ferragus-第3章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


by；　but　must　see　all。　Imperceptibly；　the　articulations　begin　to　crack；
motion　communicates　itself；　the　street　speaks。　By　mid…day；　all　is
alive；　the　chimneys　smoke；　the　monster　eats；　then　he　roars；　and　his
thousand　paws　begin　to　ramp。　Splendid　spectacle！　But；　O　Paris！　he　who
has　not　admired　your　gloomy　passages；　your　gleams　and　flashes　of
light；　your　deep　and　silent　/cul…de…sacs/；　who　has　not　listened　to
your　murmurings　between　midnight　and　two　in　the　morning；　knows　nothing
as　yet　of　your　true　poesy；　nor　of　your　broad　and　fantastic　contrasts。

There　are　a　few　amateurs　who　never　go　their　way　heedlessly；　who　savor
their　Paris；　so　to　speak；　who　know　its　physiognomy　so　well　that　they
see　every　wart；　and　pimple；　and　redness。　To　others；　Paris　is　always
that　monstrous　marvel；　that　amazing　assemblage　of　activities；　of
schemes；　of　thoughts；　the　city　of　a　hundred　thousand　tales；　the　head
of　the　universe。　But　to　those　few；　Paris　is　sad　or　gay；　ugly　or
beautiful；　living　or　dead；　to　them　Paris　is　a　creature；　every　man；
every　fraction　of　a　house　is　a　lobe　of　the　cellular　tissue　of　that
great　courtesan　whose　head　and　heart　and　fantastic　customs　they　know
so　well。　These　men　are　lovers　of　Paris；　they　lift　their　noses　at　such
or　such　a　corner　of　a　street；　certain　that　they　can　see　the　face　of　a
clock；　they　tell　a　friend　whose　tobacco…pouch　is　empty；　〃Go　down　that
passage　and　turn　to　the　left；　there's　a　tobacconist　next　door　to　a
confectioner；　where　there's　a　pretty　girl。〃　Rambling　about　Paris　is；
to　these　poets；　a　costly　luxury。　How　can　they　help　spending　precious
minutes　before　the　dramas；　disasters；　faces；　and　picturesque　events
which　meet　us　everywhere　amid　this　heaving　queen　of　cities；　clothed　in
posters；who　has；　nevertheless；　not　a　single　clean　corner；　so
complying　is　she　to　the　vices　of　the　French　nation！　Who　has　not
chanced　to　leave　his　home　early　in　the　morning；　intending　to　go　to
some　extremity　of　Paris；　and　found　himself　unable　to　get　away　from　the
centre　of　it　by　the　dinner…hour？　Such　a　man　will　know　how　to　excuse
this　vagabondizing　start　upon　our　tale；　which；　however；　we　here　sum　up
in　an　observation　both　useful　and　novel；　as　far　as　any　observation　can
be　novel　in　Paris；　where　there　is　nothing　new；not　even　the　statue
erected　yesterday；　on　which　some　young　gamin　has　already　scribbled　his
name。

Well；　then！　there　are　streets；　or　ends　of　streets；　there　are　houses；
unknown　for　the　most　part　to　persons　of　social　distinction；　to　which　a
woman　of　that　class　cannot　go　without　causing　cruel　and　very　wounding
things　to　be　thought　of　her。　Whether　the　woman　be　rich　and　has　a
carriage；　whether　she　is　on　foot；　or　is　disguised；　if　she　enters　one
of　these　Parisian　defiles　at　any　hour　of　the　day；　she　compromises　her
reputation　as　a　virtuous　woman。　If；　by　chance；　she　is　there　at　nine　in
the　evening　the　conjectures　that　an　observer　permits　himself　to　make
upon　her　may　prove　fearful　in　their　consequences。　But　if　the　woman　is
young　and　pretty；　if　she　enters　a　house　in　one　of　those　streets；　if
the　house　has　a　long；　dark；　damp；　and　evil…smelling　passage…way；　at
the　end　of　which　flickers　the　pallid　gleam　of　an　oil　lamp；　and　if
beneath　that　gleam　appears　the　horrid　face　of　a　withered　old　woman
with　fleshless　fingers；　ah；　then！　and　we　say　it　in　the　interests　of
young　and　pretty　women；　that　woman　is　lost。　She　is　at　the　mercy　of　the
first　man　of　her　acquaintance　who　sees　her　in　that　Parisian　slough。
There　is　more　than　one　street　in　Paris　where　such　a　meeting　may　lead
to　a　frightful　drama；　a　bloody　drama　of　death　and　love；　a　drama　of　the
modern　school。

Unhappily；　this　scene；　this　modern　drama　itself；　will　be　comprehended
by　only　a　small　number　of　persons；　and　it　is　a　pity　to　tell　the　tale
to　a　public　which　cannot　enter　into　its　local　merit。　But　who　can
flatter　himself　that　he　will　ever　be　understood？　We　all　die　unknown
'tis　the　saying　of　women　and　of　authors。

At　half…past　eight　o'clock　one　evening；　in　the　rue　Pagevin；　in　the
days　when　that　street　had　no　wall　which　did　not　echo　some　infamous
word；　and　was；　in　the　direction　of　the　rue　Soly；　the　narrowest　and
most　impassable　street　in　Paris　（not　excepting　the　least　frequented
corner　of　the　most　deserted　street）；at　the　beginning　of　the　month　of
February　about　thirteen　years　ago；　a　young　man；　by　one　of　those
chances　which　come　but　once　in　life；　turned　the　corner　of　the　rue
Pagevin　to　enter　the　rue　des　Vieux…Augustins；　close　to　the　rue　Soly。
There；　this　young　man；　who　lived　himself　in　the　rue　de　Bourbon；　saw　in
a　woman　near　whom　he　had　been　unconsciously　walking；　a　vague
resemblance　to　the　prettiest　woman　in　Paris；　a　chaste　and　delightful
person；　with　whom　he　was　secretly　and　passionately　in　love；a　love
without　hope；　she　was　married。　In　a　moment　his　heart　leaped；　an
intolerable　heat　surged　from　his　centre　and　flowed　through　all　his
veins；　his　back　turned　cold；　the　skin　of　his　head　crept。　He　loved；　he
was　young；　he　knew　Paris；　and　his　knowledge　did　not　permit　him　to　be
ignorant　of　all　there　was　of　possible　infamy　in　an　elegant；　rich；
young；　and　beautiful　woman　walking　there；　alone；　with　a　furtively
criminal　step。　/She/　in　that　mud！　at　that　hour！

The　love　that　this　young　man　felt　for　that　woman　may　seem　romantic；
and　all　the　more　so　because　he　was　an　officer　in　the　Royal　Guard。　If
he　had　been　in　the　infantry；　the　affair　might　have　seemed　more　likely；
but；　as　an　officer　of　rank　in　the　cavalry；　he　belonged　to　that　French
arm　which　demands　rapidity　in　its　conquests　and　derives　as　much　vanity
from　its　amorous　exploits　as　from　its　dashing　uniform。　But　the　passion
of　this　officer　was　a　true　love；　and　many　young　hearts　will　think　it
noble。　He　loved　this　woman　because　she　was　virtuous；　he　loved　her
virtue；　her　modest　grace；　her　imposing　saintliness；　as　the　dearest
treasures　of　his　hidden　passion。　This　woman　was　indeed　worthy　to
inspire　one　of　those　platonic　loves　which　are　found；　like　flowers　amid
bloody　ruins；　in　the　history　of　the　middle…ages；　worthy　to　be　the
hidden　principle　of　all　the　actions　of　a　young　man's　life；　a　love　as
high；　as　pure　as　the　skies　when　blue；　a　love　without　hope　and　to　which
men　bind　themselves　because　it　can　never　deceive；　a　love　that　is
prodigal　of　unchecked　enjoyment；　especially　at　an　age　when　the　heart
is　ardent；　the　imagination　keen；　and　the　eyes　of　a　man　see　very
clearly。

Strange；　weird；　inconceivable　effects　may　be　met　with　at　night　in
Paris。　Only　those　who　have　amused　themselves　by　watching　those　effects
have　any　idea　how　fantastic　a　woman　may　appear　there　at　dusk。　At　times
the　creature　whom　you　are　following；　by　accident　or　design；　seems　to
you　light　and　slender；　the　stockings；　if　they　are　white；　make　you
fancy　that　the　legs　must　be　slim　and　elegant；　the　figure　though
wrapped　in　a　shawl；　or　concealed　by　a　pelisse；　defines　itself
gracefully　and　seductively　among　the　shadows；　anon；　the　uncertain
gleam　thrown　from　a　shop…window　or　a　street　lamp　bestows　a　fleeting
lustre；　nearly　always　deceptive；　on　the　unknown　woman；　and　fires　the
imagination；　carrying　it　far　beyond　the　truth。　The　senses　then　bestir
themselves；　everything　takes　color　and　animation；　the　woman　appears　in
an　altogether　novel　aspect；　her　person　becomes　beautiful。　Behold！　she
is　not　a　woman；　she　is　a　demon；　a　siren；　who　is　drawing　you　by
magnetic　attraction　to　some　respectable　house；　where　the　worthy
/bourgeoise/；　frightened　by　your　threatening　step　and　the　clack　of
your　boots；　shuts　the　door　in　your　face　without　looking　at　you。

A　vacillating　gleam；　thrown　from　the　shop…window　of　a　shoemaker；
suddenly　illuminated　from　the　waist　down　the　figure　of　the　woman　who
was　before　the　young　man。　Ah！　surely；　/she/　alone　had　that　swaying
figure；　she　alone　knew　the　secret　of　that　chaste　gait　which　innocently
set　into　relief　the　many　beauties　of　that　attractive　form。　Yes；　that
was　the　shawl；　and　that　the　velvet　bonnet　which　she　wore　in　the
mornings。　On　her　gray　silk　stockings　not　a　spot；　on　her　shoes　not　a
splash。　The　shawl　held　tightly　round　the　bust　disclosed；　vaguely；　its
charming　lines；　and　the　young　man；　who　had　often　seen　those　shoulders
at　a　ball；　knew　well　the　treasures　that　the　shawl　concealed。　By　the
way　a　Parisian