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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris

Book 8 Chapter 2 Continuation Of The Crown Which Was Changed

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 维克多-雨果] 阅读：[34261]
Book 8 Chapter 2 Continuation Of The Crown Which Was Changed
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拉·爱斯梅拉达依旧被枪戟包围着，在大白天也要点灯的黑暗过道的梯级上上来下去地走了一会之后，被司法宫大厅的警卫们推进了一个阴惨惨的房间。这是个圆形的房间，占据着高塔的底层，这种高塔如今依旧矗立在现代建筑之上，新巴黎就是用这类建筑把旧巴黎盖没了的。这个墓穴似的地方没有窗户，除了门之外再没有别的进口，门口有一道又矮又重的铁门。亮光倒是不缺，墙上有个壁炉，燃着很旺的火，红红的火光照亮了整个地洞，使放在角落里的一根蜡烛反而显得黯淡无光。用来关闭壁炉的铁耙这时掀在一边，从那黑暗的墙上的火红的炉口，只能看见那象一排又尖又稀的黑牙齿一般的铁条，它使那壁炉看起来很象传说里口吐火焰的蛟龙。借着射出的火光，那女犯人看见房间里放满了可怕的器械，她不明白那是干什么用的。房间正中的地上放着一个皮垫褥，它上头悬着一条带钩的皮条，系在一个铜环上，有个刻在穹窿拱顶石上的怪物含着铜环。铁筷、铁钳和大铁犁在火炉里烧得通红。炉火血红色的光在整个房间里单单照着那堆可怕的东西。

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这个地狱般的房间就是所谓的拷问室。

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该诅咒的施刑人比埃拉·多尔得许懒洋洋地坐在床上，他的两名方脸的矮小助手，穿着皮围裙和麻布短裤，正在拨弄火上的铁器。

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那不幸的姑娘努力鼓起勇气，但一走进这个房间她就害怕起来。

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警卫们站在一边，宗教法庭的神甫们在另一边。一张桌子摆在屋角里，一个书记官拿着纸、笔同墨水坐在屋角上的桌子前面。雅克·沙尔莫吕走到那埃及姑娘身边，带着非常温和的笑容问道：“我亲爱的孩子，你还坚持不招认吗？”

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“对了。”她用极微弱的声音答道。

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“既然如此，”沙尔莫吕说，“我们并不愿意用厉害的刑罚拷问你，因为那会使我们难过。坐到那边床上去吧。比埃拉，给这位女士让出地方，把门关好。”

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比埃拉抱怨着站起来，“要是把门关上，”他嘀咕道，“那我的火就要灭掉啦。”

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“好呀，亲爱的，”沙尔莫吕答道，“那就让它开着吧。”

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拉·爱斯梅拉达依旧站在那里，那张使许多不幸的人吃过苦头的皮床令她害怕，她每根骨头都由于恐惧而战抖起来，她惶恐地、呆呆地站着。沙尔莫吕做了个手势，两个助手便把她拉过去坐在皮床上，他们并没有把她怎样，可是只要他们碰着她，只要那皮床挨着她，她便觉得浑身的血都往心里倒流回去。她用惊恐的眼睛把那房间环视了一遍，仿佛看见那些难看的刑具从四面八方朝她爬过来，爬到她身上，咬她，钳她，刺她，她觉得在她看见过的各种东西里面，那些刑具就象是鸟类和虫类里面的蝙蝠、蜈蚣和蜘蛛。

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“医生在哪里？”沙尔莫吕问道。

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“在这里，”她刚才还没有看见的一个穿黑袍子的人回答道。

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她战栗起来。

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“小姐，”宗教法庭检察官用爱抚的声音说，“我再问第三遍，你还坚持不招认你被控告的罪行吗？”

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这一次她只能用点头来回答，她已经没有声音了。

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“你还坚持呀？”沙尔莫吕说，“这使我很失望。但是我必须履行我的职责。”

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“王室检察官先生，”比埃拉粗鲁地问道，“我们先用哪一种刑具？”

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沙尔莫吕装出诗人苦苦推敲韵律时的怪样子，迟疑了一会。

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“先用铁靴吧。”他终于回答道。

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那不幸的姑娘觉得人和神都把她抛弃了，她的头低垂到胸前，好象一个毫无力气的笨重物件一样。

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施刑人和那个医生一齐走近她身边，同时，两个助手便在那堆丑恶的刑具中乱翻起来。

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听到那些刑具的可怕的响声，那不幸的孩子战栗得象一只通了电的死青蛙。“啊，”她喃喃地说道，声音低得听不见，“啊，我的弗比斯！”随后便又象大理石似的一动不动，一声不响了。看到这个情景，无论什么人心里都会非常难过，只有法官们的心是例外。她象是一个不幸的有罪的灵魂，在地狱红色的小门里受撒旦拷问。即将被那些钳子、轮子、滑车等等可怕的刑具折磨的，即将被施刑人和钳子抓住的，却是一个如此美丽温柔娇弱的人儿。

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人类的正义交给那苦刑的可怕的磨盘去磨的，是多么可怜的谷粒呀。

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这时，比埃拉·多尔得许的两个助手用他们粗硬的手扯脱了姑娘的鞋袜，露出了那双可爱的腿和小巧的脚。它们曾经多少次用它们的精巧和美丽在巴黎街头使人们迷惑啊。

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“可惜！”看见这么美丽的腿脚，施刑人不禁低声说道。这时假若副主教在场，一定会记起他那个苍蝇和蜘蛛的比喻吧。透过眼前一片云雾，那不幸的姑娘看到铁靴挨近了她，自己的双脚很快就给放进那铁器里去了。这时恐怖使她有了力量。“把它拿开吧！”她疯狂地喊道，同时一下子直直地站起来，“行行好吧。”

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她想冲下床走到检察官跟前跪下，可是她的双腿夹在包铁的橡木板里，使她一下子软瘫在铁靴上，比翅膀上载着铅块的蜜蜂还要疲弱无力。

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沙尔莫吕做了个手势，人们又把她放回床上，两只大手就把拱顶上悬着的皮条绕在她柔弱的腰间。

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“我最后一次问你，”沙尔莫吕依旧装出那副慈悲的样子说，“你招认你犯的罪吗？”

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“我是无罪的。”

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“那么，小姐，你怎样向原告的证人说明你的情况呢？”

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“哎，大人，我不知道呀。”

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“那么你不招认吗？”

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“上刑！”沙尔莫吕向比埃拉说。

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比埃拉扭动螺丝钉，那双铁靴便越来越紧，不幸的姑娘发出人类语言中从来没有过的一声惨叫。

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“停住！”沙尔莫吕向比埃拉说。“你招认啦？”他向埃及姑娘问道。

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“全招！”不幸的姑娘喊道，“我招，我招！开恩吧！”

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在严刑之下，她再也鼓不起勇气了。一向过着快乐光明甜美生活的不幸的孩子，第一种苦刑就把她制服了。

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“出于人道我不得不告诉你，”王室宗教法庭检察官说，“一招认你就只好等死。”

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“我情愿死，”她回答道。她倒在皮床上，象死去了似的蜷伏在那里，任凭皮条捆着她的腰身。

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“因此，漂亮的孩子，还是忍耐一点吧，”比埃拉把她扶起来说道，“你的神气真象勃艮第先生挂在脖子上的金羊。”

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沙尔莫吕高声说道：“书记官，写吧，埃及姑娘，你招认你同一些魔鬼、女巫、女妖一道参加地狱里的聚餐会、安息日会和一切妖法吗？回答吧！”

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“是的。”她说。声音轻得象吹了口气。

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“你招认你曾经看见倍尔日比特为了召集安息日会，在云端里变成了只有女巫才看得见的公山羊吗？”

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“是的。”

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“你招认你崇奉圣殿骑士团骑士崇拜的可憎的波浮梅的头像吗？”

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“是的。”

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“你招认你经常同牵连在案子里的那只变成山羊的魔鬼来往吗？”

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“是的。”

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“最后，你招认并且忏悔你凭着那个通称为妖憎的幽灵的帮助，在三月二十九日晚上，刺杀了一位名叫弗比斯·德·沙多倍尔的队长吗？”

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她抬起呆定定的大眼睛望着那个官儿，既不颤栗也不慌乱，象机器一般回答道：“是的。”显然她的心完全碎了。

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“写下来吧，书记官，”沙尔莫吕说。然后又向施刑人说道：“给犯人松刑，带到堂上去。”

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犯人给松刑之后，王室宗教法庭检察官察看着她那双还在疼痛的脚。“得啦，还没有怎样弄坏，刚才你叫喊来着。你还是能够跳舞的呀，美人儿！”

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接着他转身向法庭的助手们说：“到底问出结果来了。这多好呀，先生们！这位小姐可以证明我们是尽量优待了她呢。”

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After ascending and descending several steps in the corridors, which were so dark that they were lighted by lamps at mid-day, La Esmeralda, still surrounded by her lugubrious escort, was thrust by the police into a gloomy chamber. This chamber, circular in form, occupied the ground floor of one of those great towers, which, even in our own century, still pierce through the layer of modern edifices with which modern Paris has covered ancient Paris. There were no windows to this cellar; no other opening than the entrance, which was low, and closed by an enormous iron door. Nevertheless, light was not lacking; a furnace had been constructed in the thickness of the wall; a large fire was lighted there, which filled the vault with its crimson reflections and deprived a miserable candle, which stood in one corner, of all radiance. The iron grating which served to close the oven, being raised at that moment, allowed only a view at the mouth of the flaming vent-hole in the dark wall, the lower extremity of its bars, like a row of black and pointed teeth, set flat apart; which made the furnace resemble one of those mouths of dragons which spout forth flames in ancient legends. By the light which escaped from it, the prisoner beheld, all about the room, frightful instruments whose use she did not understand. In the centre lay a leather mattress, placed almost flat upon the ground, over which hung a strap provided with a buckle, attached to a brass ring in the mouth of a flat-nosed monster carved in the keystone of the vault. Tongs, pincers, large ploughshares, filled the interior of the furnace, and glowed in a confused heap on the coals. The sanguine light of the furnace illuminated in the chamber only a confused mass of horrible things.

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This Tartarus was called simply, The Question Chamber.

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On the bed, in a negligent attitude, sat Pierrat Torterue, the official torturer. His underlings, two gnomes with square faces, leather aprons, and linen breeches, were moving the iron instruments on the coals.

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In vain did the poor girl summon up her courage; on entering this chamber she was stricken with horror.

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The sergeants of the bailiff of the courts drew up in line on one side, the priests of the officiality on the other. A clerk, inkhorn, and a table were in one corner.

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Master Jacques Charmolue approached the gypsy with a very sweet smile.

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"My dear child," said he, "do you still persist in your denial?"

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"Yes," she replied, in a dying voice.

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"In that case," replied Charmolue, "it will be very painful for us to have to question you more urgently than we should like. Pray take the trouble to seat yourself on this bed. Master Pierrat, make room for mademoiselle, and close the door."

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Pierrat rose with a growl.

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"If I shut the door," he muttered, "my fire will go out."

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"Well, my dear fellow," replied Charmolue, "leave it open then."

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Meanwhile, la Esmeralda had remained standing. That leather bed on which so many unhappy wretches had writhed, frightened her. Terror chilled the very marrow of her bones; she stood there bewildered and stupefied. At a sign from Charmolue, the two assistants took her and placed her in a sitting posture on the bed. They did her no harm; but when these men touched her, when that leather touched her, she felt all her blood retreat to her heart. She cast a frightened look around the chamber. It seemed to her as though she beheld advancing from all quarters towards her, with the intention of crawling up her body and biting and pinching her, all those hideous implements of torture, which as compared to the instruments of all sorts she had hitherto seen, were like what bats, centipedes, and spiders are among insects and birds.

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"Where is the physician?" asked Charmolue.

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"Here," replied a black gown whom she had not before noticed.

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She shuddered.

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"Mademoiselle," resumed the caressing voice of the procucrator of the Ecclesiastical court, "for the third time, do you persist in denying the deeds of which you are accused?"

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This time she could only make a sign with her head.

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"You persist?" said Jacques Charmolue. "Then it grieves me deeply, but I must fulfil my office."

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"Monsieur le Procureur du Roi," said Pierrat abruptly, "How shall we begin?"

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Charmolue hesitated for a moment with the ambiguous grimace of a poet in search of a rhyme.

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"With the boot," he said at last.

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The unfortunate girl felt herself so utterly abandoned by God and men, that her head fell upon her breast like an inert thing which has no power in itself.

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The tormentor and the physician approached her simultaneously. At the same time, the two assistants began to fumble among their hideous arsenal.

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At the clanking of their frightful irons, the unhappy child quivered like a dead frog which is being galvanized. "Oh!" she murmured, so low that no one heard her; "Oh, my Phoebus!" Then she fell back once more into her immobility and her marble silence. This spectacle would have rent any other heart than those of her judges. One would have pronounced her a poor sinful soul, being tortured by Satan beneath the scarlet wicket of hell. The miserable body which that frightful swarm of saws, wheels, and racks were about to clasp in their clutches, the being who was about to be manipulated by the harsh hands of executioners and pincers, was that gentle, white, fragile creature, a poor grain of millet which human justice was handing over to the terrible mills of torture to grind. Meanwhile, the callous hands of Pierrat Torterue’s assistants had bared that charming leg, that tiny foot, which had so often amazed the passers-by with their delicacy and beauty, in the squares of Paris.

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"’Tis a shame!" muttered the tormentor, glancing at these graceful and delicate forms.

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Had the archdeacon been present, he certainly would have recalled at that moment his symbol of the spider and the fly. Soon the unfortunate girl, through a mist which spread before her eyes, beheld the boot approach; she soon beheld her foot encased between iron plates disappear in the frightful apparatus. Then terror restored her strength.

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"Take that off!" she cried angrily; and drawing herself up, with her hair all dishevelled: "Mercy!"

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She darted from the bed to fling herself at the feet of the king’s procurator, but her leg was fast in the heavy block of oak and iron, and she sank down upon the boot, more crushed than a bee with a lump of lead on its wing.

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At a sign from Charmolue, she was replaced on the bed, and two coarse hands adjusted to her delicate waist the strap which hung from the ceiling.

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"For the last time, do you confess the facts in the case?" demanded Charmolue, with his imperturbable benignity.

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"I am innocent."

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"Then, mademoiselle, how do you explain the circumstance laid to your charge?"

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"Alas, monseigneur, I do not know."

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"So you deny them?"

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"All!"

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"Proceed," said Charmolue to Pierrat.

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Pierrat turned the handle of the screw-jack, the boot was contracted, and the unhappy girl uttered one of those horrible cries which have no orthography in any human language.

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"Stop!" said Charmolue to Pierrat. "Do you confess?" he said to the gypsy.

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"All!" cried the wretched girl. "I confess! I confess! Mercy!"

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Please sign in to unlock the rest

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"Come, fair one, hold up a little," said Master Pierrat, raising her. "You have the air of the lamb of the Golden Fleece which hangs from Monsieur de Bourgogne’s neck."

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Jacques Charmolue raised his voice,

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