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悲惨世界|Les Miserables

Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 10 The Bishop in the Presence of an Unknown Light

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 维克多-雨果] 阅读：[124997]
Part 1 Book 1 Chapter 10 The Bishop in the Presence of an Unknown Light
19世纪30年代的法国。富人乘坐马车，用金餐具吃喝。穷人没有工作，没有食物，没有希望——他们是穷苦人，起义一触即发。法国人民还记得1789年的法国大革命。当时，民众在巴黎街头筑起街垒，死去的人数以千计。这样的时刻又要到来了吗? 这是冉阿让的故事。他坐了19年的牢，终于恢复了自由身。可是，他怎么生活，到哪里去找工作呢?像他这样一个人，还有什么希望呢?这也是沙威的故事，他是一个督察，一个残忍的人，一个冷酷的人。他的人生只有一个目标——把冉阿让再次送进大牢。这还是芳汀的故事，芳汀和她的女儿珂赛特。她们的故事是怎样改变了冉阿让的一生?这也是马吕斯的故事。他是巴黎的一名学生，做好了为起义而牺牲的准备——或是为爱情而死。最后，还有伽弗洛什——一个在巴黎街头流浪的孩子，他没有家，没有亲人，没有鞋穿……可他的脸上总是挂着笑容，心中总是有歌儿在欢唱。
不过，我们要先从冉阿让讲起……
France in the 1830s. The rich ride in carriages, and eat from gold plates. The poor have no work, no food, no hope – they are Les Misérables, and rebellion is in the air. France remembers the French Revolution in 1789, when the people built barricades in the streets of Paris, and the dead were counted in thousands. Is that time coming again?
This is the story of Jean Valjean. A prisoner for nineteen years, now at last he is a free man. But how can he live, where can he find work? What hope is there for a man like him? It is also the story of Javert, a police inspector, a cruel man, a hard man. He wants one thing in life – to send Valjean back to prison. And it is Fantine’s story too, Fantine and her daughter Cosette. How does their story change Valjean’s life? And it is also Marius’s story. He is a student in Paris, ready to die for the rebellion – or for love. And last, there is Gavroche – a boy of the Paris streets, with no home, no family, no shoes... But a boy with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.
But we begin with Jean Valjean...
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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我们在前面几页提过一封信，在那信上所载日期过后不久的一个时期里，他又做了一件事，这一件事，在全城的人的心目中，是比上次他在那强人出没的山中旅行，更加来得冒失。

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在迪涅附近的一个乡村里住着一个与世隔绝的人。那人曾经当过……让我们立即说出他那不中听的名称：国民公会①代表。他姓G．。

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①国民公会成立于一七九二年九月二十一日，是由人民大众选举产生的。会议宣布法兰西共和国的成立，判处国王路易十六和王后玛丽·安东尼特死刑。

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在迪涅那种小天地里，大家一谈到国民公会的那位G．代表，便有谈虎色变之感。一个国民公会代表，那还了得！那种东西是大家在以“你”和“公民”①相称的年代里存在过的。那个人就差不多是魔怪。他虽然没有投票判处国王死刑，但是已相去不远。那是个类似弑君的人。他是横暴骇人的。正统的王爷们回国②后，怎么会没有人把他告到特别法庭里去呢？不砍掉他的脑袋，也未尝不可，我们应当宽大，对的；但是好好地来他一个终身放逐，总是应当的吧？真是怪事！诸如此类的话。他并且和那些人一样，是个无神论者棗这些全是鹅群诋毁雄鹰的妄谈。

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①革命期间，人民语言中称“你”不称“您”。称“某某公民”而不称“某某先生”。

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②一八一四年，拿破仑帝国被颠覆，王室复辟，路易十六之弟路易十八回国称王。

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G．究竟是不是雄鹰呢？如果我们从他那孤独生活中所特有的蛮性上着眼，他确是。由于他没有投票赞成处决国王，所以屡次的放逐令上都没有他的名字，他也就能留在法国。

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他的住处离城有三刻钟的路程，远离一切村落，远离一切道路，不知是在哪个荒山野谷、人迹不到的角落里。据说他在那里有一块地、一个土洞，一个窝巢。没有邻居，甚至没有过路的人。那条通到他那里去的小路，自从他住在那山谷里以后，也就消失在荒草中了。大家提起他那住处，就好象谈到刽子手的家。

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可是主教不能忘怀，他不时朝着这位老代表的住处，有一丛树木标志着的山谷，远远望去，他还说：“那儿有个孤独的灵魂。”

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在他思想深处，他还要说：“我迟早得去看他一遭。”

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但是，老实说，那个念头在起初虽然显得自然，经过一番思考之后，他却又好象觉得它奇怪，觉得这是做不到的，几乎是不能容忍的。因为实际上他也具有一般人的看法，那位国民公会代表使他莫名其妙地产生一种近似仇恨的恶感，也就是“格格不入”这四个字最能表达的那种恶感。

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可是羔羊的癣疥应当使牧人却步吗？不应当。况且那又是怎样的一头羔羊！

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那位慈祥的主教为之犹豫不决。有时，他朝那方向走去，随即又转回来。

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一天，有个在那窑洞里伺候那位G．代表的少年牧人来到城里找医生，说那老贼已经病到垂危，他得了瘫痪症，过不了夜。这话在城里传开了，许多人说：“谢天谢地。”

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主教立即拿起他的拐杖，披上他的外衣（因为，正如我们说过的，他的道袍太旧了，也因为将有晚风），一径走了。

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当他走到那无人齿及的地方，太阳正往西沉，几乎到了地平线。他的心怦怦跳动，他知道距那兽穴已经不远。他跨过一条沟，越过一道篱，打开栅门，走进一个荒芜的菜圃，相当大胆地赶上几步，到了那荒地的尽头，一大丛荆棘的后面，他发现了那窝巢。

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那是一所极其低陋狭窄而整洁的木屋，前面墙上钉着一列葡萄架。

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门前，一个白发老人坐在一张有小轮子的旧椅子（农民的围椅）里，对着太阳微笑。

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在那坐着的老人身旁，立着个少年，就是那牧童。他正递一罐牛奶给那老人。

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主教正张望，那老人提高嗓子说：

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“谢谢，我不再需要什么了。”

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同时，他把笑脸从太阳移向那孩子。

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主教往前走。那坐着的老人，听见他的脚步声转过头来，如闻空谷足音，脸上露出极端惊讶的颜色。

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“自从我住到这里以来，”他说，“这还是第一次有人上我的门。先生，您是谁？”

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主教回答：

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“我叫卞福汝·米里哀。”

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“卞福汝·米里哀！我听人说过这名字。老乡们称为卞福汝主教的，难道就是您吗？”

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“就是我。”

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那老人面露微笑，接着说：

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“那么，您是我的主教了？”

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“有点儿象。”

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“请进，先生。”

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那位国民公会代表把手伸给主教，但是主教没有和他握手，只说道：

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“我很高兴上了人家的当。看您的样子，您一点也没有病。”

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“先生，”那老人回答，“我会好的。”

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他停了一会，又说：

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“我过不了三个钟头，就要死了。”

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随后他又说：

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“我稍稍懂一点医道，我知道临终的情形是怎样的。昨天我还只是脚冷；今天，冷到膝头了；现在我觉得冷齐了腰，等到冷到心头，我就停摆了。夕阳无限好，不是吗？我叫人把我推到外面来，为的是要对这一切景物，作最后一次展望。您可以和我谈话，一点也不会累我的。您赶来看一个快死的人，这是好的。这种时刻，能有一两个人在场，确是难得。妄想人人都有，我希望能拖到黎明。但是我知道，我只有不到三个钟头的时间了。到那时，天已经黑了。其实，有什么关系！死是一件简单的事。并不一定要在早晨。就这样吧。我将披星戴月而去。”

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老人转向那牧童说：

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“你，你去睡吧。你昨晚已经守了一夜。你累了。”

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那孩子回到木屋里去了。

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老人用眼睛送着他，仿佛对自己说：

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“他入睡，我长眠。同是梦中人，正好相依相伴。”

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主教似乎会受到感动，其实不然。他不认为这样死去的人可以悟到上帝。让我们彻底谈清楚，因为宽大的胸怀中所含的细微的矛盾也一样是应当指出来的。平时，遇到这种事，如果有人称他为“主教大人”，他认为不值一笑，可是现在没有人称他为“我的主教”，却又觉得有些唐突，并且几乎想反过来称这位老人为“公民”了。他在反感中突然起了一种想对人亲切的心情，那种心情在医生和神甫中是常见的，在他说来却是绝无仅有的。无论如何，这个人，这个国民公会代表，这位人民喉舌，总当过一时的人中怪杰，主教觉得自己的心情忽然严峻起来，这在他一生中也许还是第一次。

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那位国民公会代表却用一种谦虚诚挚的态度觑着他，从这里我们可以看出其中含有那种行将物化的人的卑怯神情。

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在主教方面，他平素虽然约束自己，不起窥测旁人隐情的心思，因为在他看来，蓄意窥测旁人隐情，即类似对人存心侵犯，可是对这位国民公会代表，却不能不细心研究；这种不是由同情心出发的动机，如果去对待另一个人，他也许会受到自己良心的责备。但是一个国民公会代表，在他的思想上多少有些法外人的意味，甚至连慈悲的法律也是不予保护的。G．，这位八十岁的魁梧老叟，态度镇定，躯干几乎挺直，声音宏亮，足以使生理学家惊叹折服。革命时期有过许多那样的人，都和那时代相称。从这个老人身上，我们可以想见那种经历过千锤百炼的人。离死已经那样近了，他还完全保有健康的状态。他那明炯的目光、坚定的语气、两肩强健的动作，都足以使死神望而生畏。伊斯兰教中的接引天使阿兹拉伊尔①也会望而却步，以为走错了门呢。G．的样子好象即将死去，那只是因为他自己愿意那样的缘故罢了。他在临终时却仍能自主，只是两条腿僵了，他只是在那一部分被幽魂扼制住了。两只脚死了，也冷了，头脑却还活着，还保持着生命的全部活力，并且似乎还处在精神焕发的时期。G．在这一严重的时刻，正和东方神话中的那个国王相似，上半是肉身，下半是石体。

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①阿兹拉伊尔（AzeBral），伊斯兰教四大天使之一，专司死亡事宜，人死时由其取命。

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他旁边有块石头。主教便在那上面坐下。他们突然开始对话。

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“我祝贺您，”他用谴责的语气说，“您总算没有投票赞成判处国王死刑。”

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国民公会代表好象没有注意到“总算”那两个字所含的尖刻意味。他开始回答，脸上的笑容全消灭了：

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“不要祝贺得太甚了，先生。我曾投票表决过暴君的末日。”

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那种刚强的语气是针对着严肃的口吻而发的。

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“您这话怎讲？”

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“我的意思是说，人类有一个暴君，那就是蒙昧。我表决了这个暴君的末日。王权就是从那暴君产生的，王权是一种伪造的权力，只有知识才是真正的权力。人类只应受知识的统治。”

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“那么，良心呢？”主教接着说。

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“那是同一回事。良心，是存在于我们心中与生俱有的那么一点知识。”

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那种论调对卞福汝主教是非常新奇的，他听了，不免有些诧异。

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国民公会代表继续说：

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“关于路易十六的事，我没有赞同。我不认为我有处死一个人的权利；但是我觉得我有消灭那种恶势力的义务。我表决了那暴君的末日，这就是说，替妇女消除了卖身制度，替男子消除了奴役制度，替幼童消除了不幸生活。我在投票赞成共和制度时也就赞助了那一切。我赞助了博爱、协和、曙光！我出力打破了邪说和谬见。邪说和谬见的崩溃造成了光明。我们这些人推翻了旧世界，旧世界就好象一个苦难的瓶，一旦翻倒在人类的头上，就成了一把欢乐的壶。”

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“光怪陆离的欢乐。”主教说。

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“您不妨说多灾多难的欢乐，如今，目从那次倒霉的所谓一八一四年的倒退以后，也就可以说是昙花一现的欢乐了。可惜！那次的事业是不全面的，我承认；我们在实际事物中摧毁了旧的制度，在思想领域中却没能把它完全铲除掉。消灭恶习是不够的，还必须转移风气。风车已经不存在了，风却还存在。”

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“您做了摧毁工作。摧毁可能是有好处的。可是对夹有怒气的摧毁行为，我就不敢恭维。”

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“正义是有愤怒的，主教先生，并且正义的愤怒是一种进步的因素。没关系，无论世人怎样说，法兰西革命是自从基督出世以来人类向前走得最得力的一步。不全面，当然是的，但是多么卓绝。它揭穿了社会上的一切黑幕。它涤荡了人们的习气，它起了安定、镇静、开化的作用，它曾使文化的洪流广被世界。它是仁慈的。法兰西革命是人类无上的光荣。”

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主教不禁嗫嚅：

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“是吗？九三①！”

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①一七九三年的简称，那是革命进入高潮、处死国王路易十六的一年。

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国民公会代表直从他的椅子上竖立起来，容貌严峻，几乎是悲壮的，尽他瞑目以前的周身气力，大声喊着说：

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“呀！对！九三！这个字我等了许久了。满天乌云密布了一千五百年。过了十五个世纪之后，乌云散了，而您却要加罪于雷霆。”

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那位主教，嘴里虽未必肯承认，却感到心里有什么东西被他击中了。不过他仍然不动声色。他回答：

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“法官说话为法律，神甫说话为慈悲，慈悲也不过是一种比较高级的法律而已。雷霆的一击总不应搞错目标吧。”

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他又聚精会神觑着那国民公会代表，加上一句：

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“路易十七①呢？”

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国民公会代表伸出手来，把住主教的胳膊：

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“路易十七！哈。您在替谁流泪？替那无辜的孩子吗？那么，好吧。我愿和您同声一哭。替那年幼的王子吗？我却还得考虑考虑。在我看来，路易十五的孙子②是个无辜的孩子，他唯一的罪名是做了路易十五的孙子，以致殉难于大庙；卡图什③的兄弟也是一个无辜的孩子，他唯一的罪名是做了卡图什的兄弟，以致被人捆住胸脯，吊在格雷沃广场，直到气绝，那孩子难道就死得不惨？”

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①路易十七是路易十六的儿子，十岁上（1795）死在狱中。

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②指路易十七。

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③卡图什（Cartouche，1693?721），人民武装起义领袖，一七二一年被捕，被处死刑。

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“先生，”主教说，“我不喜欢把这两个名字联在一起。”

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“卡图什吗？路易十五吗？您究竟替这两个中的哪一个叫屈呢？”

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一时相对无言。主教几乎后悔多此一行，但是他觉得自己隐隐地、异样地被他动摇了。

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国民公会代表又说：

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“咳！主教先生，您不爱真理的辛辣味儿。从前基督却不象您这样。他拿条拐杖，清除了圣殿。他那条电光四射的鞭子简直是真理的一个无所顾忌的代言人。当他喊道‘让小孩子到我这里来！’①时，他对于那些孩子，并没有厚此薄彼的意思。他对巴拉巴②的长子和希律③的储君能同眼看待而无动于衷。先生，天真本身就是王冕。天真不必有所作为也一样是高尚的。它无论是穿着破衣烂衫或贵为公子王孙，总是同样尊贵的。”

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①“让小孩子到我这里来”，这是耶稣对那些不许孩子听道的门徒说的话。原文是拉丁文Siniteparvulos（见《圣经·马太福音》第十九章）

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②巴拉巴（Barabbas），和耶稣同时判罪的罪犯。

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③希律（Hérode），纪元前犹太国王。

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“那是真话。”主教轻轻地说。

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“我要坚持下去，”国民公会代表G．继续说，“您对我提到过路易十七。让我们在这上面取得一致的看法。我们是不是为一切在上层和在下层的无辜受害者、殉难者、孩子们同声一哭呢？我会和您一道哭的。不过，我已对您说过，我们必须追溯到九三年以前。我们的眼泪应当从九三年以前流起。我一定和您同哭王室的孩子，如果您也和我同哭平民的幼童。”

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“我为他们全体哭。”主教说。

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“同等分量吗？”G．大声说，“这天平如果倾斜，也还应当偏向平民一面吧。平民受苦的年代比较长些。”

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又是一阵沉寂。突破沉寂的仍是那国民公会代表。他抬起身子，倚在一只肘上，用他的拇指和曲着的食指捏着一点腮，正如我们在盘问和审讯时无意中作出的那种样子，他向主教提出质问，目光中充满了临终时的全部气力。那几乎是一阵爆炸。

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“是呀，先生，平民受苦的日子够长了。不但如此，您走来找我，问这问那，和我谈到路易十七，目的何在？我并不认识您呀。自从我住在这地方，孤零零的我在这围墙里过活，两只脚从不出门，除了那个帮我的小厮以外谁也不见面。的确，我的耳朵也偶尔刮到过您的名字，我还应当说，您的名气并不太坏，但是那并不说明什么问题，聪明人自有层出不穷的办法来欺哄一个忠厚老实的平民。说也奇怪，我刚才没有听到您车子的声音，也许您把它留在岔路口那面的树丛后面了吧。我并不认识您，您听见了吧。您刚才说您是主教，但是这话一点也不能对我说明您的人格究竟怎样。我只得重复我的问题。您是谁？您是一个主教，那就是说一个教门里的王爷，那些装了金，穿着铠甲，吃利息，坐享大宗教款的人中的一个——迪涅的主教，一万五千法郎的正式年俸，一万法郎的特别费，合计二万五千法郎——，有厨子，有随从，有佳肴美酒，星期五吃火鸡，仆役在前，仆役在后，高视阔步，坐华贵的轿式马车，住的是高楼大厦，捧着跣足徒步的耶稣基督做幌子，高车驷马，招摇过市，主教便是这一类人中的一个。您是一位高级教主，年俸、宫室、骏马、侍从、筵席、人生的享乐，应有尽有，您和那些人一样，也有这些东西，您也和他们一样，享乐受用，很好，不过事情已够明显了，但也可能还不够明显；您来到此地，也许发了宏愿，想用圣教来开导我，但是您并没有教我认清您自身的真正品质。我究竟是在和什么人谈话？您是谁？”

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主教低下头，回答：“我是一条蛆。”①

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“好一条坐轿车的蛆！”国民公会代表咬着牙说。

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这一下，轮到国民公会代表逞强，主教低声下气了。

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主教和颜悦色，接着说：

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“先生，就算是吧。但是请您替我解释解释：我那辆停在树丛后面不远的轿车，我的筵席和我在星期五吃的火鸡，我的二万五千法郎的年俸，我的宫室和我的侍从，那些东西究竟怎样才能证明慈悲不是一种美德，宽厚不是一种为人应尽之道，九三年不是伤天害理的呢？”

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国民公会代表把一只手举上额头，好象要拨开一阵云雾。

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“在回答您的话以前，”他说，“我要请您原谅。我刚才失礼了，先生。您是在我家里，您是我的客人。我应当以礼相待。您讨论到我的思想，我只应当批判您的论点就可以了。您的富贵和您的享乐，在辩论当中，我固然可以用来作为反击您的利器，但究竟有伤忠厚，不如不用。我一定不再提那些事了。”

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“我对您很感谢。”主教说。

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G．接着说：

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“让我们回到您刚才向我要求解释的方面去吧。我们刚才谈到什么地方了？您刚才说的是……您说九三年伤天害理吗？”

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“伤天害理，是的，”主教说，“您对马拉②朝着断头台鼓掌有怎样一种看法？”

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①这一句原文为拉丁文“Vermissum”。

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②马拉（Marat，1743?793），法国政论家，雅各宾派领袖之一，罗伯斯庇尔的忠实战友，群众称他为“人民之友”。

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“您对博须埃①在残害新教徒时高唱圣诗，又是怎样想的呢？”

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那种回答是坚劲的，直指目标，锐如利剑。主教为之一惊，他绝想不出一句回驳的话，但是那样提到博须埃，使他感到大不痛快。极高明的人也有他们的偶像，有时还会由于别人不尊重逻辑而隐痛在心。

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国民公会代表开始喘气了，他本来已经气力不济，加以临终时呼吸阻塞，说话的声音便成了若断若续的了，可是他的眼睛表现出他的神志还是完全清醒的。

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他继续说：

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“让我们再胡乱谈几句，我很乐意。那次的革命，总的说来，是获得了人类的广泛赞扬的，只可惜九三年成了一种口实。您认为那是伤天害理的一年，但就整个专制政体来说呢，先生？卡里埃②是个匪徒；但是您又怎样称呼蒙特维尔③呢？富基埃－泰维尔④是个无赖；但是您对拉莫瓦尼翁－巴维尔⑤有什么见解呢？马亚尔⑥罪大恶极，但请问索尔－达瓦纳⑦呢，杜善伯伯⑧横蛮凶狠，但对勒泰利埃神甫⑨，您又加上怎样的评语呢？茹尔丹屠夫⑩是个魔怪，但是还比不上卢夫瓦⑾侯爷。先生呀，先生，我为大公主和王后玛丽·安东尼特叫屈，但是我也为那个信仰新教的穷妇人叫屈，那穷妇人在一六八五年大路易当国的时候，先生呀，正在给她孩子喂奶，却被人家捆在一个木桩上，上身一丝不挂，孩子被放在一旁；她乳中充满乳汁，心中充满怆痛；那孩子，饥饿不堪，脸色惨白，瞧着母亲的乳，有气无力地哭个不停；刽子手却对那做母亲和乳娘的妇人说：‘改邪归正！’要她在她孩子的死亡和她信心的死亡中任择一种。教一个做母亲的人受那种眼睁睁的生离死别的苦痛，您觉得有什么可说的吗？先生，请记住这一点，法国革命自有它的理论根据。它的愤怒在未来的岁月中会被人谅解的。它的成果便是一个改进了的世界。从它的极猛烈的鞭挞中产生出一种对人类的爱抚。我得少说话，我不再开口了，我的理由太充足。况且我快断气了。”

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①博须埃（Bossuet，1627?704），法国天主教的护卫者，是最有声望的主教之一。

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②卡里埃（Carrier，1756?794），国民公会代表，一七九四年上断头台。

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③蒙特维尔（Montrevel），十七世纪末法国朗格多克地区新教徒的迫害者。

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④富基埃－泰维尔（ForguierCTinville），法国十八世纪末革命法庭的起诉人，恐怖时期尤为有名，后被处死。

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⑤拉莫瓦尼翁－巴维尔（LamoignonCBaville，1648?724），法国朗格多克地区总督，一六八五年无情镇压新教徒。

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⑥马亚尔（StanislasMaillard），以执行一七九二年九月的大屠杀而闻名于世。

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⑦索尔－达瓦纳（SaulxCTavannes），达瓦纳的贵族，一五七二年巴托罗缪屠杀案的唆使者之一。

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⑧杜善伯伯（lepèreDuchène），原是笑剧中一个普通人的形象，后来成了平民的通称。

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⑨勒泰利埃神甫（lepèreLetellier，1643?719），耶稣会教士，路易十四的忏悔神甫，曾使路易十四毁坏王家港。

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⑩马蒂厄·儒弗（MathieuJouve，1749?794），一七九一年法国阿维尼翁大屠杀的组织者，后获得屠夫茹尔丹的称号。

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⑾卢夫瓦（Louvois，1641?691），路易十四的军事大臣，曾劫掠巴拉丁那（今西德法尔茨）。

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随后这位国民公会代表的眼睛不再望着主教，他只用这样的几句话来结束他的思想：

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“是呀，进步的暴力便叫做革命。暴力过去以后，人们就认识到这一点：人类受到了呵斥，但是前进了。

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国民公会代表未尝不知道他刚才已把主教心中的壁垒接二连三地夺过来了，可是还留下一处，那一处是卞福汝主教防卫力量的最后源泉，卞福汝主教说了这样一句话，几乎把舌战开始时的激烈态度又全流露出来了：

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“进步应当信仰上帝。善不能由背弃宗教的人来体现，无神论者是人类的恶劣的带路人。”

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那个年迈的人民代表没有回答。他发了一阵抖，望着天，眼睛里慢慢泌出一眶眼泪，眶满以后，那眼泪便沿着他青灰的面颊流了下来，他低微地对自己说，几乎语不成声，目光迷失在穹苍里：

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“呵你！呵理想的境界！惟有你是存在的！”

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主教受到一种无可言喻的感动。

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一阵沉寂过后，那老人翘起一个指头，指着天说：

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“无极是存在的。它就在那里。如果无极之中没有我，我就是它的止境；它也不成其为无极了；换句话说，它就是不存在的了。因此它必然有一个我。无极中的这个我，便是上帝。”

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那垂死的人说了最后几句话，声音爽朗，还带着灵魂离开肉体时那种至乐的颤动，好象他望见了一个什么人似的。语声歇了过后，他的眼睛也合上了。一时的兴奋已使他精力涸竭。他剩下的几个钟头，显然已在顷刻之中耗尽了。他刚才说的那几句话已使他接近了那位生死的主宰。最紧要的时刻到了。

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主教懂得，时间紧迫，他原是以神甫身份来到此地的，他从极端的冷淡一步步地进入了极端的冲动，他望着那双闭了的眼睛，他抓住那只枯皱冰冷的手，弯下腰去向那临终的人说：

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“这个时刻是上帝的时刻了。如果我们只这样白白地聚首一场，您不觉得遗憾吗？”

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国民公会代表重又张开眼睛。眉宇间呈现出一种严肃而阴郁的神情。

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“主教先生，”他说，说得很慢，那不单是由于气力不济，还多半由于他心灵的高傲，“我在深思力学和观察当中度过了这一生。我六十岁的时候祖国号召我去管理国家事务。我服从了。当时有许多积弊，我进行了斗争；有暴政，我消除了暴政；有人权和法则，我都公布了，也进行了宣传。国土被侵犯，我保卫了国土：法兰西受到威胁，我献出我的热血。我从前并不阔气，现在也没有钱。我曾是政府领导人之一，当时在国库的地窖里堆满了现金，墙头受不住金银的压力，随时可以坍塌，以致非用支柱撑住不可，我却在枯树街吃二十二个苏一顿的饭。我帮助了受压迫的人，医治了人们的痛苦。我撕毁了祭坛上的布毯，那是真的，不过是为了裹祖国的创伤。我始终维护人类走向光明的步伐，有时也反抗过那种无情的进步。有机会，我也保护过我自己的对手，就是说，你们这些人。在佛兰德的比特罕地方，正在墨洛温王朝①夏宫的旧址上，有一座乌尔班派的寺院，就是波里尔的圣克雷修道院，那是我在一七九三年救出来的。我尽过我力所能及的职责，我行过我所能行的善事。此后我却被人驱逐，搜捕，通缉，迫害，诬蔑，讥诮，侮辱，诅骂，剥夺了公民权。多年以来，我白发苍苍，只觉得有许多人自以为有权轻视我，那些愚昧可怜的群众认为我面目可憎。我并不恨人，却乐于避开别人的恨。现在，我八十六岁了，快死了。您还来问我什么呢？”

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“我来为您祝福。”主教说。

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①墨洛温（Mérovée），法国第一个王朝，从五世纪中叶到八世纪中叶。

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他跪了下来。

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等到主教抬起头来，那个国民公会代表已经神色森严，气绝了。

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主教回到家中，深深沉浸在一种无可言喻的思绪里。他整整祈祷了一夜。第二天，几个胆大好奇的人，想方设法，要引他谈论那个G．代表，他却只指指天。从此，他对小孩和有痛苦的人倍加仁慈亲切。

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任何言词，只要影射到“G．老贼”，他就必然会陷入一种异样不安的状态中。谁也不能说，那样一颗心在他自己的心前的昭示，那伟大的良心在他的意识上所起的反应，对他日趋完善的精神会毫无影响。

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那次的“乡村访问”当然要替本地的那些小集团提供饶舌的机会：

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“那种死人的病榻前也能成为主教涉足的地方吗？明明没有什么感化可以指望。那些革命党人全是屡背圣教的。那，又何必到那里去呢？那里有什么可看的呢？真是好奇，魔鬼接收灵魂，他也要去看看。”

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一天，有个阔寡妇，也就是那些自作聪明的冒失鬼中的一个，问了他这样一句俏皮话：“我的主教，有人要打听，大人您在什么时候能得到一顶红帽子①。”

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“呵！呵！多么高贵的颜色，”主教回答，“幸而鄙视红帽子的人也还崇拜红法冠呢。”

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①戴红帽子，即参加革命的意思。

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At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bandits. In the country near D---- a man lived quite alone. This man, we will state at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G----

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Member of the Convention, G---- was mentioned with a sort of horror in the little world of D---- A member of the Convention--can you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other thou, and when they said "citizen." This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before a provost’s court, on the return of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you please; clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for life. An example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture.

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Was G---- a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by the element of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France.

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He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman.

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Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the former member of the Convention, and he said, "There is a soul yonder which is lonely."

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And he added, deep in his own mind, "I owe him a visit."

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But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appeared to him after a moment’s reflection, as strange, impossible, and almost repulsive. For, at bottom, he shared the general impression, and the old member of the Convention inspired him, without his being clearly conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment which borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement.

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Still, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No. But what a sheep!

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The good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction; then he returned.

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Finally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young shepherd, who served the member of the Convention in his hovel, had come in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying, that paralysis was gaining on him, and that he would not live over night.--"Thank God!" some added.

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The Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too threadbare cassock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening breeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out.

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The sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart, he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch, leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind lofty brambles, he caught sight of the cavern.

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It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against the outside.

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Near the door, in an old wheel-chair, the arm-chair of the peasants, there was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun.

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Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering the old man a jar of milk.

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While the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke: "Thank you," he said, "I need nothing." And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the child.

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The Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise which a man can still feel after a long life.

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"This is the first time since I have been here," said he, "that any one has entered here. Who are you, sir?"

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The Bishop answered:--

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"My name is Bienvenu Myriel."

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"Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monseigneur Welcome?"

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"I am." The old man resumed with a half-smile. "In that case, you are my bishop?"

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"Something of that sort." "Enter, sir."

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The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark:--

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"I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not seem to me to be ill."

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"Monsieur," replied the old man, "I am going to recover."

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He paused, and then said:--

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"I shall die three hours hence."

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Then he continued:--

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"I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended to my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me; it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one’s caprices; I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight."

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The old man turned to the shepherd lad:--

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"Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired."

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The child entered the hut.

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The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to himself:--

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"I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors."

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The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not think he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the whole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest: he, who on occasion, was so fond of laughing at "His Grace," was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost tempted to retort "citizen." He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth; for the first time in his life, probably, the Bishop felt in a mood to be severe.

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Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a modest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust.

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The Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained his curiosity, which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not refrain from examining the member of the Convention with an attention which, as it did not have its course in sympathy, would have served his conscience as a matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A member of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being outside the pale of the law, even of the law of charity. G----, calm, his body almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogenarians who form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The Revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the Mohammedan angel of the sepulchre, would have turned back, and thought that he had mistaken the door. G---- seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless. It was there that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and dead, but his head survived with all the power of life, and seemed full of light. G----, at this solemn moment, resembled the king in that tale of the Orient who was flesh above and marble below.

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There was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exordium was abrupt.

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"I congratulate you," said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand. "You did not vote for the death of the king, after all."

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The old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter meaning underlying the words "after all." He replied. The smile had quite disappeared from his face.

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"Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the tyrant."

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It was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity.

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"What do you mean to say?" resumed the Bishop.

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"I mean to say that man has a tyrant,--ignorance. I voted for the death of that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority falsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man should be governed only by science."

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"And conscience," added the Bishop.

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"It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which we have within us."

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Monseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language, which was very new to him.

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The member of the Convention resumed:--

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"So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said `no.’ I did not think that I had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate evil. I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child. In voting for the Republic, I voted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors. The crumbling away of prejudices and errors causes light. We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vase of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy."

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"Mixed joy," said the Bishop.

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"You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas! The work was incomplete, I admit: we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer; the wind is still there."

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"You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath."

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"Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of progress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ. Incomplete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown social quantities; it softened spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth. It was a good thing. The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity."

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The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring:--

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"Yes? ’93!"

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The member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with an almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of exclamation:--

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"Ah, there you go; ’93! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been forming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen hundred years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial."

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The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a good face on the matter. He replied:--

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"The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no error." And he added, regarding the member of the Convention steadily the while, "Louis XVII.?"

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The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop’s arm.

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"Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent child? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Greve, until death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of Cartouche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV."

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"Monsieur," said the Bishop, "I like not this conjunction of names."

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"Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?"

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A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken.

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The conventionary resumed:--

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"Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, `Sinite parvulos,’ he made no distinction between the little children. It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys."

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"That is true," said the Bishop in a low voice.

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"I persist," continued the conventionary G---- "You have mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than ’93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people."

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"I weep for all," said the Bishop.

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"Equally!" exclaimed conventionary G----; "and if the balance must incline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been suffering longer."

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Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges, and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death agony. It was almost an explosion.

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"Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And hold! that is not all, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about Louis XVII.? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit; but that signifies nothing: clever men have so many ways of imposing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fork of the roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you. You have told me that you are the Bishop; but that affords me no information as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you? You are a bishop; that is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and revenues, who have vast prebends,--the bishopric of D---- fifteen thousand francs settled income, ten thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five thousand francs,-- who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot! You are a prelate,--revenues, palace, horses, servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but this says either too much or too little; this does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak? Who are you?"

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The Bishop hung his head and replied, "Vermis sum--I am a worm."

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"A worm of the earth in a carriage?" growled the conventionary.

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It was the conventionary’s turn to be arrogant, and the Bishop’s to be humble.

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The Bishop resumed mildly:--

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"So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces off behind the trees yonder, how my good table and the moor-hens which I eat on Friday, how my twenty-five thousand francs income, how my palace and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty, and that ’93 was not inexorable.

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The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep away a cloud.

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"Before replying to you," he said, "I beseech you to pardon me. I have just committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are my guest, I owe you courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in the debate; but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future."

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"I thank you," said the Bishop.

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G---- resumed.

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"Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? What were you saying to me? That ’93 was Inexorable?" "Inexorable; yes," said the Bishop. "What think you of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine?"

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"What think you of Bossuet chanting the Te Deum over the dragonnades?" The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the directness of a point of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply occurred to him; but he was offended by this mode of alluding to Bossuet. The best of minds will have their fetiches, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of logic.

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The conventionary began to pant; the asthma of the agony which is mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice; still, there was a perfect lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on:-- "Let me say a few words more in this and that direction; I am willing. Apart from the Revolution, which, taken as a whole, is an immense human affirmation, ’93 is, alas! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir; but what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name do you give to Montrevel? Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal; but what is your opinion as to Lamoignon-Baville? Maillard is terrible; but Saulx-Tavannes, if you please? Duchene senior is ferocious; but what epithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-Tete is a monster; but not so great a one as M. the Marquis de Louvois. Sir, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen; but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman, who, in 1685, under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nursing infant, was bound, naked to the waist, to a stake, and the child kept at a distance; her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish; the little one, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried and agonized; the executioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse, `Abjure!’ giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you to that torture of Tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind sir: the French Revolution had its reasons for existence; its wrath will be absolved by the future; its result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows there comes forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the advantage; moreover, I am dying."

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And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary concluded his thoughts in these tranquil words:--

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"Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over, this fact is recognized,--that the human race has been treated harshly, but that it has progressed."

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The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remained, however, and from this intrenchment, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu’s resistance, came forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the beginning:--

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"Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor. He who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race."

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The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a tear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his livid cheek, and he said, almost in a stammer, quite low, and to himself, while his eyes were plunged in the depths:--

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"O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest!"

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The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock.

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After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said:--

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"The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would be without limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it would not exist. There is, then, an _I_. That _I_ of the infinite is God."

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The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice, and with the shiver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some one. When he had spoken, his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him. That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in death. The supreme moment was approaching.

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The Bishop understood this; time pressed; it was as a priest that he had come: from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion; he gazed at those closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and ice-cold hand in his, and bent over the dying man.

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"This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be regrettable if we had met in vain?"

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The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was imprinted on his countenance.

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"Bishop," said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength, "I have passed my life in meditation, study, and contemplation. I was sixty years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them; tyrannies existed, I destroyed them; rights and principles existed, I proclaimed and confessed them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it; France was menaced, I offered my breast. I was not rich; I am poor. I have been one of the masters of the state; the vaults of the treasury were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls, which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver; I dined in Dead Tree Street, at twenty-two sous. I have succored the oppressed, I have comforted the suffering. I tore the cloth from the altar, it is true; but it was to bind up the wounds of my country. I have always upheld the march forward of the human race, forward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of your profession. And there is at Peteghem, in Flanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according to my powers, and all the good that I was able. After which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, jeered at, scorned, cursed, proscribed. For many years past, I with my white hair have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise me; to the poor ignorant masses I present the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolation of hatred, without hating any one myself. Now I am eighty-six years old; I am on the point of death. What is it that you have come to ask of me?"

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"Your blessing," said the Bishop.

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And he knelt down.

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When the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary had become august. He had just expired.

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The Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of the Convention G----; he contented himself with pointing heavenward.

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From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards all children and sufferers.

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Any allusion to "that old wretch of a G----" caused him to fall into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did not count for something in his approach to perfection.

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This "pastoral visit" naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of comment in all the little local coteries.

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"Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a bishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those revolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be seen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried off by the devil."

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One day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself spiritual, addressed this sally to him, "Monseigneur, people are inquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red cap!"--"Oh! oh! that’s a coarse color," replied the Bishop. "It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat."

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