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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris

Book 7 Chapter 5 The Two Men Clothed In Black

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 维克多-雨果] 阅读：[34146]
Book 7 Chapter 5 The Two Men Clothed In Black
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进来的人身穿黑色长袍，神情阴郁。我们的朋友若望（你一定知道他是采取便于随意倾听和观看一切的姿势躲在他那个角落里的）在来人身上第一眼注意到的便是那服装与面容异乎寻常的黯淡，同时那副脸孔上还布满几分温存，一种猫或法官的温存，一种柔和的温存。他头发已相当花白，脸上皱纹很多，大约六十来岁，目光炯炯，眉毛雪白，嘴唇下垂，两只手很大。当若望看出这不过是一个医生或法官一流人物时（因为那人的鼻子离嘴太远，那是愚蠢的标志），他便缩回到他躲着的洞里去了，而且为了要在那不舒服的姿势里久久陪着这么个伙伴而感到非常失望。

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副主教并没有起身迎接来人，他做了个手势叫他坐在靠近房门的一张凳子上，好象依旧在沉思似的好一会没有出声，然后才用寒暄的口气说道：“日安，雅克阁下。”

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“向你致敬，阁驾！”那个黑衣人回答道。

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在前一位所说的“雅克阁下”和后一位所说的那绝妙的“阁驾”之间，存在着如同“大人”和“先生”，“主人和堵人”之间的差异一样，这显然是表示老师和学生的区别。

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“好吧，”副主教又沉默了一会（雅克阁下没有打扰他），接着说，“你成功了吗？”

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“哎，我的阁驾，”那一个悲哀地笑了笑说，“我常常吹气，灰多得出乎意料，可是没有一粒黄金。”

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堂·克洛德显出不耐烦的样子。“我问的不是这件事，沙尔莫吕阁下，我问的是你承办的巫师的案子。那个审计院的厨师，你不是管他叫马克·塞奈纳吗？他招认他的巫术罪了吗？你的拷问成功了吗？”

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“哎，没有呢。”雅克阁下回答道，他老是带着悲哀的微笑，“我们可没得到那种安慰。那家伙是一块顽石，除非在猪市上把他煮开锅，他是不会供出一个字的。只要能问出实情，我们可以不辞劳苦，他已经完全骨节脱臼了。我们给他用上了圣若望的一切药草，正如老幽默家柏拉图说的：面对着棍棒、烙铁、脚镣和拷问架，面对着皮鞭、锁链、足枷、绞索和颈枷。

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可是毫无结果，那家伙真是可怕，我们简直是白费力气。”

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“你在他家里再没有找到别的东西吗？”

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“找到了，”雅克阁下摸着他的衣袋说，“找到一张羊皮纸的文件，上面有几个我们不认识的字，连刑庭律师菲立浦·勒里耶先生也不认识。他在调查几个布鲁塞尔康代斯坦街的犹太人的案件时，还学过一点希伯来文呢。”

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雅克一面说一面在桌上摊开一张羊皮纸文件。

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“给我吧，”副主教说。他看了这个文件后又说：“纯粹是巫术，雅克阁下！”他又喊道，“‘艾芒——艾当！’这是那些女巫在参加安息日会时叫喊的话。‘通过自身，与自身同在，在自身之中！’这是把魔鬼锁到地狱去的命令。‘啊嗨，吧嗨，吗嗨！’这是药方，治疯狗咬伤的药方。雅克阁下，你是王室教廷检察官，这个文件很讨厌。”

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“我们还得拷问那家伙。这儿还有，”雅克掏着衣袋说，“我们在马克·塞奈纳家里找到的东西。”

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那是一只罐子，同堂·克洛德火炉上那些罐子差不多，“啊，”堂·克洛德说，“这是炼金罐呀。”

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“我得向你实说，”雅克阁下带着他那胆怯乖张的笑容说道，“我已经把它在火上试过，但是它不如我自己那一个好用。”

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副主教察看罐子。“这炼金罐上面刻的是什么字呀？‘呵歇！呵歇！’这是赶跳蚤的声音。那个马克·塞奈纳真笨！我想你用这只罐决不会炼出黄金来。夏天把它放在你的壁橱里倒挺好！就是这么回事。”

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“因为我们弄错哪，”王室检察官说，“我刚才上楼以前研究了一下大门，您能够肯定在大医院旁边的这扇大门上有着进入这门学科的奥秘吗？在圣母院底层的七个裸体雕像中，您能确定那个脚跟上长翅膀的就是麦丘利吗？”

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“对了，”神甫答道，“一个意大利博士奥古斯丹·尼孚是这样写的，他有一个长胡子的魔鬼教给他一切。我们下去吧，我根据上面所表现的来解释给你听。”

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“谢谢，阁驾！”沙尔莫吕一躬到地，“哎唷，我差点忘记了，你愿意我什么时候去逮捕那个小女巫呢？”

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“哪个小女巫呀？”

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“就是您知道的那个不顾官府禁令，每天到广场来跳舞的流浪姑娘呀！

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她有一只母山羊，那羊有魔鬼般的犄角，它会读会写，会象毕加特里斯一般计算数目，单凭这件事，就足够使那流浪姑娘受绞刑哪。起诉状已经预备好了，很快就能完事的。咳！我敢说那跳舞姑娘真是个美人儿，有一双最黑的黑眼睛！象一对埃及宝石！我们什么时候着手呢？”

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副主教的脸色变得异常苍白。

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“这我会告诉你的。”他用含糊不清的声音结结巴巴地回答，随后又鼓起劲说道，“还是忙你的马克·塞奈纳吧！”

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“请您别担心，”沙尔莫吕微笑着说，“我回去就会把他绑在皮床上的。

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但那个家伙是魔鬼变成的，竟把比埃拉·多尔得许都弄得疲乏了。比埃拉的手比我的还大呢，就象柏拉图说的：假若把你光着身体绑着，倒挂起来一称，净重足有一百磅。

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至于绞索，那是我们最好的绞索，得给他套上。”

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堂·克洛德仿佛又沉思起来，回头向沙尔莫吕说：“比埃拉阁下……雅克阁下……我的意思是说，还是忙你的马克·塞奈纳吧。”

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“是呀！堂·克洛德，那可怜的人，他要受难了。去赴安息日会！那是什么念头啊！一个审计院厨师，他该知道查理曼的这条法令：‘一个半狗半女人的吸血鬼，或者是一个狡猾的姑娘！’至于那个小姑娘，人们好象把她叫做斯梅拉达，我听候您的吩咐。啊，从那大门道底下经过时，您还要给我讲解教堂进口处那个浮雕的园丁是代表什么的？是不是播种人？哎，阁驾，您在想什么呀？”

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堂·克洛德深深思索起来，不再听他说话了。沙尔莫吕追随着他的视线，看见他盯着那横在窗口上的大蜘蛛网。在这当儿，一只正在昏头昏脑地寻觅三月阳光的苍蝇，飞到蜘蛛网跟前就被网住了。蛛网一振动，那只躲在蛛网中央的大蜘蛛便急忙爬过来，一下跳到苍蝇跟前，用两只前腿把它折成两半，随后便用可怕的角去敲它的脑袋。“可怜的苍蝇！”王室教廷检察官说道，并且伸出手想去救它。副主教忽然惊醒了似的，剧烈地痉挛着抓住他的胳膊。

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“雅克阁下，”他喊道，“听天由命吧！”

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检察官惊骇地转过头来，他的胳膊好象被铁钳钳住了似的，神甫的眼睛呆定、狂乱、闪亮，一直盯着苍蝇和蜘蛛那一对可怕的东西。

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“呵！是的，”神甫用一种仿佛出自肺腑的声音接着说，“这是一切的象征。它飞翔，它是快乐的，它出生不久，它寻找春天、空气和自由。啊，是呀，可是它在这个命中注定的窗口停下来，那蜘蛛就出来了，那可恶的蜘蛛啊！可怜的跳舞姑娘！可怜的命中注定的苍蝇！雅克阁下，随它去吧！这是命该如此！哎，克洛德，你就是那只蜘蛛！克洛德，你也是那只苍蝇！你飞向科学，飞向光明，飞向太阳，你只想去到自由的空气里，去到永恒真理的无边的光辉里，可是，当你迫近那开向另一个世界，开向那光明的世界，那智慧与科学的世界的灿烂的窗口时，盲目的苍蝇啊，愚蠢的学者啊，你却没想到，命运已经把薄薄的蛛网张挂在光明和你中间，你全身扑进去了，可怜的疯子啊，现在你可跌跤啦，你的脑袋粉碎了，翅膀折断了，你在命运的铁腕中挣扎！雅克阁下，雅克阁下，别去管那蜘蛛吧！”

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“我向你担保，”沙尔莫吕莫名其妙地望着他说道，“我再不去碰它了。

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但是放开我的胳膊吧，我请求你！你的手象老虎钳一样。”

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副主教根本没听见，他依旧望着窗口说：“啊，笨东西！要是你能用翅膀把这可恶的蛛网撞破，你以为你就可以飞到阳光里去了。可是前面那扇玻璃窗，那透明的障碍物，那水晶的墙壁，它比那个把哲学家和真理分开的空间还要坚固，你怎么能够通过？啊，科学是空幻的！多少聪明人远远地飞来，却在那里碰破了额头！多少纠缠不清的问题在那永恒的窗前吵闹不休！”

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他住口了，刚才那些把他不知不觉地带到科学里去的想法，仿佛使他恢复了平静。沙尔莫吕更使他完全回到了现实里，这个检察官并且还问他：“那么，我的阁驾，您什么时候来帮助我炼出黄金呢？我老是不成功。”

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副主教辛酸地笑着摇摇头回答道：“读一读米歇尔·普塞吕斯著的《关于能力的对话以及魔鬼的活动》那本书吧。我们做的事情并不是完全无罪的呢。”

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“低声点吧，阁驾！”沙尔莫吕说，“我也这样想。可是既然一个人不过是个年俸三十个杜尔银币的王室教廷检察官，他是需要搞点炼金术的，不过咱们得低声讲。”

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这时，火炉底下发出一种类似咀嚼食物的声音，使沙尔莫吕不安的耳朵吃了一惊。

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“这是什么声音呀？”他问道。

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这是那个学生，他在躲藏的地方感到十分疲倦，十分不舒服，碰巧又找到了一块干硬的面包皮和一小块发霉的干酪，正在不顾一切地大嚼起来，把这当做消遣和早餐。因为他饿极了，便嚼得很响，每一口都嚼出声音，把检察官吓了一跳。

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“这是我的一只猫，”副主教连忙回答，“它在那下面享用一只老鼠呢。”

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这个解释使沙尔莫吕满意了。

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“真的，阁驾，”他恭敬地笑着说道，“每位大哲学家都有心爱的家畜。

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你知道塞尔维雅斯那句话吧：‘无所不在的守护精灵。’”

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这时，堂·克洛德生怕若望又弄出什么恶作剧来，便提醒他那好弟子，说他们还得一块儿去研究大门道的雕像，于是两人一同走出了小房间。这倒使那个学生十分高兴，他正发愁他的膝盖会跟下巴粘到一起去呢。

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The personage who entered wore a black gown and a gloomy mien. The first point which struck the eye of our Jehan (who, as the reader will readily surmise, had ensconced himself in his nook in such a manner as to enable him to see and hear everything at his good pleasure) was the perfect sadness of the garments and the visage of this new-corner. There was, nevertheless, some sweetness diffused over that face, but it was the sweetness of a cat or a judge, an affected, treacherous sweetness. He was very gray and wrinkled, and not far from his sixtieth year, his eyes blinked, his eyebrows were white, his lip pendulous, and his hands large. When Jehan saw that it was only this, that is to say, no doubt a physician or a magistrate, and that this man had a nose very far from his mouth, a sign of stupidity, he nestled down in his hole, in despair at being obliged to pass an indefinite time in such an uncomfortable attitude, and in such bad company.

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The archdeacon, in the meantime, had not even risen to receive this personage. He had made the latter a sign to seat himself on a stool near the door, and, after several moments of a silence which appeared to be a continuation of a preceding meditation, he said to him in a rather patronizing way, "Good day, Master Jacques."

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"Greeting, master," replied the man in black.

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There was in the two ways in which "Master Jacques" was pronounced on the one hand, and the "master" by preeminence on the other, the difference between monseigneur and monsieur, between ~domine~ and ~domne~. It was evidently the meeting of a teacher and a disciple.

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"Well!" resumed the archdeacon, after a fresh silence which Master Jacques took good care not to disturb, "how are you succeeding?"

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"Alas! master," said the other, with a sad smile, "I am still seeking the stone. Plenty of ashes. But not a spark of gold."

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Dom Claude made a gesture of impatience. "I am not talking to you of that, Master Jacques Charmolue, but of the trial of your magician. Is it not Marc Cenaine that you call him? the butler of the Court of Accounts? Does he confess his witchcraft? Have you been successful with the torture?"

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"Alas! no," replied Master Jacques, still with his sad smile; "we have not that consolation. That man is a stone. We might have him boiled in the Marché aux Pourceaux, before he would say anything. Nevertheless, we are sparing nothing for the sake of getting at the truth; he is already thoroughly dislocated, we are applying all the herbs of Saint John’s day; as saith the old comedian Plautus,--

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~’Advorsum stimulos, laminas, crucesque, compedesque, Nerros, catenas, carceres, numellas, pedicas, boias~.’

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Nothing answers; that man is terrible. I am at my wit’s end over him."

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"You have found nothing new in his house?"

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"I’ faith, yes," said Master Jacques, fumbling in his pouch; "this parchment. There are words in it which we cannot comprehend. The criminal advocate, Monsieur Philippe Lheulier, nevertheless, knows a little Hebrew, which he learned in that matter of the Jews of the Rue Kantersten, at Brussels."

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So saying, Master Jacques unrolled a parchment. "Give it here," said the archdeacon. And casting his eyes upon this writing: "Pure magic, Master Jacques!" he exclaimed. "’Emen-Hétan!’ ’Tis the cry of the vampires when they arrive at the witches’ sabbath. ~Per ipsum, et cum ipso, et in ipso~! ’Tis the command which chains the devil in hell. ~Hax, pax, max~! that refers to medicine. A formula against the bite of mad dogs. Master Jacques! you are procurator to the king in the Ecclesiastical Courts: this parchment is abominable."

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"We will put the man to the torture once more. Here again," added Master Jacques, fumbling afresh in his pouch, "is something that we have found at Marc Cenaine’s house."

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It was a vessel belonging to the same family as those which covered Dom Claude’s furnace.

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"Ah!" said the archdeacon, "a crucible for alchemy."

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"I will confess to you," continued Master Jacques, with his timid and awkward smile, "that I have tried it over the furnace, but I have succeeded no better than with my own."

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The archdeacon began an examination of the vessel. "What has he engraved on his crucible? ~Och! och~! the word which expels fleas! That Marc Cenaine is an ignoramus! I verily believe that you will never make gold with this! ’Tis good to set in your bedroom in summer and that is all!"

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"Since we are talking about errors," said the king’s procurator, "I have just been studying the figures on the portal below before ascending hither; is your reverence quite sure that the opening of the work of physics is there portrayed on the side towards the H?tel-Dieu, and that among the seven nude figures which stand at the feet of Notre-Dame, that which has wings on his heels is Mercurius?"

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"Yes," replied the priest; "’tis Augustin Nypho who writes it, that Italian doctor who had a bearded demon who acquainted him with all things. However, we will descend, and I will explain it to you with the text before us."

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"Thanks, master," said Charmolue, bowing to the earth. "By the way, I was on the point of forgetting. When doth it please you that I shall apprehend the little sorceress?"

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"What sorceress?"

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"That gypsy girl you know, who comes every day to dance on the church square, in spite of the official’s prohibition! She hath a demoniac goat with horns of the devil, which reads, which writes, which knows mathematics like Picatrix, and which would suffice to hang all Bohemia. The prosecution is all ready; ’twill soon be finished, I assure you! A pretty creature, on my soul, that dancer! The handsomest black eyes! Two Egyptian carbuncles! When shall we begin?"

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The archdeacon was excessively pale.

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"I will tell you that hereafter," he stammered, in a voice that was barely articulate; then he resumed with an effort, "Busy yourself with Marc Cenaine."

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"Be at ease," said Charmolue with a smile; "I’ll buckle him down again for you on the leather bed when I get home. But ’tis a devil of a man; he wearies even Pierrat Torterue himself, who hath hands larger than my own. As that good Plautus saith,--

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’~Nudus vinctus, centum pondo, es quando pendes per pedes~.’

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The torture of the wheel and axle! ’Tis the most effectual! He shall taste it!"

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Dom Claude seemed absorbed in gloomy abstraction. He turned to Charmolue,--

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"Master Pierrat--Master Jacques, I mean, busy yourself with Marc Cenaine."

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"Yes, yes, Dom Claude. Poor man! he will have suffered like Mummol. What an idea to go to the witches’ sabbath! a butler of the Court of Accounts, who ought to know Charlemagne’s text; ~Stryga vel masea~!--In the matter of the little girl,--Smelarda, as they call her,--I will await your orders. Ah! as we pass through the portal, you will explain to me also the meaning of the gardener painted in relief, which one sees as one enters the church. Is it not the Sower? Hé! master, of what are you thinking, pray?"

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Dom Claude, buried in his own thoughts, no longer listened to him. Charmolue, following the direction of his glance, perceived that it was fixed mechanically on the great spider’s web which draped the window. At that moment, a bewildered fly which was seeking the March sun, flung itself through the net and became entangled there. On the agitation of his web, the enormous spider made an abrupt move from his central cell, then with one bound, rushed upon the fly, which he folded together with his fore antennae, while his hideous proboscis dug into the victim’s bead. "Poor fly!" said the king’s procurator in the ecclesiastical court; and he raised his hand to save it. The archdeacon, as though roused with a start, withheld his arm with convulsive violence.

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"Master Jacques," he cried, "let fate take its course!" The procurator wheeled round in affright; it seemed to him that pincers of iron had clutched his arm. The priest’s eye was staring, wild, flaming, and remained riveted on the horrible little group of the spider and the fly.

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"Oh, yes!" continued the priest, in a voice which seemed to proceed from the depths of his being, "behold here a symbol of all. She flies, she is joyous, she is just born; she seeks the spring, the open air, liberty: oh, yes! but let her come in contact with the fatal network, and the spider issues from it, the hideous spider! Poor dancer! poor, predestined fly! Let things take their course, Master Jacques, ’tis fate! Alas! Claude, thou art the spider! Claude, thou art the fly also! Thou wert flying towards learning, light, the sun. Thou hadst no other care than to reach the open air, the full daylight of eternal truth; but in precipitating thyself towards the dazzling window which opens upon the other world,--upon the world of brightness, intelligence, and science--blind fly! senseless, learned man! thou hast not perceived that subtle spider’s web, stretched by destiny betwixt the light and thee--thou hast flung thyself headlong into it, and now thou art struggling with head broken and mangled wings between the iron antennae of fate! Master Jacques! Master Jacques! let the spider work its will!"

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"I assure you," said Charmolue, who was gazing at him without comprehending him, "that I will not touch it. But release my arm, master, for pity’s sake! You have a hand like a pair of pincers."

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The archdeacon did not hear him. "Oh, madman!" he went on, without removing his gaze from the window. "And even couldst thou have broken through that formidable web, with thy gnat’s wings, thou believest that thou couldst have reached the light? Alas! that pane of glass which is further on, that transparent obstacle, that wall of crystal, harder than brass, which separates all philosophies from the truth, how wouldst thou have overcome it? Oh, vanity of science! how many wise men come flying from afar, to dash their heads against thee! How many systems vainly fling themselves buzzing against that eternal pane!"

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He became silent. These last ideas, which had gradually led him back from himself to science, appeared to have calmed him. Jacques Charmolue recalled him wholly to a sense of reality by addressing to him this question: "Come, now, master, when will you come to aid me in making gold? I am impatient to succeed."

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The archdeacon shook his head, with a bitter smile. "Master Jacques read Michel Psellus’ ’~Dialogus de Energia et Operatione Daemonum~_.’ What we are doing is not wholly innocent."

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"Speak lower, master! I have my suspicions of it," said Jacques Charmolue. "But one must practise a bit of hermetic science when one is only procurator of the king in the ecclesiastical court, at thirty crowns tournois a year. Only speak low."

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At that moment the sound of jaws in the act of mastication, which proceeded from beneath the furnace, struck Charmolue’s uneasy ear.

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This explanation satisfied Charmolue.

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"In fact, master," he replied, with a respectful smile, "all great philosophers have their familiar animal. You know what Servius saith: ’~Nullus enim locus sine genio est~,--for there is no place that hath not its spirit.’"

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