此要求都合身有时是困难的，只得由“更换商”的主顾自己迁就了事。特殊的身材活该倒霉！譬如政界人士的服装，上下一身黑，因此是恰当的，但皮特①穿了嫌太肥，加斯特尔西加拉②又嫌太瘦。和政界人士相称的服装在“更换商”的服装目录里标明如下，我们照抄在此：“黑呢上衣一件，黑色紧面薄呢裤一条，绸背心一件，长统靴和衬衣。”边上还写着“过去的大使”。还有注解，我们界人士，过去的大使相称。这套衣服，我们可以这样说，已经相当旧了；缝线发白，胳膊肘的某一处有一个隐约可见的扣子大小的洞，此外，前胸缺少一颗扣子；这只是一点细节；政客的手应该随时都插在衣服里靠胸的地方，它的作用就是要遮住缺少的扣子。 
①皮特（Pitt，1708-1778），英国政治家。
②加斯特尔西加拉（Castelcicala），那不勒斯王国驻巴黎的大使。
如果马吕斯熟悉巴黎这种隐秘的机构的话，他立刻就会认出，巴斯克引进来的客人身上所穿的政客服装就是从“更换商”那儿的钩子上租来的。
马吕斯看见进来的人并非是他所等待的人，于是感到失望，他对新来的人表示不欢迎，他从头到脚打量着他，当时这人正在深深地鞠躬，他不客气地问他：
“您有什么事？”
这人用一个亲善的露齿笑容作了回答，这笑容有点象鳄鱼的温存微笑：
“我觉得在社交界里我不可能没有荣幸见到过男爵先生。我想几年前我在巴格拉西翁公主夫人家中见到过您，还在法国贵族院议员唐勃莱子爵大人的沙龙里和您见过面。”
这些是无赖常用的策略，装出认识一个不相识的人。
马吕斯密切注意着这人的说话，琢磨着他的口音和动作，但他的失望增加了，这种带鼻音的声调，和他期待的尖锐生硬的声音完全不同，他象坠入五里雾中。
“我既不认识巴格拉西翁夫人，也不认识唐勃莱先生，”他说，“我从没去过这两家。”
他带着易怒的声调回答着。这人仍亲切地坚持说：
“那我就是在夏多勃里昂家里见到过先生！我和夏多勃里昂很熟悉，他很和气。有时他对我说：‘德纳我的朋友……你不来和我干一杯吗？’”
马吕斯的神气越来越严厉：
“我从来没有荣幸被夏多勃里昂接待过。简单地直说吧，您来干什么？”
这人听了这严酷的语气，更深深地鞠躬：
“男爵先生，请听我说，在美洲巴拿马那边一个地区，有一个村子叫若耶，这村子只有一所房子。一栋四层楼的由太阳晒干的砖所砌成的四方的大房子，四方房子的每一边有五百尺长，每层比下层退进十二尺，这样在房屋四周的前面就有一个绕屋的平台，当中是一个内院，那里堆积着粮食和武器，没有窗子，但有枪眼，没有门，但有梯子，梯子从地上架到二层平台，再从第二层架到第三层，从三层架到四层，再用梯子下到内院，房间没有门，只有吊门，房间也没有楼梯，只有梯子；夜间关上吊门拿走梯子，大口枪和马枪都在枪眼里瞄准着，无法走进去，这里白天是一所房子，晚上是一座堡垒，有八百住户，这村子就是这样的。为什么要如此小心呢？因为这是一个危险地区，有很多吃人的人，为什么人们要去呢？因为这是个绝妙的地方；那里找得到黄金。”
“您究竟要干什么？”马吕斯因失望而变得不耐烦，打断了他的话。
“我要说的是，男爵先生，我是一个疲惫的老外交家。旧文化使我厌倦，我想过过未开化的生活。”
“还有呢？”
“男爵先生，自私是世间的法律。无产的雇农看见公共马车走过就回过头去，有产的农民在自己的田里劳动就不回头。穷人的狗对着富人叫，富人的狗对着穷人叫。人人都为自己，钱财是人们追求的目的。金子是磁石。”
“还有什么话？快说完。”
“我想到若耶去安家。我们一家三口，妻子和女儿，一个很漂亮的姑娘。旅途长而旅费贵，我需要一点钱。”
“这和我有什么关系？”马吕斯问。
这不相识的人把下巴伸出领结外，好象秃鹫的动作，并用双重意味的微笑来回答。
“难道男爵先生没有读过我的信吗？”
这话有点说对了。事实上是马吕斯没有十分注意信的内容。他看到笔迹，忽略了内容。他几乎想不起来了。目前他又得到了一条新的线索。他注意到这个细节：我的妻子和女儿，他用深刻的目光盯住这个陌生人。一个审判官也不如他看得更仔细，他等于在窥伺，他只是回答：
“说清楚点。”
陌生人把两手插在背心的口袋中，抬起头但并不撑直脊背，他那通过眼镜的绿目光也在细察着马吕斯。
“好吧，男爵先生，我说清楚点。我有一个秘密向您出售。”
“一个秘密！”
“一个秘密。”
“和我有关？”
“多少有点。”
“什么秘密？”
马吕斯一边听着，同时越来越仔细观察这个人。
“我开始时不提报酬，”陌生人说，“对我所讲的您会感到很有意思。”
“说下去！”
“男爵先生，您家里有一个盗贼和一个杀人犯。”
马吕斯一阵震颤。
“在我家里？不会。”他说。
陌生人镇定地、用衣袖肘刷刷帽子，继续说：
“杀人犯和盗贼。男爵先生请注意，我这里说的并不是往事，不是过期的，失效的，不是法律的具体规定和神前忏悔可以取消的，我讲的是最近的事，眼前的事，此刻尚未被法律发现的事。我说下去。这个人骗取了您的信任，几乎钻进了您的家庭，他用了一个假名。我告诉您他的真名，我不要分文来向您说。”
“我听着。”
“他叫冉阿让。”
“我知道。”
“我告诉您他是谁，但仍不要报酬。”
“说吧！”
“他是一个老苦役犯。”
“我知道。”
“您知道是因为我荣幸地向您说了。”
“不是。我早已知道了。”
马吕斯冷冷的语气，两次“我知道”的回答，说话简短，表示不愿交谈，引起了陌生人的一点暗火。他那发怒的目光偷偷瞥了马吕斯一眼，但又立刻熄灭了。这目光虽然如此迅速，但人们只要见过一次，以后就会认出来的，而且也没逃过马吕斯的眼睛。某种火焰只能出自某些灵魂，它会烧着眼睛，这个思想的通风洞；眼镜不能遮蔽任何东西，就象在地狱前面放上一块玻璃一样。
陌生人微笑着又说：
“我不敢反驳男爵先生。总而言之，您知道我是了解实情的。现在我要告诉您的事情只有我一个人知道。这与男爵夫人的财产有关。这是一个特殊的秘密，它可以出售，我先献给您，价钱便宜，两万法郎。”
“这秘密和其他的一样，我也知道。”
那人感到需要杀点价：
“男爵先生，给一万法郎吧，我就说。”
“我再重复一遍，您没有什么可告诉我的。我已知道您要说些什么了。”
这人的眼中又闪出一道光，他大声叫喊起来：
“今天我总得要吃饭呀。我对您说，这是一个特殊的秘密。
男爵先生，我要说了，我就说。给我二十法郎好了。”
马吕斯的眼睛盯住他：
“我知道您的特殊秘密，就象我知道冉阿让的名字，也象我知道您的名字一样。”
“我的名字？”
“是的。”
“这不难，男爵先生，我荣幸地写给您了，并向您说了：德纳。”
“第。”
“什么？”
“德纳第。”
“这是谁？”
在危急之中，箭猪会竖起刺来，金龟子会装死，老看守人员会摆出架势，这人就大笑起来。
于是他用手指掸去衣袖上的一点灰尘。
马吕斯继续说：
“您也是工人容德雷特，演员法邦杜，诗人尚弗洛，西班牙贵人堂·阿尔瓦内茨，又是妇人巴利查儿。”
“什么妇人？”
“您在孟费郿开过小酒店。”
“小酒店！从没有过的事。”
“我对您说，您是德纳第。”
“我否认。”
“还有，您是一个坏蛋，拿着。”
这时马吕斯从口袋里抽出一张钞票，摔在他脸上。
“谢谢！对不起！五百法郎！男爵先生！”
这人惊惶失措，鞠躬，抓住钞票，仔细瞧。
“五百法郎！”他惊讶地又说一遍。他含含糊糊地轻声说道：“值钱的钞票！”
于是突然又说：
“好吧，”他大声说，“让我们舒服一下吧。”
说后他用猴子般灵敏的速度，把头发朝后一甩，抓下眼镜，从鼻孔里取出那两根鸡毛管并把它们藏起来，这是刚才已提到的东西，并且在这本书的另一页上也已经见到过。他象脱帽那样改变了他的脸谱。
他的眼睛发亮了；一个凹凸不平、有的地方有着疙瘩的、皱得出奇的丑的额头露出来了，鼻子又恢复鹰钩形；这个诡谲凶狠的掠夺者的外形现在又出现了。
“男爵先生完全正确，”他用清晰的失去鼻音的声音说，“我是德纳第。”
他把驼背伸直了。
德纳第，确实是他，他非常吃惊，如果他能慌乱的话，他也会慌乱的。他是打算来使人大吃一惊的，结果是他自己吃了一惊。这种屈辱的代价是五百法郎，总之，他还是收下；但不免仍感到惊愕。
尽管他化了装，第一次来见这位彭眉胥男爵，这位彭眉胥男爵就认出了他，并且还彻底了解他。这男爵非但知道德纳第的事，同时似乎也知道冉阿让的事。这个基本上还没长胡子的青年是个什么人？他如此冷酷然而又如此慷慨，他知道别人的名字，知道别人所有的名字，慷慨解囊，但叱责骗子又象法官，赏他们钱时又象个受骗的傻瓜。
我们记得，德纳第虽曾是马吕斯的邻居，但却从没见过他，这在巴黎是常有的事；他曾隐隐约约听到他的女儿们提到过有个穷青年叫马吕斯，住在那幢房子里。他给他写过我们知道的那封信，但并不认识他。在他思想里还不可能把这个马吕斯和彭眉胥男爵先生联系起来。
至于彭眉胥的名字，我们记得在滑铁卢战场上，德纳第只听到最后两个音，他对这两个音①一直是蔑视的，人们看不起简单的一声道谢，这是合情合理的。 
①“彭眉胥”（Pontmercy）后面两个音是“眉胥”，与法文中的“谢谢”（merci）发音相同。
此外，他让女儿阿兹玛跟踪二月十六日的新婚夫妇，依靠女儿，再靠自己的搜索，结果他得知很多情节，从他黑暗的深处，他抓住了不止一根秘密线索。他施展了不少伎俩后发现了，或至少在尽量归纳推理后，猜到他那天在大阴沟里遇到的是什么人。从这个人，很容易就得到了他的名字。他知道彭眉胥男爵夫人就是珂赛特。但关于这一点，他打算谨慎从事。珂赛特是谁？他自己也不很清楚。他模糊地预感到是个私生子，芳汀的历史他一直觉得是有点不明不白的，谈这些有什么用呢？为保守秘密而得些报酬吗？他有，或认为自己有比这更值钱的东西要出卖。还有，按照表面的情况看，没有证据就来向彭眉胥男爵泄露“您的夫人是个私生儿”，这样的结果会使告密者的腰部挨到丈夫的脚踢。
在德纳第看来，和马吕斯的谈话还没有开始。他不得不先退却，改变战略，放弃阵地，上另一道前线，主要之事尚未达成协议，他已有五百法郎在口袋里了。此外他还有一些有决定意义的东西要说，他觉得来对抗这个既无所不知又武装得那么好的彭眉胥男爵他仍是个强者。象德纳第这种性格的人，所有的对话都是在搏斗。在即将进行的这场搏斗中，自己的情况究竟如何？他不知道他说话的对象是谁，但他知道要说的内容是什么。他很快暗暗地检阅了一下自己的力量，在说过了“我是德纳第”之后，他等待着。
马吕斯在深思。他终于抓到了德纳第。这个人，他多么希望能找到他，现在就在身边了。他可以实践彭眉胥上校的叮嘱了。这位英雄欠了这个贼的情，他父亲从墓底开给他马吕斯的汇票至今没有兑现，他感到是种羞辱。面对德纳第时他思想里也有着复杂的想法，他感到应为上校不幸被这类坏蛋所救而复仇。但不管怎样，他是满意的。他终于要把上校的幽灵从这下流的债权人那里救出来，他感到他将把父亲身后的名誉从债务的牢狱中解救出来。
除了这一责任外，还有另外一点他也要搞清楚，如果他能办到的话，那就是珂赛特财产的来源问题。机会好象已在眼前，德纳第可能知道一些情况。深探这个人的底细可能有用处。他就从这里开始。
德纳第已把这“值钱的钞票”藏进了背心的口袋里，温和到接近柔情的程度望着马吕斯。
马吕斯打破了沉默：
“德纳第，我对您说出了您的名字。现在，您想告诉我的秘密，要不要我来向您说？我也有我的情报，我，您会觉察到我知道得比您更多。冉阿让，您说他是杀人犯和盗贼。他是盗贼，因为他抢劫了一个富有的手工业厂主马德兰先生，并使他破了产。他是个杀人犯，因为他杀死了警察沙威。”
“我不懂，男爵先生。”德纳第说。
“我把话说清楚，听着，大约在一八二二年时，在加来海峡省的一个区，有一个过去和司法机关有过纠葛的人，名叫马德兰先生，他后来改过自新，恢复了名誉。这人成为一个不折不扣的正直的人。他创建一种行业制造黑玻璃珠子，使得全城发了财。至于他自己也发了财，那是次要的，可以说是偶然的。他是穷人的救济者，他设立医院，开办学校，探望病人，给姑娘们钱作嫁妆，援助寡妇，抚育孤儿，他好象是地方上的一个保护人。他拒绝接受勋章，他被提名为市长。一个释放了的苦役犯知道这人过去被判过刑的隐情，揭发了这人并使他被捕，这个苦役犯又利用这人被捕来到巴黎，从拉菲特银行棗我这个情报是出纳员供给的棗，用一个假签名，领走了马德兰存款上五十万以上的法郎。这个抢劫了马德兰先生的苦役犯就是冉阿让，至于另一桩事，您也没有什么可告诉我的。冉阿让杀死了沙威，他用手枪打死的，我当时正在场。”
德纳第神气地向马吕斯看了一眼，就象一个吃败仗的人又抓住了胜利，并在一分钟内收回了所有失地，但他立刻又恢复了微笑，下级在上级前的得胜应该显得温和，德纳第只向马吕斯说：
“男爵先生，我们走岔道了。”
他为了要强调这句话，故意把一串饰物抡了一转。
“怎么！”马吕斯说，“您能驳倒这些吗？这是事实。”
“这是幻想。我荣幸地得到男爵先生的信任，使我有义务向他这样说，首先要注意事实和正义。我不愿见到有人不公正地控告别人。男爵先生，冉阿让并没有抢劫马德兰，还有冉阿让也没有杀死沙威。”
“这真叫人很难相信！为什么？”
“为了两个原因。”
“哪两个？说。”
“第一，他没有抢劫马德兰先生，因为冉阿让本人就是马德兰先生。”
“您说什么？”
“而第二，他没有杀死沙威，因为杀死沙威的人，就是沙威自己。”
“您这是什么意思？”
“我的意思是沙威是自杀的。”
“拿出证据来！拿出证明来！”马吕斯怒不可遏地叫着。
德纳第一字一句地重新说了一遍，好象在念十二音节的古诗。
“警察---沙威---被发现---溺死在---交易所桥的---一条船下。”
“拿出证据来。”
德纳第在旁边的口袋里取出一个灰色大信封，好象装有一些折成大小不等的纸。
“我有我的案卷。”他镇静地说。
他又补充道：
“男爵先生，为了您的利益，我曾深入了解我的冉阿让。我说冉阿让和马德兰就是一个人，我又说沙威除了沙威自己以外，没有别人杀死他，我这样说，我是有证据的。不是手写的证据，手写是可疑的，可以为献殷勤而随便乱写，我的证据是印刷品。”
德纳第一边说，一边从信封里取出两张发黄、陈旧、有一大股烟味的报纸。其中一张，折叠的边缘部分已破碎，成块地掉下来，看来比另一张更陈旧。
“两件事情，两种证据。”德纳第说。于是他把两张打开的报纸递给马吕斯。
这两张报纸读者都知道，最旧的那张是一八二三年七月二十五日的《白旗报》，我们可以在本书的第三卷第一四八页看到原文。证实了马德兰先生和冉阿让确是一个人；另一张是一八三二年六月十五日的《通报》，证明沙威的自杀，附加说明这是引自沙威向警署署长的口头汇报：当他被囚在麻厂街街垒时，一个宽宏大量的暴动者饶了他一命，那人持枪可以打死他，但却没有打他的脑袋而只向空中放了枪。
马吕斯读了，这是明显的事，日期确切，证据无可怀疑，这两张报纸不是为了证明德纳第的话而故意印刷出来的，在《通报》上刊登的消息又是警署官方提供的。马吕斯不能怀疑。那个出纳员提供的情况是假的，自己也搞错了。冉阿让，忽然变伟大了，从云雾中出来，马吕斯禁不住欢快地叫道：
“那么，这不幸的人是一个可敬可佩的人！这笔财产真是他的！他就是马德兰，整整一个地区的护卫者！冉阿让是沙威的救命人！这是个英雄！一个圣人！”
“他
Part 5 Book 9 Chapter 5 A Night Behind Which There Is Day
Jean Valjean turned round at the knock which he heard on his door. 
"Come in," he said feebly. 
The door opened. 
Cosette and Marius made their appearance.
Cosette rushed into the room.
Marius remained on the threshold, leaning against the jamb of the door.
"Cosette!" said Jean Valjean.
And he sat erect in his chair, his arms outstretched and trembling, haggard, livid, gloomy, an immense joy in his eyes. 
Cosette, stifling with emotion, fell upon Jean Valjean's breast.
"Father!" said she.
Jean Valjean, overcome, stammered:
"Cosette! She! You! Madame! It is thou! Ah! My God!"
And, pressed close in Cosette's arms, he exclaimed:
"It is thou! Thou art here! Thou dost pardon me then!"
Marius, lowering his eyelids, in order to keep his tears from flowing, took a step forward and murmured between lips convulsively contracted to repress his sobs:
"My father!"
"And you also, you pardon me!" Jean Valjean said to him.
Marius could find no words, and Jean Valjean added:
"Thanks."
Cosette tore off her shawl and tossed her hat on the bed.
"It embarrasses me," said she.
And, seating herself on the old man's knees, she put aside his white locks with an adorable movement, and kissed his brow. 
Jean Valjean, bewildered, let her have her own way.
Cosette, who only understood in a very confused manner, redoubled her caresses, as though she desired to pay Marius' debt.
Jean Valjean stammered:
"How stupid people are! I thought that I should never see her again. Imagine, Monsieur Pontmercy, at the very moment when you entered, I was saying to myself:`All is over. Here is her little gown, I am a miserable man, I shall never see Cosette again,' and I was saying that at the very moment when you were mounting the stairs. Was not I an idiot? Just see how idiotic one can be! One reckons without the good God. The good God says: 
"`You fancy that you are about to be abandoned, stupid! No. No, things will not go so. Come, there is a good man yonder who is in need of an angel.' And the angel comes, and one sees one's Cosette again! And one sees one's little Cosette once more! Ah! I was very unhappy."
For a moment he could not speak, then he went on:
"I really needed to see Cosette a little bit now and then. A heart needs a bone to gnaw. But I was perfectly conscious that I was in the way. I gave myself reasons: `they do not want you, keep in your own course, one has not the right to cling eternally.' Ah! God be praised, I see her once more! Dost thou know, Cosette, thy husband is very handsome? Ah! What a pretty embroidered collar thou hast on, luckily. I am fond of that pattern. It was thy husband who chose it, was it not? And then, thou shouldst have some cashmere shawls. Let me call her thou, Monsieur Pontmercy. It will not be for long." 
And Cosette began again:
"How wicked of you to have left us like that! Where did you go? Why have you stayed away so long? Formerly your journeys only lasted three or four days. I sent Nicolette, the answer always was: He is absent.' How long have you been back? Why did you not let us know? Do you know that you are very much changed? Ah! What a naughty father! he has been ill, and we have not known it! Stay, Marius, feel how cold his hand is!" 
"So you are here! Monsieur Pontmercy, you pardon me!" repeated Jean Valjean.
At that word which Jean Valjean had just uttered once more, all that was swelling Marius' heart found vent. 
He burst forth:
"Cosette, do you hear? He has come to that! He asks my forgiveness! And do you know what he has done for me, Cosette? He has saved my life. He has done more--he has given you to me. And after having saved me, and after having given you to me, Cosette, what has he done with himself? He has sacrificed himself. Behold the man. And he says to me the ingrate, to me the forgetful, to me the pitiless, to me the guilty one: Thanks! Cosette, my whole life passed at the feet of this man would be too little.That barricade, that sewer, that furnace, that cesspool,--all that he traversed for me, for thee, Cosette! He carried me away through all the deaths which he put aside before me, and accepted for himself. Every courage, every virtue, every heroism, every sanctity he possesses! Cosette, that man is an angel!" 
"Hush! Hush!" said Jean Valjean in a low voice. "Why tell all that?" 
"But you!" cried Marius with a wrath in which there was veneration, "why did you not tell it to me? It is your own fault, too. You save people's lives, and you conceal it from them! You do more, under the pretext of unmasking yourself, you calumniate yourself. It is frightful."
"I told the truth," replied Jean Valjean.
"No," retorted Marius, "the truth is the whole truth; and that you did not tell. You were Monsieur Madeleine, why not have said so? You saved Javert, why not have said so? I owed my life to you, why not have said so?"
"Because I thought as you do. I thought that you were in the right. It was necessary that I should go away. If you had known about that affair, of the sewer, you would have made me remain near you. I was therefore forced to hold my peace. If I had spoken, it would have caused embarrassment in every way."
"It would have embarrassed what? Embarrassed whom?" retorted Marius. "Do you think that you are going to stay here? We shall carry you off. Ah! Good heavens! When I reflect that it was by an accident that I have learned all this. You form a part of ourselves. You are her father, and mine. You shall not pass another day in this dreadful house. Do not imagine that you will be here to-morrow." 
"To-morrow," said Jean Valjean, "I shall not be here, but I shall not be with you."
"What do you mean?" replied Marius. "Ah! Come now, we are not going to permit any more journeys. You shall never leave us again. You belong to us. We shall not loose our hold of you." 
"This time it is for good," added Cosette. "We have a carriage at the door. I shall run away with you. If necessary, I shall employ force."
And she laughingly made a movement to lift the old man in her arms.
"Your chamber still stands ready in our house," she went on. "If you only knew how pretty the garden is now! The azaleas are doing very well there. The walks are sanded with river sand; there are tiny violet shells. You shall eat my strawberries. I water them myself. And no more `madame,' no more `Monsieur Jean,' we are living under a Republic, everybody says thou, don't they, Marius? The programme is changed. If you only knew, father, I have had a sorrow, there was a robin redbreast which had made her nest in a hole in the wall, and a horrible cat ate her. My poor, pretty, little robin red-breast which used to put her head out of her window and look at me! I cried over it. I should have liked to kill the cat. But now nobody cries any more. Everybody laughs, everybody is happy. You are going to come with us. How delighted grandfather will be! You shall have your plot in the garden, you shall cultivate it, and we shall see whether your strawberries are as fine as mine. And, then, I shall do everything that you wish, and then, you will obey me prettily."
Jean Valjean listened to her without hearing her. He heard the music of her voice rather than the sense of her words; one of those large tears which are the sombre pearls of the soul welled up slowly in his eyes.
He murmured:
"The proof that God is good is that she is here."
"Father!" said Cosette.
Jean Valjean continued:
"It is quite true that it would be charming for us to live together. Their trees are full of birds. I would walk with Cosette. It is sweet to be among living people who bid each other `good-day,' who call to each other in the garden. People see each other from early morning. We should each cultivate our own little corner. She would make me eat her strawberries. I would make her gather my roses. That would be charming. Only . . ." 
He paused and said gently:
"It is a pity."
The tear did not fall, it retreated, and Jean Valjean replaced it with a smile.
Cosette took both the old man's hands in hers.
"My God!" said she, "your hands are still colder than before. Are you ill? Do you suffer?"
"I? No," replied Jean Valjean. "I am very well. Only . . ."
He paused.
"Only what?"
"I am going to die presently."
Cosette and Marius shuddered.
"To die!" exclaimed Marius.
"Yes, but that is nothing," said Jean Valjean.
He took breath, smiled and resumed:
"Cosette, thou wert talking to me, go on, so thy little robin red-breast is dead? Speak, so that I may hear thy voice." 
Marius gazed at the old man in amazement.
Cosette uttered a heartrending cry.
"Father! My father! you will live. You are going to live. I insist upon your living, do you hear?"
Jean Valjean raised his head towards her with adoration.
"Oh! Yes, forbid me to die. Who knows? Perhaps I shall obey. I was on the verge of dying when you came. That stopped me, it seemed to me that I was born again."
"You are full of strength and life," cried Marius. "Do you imagine that a person can die like this? You have had sorrow, you shall have no more. It is I who ask your forgiveness, and on my knees! You are going to live, and to live with us, and to live a long time. We take possession of you once more. There are two of us here who will henceforth have no other thought than your happiness."
"You see," resumed Cosette, all bathed in tears, "that Marius says that you shall not die." 
Jean Valjean continued to smile.
"Even if you were to take possession of me, Monsieur Pontmercy, would that make me other than I am? No, God has thought like you and myself, and he does not change his mind; it is useful for me to go. Death is a good arrangement. God knows better than we what we need. May you be happy, may Monsieur Pontmercy have Cosette, may youth wed the morning, may there be around you, my children, lilacs and nightingales; may your life be a beautiful, sunny lawn, may all the enchantments of heaven fill your souls, and now let me, who am good for nothing, die; it is certain that all this is right. Come, be reasonable, nothing is possible now, I am fully conscious that all is over. And then, last night, I drank that whole jug of water. How good thy husband is, Cosette! Thou art much better off with him than with me."
A noise became audible at the door.
It was the doctor entering.
"Good-day, and farewell, doctor," said Jean Valjean. "Here are my poor children."
Marius stepped up to the doctor. He addressed to him only this single word: "Monsieur? . . ." But his manner of pronouncing it contained a complete question.
The doctor replied to the question by an expressive glance.
"Because things are not agreeable," said Jean Valjean, "that is no reason for being unjust towards God." 
A silence ensued.
All breasts were oppressed.
Jean Valjean turned to Cosette. He began to gaze at her as though he wished to retain her features for eternity. 
In the depths of the shadow into which he had already descended, ecstasy was still possible to him when gazing at Cosette. The reflection of that sweet face lighted up his pale visage. 
The doctor felt of his pulse.
"Ah! it was you that he wanted!" he murmured, looking at Cosette and Marius.
And bending down to Marius' ear, he added in a very low voice:
"Too late."
Jean Valjean surveyed the doctor and Marius serenely, almost without ceasing to gaze at Cosette. 
These barely articulate words were heard to issue from his mouth:
"It is nothing to die; it is dreadful not to live."
All at once he rose to his feet. These accesses of strength are sometimes the sign of the death agony. He walked with a firm step to the wall, thrusting aside Marius and the doctor who tried to help him, detached from the wall a little copper crucifix which was suspended there, and returned to his seat with all the freedom of movement of perfect health, and said in a loud voice, as he laid the crucifix on the table:
"Behold the great martyr."
Then his chest sank in, his head wavered, as though the intoxication of the tomb were seizing hold upon him.
His hands, which rested on his knees, began to press their nails into the stuff of his trousers.
Cosette supported his shoulders, and sobbed, and tried to speak to him, but could not. 
Among the words mingled with that mournful saliva which accompanies tears, they distinguished words like the following: 
"Father, do not leave us. Is it possible that we have found you only to lose you again?" 
It might be said that agony writhes. It goes, comes, advances towards the sepulchre, and returns towards life. There is groping in the action of dying.
Jean Valjean rallied after this semi-swoon, shook his brow as though to make the shadows fall away from it and became almost perfectly lucid once more.
He took a fold of Cosette's sleeve and kissed it.
"He is coming back! doctor, he is coming back," cried Marius.
"You are good, both of you," said Jean Valjean. "I am going to tell you what has caused me pain. What has pained me, Monsieur Pontmercy, is that you have not been willing to touch that money. That money really belongs to your wife. I will explain to you, my children, and for that reason, also, I am glad to see you. Black jet comes from England, white jet comes from Norway. All this is in this paper, which you will read. For bracelets, I invented a way of substituting for slides of soldered sheet iron, slides of iron laid together.It is prettier, better and less costly. You will understand how much money can be made in that way. So Cosette's fortune is really hers. I give you these details, in order that your mind may be set at rest."
The portress had come upstairs and was gazing in at the half-open door. The doctor dismissed her. 
But he could not prevent this zealous woman from exclaiming to the dying man before she disappeared: "Would you like a priest?" 
"I have had one," replied Jean Valjean.
And with his finger he seemed to indicate a point above his head where one would have said that he saw some one. 
It is probable, in fact, that the Bishop was present at this death agony.
Cosette gently slipped a pillow under his loins.
Jean Valjean resumed:
"Have no fear, Monsieur Pontmercy, I adjure you. The six hundred thousand francs really belong to Cosette. My life will have been wasted if you do not enjoy them! We managed to do very well with those glass goods. We rivalled what is called Berlin jewellery. However, we could not equal the black glass of England. A gross, which contains twelve hundred very well cut grains, only costs three francs."
When a being who is dear to us is on the point of death, we gaze upon him with a look which clings convulsively to him and which would fain hold him back.
Cosette gave her hand to Marius, and both, mute with anguish, not knowing what to say to the dying man, stood trembling and despairing before him.
Jean Valjean sank moment by moment. He was failing; he was drawing near to the gloomy horizon.
His breath had become intermittent; a little rattling interrupted it. He found some difficulty in moving his forearm, his feet had lost all movement, and in proportion as the wretchedness of limb and feebleness of body increased, all the majesty of his soul was displayed and spread over his brow. The light of the unknown world was already visible in his eyes. 
His face paled and smiled. Life was no longer there, it was something else.
His breath sank, his glance grew grander. He was a corpse on which the wings could be felt.
He made a sign to Cosette to draw near, then to Marius; the last minute of the last hour had, evidently, arrived. 
He began to speak to them in a voice so feeble that it seemed to come from a distance, and one would have said that a wall now rose between them and him.
"Draw near, draw near, both of you. I love you dearly. Oh! How good it is to die like this! And thou lovest me also, my Cosette. I knew well that thou still felt friendly towards thy poor old man. How kind it was of thee to place that pillow under my loins! Thou wilt weep for me a little, wilt thou not? Not too much. I do not wish thee to have any real griefs. You must enjoy yourselves a great deal, my children. I forgot to tell you that the profit was greater still on the buckles without tongues than on all the rest. A gross of a dozen dozens cost ten francs and sold for sixty. It really was a good business. So there is no occasion for surprise at the six hundred thousand francs, Monsieur Pontmercy.It is honest money.You may be rich with a tranquil mind. Thou must have a carriage, a box at the theatres now and then, and handsome ball dresses, my Cosette, and then, thou must give good dinners to thy friends, and be very happy. I was writing to Cosette a while ago. She will find my letter. I bequeath to her the two candlesticks which stand on the chimney-piece. They are of silver, but to me they are gold, they are diamonds; they change candles which are placed in them into wax-tapers. I do not know whether the person who gave them to me is pleased with me yonder on high. I have done what I could. My children, you will not forget that I am a poor man, you will have me buried in the first plot of earth that you find, under a stone to mark the spot. This is my wish. No name on the stone. If Cosette cares to come for a little while now and then, it will give me pleasure. And you too, Monsieur Pontmercy. I must admit that I have not always loved you. I ask your pardon for that. Now she and you form but one for me. I feel very grateful to you. I am sure that you make Cosette happy. If you only knew, Monsieur Pontmercy, her pretty rosy cheeks were my delight; when I saw her in the least pale, I was sad. In the chest of drawers, there is a bank-bill for five hundred francs. I have not touched it. It is for the poor. Cosette, dost thou see thy little gown yonder on the bed? dost thou recognize it? That was ten years ago, however. How time flies! We have been very happy. All is over. Do not weep, my children, I am not going very far, I shall see you from there, you will only have to look at night, and you will see me smile. Cosette, dost thou remember Montfermeil? Thou wert in the forest, thou wert greatly terrified; dost thou remember how I took hold of the handle of the water-bucket? That was the first time that I touched thy poor, little hand. It was so cold! Ah! Your hands were red then, mademoiselle, they are very white now. And the big doll! dost thou remember? Thou didst call her Catherine. Thou regrettedest not having taken her to the convent! How thou didst make me laugh sometimes, my sweet angel! When it had been raining, thou didst float bits of straw on the gutters, and watch them pass away. One day I gave thee a willow battledore and a shuttlecock with yellow, blue and green feathers. Thou hast forgotten it. Thou wert roguish so young! Thou didst play. Thou didst put cherries in thy ears. Those are things of the past. The forests through which one has passed with one's child, the trees under which one has strolled, the convents where one has concealed oneself, the games, the hearty laughs of childhood, are shadows. I imagined that all that belonged to me. In that lay my stupidity. Those Thenardiers were wicked. Thou must forgive them. Cosette, the moment has come to tell thee the name of thy mother. She was called Fantine. Remember that name--Fantine. Kneel whenever thou utterest it. She suffered much. She loved thee dearly. She had as much unhappiness as thou hast had happiness. That is the way God apportions things. He is there on high, he sees us all, and he knows what he does in the midst of his great stars. I am on the verge of departure, my children. Love each other well and always. There is nothing else but that in the world: love for each other. You will think sometimes of the poor old man who died here. Oh my Cosette, it is not my fault, indeed, that I have not seen thee all this time, it cut me to the heart; I went as far as the corner of the street, I must have produced a queer effect on the people who saw me pass, I was like a madman, I once went out without my hat. I no longer see clearly, my children, I had still other things to say, but never mind. Think a little of me. Come still nearer. I die happy. Give me your dear and well-beloved heads, so that I may lay my hands upon them."
Cosette and Marius fell on their knees, in despair, suffocating with tears, each beneath one of Jean Valjean's hands. Those august hands no longer moved.
He had fallen backwards, the light of the candles illuminated him. 
His white face looked up to heaven, he allowed Cosette and Marius to cover his hands with kisses.
He was dead.
The night was starless and extremely dark. No doubt, in the gloom,
some immense angel stood erect with wings outspread, awaiting that soul.
冉阿让听见敲门声，就转过身去。
“进来。”他用微弱的声音说。
门一开，珂赛特和马吕斯出现了。
珂赛特跑进房间。
马吕斯在门口站着，靠在门框上。
“珂赛特！”冉阿让说，他在椅子上竖起身来，张开颤抖的两臂，神情惊恐，面色惨白，看起来很骇人，目光里显出无限欢快。
珂赛特因激动而感到窒息，倒在冉阿让的怀中。
“父亲！”她喊着。
冉阿让精神错乱，结结巴巴地说：
“珂赛特！她！是您！夫人！啊！我的上帝！”
于是，在珂赛特的紧抱之中，他叫道：
“是你呀！你在这儿！你原谅我了！”
马吕斯垂着眼帘不让眼泪淌下，走近一步，嘴唇痉挛地紧缩着，忍住痛哭，轻轻地喊了一声：
“我的父亲！”
“您也是呀，您也原谅我了！”冉阿让说。
马吕斯一句话也说不出，冉阿让又说：“谢谢。”
珂赛特把围巾拉下来，把帽子扔在床上。
“戴着不方便。”她说。
她于是坐在老人的膝上，一边用可爱的动作把他的白发撂开，吻他的额头。
冉阿让随她摆布，神情恍惚。
珂赛特模糊地懂得了一点，她加倍亲热，好象要替马吕斯赎罪。
冉阿让含糊地说：
“我真傻！我以为见不到她了。您想想，彭眉胥先生，你们进来的时候，我正在想：‘完了，她的小裙衫在这儿，我是一个悲惨的人，我见不到珂赛特了。”我这样想时，你们正在上楼梯。我多愚蠢呀！蠢到如此地步！我们考虑问题没有想到上帝。慈悲的上帝说：‘你以为他们就这样把你遗弃了，傻瓜！不会的，不会，决不会这样的。来吧，这里有个可怜人需要一个天使。’天使就来了，我又见到了我的珂赛特，我又见到了我的小珂赛特！啊！我曾经万分痛苦呀！”
他有一阵子几乎说不出话来，后来又继续说下去：
“我实在十分需要偶尔来看看珂赛特。一颗心，需要一点寄托。但我又感到我是个多余的人。我自己说服自己：‘他们不需要你了，待在你自己的角落里吧，你无权永远赖着不走。’啊！感谢上帝，我又见到她了！你知道吗，珂赛特，你的丈夫很漂亮？啊！你有一个美丽的绣花领子，这样好得很。我爱这种花样。是你丈夫选择的，对吗？还有，你应当有几条开司米围巾，彭眉胥先生，让我称她‘你’吧。这不会很久了。”
珂赛特接着说：
“您这样把我们丢下多不近人情！您上哪儿去啦？为什么离开这么久？以前您多次的旅行最多三四天。我差妮珂莱特来，老回答说：‘他没有回来。’您什么时候回来的？为什么不告诉我们？您变化很大，您知道吗？啊！坏父亲！他生了病，我们竟不知道！你瞧，马吕斯，摸摸他的手，竟然冷成这个样！”
“这么说您来了！彭眉胥先生，您原谅我了。”冉阿让又说了一遍。
听了冉阿让重复这句话，一切拥塞在马吕斯心头的东西找到了发泄的机会，爆发出来了：
“珂赛特，你听见吗？他还这样说！要我原谅他。你知道他怎样对待我吗，珂赛特？他救了我的命。他做的还不止这些，他把你给了我。在救了我之后，在把你给了我之后，珂赛特，他自己又怎么样呢？他牺牲了自己。他就是这样一个人。而对我这忘恩负义的人，对我这个健忘的人，对我这个残酷的人，对我这个罪人，他却说：‘谢谢！’珂赛特，我一辈子为他鞠躬尽瘁也不能报答他。这个街垒，这条阴沟，这个火坑，这些污水沟，他都经历过了，为了我，为了你，珂赛特！他背着我，使我避开一切死难，而他自己却承受一切。一切勇敢，一切道义，一切英雄精神，一切神圣的品德，他都具备了！珂赛特，这个人真是一位天使！”
“嘘！嘘！”冉阿让轻声说，“为什么要说这些话？”
“但是您！”马吕斯生气然而又尊敬地说，“为什么您不说这些事？这也是您的过错，您救了别人的命，还要瞒着别人！尤其是，借口说您要暴露自己，您其实是在诽谤自己，这真可怕。”
“我说的是真话。”冉阿让回答。
“没有，”马吕斯又说，“讲真话，要讲全部的真话，而您并没有讲。您是马德兰先生，为什么没有讲？您救了沙威，为什么不讲？您救了我的命，为什么不讲？”
“因为我想的和您一样，我觉得您有道理。我应该走开。如果您知道了阴沟的事，您就要留我在你们身边。因此我不应该说。如果我说出来，大家都会感到拘束了。”
“拘束什么！谁拘束呢！”马吕斯回答。“难道您还想待在这儿吗？我们要带您走。啊！天哪！我想到我完全是偶然获悉这些情况的！我们要把您接去，您和我们是分不开的。您是她的父亲，也是我的。您不会再多留一天在这可怕的屋子里了。您不要以为您明天还在这儿。”
“明天，”冉阿让说，“我不会在这儿，但也不会在您的家里。”
“您这是什么意思？”马吕斯问，“啊，现在我们不允许您再去旅行。您不要再离开我们，您是我们的人，我们不放您走了。”
“这一次，说了是要算数的。”珂赛特加上一句。“我们有车子在下面，我们要把您带走，如果有必要的话，我还要用武力呢！”
于是她笑着做出用手臂抱起老人的姿势。
“家里一直保留着您住的房间，”她继续说，“您可知道现在花园可真美呀！杜鹃花开得很茂盛。小路都用河沙铺过了，沙里还有小的紫色贝壳。您将要吃到我的草莓，是我自己浇水种的。没有什么夫人，也没有什么让先生了，我们都生活在共和国里，大家都以‘你’相称。对吗？马吕斯？生活的法则也变了。您不知道，父亲，我有一件伤心事，有一只知更鸟在墙头洞里做了窝，一只可恶的猫把它吃掉了。我那可怜的美丽的小知更鸟把头伸在它的窗口望着我！我曾为它哭泣，我真想杀了那只猫！但现在没有人哭了。大家都欢笑，大家都幸福。您和我们一起回去。外祖父会多么高兴呀！在花园里您将要有您的一小块地，您自己耕种，我们看看您的草莓是不是和我的长得一样好。还有，我样样依顺您，还有，您得好好地听我的话。”
冉阿让在听着，但又没听见，他听着她那象音乐一样的说话声，而不是听懂她话的意思；一大颗眼泪，灵魂里幽暗的珍珠，慢慢地在眼里出现，于是他轻声说：
“足以证明上帝是慈悲的，她在这儿了。”
“父亲！”珂赛特呼唤着。
冉阿让继续说：
“不错，能在一起生活，这多好。树上有很多鸟。我和珂赛特去散步，和活着的人一样，互相问好，在花园里相互呼唤，这多甜蜜。从清早就能相见。我们每人各种一块地。她种的草莓给我吃，我让她摘我的玫瑰花，这该多么好呀。但是……”
他停下来温和地说：
“可惜。”
眼泪没落下来，又收回去了，冉阿让用一个微笑代替了它。
珂赛特把老人的双手握在她手中。
“我的上帝！”她说，“您的手更冷了。您有病吗？您不舒服吗？”
“我吗，没有病，”冉阿让回答说，“我很舒服，可是……”
他又停下不说了。
“可是怎么样呢？”
“我马上就要死了。”
珂赛特和马吕斯听了以后就打颤。
“要死了！”马吕斯叫道。
“是呀，但这不算什么。”冉阿让说。
他呼吸了一下，微笑着，又说了下去：
“珂赛特，你刚才在和我说话，继续下去，再说点，那么说你的小知更鸟是死了，讲吧，让我听听你的声音！”
马吕斯吓呆了，他望着老人。
珂赛特发出一声凄厉的叫声。
“父亲！我的父亲！您要活下去，您会活的，我要您活下去，听见了吧！”
冉阿让抬起头来向着她，带着一种热爱的神色：“噢，是的，禁止我死吧。谁知道？我可能会听从的。你们来时我正要死去，就这样我就停了下来，我觉得我好象又活过来了。”
“您是充满了活力和生命的，”马吕斯大声说，“难道您认为一个人会这样死去吗？您曾痛苦过，以后再不会有了。是我在请求您的原谅，我还要跪着请求您的原谅！您会活着的，和我们一起活着，并且还会长寿。我们接您回去。我们两人从今以后只有一个愿望，那就是您的幸福！”
“您看，”珂赛特满面泪痕地说，“马吕斯说您不会死的。”
冉阿让微笑着继续说：
“彭眉胥先生，您带我回去，难道我就不会是现在的我了吗？不行，上帝的想法和您我一样，并且他不会改变主张，我最好还是离开。死是一种妥善的安排。上帝比我们更知道我们需要的是什么。祝你们快乐，祝彭眉胥先生有着珂赛特，青春要和清晨作伴，我的孩子们，你们四周有丁香，又有黄莺，你们的生命象朝阳下美丽的草坪，天上的喜悦充满你们的心灵，现在我已一无用处，让我死吧，肯定这一切都会好的。你们看，要懂道理，现在一切都已经不能挽救了，我觉得自己是绝对完了。一个钟头以前，我昏厥了一次。还有昨天晚上，我喝完了这一罐水。你的丈夫真好，珂赛特！你跟着他比跟着我好多了。”
门上发出声音。是医生进来了。
“早安和再见，医生，”冉阿让说，“这是我可怜的孩子们。”马吕斯走近医生，他只向他说了两个字：“先生？……”但说时的神情等于完整地提了一个问题。
医生向他丢了一个有表情的眼色作回答。
“因为这种事使人感到不愉快，”冉阿让说，“这不能成为自己对上帝不公正的一种借口。”
大家静默无言，所有人的心都感到沉重。
冉阿让转向珂赛特，向她凝视着，好象要把她的形象带到永生里去那样。他虽已沉入黑暗深处，但望着珂赛特他还会出神。这个温柔的容貌使他苍白的脸发出光芒，墓窟因而也有着它的光彩。
医生为他诊脉。
“啊！原来他缺少的是你们。”他望着珂赛特和马吕斯轻声说。
于是他凑近马吕斯的耳边轻声加了一句：
“太迟了。”
冉阿让几乎不停地望着珂赛特，安静地看看马吕斯和医生。我们听见从他嘴里含糊地说出这样的一句话：
“死不算一回事，可怕的是不能活了。”
忽然他站起身来，这种体力的恢复有时就是临终的挣扎。他稳稳地走向墙壁，把要扶他的马吕斯和医生推开，取下挂在墙上的铜十字架，回来坐下的动作好象完全健康时那样自由自在，他把十字架放在桌上并且高声说：
“这就是伟大的殉道者。”
然后他的胸部下陷，头摇晃了一下，好象墓中的沉醉侵占了他，放在膝上的两只手开始用手指甲抠裤子的布。
珂赛特扶着他的双肩呜咽着，想要和他说话又说不出来。我们听见她含着凄惶的口水伴着眼泪这样说：“父亲，不要离开我们，怎么能刚找到您就失去您呢？”
我们可以说垂死的挣扎有如蛇行，它去了又来，走近坟墓而又回头走向生命，在死亡的动作里有着摸索的过程。
冉阿让在半昏迷状态之后，又恢复了一点气力，他摇晃了一下脑袋，象要甩掉黑暗，接着几乎变得完全清醒了。他拿起珂赛特的一角袖子吻了一下。
“他缓过来了！医生，他缓过来了！”马吕斯喊着。
“你们两个人都好，”冉阿让说，“我告诉你们什么事在使我痛苦。使我痛苦的是，彭眉胥先生，您不肯动用那笔款。那笔款确是您夫人的。我要向你们解释，我的孩子们，也就是为了这个原因，我很高兴见到你们。黑玉是英国的产品，白玉是挪威的产品。这一切都写在这张纸上，你们以后看吧。关于手镯，我发明了不用焊药焊住金属扣环，而是把金属扣环搭紧，这样比较美观，而且价廉物美。你们明白这样可以赚很多钱。因此珂赛特的财产确是属于她的。我讲这些详情为了使你们安心。”
看门的上楼来了，通过半开的门向里面探望着，医生叫她走开，但没能制止这个热心的妇人在走开之前向垂死的人大声说：
“您需要一个神父吗？”
“我已有了一个。”冉阿让回答。
这时他用手指好象指着他头上方的某一处，他好象看见有个人。
大概主教真的在这临终的时刻来到了。
珂赛特轻手轻脚地把一个枕头塞在他的腰部。
冉阿让又说：
“彭眉胥先生，不用担心，我恳求您。那六十万法郎是属于珂赛特的。如果你们不愿享受它，那我就白活了！我们很成功地做出了这些玻璃饰物。我们和被称作柏林的首饰竞争，可是比不上德国的黑玻璃。一罗有一千二百粒打磨得整齐的珠子只要三个法郎。”
当我们所爱的一个人要临终时，我们的眼睛就盯住他，想把他留住。他们两人痛苦得说不出话来，不知要向垂死的人说些什么，他们失望地颤抖着站在他眼前，马吕斯握着珂赛特的手。
冉阿让一点一点地衰竭下去，他不断地在变弱，他已接近黑暗的天边。他的呼吸已断断续续；喉中有种嘎嘎的响声在间歇地截断气息，他的上臂已很难移动，足部也已经不能动，当四肢失灵，身体越来越衰竭时，庄严的灵魂在上升，并且已经显示在他的额头上。他的眼珠里已经出现了未知世界的光明。
他的脸逐渐失色，但仍带着笑容，生命已经结束，有的是其他的东西。他的呼吸中断，眼睛睁大，人们觉得这是一具长着翅膀的尸体。
他做了一个手势要珂赛特走近，又要马吕斯走近；这肯定是最后一小时的最后一分钟，他用微弱得好象来自远方的声音和他们说话，现在好象已有一堵墙把他和他们隔开了。
“过来，你俩过来，我很爱你们，啊！这样死去有多好！你也一样，你爱我，我的珂赛特。我知道你对你这个老人一直是有感情的，你把这靠垫放在我腰部是多么体贴我！你将会稍稍为我哭一下，对不对？可不要太过分。我不愿你真的难过。你们应当多多享乐，我的孩子。我还忘了告诉你们，没有扣针的扣环比所有的一切更赚钱。十二打的成本只合十个法郎，卖出去是六十法郎。这真是一个好买卖。所以您不要再为会有六十万法郎而感到诧异了，彭眉胥先生。这是清白的钱，你们可以安享富贵。应该有一辆车，不时定一个包厢到戏院去看看戏，做些漂亮的舞会服装，我的珂赛特，用盛宴招待你们的朋友，要生活得非常幸福。刚才我写了封信给珂赛特。她会找到我的信的。我把壁炉上这对烛台留给她。烛台是银的，但对我来说它是金的，是钻石的，它能把插在上面的蜡烛变成神烛。我不知道把它赠给我的那一位在天上是否对我感到满意，我已尽我所能了。孩子们，你们不要忘了我是一个穷苦人，你们把我埋在随便哪一块地上，用一块石板盖着做记号。这是我的遗愿。石上不要刻名字。如果珂赛特有时能来看望我一下，我会感到愉快。还有您也来，彭眉胥先生。我要向您承认，我并非一直都对您有好感的，我为此向您道歉。现在您和她，对我来说是一个人了。我十分感激您，我感到您使珂赛特幸福。您可知道，彭眉胥先生，她那红润而美丽的双颊就是我的愉快，当我看见她有点憔悴时，我便心里发愁。在橱柜里有一张五百法郎的票子。我还没有动用。这是施舍给穷人的。珂赛特，你看见你的小裙衫在这张床上吗？你还认得吗？其实这还只是十年前的事。时间过得多么快呀！我们曾经多么幸福呀。现在完了。孩子们不要哭，我去不了多远。我从那儿看得见你们。当天黑下来的时候，你们只要注意瞧，会望见我在微笑。珂赛特，你还记得在孟费郿，在树林里，你多么害怕，你还记得当时我提起水桶把吗？那是第一次我接触到你这可怜的小手，它是冰凉的！啊！当时你的手冻得通红，小姐，现在你的手是雪白的了。还有你的大娃娃！你记得吗？你叫她卡特琳。你后悔没有把她带进修女院！有时你真令我发笑，我可爱的天使！下雨的时候，你把草茎放在水沟里看着它们漂去。有一天，我买了一个柳条拍子和一个黄蓝绿三色的羽毛球给你。你忘了这些事了。你小时候多调皮！你玩着。你把樱桃放在耳朵里。这些都是过去的事了。我和我的孩子经过的森林，我们一起在下面散步的树木，我们一起藏身的修女院，种种游戏，童年时代欢畅的嬉笑，都已经消失了。我一直认为这一切是属于我的，我愚蠢之处就在于此。德纳第家的人都很凶狠，原谅他们吧。珂赛特，现在我该把你母亲的名字告诉你了。她叫芳汀。记住这个名字：芳汀。当你提到她的名字时，你应当跪下。她吃过很多苦。她非常爱你，她的痛苦正和你的幸福成对比。这是上帝的安排。他在天上，他看见我们大家，他在他的星宿中知道他做的一切。我就要去了，孩子们，你们永远相爱吧。世上除了相爱之外几乎没有别的了。你们有时想想死在这儿的可怜的老人。啊！我的珂赛特，这些时候我没有见到你，这可不怪我，那时我心都碎了；我一直走到你住的那条街的拐角上，见到我走过的人一定觉得我古怪，我好象疯了一样，有一次我没有戴帽子就出去了。孩子们，我现在已看不大清楚了，我还有话要说，算了吧。你们稍稍地想一想我。你们是上帝保佑的人。我不知道我怎么啦，我看见光亮。你们俩再挨近我些，我愉快地死去。把你们亲爱的头挨近我，我好把手放上去。”
珂赛特和马吕斯跪下，心慌意乱，悲泪哽咽，每人靠着冉阿让的一只手，这只庄严的手已不再动弹了。
他倒向后面，两支烛光照着他；他那白色的脸望着上天，他让珂赛特和马吕斯拼命吻他的手，他死了。
夜没有星光，一片漆黑，在黑暗中，可能有一个站着的大天使展开着双翅，在等待着这个灵魂。
Part 5 Book 9 Chapter 6 The Grass Covers and the Rain Effaces
In the cemetery of Pere-Lachaise, in the vicinity of the common grave, far from the elegant quarter of that city of sepulchres, far from all the tombs of fancy which display in the presence of eternity all the hideous fashions of death, in a deserted corner, beside an old wall, beneath a great yew tree over which climbs the wild convolvulus, amid dandelions and mosses, there lies a stone. That stone is no more exempt than others from the leprosy of time, of dampness, of the lichens and from the defilement of the birds. The water turns it green, the air blackens it. It is not near any path, and people are not fond of walking in that direction, because the grass is high and their feet are immediately wet. When there is a little sunshine, the lizards come thither. All around there is a quivering of weeds. In the spring, linnets warble in the trees.
This stone is perfectly plain. In cutting it the only thought was the requirements of the tomb, and no other care was taken than to make the stone long enough and narrow enough to cover a man.
No name is to be read there.
Only, many years ago, a hand wrote upon it in pencil these four lines, which have become gradually illegible beneath the rain and the dust, and which are, to-day, probably effaced: 
Il dort. Quoique le sort fut pour lui bien etrange, Il vivait. Il mourut quand il n'eut plus son ange. La chose simplement d'elle-meme arriva, Comme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s'en va.[70]
[70] He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, he lived. He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply, of itself, as the night comes when day is gone. 
在拉雪兹神甫公墓里，靠近普通墓穴的旁边，远离这墓园中幽雅的地区，远离那些希奇古怪的在永恒面前还要展示死后时兴式样的丑墓，就在一个荒僻的角落里，靠着一堵旧墙，在一棵爬着牵牛花的大水杉下面，在茅草和青苔之中，有一块石板，这块石板和别的石板一样，日子一久也剥落得斑斑点点，发了霉，长着苔藓，堆着鸟粪。雨水使它发绿，空气使它变黑。它不在任何路旁，人们不爱到这边来，因为野草太高，使脚立刻浸湿。当少许太阳露面时，壁虎会出现，四周还有野燕麦围着沙沙作响，春天红雀在树上欢唱。
这块石板是光秃秃的，凿石的人只想到这是筑墓石所需，除了使它够长够宽能盖住一个人之外，就没有考虑过其他方面。
上面没有名字。
但是多年前，有只手用铅笔在上面写了四句诗，在雨露和尘土的洗刷下已慢慢地看不清楚了，而今天大概已经消失了：
他安息了。尽管命运多舛，
他仍偷生。失去了他的天使他就丧生；
事情是自然而然地发生，