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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris
Book 9 Chapter 2 Hunchbacked, One Eyed, Lame
属类：
双语小说
【分类】世界名著
-[作者: 维克多-雨果]
阅读：[34175]
Book 9 Chapter 2 Hunchbacked, One Eyed, Lame
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一直到路易十二时代，中世纪法国的每个城市里都有避难的处所。在淹没整个城市的洪水般的刑法和野蛮的审判权中间，这些避难所好象是高高突起在人类司法制度之上的岛屿，罪犯到了那里就能得救。每个区域里，避难的处所几乎跟行刑的处所一样多，这是滥用刑罚和滥用赦免这两件坏事搅在一起的结果，双方都试图互相纠正。国王的宫廷，王子的府邸，尤其是教堂，都有作为圣地的权利。有时把一个需要移民的城市整个儿定为临时避难所，路易十一就曾经在一四六七年把巴黎定为圣地。
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只要一只脚踏进了圣地，罪犯就成为神圣的了，可是得留心别走出去。
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只要走出去一步，就会重新掉进汪洋大海。轮盘绞刑架和拷问台在避难所四周布着岗哨，监视着它们的捕获物，象鲸鲛逡巡在船舶四周一样。有时一个罪犯就这样在一个修道院里，一座宫殿的楼梯上，一个寺院的耕地里，或是一座教堂的门道里白了头发，就这样一个圣地同样也是一座监牢。偶然也会碰到大理院下一道森严的命令，侵入圣地把罪犯抓去交给刽子手，不过这种情况是罕见的。议员们对主教们怀着妒嫉，当这两种掌权的人物发生了冲突的时候，法官总是斗不过主教的。有的时候，例如暗杀巴黎刽子手小若望的案子和爱默里·卢梭的案子，司法机关就越过教会径自执行了它所判决的绞刑。但是除非持有大理院的命令，否则带着武器闯进圣地的人是要倒霉的！
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人们知道法兰西元帅罗贝尔·德·克雷蒙和香槟省元帅若望·德·夏隆是怎样死的。仅仅为了一个微不足道的凶手，一个兑换商的儿子贝兰·马克，那两位元帅竟敢打破圣梅里教堂的大门进去捕人，那当然是罪大恶极了。
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圣地是那样被人尊敬，传说它甚至泽及动物。艾满讲起过一只被达戈倍尔追猎的牡鹿逃到了圣德尼的坟墓旁边，猎狗就突然停下来，只是叫，不敢追了。
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教堂里通常有一间小屋子收留那些避难人。一四○七年尼古拉·弗拉梅尔就在圣雅克·德·拉·布谢里教堂拱顶上给他们修建了这样一间小屋子，使他花费了四个巴黎里弗六索尔另十六德尼埃。
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在圣母院里，这间小屋是修筑在弓形支柱下飞檐边的屋顶上，正对着修道院，恰好在如今塔楼那儿，是门房的妻子当作小花园的地方。这个小花园同巴比伦城的空中花园比较起来，正如用一棵莴苣去比一株棕榈，用一个看门人的妻子去比赛米拉米斯。
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伽西莫多在钟塔上和楼廊上疯狂地胜利地跑了一阵之后，就把拉·爱斯梅拉达安置在那个地方。发生刚才那些事情的时候，那姑娘还没有清醒，还在半睡半醒的状态，什么也感觉不到，只觉得好象是升高到了空中，在空中飘浮，飞翔，好象有什么东西带着她离开了大地。她耳朵里时时听见伽西莫多的大笑和粗野的声音，她把眼睛张开一半，于是模糊地看见，在她下面是上千个石板屋顶和砖瓦屋顶的巴黎，好象一块又红又蓝的镶板，在她头顶上是伽西莫多那张吓人的快乐的脸孔，于是她重新合上眼睛，她相信一切都完了，人们在她昏迷的时候绞死了她，而这个统治她命运的难看的鬼魂便把她抓住带走了。她不敢朝他看，只是听天由命。
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可是当披头散发跑得气喘吁吁的敲钟人把她安置在那间避难的小屋里时，她感到他那粗大的手轻轻解开那擦破了她胳膊的绳子，她便体验到那种震惊，那种航海人黑夜里突然在岸上醒过来时的震惊。她的记忆也醒过来了，许多事情一一回到了她的心里，她发现自己是在圣母院里，便记起自己曾经被刽子手抓住，记起弗比斯还活着，记起弗比斯不再爱她了。这两个想法，这一个给了另一个许多痛苦的想法，一起来到了可怜的罪犯的心头，她转身向着直立在她面前的令她害怕的伽西莫多，向他发问道：“你为什么要救我？”
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他焦急不安地看着她，好象在猜她说了什么。她又问了一遍，于是他非常悲哀地看了她一眼就跑开去了。
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她惊讶地呆在那里。
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几分钟后他回来了，放了一包东西在她的脚前，那是好心的妇女给她放在教堂门槛上的一包衣服。于是她低头看看自己，发现自己差不多是光着身子，不由得脸红起来，生命回到她心头来了。
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伽西莫多似乎感到了她那种贞洁的羞怯，他用两只大手捂着眼睛，又一次走了开去，不过走得很慢。
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她连忙穿上衣服，那是一件白色长袍和一块白头巾，是大医院新到的病人的服装。
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她刚刚穿好衣服，就看见伽西莫多走回来了。他一只胳膊上挂着一只篮子，另一只胳膊抱着一床垫褥，篮里有一个瓶、几块面包和另外几种食物。
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他把篮子放在地上，说道：“吃吧。”他把褥垫铺在地上，说道：“睡吧。”
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原来敲钟人把自己的食物和自己的床褥给她送来了。
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埃及姑娘抬起眼睛看着他，想表示感谢，可是她一句话也说不出来。那可怜人的确生得太可怕了，她恐惧地战栗着低下了头。
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于是他说道：“我吓着你啦。我很丑，不是吗？可别看着我，只要听我说话就行了。白天你就待在这里，晚上你可以在整座教堂里散步。可是不管白天还是黑夜，都不要走出教堂一步，一出去你就会遭殃，人们会把你杀死，我也就只有死去。”
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她感动了，抬起头来想回答他，他已经走掉了。她又是独自一人，想着那几乎象怪物一般的人刚才说的话，他的声音虽然嘶哑却相当温柔，这使她感到惊奇。
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随后她仔细看着那间小屋。那是一个大约六呎见方的小房间，有一个小窗洞和一扇门朝向略微倾斜的石板屋顶，几个雕刻着怪兽脑袋的水槽好象在四周弯着腰伸着脖子，从窗洞口向她张望。她从屋顶边上看见成千根高高的烟囱，在她的眼睛底下冒出巴黎所有人家炉灶里的炊烟。那可怜的埃及姑娘，那判了死刑的弃儿，那没有故乡，没有家，没有炉灶的不幸的人，看见这个景象心里十分难过。
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正当她这样比一向都更厉害地对自己孤苦伶仃的身世感叹的时候，她觉得有一个毛茸茸的有胡须的脑袋从她的手中滑过，滑到了她的膝头。她战栗着（现在一切都令她惊怕）看了一眼，原来是那只牝羊，那机灵的加里，它在伽西莫多驱散了沙尔莫吕的队伍的当儿也跟着她逃来了，在她的脚前已经抚慰她快一个钟头，却没有看到她看它一眼。埃及姑娘连连亲吻它。“啊，加里，”她说道，“我怎么把你忘掉啦！可是你还惦记着我！啊，你并不是忘恩负义的。”同时，好象有一只看不见的手，把那长久将她的眼泪压制在心里的东西拿开了，她哭泣起来。当她的眼泪流下来的时候，她觉得好象她最辛酸最沉重的痛苦也跟着眼泪流去了。
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黄昏来到了，她觉得夜晚是这样美好，月亮是这样温柔，便在绕着教堂的高高的楼廊上走了一圈。她从中得到了安慰，觉得从那么高的地方望去，大地是多么宁静可爱。
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Every city during the Middle Ages, and every city in France down to the time of Louis XII. had its places of asylum. These sanctuaries, in the midst of the deluge of penal and barbarous jurisdictions which inundated the city, were a species of islands which rose above the level of human justice. Every criminal who landed there was safe. There were in every suburb almost as many places of asylum as gallows. It was the abuse of impunity by the side of the abuse of punishment; two bad things which strove to correct each other. The palaces of the king, the hotels of the princes, and especially churches, possessed the right of asylum. Sometimes a whole city which stood in need of being repeopled was temporarily created a place of refuge. Louis XI. made all Paris a refuge in 1467.
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His foot once within the asylum, the criminal was sacred; but he must beware of leaving it; one step outside the sanctuary, and he fell back into the flood. The wheel, the gibbet, the strappado, kept good guard around the place of refuge, and lay in watch incessantly for their prey, like sharks around a vessel. Hence, condemned men were to be seen whose hair had grown white in a cloister, on the steps of a palace, in the enclosure of an abbey, beneath the porch of a church; in this manner the asylum was a prison as much as any other. It sometimes happened that a solemn decree of parliament violated the asylum and restored the condemned man to the executioner; but this was of rare occurrence. Parliaments were afraid of the bishops, and when there was friction between these two robes, the gown had but a poor chance against the cassock. Sometimes, however, as in the affair of the assassins of Petit-Jean, the headsman of Paris, and in that of Emery Rousseau, the murderer of Jean Valleret, justice overleaped the church and passed on to the execution of its sentences; but unless by virtue of a decree of Parliament, woe to him who violated a place of asylum with armed force! The reader knows the manner of death of Robert de Clermont, marshal of France, and of Jean de Chalons, Marshal of Champagne; and yet the question was only of a certain Perrin Marc, the clerk of a money-changer, a miserable assassin; but the two marshals had broken the doors of St. Méry. Therein lay the enormity.
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Such respect was cherished for places of refuge that, according to tradition, animals even felt it at times. Aymoire relates that a stag, being chased by Dagobert, having taken refuge near the tomb of Saint-Denis, the pack of hounds stopped short and barked.
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Churches generally had a small apartment prepared for the reception of supplicants. In 1407, Nicolas Flamel caused to be built on the vaults of Saint-Jacques de la Boucherie, a chamber which cost him four livres six sous, sixteen farthings, parisis.
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At Notre-Dame it was a tiny cell situated on the roof of the side aisle, beneath the flying buttresses, precisely at the spot where the wife of the present janitor of the towers has made for herself a garden, which is to the hanging gardens of Babylon what a lettuce is to a palm-tree, what a porter’s wife is to a Semiramis.
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It was here that Quasimodo had deposited la Esmeralda, after his wild and triumphant course. As long as that course lasted, the young girl had been unable to recover her senses, half unconscious, half awake, no longer feeling anything, except that she was mounting through the air, floating in it, flying in it, that something was raising her above the earth. From time to time she heard the loud laughter, the noisy voice of Quasimodo in her ear; she half opened her eyes; then below her she confusedly beheld Paris checkered with its thousand roofs of slate and tiles, like a red and blue mosaic, above her head the frightful and joyous face of Quasimodo. Then her eyelids drooped again; she thought that all was over, that they had executed her during her swoon, and that the misshapen spirit which had presided over her destiny, had laid hold of her and was bearing her away. She dared not look at him, and she surrendered herself to her fate. But when the bellringer, dishevelled and panting, had deposited her in the cell of refuge, when she felt his huge hands gently detaching the cord which bruised her arms, she felt that sort of shock which awakens with a start the passengers of a vessel which runs aground in the middle of a dark night. Her thoughts awoke also, and returned to her one by one. She saw that she was in Notre-Dame; she remembered having been torn from the hands of the executioner; that Phoebus was alive, that Phoebus loved her no longer; and as these two ideas, one of which shed so much bitterness over the other, presented themselves simultaneously to the poor condemned girl; she turned to Quasimodo, who was standing in front of her, and who terrified her; she said to him,--"Why have you saved me?"
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He gazed at her with anxiety, as though seeking to divine what she was saying to him. She repeated her question. Then he gave her a profoundly sorrowful glance and fled. She was astonished.
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A few moments later he returned, bearing a package which he cast at her feet. It was clothing which some charitable women had left on the threshold of the church for her.
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Then she dropped her eyes upon herself and saw that she was almost naked, and blushed. Life had returned.
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Quasimodo appeared to experience something of this modesty. He covered his eyes with his large hand and retired once more, but slowly.
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She made haste to dress herself. The robe was a white one with a white veil,--the garb of a novice of the H?tel-Dien.
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She had barely finished when she beheld Quasimodo returning. He carried a basket under one arm and a mattress under the other. In the basket there was a bottle, bread, and some provisions. He set the basket on the floor and said, "Eat!" He spread the mattress on the flagging and said, "Sleep."
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It was his own repast, it was his own bed, which the bellringer had gone in search of.
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The gypsy raised her eyes to thank him, but she could not articulate a word. She dropped her head with a quiver of terror.
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Then he said to her. -
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"I frighten you. I am very ugly, am I not? Do not look at me; only listen to me. During the day you will remain here; at night you can walk all over the church. But do not leave the church either by day or by night. You would be lost. They would kill you, and I should die."
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She was touched and raised her head to answer him. He had disappeared. She found herself alone once more, meditating upon the singular words of this almost monstrous being, and struck by the sound of his voice, which was so hoarse yet so gentle.
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Then she examined her cell. It was a chamber about six feet square, with a small window and a door on the slightly sloping plane of the roof formed of flat stones. Many gutters with the figures of animals seemed to be bending down around her, and stretching their necks in order to stare at her through the window. Over the edge of her roof she perceived the tops of thousands of chimneys which caused the smoke of all the fires in Paris to rise beneath her eyes. A sad sight for the poor gypsy, a foundling, condemned to death, an unhappy creature, without country, without family, without a hearthstone.
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At the moment when the thought of her isolation thus appeared to her more poignant than ever, she felt a bearded and hairy head glide between her hands, upon her knees. She started (everything alarmed her now) and looked. It was the poor goat, the agile Djali, which had made its escape after her, at the moment when Quasimodo had put to flight Charmolue’s brigade, and which had been lavishing caresses on her feet for nearly an hour past, without being able to win a glance. The gypsy covered him with kisses.
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"Oh! Djali!" she said, "how I have forgotten thee! And so thou still thinkest of me! Oh! thou art not an ingrate!"
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At the same time, as though an invisible hand had lifted the weight which had repressed her tears in her heart for so long, she began to weep, and, in proportion as her tears flowed, she felt all that was most acrid and bitter in her grief depart with them.
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Evening came, she thought the night so beautiful that she made the circuit of the elevated gallery which surrounds the church. It afforded her some relief, so calm did the earth appear when viewed from that height.
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