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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris

Book 9 Chapter 1 Delirium

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 维克多-雨果] 阅读：[34201]
Book 9 Chapter 1 Delirium
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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克洛德·孚罗洛拿来套在埃及姑娘身上同时也套在自己身上的命定的活结突然被他的养子解开的时候，他本人已经不在圣母院里。他回到更衣室，脱掉袈裟、围巾、披风，一齐扔给惊呆了的仆役，便急忙从修道院的便门逃了出去，吩咐德罕的一个船夫把他渡到了塞纳河左岸，钻进了大学区崎岖的街道里，不知道该往哪里去。每走一步都碰见成群的男女，他们抱着“还赶得上”看绞死女巫的希望，高高兴兴地向圣米歇尔桥奔去。他又苍白又憔悴，比孩子们放掉后又去追赶的鸱枭还要盲目和昏乱，他不知道自己是在什么地方，在想着和梦着什么。他毫无选择地碰见哪条街就向哪条街走去或跑去，然而老是被可怕的格雷沃广场追赶着，直往前奔，因为他觉得格雷沃广场就在他的身后。

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他这样沿着圣热纳维埃夫山走去，终于从圣维克多门走出了该区。当他一转身望见了大学区那些塔楼的垣墙和稀疏的郊区房屋，他便继续逃走，当那崎岖的地面终于把可恨的巴黎完全挡住，使得他相信自己已经在百里之外，在乡野里，在荒郊里了，他才停下脚步，好象又能够呼吸了。

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这时他忽然产生了可怕的念头，他清楚地看见了自己的灵魂，不禁战栗起来。他想起了那个毁灭了他也被他毁灭了的不幸的姑娘，他偶然望了一眼命运使他们两人所经历的那两条曲折的道路，一直望到那使他们一个在另一个身上碰得粉碎了的交点，他想到那些永恒誓言的愚昧，想到贞操、科学、宗教和真理的空虚，上帝的无能，他狂喜地沉浸在恶念里，沉得越深，他越觉得心头爆发出一种撒旦的狞笑。

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在这样深深发掘自己灵魂的时候，他看见大自然在那里给热情准备着一个多么广阔的天地，他就更加痛苦地怪笑起来。他把心灵深处所有的仇恨和怨毒通通翻了出来，用医生观察病人的眼光，认出了这些仇恨和怨毒都不过是那被损害了的爱情。爱情──男人们心中整个真理的源泉——在神甫的心里变成了可怕的东西，使他这样一个人竟从神甫变成了魔鬼，于是他毛骨悚然地大笑起来，接着又想到他命中注定的感情，那腐蚀性的、有毒的、可恨的、难以控制的爱情的悲惨的一面，他又突然脸色发白了，正是那种爱情把一个人引向了绞刑架，把另一个人引向了地狱，她被判了绞刑，他堕入了地狱。

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随后他想起弗比斯还没有死掉，他又笑起来了，那个队长竟还轻松愉快地活着，穿着从来没见过的漂亮军服，带着一个新情人在看他的旧情人被绞死。想到他愿意任其死去的活人中间，唯独那个埃及姑娘，那个仅有的不为他所憎恨的人偏偏没能从他手里逃脱，他便笑得更加厉害了。

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他从队长又想到别的人，产生了一种闻所未闻的妒嫉。他想起那些人，那全体观众，竟然也看见了他所爱的那个姑娘只穿着衬衣，几乎半裸着身子，想到他在黑暗里偷看了一下就觉得无比幸福的那个姑娘，竟然在大白天的中午穿扮得象要去度淫荡的午夜似的呈现在群众眼前，他便扭绞自己的胳膊。

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他愤怒地哭泣，为了那被亵渎被玷污被辱没的永远枯萎了的爱情。他愤怒地哭泣，想到多少淫邪的眼光对那件没有扣好的衬衫起了邪念，想到那漂亮的姑娘，那百合花一般的处女，他只要挨近唇边就会浑身战栗的纯洁美酒，刚才竟变成了公共的大锅饭，偷儿们乞丐们小厮们等等巴黎最低贱的民众，竟从中品尝无耻的污秽的荒淫的欢乐。

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他力求形成一个幸运的观念：假若她并不是波希米亚人，他自己也不是神甫，弗比斯也并不存在；假若她会爱他，他想象着一种可能属于他的庄严的爱情生活；想象着就在那同一时刻，世界上到处都有幸福的伴侣在夕阳下或有星星的夜晚，在桔柑林中或是小溪边情话绵绵；想象着假若上帝愿意，他同她也可以成为这些幸福伴侣中的一对，这时他的心就在温柔和失望中酥融了。

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啊，是她！就是她！就是这个牢固的念头不断回到他心里，使他痛苦，吸干他的脑髓，撕裂他的肺腑。他既不后悔也不抱愧，所有他做过的事，他还准备再去做，他宁愿看见她落到绞刑刽子手的手中而不愿看见她落到那个队长的手中。但是他难过极了，难过得时时用手拔下几把头发看看变白了没有。

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这中间有一会他忽然想到，当时也许正是早上见过的可怕的链条正在把铁圈套上那十分纤细优美的脖子的时刻，这个想法使他每个毛孔都冒出汗来。

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又有一会，正当他象魔鬼一样讥笑自己的时候，他仿佛一下子看见了拉·爱斯梅拉达，象他第一次看见她那样活泼天真，无忧无虑，穿着盛装，轻逸和谐地舞蹈着。他仿佛又看见了他最后一次看见的拉·爱斯梅拉达，只穿着衬衫，脖子上套着粗绳，慢慢地用赤脚走上绞刑架的扶梯。在这样想着这双重景象的时候，他终于迸出一声可怕的叫喊。

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这个失望的飓风在他的灵魂里彻底倾覆，破碎，坼裂，根除了之后，他望着周围自然界的景象：在他的脚前，母鸡正在灌木丛中寻找食物，亮晶晶的金龟子在阳光下奔跑。在他头顶上的碧空里，飘浮着几片灰白相间的云彩，地平线上是圣维克多修道院的钟楼，它那石板方塔突出在山坡上，而戈波山岗的磨坊主人则正在观看自己磨坊里转动着的水车。这整个生动的、安排得很好的、安静的生活，在他四周以上千种形式呈现出来，使他非常痛苦。他又开始奔跑起来。

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他就这样一直跑到黄昏时分，这种想逃避自然，逃避生活，逃避自己，逃避人类，逃避上帝的奔跑，继续了整整一天。有几次他脸孔朝下跌倒在地上，随手拔起新生的麦苗，有几次他在荒村的一条街上停下来，思想痛苦得难以忍受，竟用双手紧抱着脑袋，想把它从肩膀上拔出来在地上摔个粉碎。

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太阳快要落山的时候，他重新观察自己，发现自己差不多已经疯了。自从失去了拯救那埃及姑娘的希望时就开始在他心里翻涌的风暴，并没有在他的心头留下一条清晰的思路。几乎完全被摧毁了的理智在他心里死去了，那时他心里只有两个突出的形象：拉·爱斯梅拉达和绞刑架，其余就全是一片漆黑。这两个形象合在一起，变成可怕的一堆，他愈是盯牢这占据了他的注意和思想的形象，就愈加看见它们用奇特的进度在发展变化，一个变得更为优美、娇媚、漂亮和光辉灿烂，而另一个变得更加可怕，最后他竟觉得拉·爱斯梅拉达好象是一颗星星，绞刑架好象一只枯瘦的大胳膊。

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在他忍受着极大痛苦的这段时间里，他竟没有产生过寻死的念头，这倒是一桩怪事。不幸的人往往如此。他珍惜生命，也许他真的看见地狱就在他的背后。

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这时太阳继续西落，还存在于他身体内部的生机，模糊地使他想要回去。

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他自以为已经远远离开了巴黎，可是辨认一下方向之后，才发现自己不过是绕着大学区的城墙转了一圈。圣须尔比斯教堂的尖塔和圣日尔曼·代·勃雷修道院的三个高高的尖顶，在他右边耸入天际。他朝这个方向奔去。听见修道院长的武装警卫在圣日尔曼周围喊口令的声音，他就转身回来，走在修道院的磨坊和麻风病院之间的一条小路上，过一会就到了教士草场的边上。这个草场是以日夜都有吵闹声闻名的，它是圣日尔曼修道院僧侣们的七头蛇，“对于圣日尔曼修道院的僧侣们，这个草场往往是在神甫们的吵闹中一再抬起头来的一条七头蛇。”副主教担心在那里碰见什么人，凡是人的脸他都害怕。他刚才避开了大学区和圣日尔曼镇，打算尽可能晚一些才回到大街上去。

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他沿着把草场和新医院分隔开的一条小径走去，终于到了塞纳河边。堂·克洛德在那里找到一个船夫，给了几个钱，船夫就带着他逆流而上，一直航行到城岛的尖端，让他在读者看见甘果瓦在其上做过梦的那个荒凉的狭长的半岛上了岸，这个半岛伸展在同渡牛岛平行的王家花园的外面。

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单调的桨声和水流声使不幸的克洛德多少得到了一点安宁。船夫远去了之后，他就呆呆地直立在格雷沃广场上，往前面望去，可是再也看不见什么东西，一切都在跳动和膨胀，使他觉得全都象怪物一样。一种深重的痛苦引起的疲乏，往往在心灵上产生这样的结果。

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太阳已经落到内斯尔高塔背后去了，这正是黄昏时分，天空是一片白，河水也是一片白。在这两片白色之间，他的眼睛盯着塞纳河的左岸，那黑黑的一大片地方逐渐在视野中消失，好象一支黑箭钻进了天边的云雾里一样。

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岸上布满了房舍，只看得见它们阴暗的轮廓鲜明地衬托在水和天的明亮的背景上。这里那里有些窗户亮起了灯火，仿佛是些烧着炭火的洞窟。耸立在天空与河水两幅白幔之间的黑魆魆的方尖塔，在那个地带显得很大。克洛德产生了一种奇特的印象，他的体会很象一个人仰面躺在斯特拉斯堡大教堂的钟楼下，望着巨大的尖顶在他头顶上钻进了黄昏的半明半暗之中，不过在此地克洛德是站着的，方尖塔是倒立的。倒映着天空的河水，使他感到特别深，象深渊一样。那建筑物巨大的突出部分也象教堂的尖顶一般大胆地突出在空中，印象是完全一样的。这个印象同样奇怪但更为深刻，就象斯特拉斯堡钟楼所能产生的那样。而这座钟楼有两里高，巨大无比，高不可测，是人类的眼睛从来没看见过的，是又一座巴别塔。那些房屋的烟囱，墙头的雉垛，屋顶上的三角墙，奥古斯丹的尖阁，内斯尔塔，所有这些把巨大方尖塔的轮廓切成许多缺口的突出部分，这些呈现在眼前的杂乱而富于幻想的雕刻品，使人增强了幻觉。克洛德在昏迷状态中以为是看见了——用他活生生的眼睛 ——地狱的钟楼，那可怕的高高的塔上闪亮着的成千种光亮，使他觉得好象是成千个地狱里的大火炉的炉口，从那里传出的一切声音和喧闹，又象是呼号，又象是在格格作响。他害怕起来，用双手捂着耳朵不再去听，背过身不再去看，并且迈着大步远远地离开了那个幻景。

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但幻景是在他自己心里。

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他回到大街上，看见店铺门前拥挤的行人，还以为那是一群永远跟在他四周来来往往的幽灵。他耳朵里老是听到古怪的声音，心头老有些奇特的幻象在骚动。他看不见房屋和道路，也看不见车辆和过路的男男女女，只看到一连串模糊不清的事物互相纠缠在一起。制桶场街的拐角上有一家杂货店，房檐周围照古时习惯挂着许多洋铁环，洋铁环上系着一圈木制假蜡烛，迎风发出响板一般的声音。他以为是听到了隼山刑场的一串串骷髅在黑暗里碰撞出的响声。

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“啊，”他低声说道，“夜晚的风赶着他们一群跟一群地奔跑，把铁链的响声和他们骨头的响声混在一起了！她也许是在那里，在他们里面！”

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他昏昏沉沉地不知道该往哪里走。又走了一段路，他发觉自己是在圣米歇尔桥上。一所房子底层的窗口射出了一道亮光，他走上前去。透过那破碎的玻璃窗，他看见一个肮脏的大房间，这在他心中唤醒了一种模糊的回忆。

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被微弱的灯光照着的这个大房间里，有一个面色红润的年轻人，一个快活的人，正在大声笑着搂着一个打扮得很俗气的女人。一个老妇人靠近灯光坐在那里纺纱，一面用抖抖索索的声音唱着一支歌曲。当那个年轻人偶然不笑不闹的时候，老妇人的歌词有几段就传进了神甫的耳朵，不很清楚但是相当可怕：格雷沃，叫吧，格雷沃，吠吧，纺呀，纺呀，我的纺线竿，给在监牢院子里打唿哨的刽子手纺出绳子来吧，格雷沃，叫吧，格雷沃，吠吧！

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多漂亮的麻绳！

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从易瑟到凡沃尔都种大麻吧，不要种小麦，偷儿不会去偷盗那漂亮的麻绳！

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格雷沃，吠吧，格雷沃，叫吧，为了要看那卖淫的女娃吊在肮脏的绞刑架上，那些窗户都象是眼睛一样。

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格雷沃，吠吧，格雷沃，叫吧！

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年轻人在那里笑着，抚慰着那个女人。那个老妇就是法洛代尔，那个女人是一个妓女，那个年轻人呢，正是他的兄弟若望。

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他继续观望，这个景象同另一个是何等相似！

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他看见若望走到房间尽头的窗前，把窗扇打开，向远处那有许多明亮窗户的码头望了一眼，他听见他在关窗户的时候说：“用我的灵魂担保，天色已经晚啦。市民点上了蜡烛，慈悲的上帝亮起了星星。”

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随后若望又回到那妓女身边，抓起桌上的一个酒瓶，喊道：“已经空了，牛角尖！可是我已经没有钱啦！依莎波，我的好人，我是不会喜欢朱比特的，除非他把你这一对雪白的乳房变成两只黑色的酒瓶，让我日日夜夜从里面吮吸波纳酒！”

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这句玩笑话使那个妓女快活地笑了，若望便走了出来。

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堂·克洛德刚巧来得及躺倒在地，免得被他的兄弟遇上，面面相对而且被他认出来。幸好街上很黑，那个学生又已经喝醉了，然而他偏偏看见了躺在路上泥泞里的副主教。

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“啊！啊！”他说道，“这儿有个今天过得挺快活的家伙！”

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他用脚踢了克洛德一下，克洛德屏住气息。

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“醉得象个死人，”若望说，“得啦，他可喝足了，真象一条从酒桶上拽下来的蚂蝗。他是个秃头呀，”他弯下腰看了看说，“原来是个老头儿！

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幸运的老头儿！”

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随后堂·克洛德就听见他一面说一面走开去：“反正一样，理智是个好东西，我的副主教哥哥可幸运呢，他又有学问又有钱。”

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这时副主教才站起来一口气向圣母院跑去，他看见圣母院的两座巨大钟塔在许多房屋中间高高地耸立在黑暗里。

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一口气跑到了巴尔维广场的时候他却退缩不前了，不敢朝那阴森森的建筑望去。“啊，”他低声说道，“就在今天，就在上午，这里真的发生过那件事情吗？”

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这时他才鼓起勇气向教堂望去。教堂的前墙是一片漆黑，后面的天空里闪亮着星星。刚刚从天边升起的一弯新月，这时正停留在靠右边那座钟塔的顶上，好象是从那雕着黑色三叶形花纹的栏杆边上飞出来的一只发光的小鸟。

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修道院的大门紧闭着。但是副主教身边是经常带着他那钟塔顶上工作室的钥匙的，他掏出钥匙开门走进了教堂。

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他发现教堂里象岩洞一般黑暗沉寂，他看见了从各个部位投下来的大块阴影，他知道那是早上举行忏悔仪式时挂的帏幔还没有撤除。巨大的银十字架在黑暗的深处闪亮，它上面点缀着一些光点，好象是那阴森森夜空里的银河。唱诗室的长玻璃窗把它们尖拱的尖端伸出在帏幔顶上，那些彩绘的玻璃窗扇在月光下现出黑夜的朦胧色调，那种只有死人脸上才有的发紫发白发绿的色调。副主教看到唱诗室周围的这些苍白的尖拱顶，以为看见的是堕入了地狱的主教们的帽子。他合上眼又睁开来，觉得那是一圈苍白的面孔在盯着他看。

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于是他跑步穿过教堂。他觉得教堂好象也在动弹，也在走，也活起来了。

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每根巨大的柱子都变成了又粗又长的腿，用巨大的石脚在地上走动着。巨人般的教堂变成了一头其大无比的大象，把那些柱子当作脚在那里气喘吁吁地走动，两座巨大钟塔就是它的犄角，大黑幔就是它的装饰。

48
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他的昏热或疯狂竟到了那样厉害的程度，整个外在世界在那倒霉的人看来，不过是上帝的可怕的启示，看得见，摸得着。

49
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有一会他稍稍镇静了一点。在走进过道时他看见从一排柱子后面射出来一道朦胧的亮光，他好象奔向星星似的朝它奔去，原来那是日夜照着铁栏下圣母院公用祈祷书的那盏昏暗的灯。他热忱地跑到祈祷书跟前，希望从中找到一点安慰或鼓舞，祈祷书正翻开在《约伯》那一章，他就盯着看起来：“我看见一个鬼魂在我面前走过，我听见一声轻微的呼吸，我的头发直竖起来。”

50
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读着这阴惨惨的句子，他的感觉就象一个盲人被捡来的棍子打痛了一样。他两腿发软，倒在石板地上，想着白天死去的那个人，他觉得脑子里冒出一股股奇怪的烟，好象他的头变成了地狱的一个烟囱。

51
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他有好一阵就这样什么也不想地躺在那里，象是堕入了深渊，落到了魔鬼的手里那样无可奈何。最后他清醒了一点，便想去躲在他的忠诚的伽西莫多近旁的那座钟塔里去。他站起来，由于害怕，便把照亮祈祷书的灯拿在手里，这是一种渎神的行为，但他已经不可能去注意这种小事情了。

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他慢慢地爬上钟塔的楼梯，心里充满了一种不可告人的恐怖，害怕巴尔维广场上稀少的行人看见神秘的灯光在这样夜深时刻从钟楼高处一个个枪眼里射出去。

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忽然他感到有一阵清风吹到他的脸上，发现自己已经爬到了最高的楼廊口。空气寒冷，天空里云彩斑斓，大片的白云层层重叠，云角破碎，象冬天河里的冰块解冻时一般。一弯新月嵌在云层当中，就象一只船在天上被空中的冰块环绕着。

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他从一排连接两座钟塔廊柱的铁栏当中向远处俯看，透过一片烟雾，看见了成堆静悄悄的巴黎的屋顶，尖尖的，数不清的，又挤又小，好象夏夜里平静的海面上的波澜。

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月亮投下微弱的光，使天空和地上都是一片灰色。

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这时教堂的大钟响起了嘶哑微弱的声音，是半夜了。神甫想起了中午，也是同样的十二下钟声。“啊，”他低声地自言自语：“她现在一定已经僵冷了！”

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忽然一阵风把他的灯吹灭了，差不多就在那同一刹那，他看见钟塔对面的角落里出现了一个人影，一身白衣服，一个人体，一个女人。他战栗起来。

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那女人身边有一只牝羊，跟着最后几下钟声咩咩地叫着。

59
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他鼓起勇气看去，那的确是她。

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她苍白忧郁，头发和上午一样披在肩头上，可是脖子上再没有绳子，手也不是绑着的了。她自由啦，因为她已经死去。

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她穿着一身白衣服，头上盖着一幅白头巾，仰头望着天空，慢慢地朝他走来，那神奇的山羊跟着她。他觉得自己变成了石头，太重了，逃不开了，只能做到她向前走一步，他就往后退一步，他就这样一直退到楼梯的黑暗的拱顶下面。想到她或许也会走到楼梯上来，他浑身都凉了，假若她真的来了，他一定会吓死。

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她真的来到了楼梯口，停留了一会儿，向黑暗里看了看，但是好象并没有看见神甫便走过去了。他觉得她仿佛比生前更高，他看见月光透过她的白衣服，他听见了她的呼吸。

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等她走过去了，他就起步下楼，脚步慢得跟他看见过的幽灵一样，他觉得自己就是一个幽灵。他害怕极了，头发根根直竖起来，那盏灭掉了的灯依旧在他手中。走下曲曲折折的楼梯时，他清楚地听见一个声音在一边笑一边重复地念道：“一个鬼魂在我面前走过，我听见一声轻微的呼吸，我的头发直竖起来。”

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Claude Frollo was no longer in Notre-Dame when his adopted son so abruptly cut the fatal web in which the archdeacon and the gypsy were entangled. On returning to the sacristy he had torn off his alb, cope, and stole, had flung all into the hands of the stupefied beadle, had made his escape through the private door of the cloister, had ordered a boatman of the Terrain to transport him to the left bank of the Seine, and had plunged into the hilly streets of the University, not knowing whither he was going, encountering at every step groups of men and women who were hurrying joyously towards the Pont Saint-Michel, in the hope of still arriving in time to see the witch hung there,--pale, wild, more troubled, more blind and more fierce than a night bird let loose and pursued by a troop of children in broad daylight. He no longer knew where he was, what he thought, or whether he were dreaming. He went forward, walking, running, taking any street at haphazard, making no choice, only urged ever onward away from the Grève, the horrible Grève, which he felt confusedly, to be behind him.

1

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In this manner he skirted Mount Sainte-Geneviève, and finally emerged from the town by the Porte Saint-Victor. He continued his flight as long as he could see, when he turned round, the turreted enclosure of the University, and the rare houses of the suburb; but, when, at length, a rise of ground had completely concealed from him that odious Paris, when he could believe himself to be a hundred leagues distant from it, in the fields, in the desert, he halted, and it seemed to him that he breathed more freely.

2

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Then frightful ideas thronged his mind. Once more he could see clearly into his soul, and he shuddered. He thought of that unhappy girl who had destroyed him, and whom he had destroyed. He cast a haggard eye over the double, tortuous way which fate had caused their two destinies to pursue up to their point of intersection, where it had dashed them against each other without mercy. He meditated on the folly of eternal vows, on the vanity of chastity, of science, of religion, of virtue, on the uselessness of God. He plunged to his heart’s content in evil thoughts, and in proportion as he sank deeper, he felt a Satanic laugh burst forth within him.

3

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And as he thus sifted his soul to the bottom, when he perceived how large a space nature had prepared there for the passions, he sneered still more bitterly. He stirred up in the depths of his heart all his hatred, all his malevolence; and, with the cold glance of a physician who examines a patient, he recognized the fact that this malevolence was nothing but vitiated love; that love, that source of every virtue in man, turned to horrible things in the heart of a priest, and that a man constituted like himself, in making himself a priest, made himself a demon. Then he laughed frightfully, and suddenly became pale again, when he considered the most sinister side of his fatal passion, of that corrosive, venomous malignant, implacable love, which had ended only in the gibbet for one of them and in hell for the other; condemnation for her, damnation for him.

4

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And then his laughter came again, when he reflected that Phoebus was alive; that after all, the captain lived, was gay and happy, had handsomer doublets than ever, and a new mistress whom he was conducting to see the old one hanged. His sneer redoubled its bitterness when he reflected that out of the living beings whose death he had desired, the gypsy, the only creature whom he did not hate, was the only one who had not escaped him.

5

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[p1]Then from the captain, his thought passed to the people, and there came to him a jealousy of an unprecedented sort. He reflected that the people also, the entire populace, had had before their eyes the woman whom he loved exposed almost naked. He writhed his arms with agony as he thought that the woman whose form, caught by him alone in the darkness would have been supreme happiness, had been delivered up in broad daylight at full noonday, to a whole people, clad as for a night of voluptuousness.

6

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[p2]He wept with rage over all these mysteries of love, profaned, soiled, laid bare, withered forever. He wept with rage as he pictured to himself how many impure looks had been gratified at the sight of that badly fastened shift, and that this beautiful girl, this virgin lily, this cup of modesty and delight, to which he would have dared to place his lips only trembling, had just been transformed into a sort of public bowl, whereat the vilest populace of Paris, thieves, beggars, lackeys, had come to quaff in common an audacious, impure, and depraved pleasure.

7

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And when he sought to picture to himself the happiness which he might have found upon earth, if she had not been a gypsy, and if he had not been a priest, if Phoebus had not existed and if she had loved him; when he pictured to himself that a life of serenity and love would have been possible to him also, even to him; that there were at that very moment, here and there upon the earth, happy couples spending the hours in sweet converse beneath orange trees, on the banks of brooks, in the presence of a setting sun, of a starry night; and that if God had so willed, he might have formed with her one of those blessed couples,--his heart melted in tenderness and despair.

8

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Oh! she! still she! It was this fixed idea which returned incessantly, which tortured him, which ate into his brain, and rent his vitals. He did not regret, he did not repent; all that he had done he was ready to do again; he preferred to behold her in the hands of the executioner rather than in the arms of the captain. But he suffered; he suffered so that at intervals he tore out handfuls of his hair to see whether it were not turning white.

9

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Among other moments there came one, when it occurred to him that it was perhaps the very minute when the hideous chain which he had seen that morning, was pressing its iron noose closer about that frail and graceful neck. This thought caused the perspiration to start from every pore.

10

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There was another moment when, while laughing diabolically at himself, he represented to himself la Esmeralda as he had seen her on that first day, lively, careless, joyous, gayly attired, dancing, winged, harmonious, and la Esmeralda of the last day, in her scanty shift, with a rope about her neck, mounting slowly with her bare feet, the angular ladder of the gallows; he figured to himself this double picture in such a manner .that he gave vent to a terrible cry.

11

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While this hurricane of despair overturned, broke, tore up, bent, uprooted everything in his soul, he gazed at nature around him. At his feet, some chickens were searching the thickets and pecking, enamelled beetles ran about in the sun; overhead, some groups of dappled gray clouds were floating across the blue sky; on the horizon, the spire of the Abbey Saint-Victor pierced the ridge of the hill with its slate obelisk; and the miller of the Copeaue hillock was whistling as he watched the laborious wings of his mill turning. All this active, organized, tranquil life, recurring around him under a thousand forms, hurt him. He resumed his flight.

12

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He sped thus across the fields until evening. This flight from nature, life, himself, man, God, everything, lasted all day long. Sometimes he flung himself face downward on the, earth, and tore up the young blades of wheat with his nails. Sometimes he halted in the deserted street of a village, and his thoughts were so intolerable that he grasped his head in both hands and tried to tear it from his shoulders in order to dash it upon the pavement.

13

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Towards the hour of sunset, he examined himself again, and found himself nearly mad. The tempest which had raged within him ever since the instant when he had lost the hope and the will to save the gypsy,--that tempest had not left in his conscience a single healthy idea, a single thought which maintained its upright position. His reason lay there almost entirely destroyed. There remained but two distinct images in his mind, la Esmeralda and the gallows; all the rest was blank. Those two images united, presented to him a frightful group; and the more he concentrated what attention and thought was left to him, the more he beheld them grow, in accordance with a fantastic progression, the one in grace, in charm, in beauty, in light, the other in deformity and horror; so that at last la Esmeralda appeared to him like a star, the gibbet like an enormous, fleshless arm.

14

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One remarkable fact is, that during the whole of this torture, the idea of dying did not seriously occur to him. The wretch was made so. He clung to life. Perhaps he really saw hell beyond it.

15

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Meanwhile, the day continued to decline. The living being which still existed in him reflected vaguely on retracing its steps. He believed himself to be far away from Paris; on taking his bearings, he perceived that he had only circled the enclosure of the University. The spire of Saint-Sulpice, and the three lofty needles of Saint Germain-des-Prés, rose above the horizon on his right. He turned his steps in that direction. When he heard the brisk challenge of the men-at-arms of the abbey, around the crenelated, circumscribing wall of Saint-Germain, he turned aside, took a path which presented itself between the abbey and the lazar-house of the Bourg, and at the expiration of a few minutes found himself on the verge of the Pré-aux-Clercs. This meadow was celebrated by reason of the brawls which went on there night and day; it was the hydra of the poor monks of Saint-Germain: ~quod mouachis Sancti-Germaini pratensis hydra fuit, clericis nova semper dissidiorum capita suscitantibus~. The archdeacon was afraid of meeting some one there; he feared every human countenance; he had just avoided the University and the Bourg Saint-Germain; he wished to re-enter the streets as late as possible. He skirted the Pré-aux-Clercs, took the deserted path which separated it from the Dieu-Neuf, and at last reached the water’s edge. There Dom Claude found a boatman, who, for a few farthings in Parisian coinage, rowed him up the Seine as far as the point of the city, and landed him on that tongue of abandoned land where the reader has already beheld Gringoire dreaming, and which was prolonged beyond the king’s gardens, parallel to the Ile du Passeur-aux-Vaches.

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The monotonous rocking of the boat and the ripple of the water had, in some sort, quieted the unhappy Claude. When the boatman had taken his departure, he remained standing stupidly on the strand, staring straight before him and perceiving objects only through magnifying oscillations which rendered everything a sort of phantasmagoria to him. The fatigue of a great grief not infrequently produces this effect on the mind.

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The sun had set behind the lofty Tour-de-Nesle. It was the twilight hour. The sky was white, the water of the river was white. Between these two white expanses, the left bank of the Seine, on which his eyes were fixed, projected its gloomy mass and, rendered ever thinner and thinner by perspective, it plunged into the gloom of the horizon like a black spire. It was loaded with houses, of which only the obscure outline could be distinguished, sharply brought out in shadows against the light background of the sky and the water. Here and there windows began to gleam, like the holes in a brazier. That immense black obelisk thus isolated between the two white expanses of the sky and the river, which was very broad at this point, produced upon Dom Claude a singular effect, comparable to that which would be experienced by a man who, reclining on his back at the foot of the tower of Strasburg, should gaze at the enormous spire plunging into the shadows of the twilight above his head. Only, in this case, it was Claude who was erect and the obelisk which was lying down; but, as the river, reflecting the sky, prolonged the abyss below him, the immense promontory seemed to be as boldly launched into space as any cathedral spire; and the impression was the same. This impression had even one stronger and more profound point about it, that it was indeed the tower of Strasbourg, but the tower of Strasbourg two leagues in height; something unheard of, gigantic, immeasurable; an edifice such as no human eye has ever seen; a tower of Babel. The chimneys of the houses, the battlements of the walls, the faceted gables of the roofs, the spire of the Augustines, the tower of Nesle, all these projections which broke the profile of the colossal obelisk added to the illusion by displaying in eccentric fashion to the eye the indentations of a luxuriant and fantastic sculpture.

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Claude, in the state of hallucination in which he found himself, believed that he saw, that he saw with his actual eyes, the bell tower of hell; the thousand lights scattered over the whole height of the terrible tower seemed to him so many porches of the immense interior furnace; the voices and noises which escaped from it seemed so many shrieks, so many death groans. Then he became alarmed, he put his hands on his ears that he might no longer hear, turned his back that he might no longer see, and fled from the frightful vision with hasty strides.

19

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But the vision was in himself.

20

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When he re-entered the streets, the passers-by elbowing each other by the light of the shop-fronts, produced upon him the effect of a constant going and coming of spectres about him. There were strange noises in his ears; extraordinary fancies disturbed his brain. He saw neither houses, nor pavements, nor chariots, nor men and women, but a chaos of indeterminate objects whose edges melted into each other. At the corner of the Rue de la Barillerie, there was a grocer’s shop whose porch was garnished all about, according to immemorial custom, with hoops of tin from which hung a circle of wooden candles, which came in contact with each other in the wind, and rattled like castanets. He thought he heard a cluster of skeletons at Montfau?on clashing together in the gloom.

21

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"Oh!" he muttered, "the night breeze dashes them against each other, and mingles the noise of their chains with the rattle of their bones! Perhaps she is there among them!"

22

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In his state of frenzy, he knew not whither he was going. After a few strides he found himself on the Pont Saint- Michel. There was a light in the window of a ground-floor room; he approached. Through a cracked window he beheld a mean chamber which recalled some confused memory to his mind. In that room, badly lighted by a meagre lamp, there was a fresh, light-haired young man, with a merry face, who amid loud bursts of laughter was embracing a very audaciously attired young girl; and near the lamp sat an old crone spinning and singing in a quavering voice. As the young man did not laugh constantly, fragments of the old woman’s ditty reached the priest; it was something unintelligible yet frightful,--

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"~Grève, aboie, Grève, grouille! File, file, ma quenouille, File sa corde au bourreau, Qui siffle dans le pre(au, Grève, aboie, Grève, grouille~!

24

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"~La belle corde de chanvre! Semez d’Issy jusqu’á Vanvre Du chanvre et non pas du ble(. Le voleur n’a pas vole( La belle corde de chanvre~.

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"~Grève, grouille, Grève, aboie! Pour voir la fille de joie, Prendre au gibet chassieux, Les fenêtres sont des yeux. Grève, grouille, Grève, aboie!"*

26

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* Bark, Grève, Grumble, Grève! Spin, spin, my distaff, spin her rope for the hangman, who is whistling in the meadow. What a beautiful hempen rope! Sow hemp, not wheat, from Issy to Vanvre. The thief hath not stolen the beautiful hempen rope. Grumble, Grève, bark, Grève! To see the dissolute wench hang on the blear-eyed gibbet, windows are eyes.

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Thereupon the young man laughed and caressed the wench. The crone was la Falourdel; the girl was a courtesan; the young man was his brother Jehan.

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He continued to gaze. That spectacle was as good as any other.

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He saw Jehan go to a window at the end of the room, open it, cast a glance on the quay, where in the distance blazed a thousand lighted casements, and he heard him say as he closed the sash,--

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"’Pon my soul! How dark it is; the people are lighting their candles, and the good God his stars."

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Then Jehan came back to the hag, smashed a bottle standing on the table, exclaiming,--

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"Already empty, ~cor-boeuf~! and I have no more money! Isabeau, my dear, I shall not be satisfied with Jupiter until he has changed your two white nipples into two black bottles, where I may suck wine of Beaune day and night."

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This fine pleasantry made the courtesan laugh, and Jehan left the room.

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Dom Claude had barely time to fling himself on the ground in order that he might not be met, stared in the face and recognized by his brother. Luckily, the street was dark, and the scholar was tipsy. Nevertheless, he caught sight of the archdeacon prone upon the earth in the mud.

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"Oh! oh!" said he; "here’s a fellow who has been leading a jolly life, to-day."

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He stirred up Dom Claude with his foot, and the latter held his breath.

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"Dead drunk," resumed Jehan. "Come, he’s full. A regular leech detached from a hogshead. He’s bald," he added, bending down, "’tis an old man! ~Fortunate senex~!"

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Then Dom Claude heard him retreat, saying,--

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"’Tis all the same, reason is a fine thing, and my brother the archdeacon is very happy in that he is wise and has money."

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Still, he ventured to glance at the church. The front was sombre; the sky behind was glittering with stars. The crescent of the moon, in her flight upward from the horizon, had paused at the moment, on the summit of the light hand tower, and seemed to have perched itself, like a luminous bird, on the edge of the balustrade, cut out in black trefoils.

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The cloister door was shut; but the archdeacon always carried with him the key of the tower in which his laboratory was situated. He made use of it to enter the church.

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