the crime of sylvestre bonnard-第45章

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　rites；　and　his　daughter；　fair　as　the　fairest　dream　ever　conceived　by　human　soul；　resists　the　will　of　the　tyrant　and　gives　pious　sepulture　to　her　brother。　　She　loves　the　son　of　the　tyrant；　and　that　son　loves　her　also。　　And　as　she　goes　on　her　way　to　execution；　the　victim　of　her　own　sweet　piety；　the　old　men　sing；　〃Invincible　Love；　O　Thou　who　dost　descend　upon　rich　houses；　Thou　who　dost　rest　upon　the　delicate　cheek　of　the　maiden。〃。。。

〃Mademoiselle　Jeanne；　are　you　really　very　anxious　to　know　what　I　am　reading？　　I　am　reading；　MademoiselleI　am　reading　that　Antigone；　having　buried　the　blind　old　man；　wove　a　fair　tapestry　embroidered　with　images　in　the　likeness　of　laughing　faces。〃

〃Ah！〃　said　Gelis；　as　he　burs　out　laughing　〃that　is　not　in　the　text。〃

〃It　is　a　scholium；〃　I　said。

〃Unpublished；〃　he　added；　getting　up。


I　am　not　an　egotist。　　But　I　am　prudent。　　I　have　to　bring　up　this　child；　she　is　much　too　young　to　be　married　now。　　No！　　I　am　not　an　egotist；　but　I　must　certainly　keep　her　with　me　for　a　few　years　more　keep　her　alone　with　me。　　She　can　surely　wait　until　I　am　dead！　　Fear　not；　Antigone；　old　Oedipus　will　find　holy　burial　soon　enough。

In　the　meanwhile；　Antigone　is　helping　our　housekeeper　to　scrape　the　carrots。　　She　says　she　like　to　do　itthat　it　is　in　her　line；　being　related　to　the　art　of　sculpture。


May。


Who　would　recognise　the　City　of　Books　now？　　There　are　flowers　everywhereeven　upon　all　the　articles　of　furniture。　　Jeanne　was　right：　　those　roses　do　look　very　nice　in　that　blue　china　vase。　　She　goes　to　market　every　day　with　Therese；　under　the　pretext　of　helping　the　old　servant　to　make　her　purchases；　but　she　never　brings　anything　back　with　her　except　flowers。　　Flowers　are　really　very　charming　creatures。　　And　one　of　these　days；　I　must　certainly　carry　out　my　plan；　and　devote　myself　to　the　study　of　them；　in　their　own　natural　domain；　in　the　countrywith　all　the　science　and　earnestness　which　I　possess。

For　what　have　I　to　do　here？　　Why　should　I　burn　my　eyes　out　over　these　old　parchments　which　cannot　now　tell　me　anything　worth　knowing？　　I　used　to　study　them；　these　old　texts；　with　the　most　ardent　enjoyment。　What　was　it　which　I　was　then　so　anxious　to　find　in　them？　　The　date　of　a　pious　foundationthe　name　of　some　monkish　imagier　or　copyist　the　price　of　a　loaf；　of　an　ox；　or　of　a　fieldsome　judicial　or　administrative　enactmentall　that；　and　yet　something　more；　a　Something　vaguely　mysterious　and　sublime　which　excited　my　enthusiasm。　But　for　sixty　years　I　have　been　searching　in　vain　for　that　Something。　Better　men　than　Ithe　masters；　the　truly　great；　the　Fauriels；　the　Thierrys；　who　found　so　many　thingsdied　at　their　task　without　having　been　able；　any　more　than　I　have　been；　to　find　that　Something　which；　being　incorporeal；　has　no　name；　and　without　which；　nevertheless；　no　great　mental　work　would　ever　be　undertaken　in　this　world。　　And　now　that　I　am　only　looking　for　what　I　should　certainly　be　able　to　find；　I　cannot　find　anything　at　all；　and　it　is　probable　that　I　shall　never　be　able　to　finish　the　history　of　the　Abbots　of　Saint…Germain…des…　Pres。

〃Guardian；　just　guess　what　I　have　in　my　handkerchief；〃

〃Judging　from　appearances；　Jeanne；　I　should　say　flowers。〃

〃Oh；　nonot　flowers。　　Look！〃

I　look；　and　I　see　a　little　grey　head　poking　itself　out　of　the　handkerchief。　　It　is　the　head　of　a　little　grey　cat。　　The　handkerchief　opens；　the　animal　leaps　down　upon　the　carpet；　shakes　itself；　pricks　up　first　one　ear　and　then　the　other；　and　begins　to　examine　with　due　caution　the　locality　and　the　inhabitants　thereof。

Therese；　out　of　breath；　with　her　basket　on　her　arm；　suddenly　makes　her　appearance　in　time　to　take　an　objective　part　in　this　examination；　which　does　not　appear　to　result　altogether　in　her　favour；　for　the　young　cat　moves　slowly　away　from　her；　without；　however；　venturing　near　my　legs；　or　approaching　Jeanne；　who　displays　extraordinary　volubility　in　the　use　of　caressing　appellations。　　Therese；　whose　chief　fault　is　her　inability　to　hide　her　feelings；　thereupon　vehemently　reproaches　Mademoiselle　for　bringing　home　a　cat　that　she　did　not　know　anything　about。　　Jeanne；　in　order　to　justify　herself；　tells　the　whole　story。　　While　she　was　passing　with　Therese　before　a　chemist's　shop；　she　saw　the　assistant　kick　a　little　cat　into　the　street。　　The　cat；　astonished　and　frightened；　seemed　to　be　asking　itself　whether　to　remain　in　the　street　where　it　was　being　terrified　and　knocked　about　by　the　people　passing　by；　or　whether　to　go　back　into　the　chemist's　even　at　the　risk　of　being　kicked　out　a　second　time。　　Jeanne　thought　it　was　in　a　very　critical　position；　and　understood　its　hesitation。　　It　looked　so　stupid；　and　she　knew　it　looked　stupid　only　because　it　could　not　decide　what　to　do。　　So　she　took　it　up　in　her　arms。　　　And　as　it　had　not　been　able　to　obtain　any　rest　either　indoors　out　out…of…doors；　it　allowed　her　to　hold　it。　　Then　she　stroked　and　petted　it　to　keep　it　from　being　afraid；　and　boldly　went　to　the　chemist's　assistant　and　said；

〃If　you　don't　like　that　animal；　you　mustn't　beat　it；　you　must　give　it　to　me。〃

〃Take　it；〃　said　the　assistant。

。。。〃Now　there！〃　adds　Jeanne；　by　way　of　conclusion；　and　then　she　changes　her　voice　again　to　a　flute…tone　in　order　to　say　all　kinds　of　sweet　things　to　the　cat。

〃He　is　horribly　thin；〃　I　observe；　looking　at　the　wretched　animal；　〃moreover；　he　is　horribly　ugly。〃　　Jeanne　thinks　he　is　not　ugly　at　all；　but　she　acknowledges　that　he　looks　even　more　stupid　than　he　looked　at　first：　　this　time　she　thinks　it　not　indecision；　but　surprise；　which　gives　that　unfortunate　aspect　to　his　countenance。　She　asks　us　to　imagine　ourselves　in　his　place；then　we　are　obliged　to　acknowledge　that　he　cannot　possibly　understand　what　has　happened　to　him。　　And　then　we　all　burst　out　laughing　in　the　face　of　the　poor　little　beast；　which　maintains　the　most　comical　look　of　gravity。　Jeanne　wants　to　take　him　up；　but　he　hides　himself　under　the　table；　and　cannot　even　be　tempted　to　come　out　by　the　lure　of　a　saucer　of　milk。

We　all　turn　our　backs　and　promise　not　to　look；　when　we　inspect　the　saucer　again；　we　find　it　empty。

〃Jeanne；〃　I　observe；　〃your　protege　has　a　decidedly　tristful　aspect　of　countenance；　he　is　of　sly　and　suspicious　disposition；　I　trust　he　is　not　going　to　commit　in　the　City　of　Books　any　such　misdemeanours　as　might　render　it　necessary　for　us　to　send　him　back　to　his　chemist's　shop。　　In　the　meantime　we　must　give　him　a　name。　　Suppose　we　call　him　'Don　Gris　de　Gouttiere'；　but　perhaps　that　is　too　long。　　'Pill；'　'Drug；'　or　'Castor…oil'　would　be　short　enough；　and　would　further　serve　to　recall　his　early　condition　in　life。　　What　do　you　think　about　it？

〃'Pill'　would　not　sound　bad；〃　answers　Jeanne；　〃but　it　would　be　very　unkind　to　give　him　a　name　which　would　be　always　reminding　him　of　the　misery　from　which　we　saved　him。　　It　would　be　making　him　pay　too　dearly　for　our　hospitality。　　Let　us　be　more　generous；　and　give　him　a　pretty　name；　in　hopes　that　he　is　going　to　deserve　it。　　See　how　he　looks　at　us！　　He　knows　that　we　are　talking　about　him。　　And　now　that　he　is　no　longer　unhappy；　he　is　beginning　to　look　a　great　deal　less　stupid。　　I　am　not　joking！　　Unhappiness　does　make　people　look　stupid；I　am　perfectly　sure　it　does。〃

〃Well；　Jeanne；　if　you　like；　we　will　call　your　protege　Hannibal。　The　appropriateness　of　that　name　does　not　seem　to　strike　you　at　once。　But　the　Angora　cat　who　preceded　him　here　as　an　intimate　of　the　City　of　Books；　and　to　whom　I　was　in　the　habit　of　telling　all　my　secrets　for　he　was　a　very　wise　and　discreet　personused　to　be　called　Hamilcar。　　It　is　natural　that　this　name　should　beget　the　other；　and　that　Hannibal　should　succeed　Hamilcar。〃

We　all　agreed　upon　this　point。

〃Hannibal！〃　cried　Jeanne；　〃come　here！〃

Hannibal；　greatly　frightened　by　the　strange　sonority　of　his　own　name；　ran　to　hid　himself　under　a　bookcase　in　an　orifice　so　small　that　a　rat　could　not　have　squeezed　himself　into　it。

A　nice　way　of　doing　credit　to　so　great　a　name！


I　was　in　a　good　humour　for　working　that　day；　and　I　had　just　dipped　the　nib　of　my　pen　into　the　ink…bottle　when　I　heard　some　one　ring。　Should　any　one　ever　read　these　pages　written　by　an　unimaginative　old　man；　he　will　be　sure　to　laugh　at　the　way　that　bell　keeps　ringing　through　my　narrative；　without　ever　ann