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巴黎圣母院|Notre-Dame de Paris
Book 9 Chapter 5 The Key To The Red Door
属类：
双语小说
【分类】世界名著
-[作者: 维克多-雨果]
阅读：[34158]
Book 9 Chapter 5 The Key To The Red Door
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当时，群众的传闻使副主教知道了埃及姑娘如何在奇迹般的情况中被救走的事。知道了这件事之后，他不明白自己对它究竟有什么想法。他本来确信拉·爱斯梅拉达已经死去，这样他倒也平静了，因为他已经经受了最大的痛苦。人的心（堂·克洛德深深思考过这些问题）只容得下一定程度的绝望，海绵已经吸够了水，即使大海从它上面流过，也不能再给它增添一滴水了。
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拉·爱斯梅拉达死了，海绵吸够了水，在世上，一切对于克洛德都已成为过去。可是知道她还活着，弗比斯也还活着，痛苦又重新开了头，又开始震撼他，又要反复出现和发展，不过克洛德对于这一切都已经疲倦了。
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他知道这个消息以后，就把自己关闭在修道院自己的那间小屋内，不出席全体教士大会，也不参加日常的办公，他对谁都闭门不纳，哪怕是主教来也一样。他这样连续把自己囚禁了几个星期，大家都以为他病了，他也的确是生着病。
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他这样关在房间里干些什么呢？那倒霉的副主教在哪些念头里挣扎？他是否在同可怕的热情进行最后一次斗争？他是否在安排让那姑娘死去并且也让自己毁灭的计划？
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他的若望，他亲爱的弟弟，他娇惯的孩子，有一次来到他的门口，上十遍地敲门，咒骂，恳求和通报自己的名字，克洛德还是不肯开门。
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他成天把脸贴在玻璃窗上，从修道院这间房的窗子上，他看得见拉·爱斯梅拉达的房间，他常常看见她同她的羊儿在一起，有时同伽西莫多在一起。
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他注意到那可恨的聋子对埃及姑娘小心顺从，态度又可敬又崇高。他的记忆力很好，而记忆正是制造妒嫉的材料。他记得某个傍晚曾经看见那敲钟人温柔地望着那跳舞的姑娘，他寻思是什么动机促使伽西莫多去救她。他亲眼看见那个流浪姑娘同那聋子之间的成千个小插曲，那些从远处看到并且由他的热情加添了注解的哑剧，使他感到是异常温柔。他对女人奇特的性格不放心，他模糊地感到自己心里产生了一种意想不到的妒嫉，一种使他因羞耻和愤怒而脸红的妒嫉。“那个队长还说得过去，可是这一个呀！”这想法使他迷惑不解。
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那些夜晚他过得真骇人，自从知道那埃及姑娘还活着，一度纠缠过他的关于鬼魂和坟墓的念头就完全消失了，肉体又来统治着他。一想到那肤色浅褐的姑娘离他这么近，他就在床上辗转不眠。
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每天晚上，那疯狂的想象力把各种姿态的爱斯梅拉达呈现在他的眼前，使他筋脉膨胀。他看见她朝着那受伤的队长躺着，两眼紧闭，裸露的胸脯上溅满了弗比斯的血，他自己极其幸福地在她苍白的嘴唇上印下了一个吻，那不幸的姑娘当时虽已经半死不活，但也感觉到那火烫的接触。他看见施刑人粗暴地脱掉她的鞋袜，把她赤裸的小脚、秀丽圆润的腿和雪白柔软的膝头放进铁靴里去。他还看见只有那象牙色的膝盖没有被刑具遮住。最后他又想象那个姑娘穿着衬衣，脖子上套着绳子，袒露着肩膀，赤着脚，几乎等于全身赤裸着，象他在那罪恶的一夜看见的样子。这些形象使他捏紧拳头，全身一阵颤抖。
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有一个夜晚，这些形象十分厉害地使他脉管里全部童男和神甫的血液都沸腾起来，以至他狠命去咬枕头，接着他跳下床，披了一件袈裟在衬衣外面，从小屋里走出来，手里拿着灯，身子差不多半裸着，一副惊惊慌慌的样子，眼睛里闪着火一般的光。
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他知道在什么地方可以找到从修道院通向教堂的那道红门的钥匙，而且，众所周知，他是经常带着一把钟塔扶梯的钥匙的。
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In the meantime, public minor had informed the archdeacon of the miraculous manner in which the gypsy had been saved. When he learned it, he knew not what his sensations were. He had reconciled himself to la Esmeralda’s death. In that matter he was tranquil; he had reached the bottom of personal suffering. The human heart (Dora Claude had meditated upon these matters) can contain only a certain quantity of despair. When the sponge is saturated, the sea may pass over it without causing a single drop more to enter it.
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Now, with la Esmeralda dead, the sponge was soaked, all was at an end on this earth for Dom Claude. But to feel that she was alive, and Phoebus also, meant that tortures, shocks, alternatives, life, were beginning again. And Claude was weary of all this.
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When he heard this news, he shut himself in his cell in the cloister. He appeared neither at the meetings of the chapter nor at the services. He closed his door against all, even against the bishop. He remained thus immured for several weeks. He was believed to be ill. And so he was, in fact.
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What did he do while thus shut up? With what thoughts was the unfortunate man contending? Was he giving final battle to his formidable passion? Was he concocting a final plan of death for her and of perdition for himself?
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His Jehan, his cherished brother, his spoiled child, came once to his door, knocked, swore, entreated, gave his name half a score of times. Claude did not open.
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He passed whole days with his face close to the panes of his window. From that window, situated in the cloister, he could see la Esmeralda’s chamber. He often saw herself with her goat, sometimes with Quasimodo. He remarked the little attentions of the ugly deaf man, his obedience, his delicate and submissive ways with the gypsy. He recalled, for he had a good memory, and memory is the tormentor of the jealous, he recalled the singular look of the bellringer, bent on the dancer upon a certain evening. He asked himself what motive could have impelled Quasimodo to save her. He was the witness of a thousand little scenes between the gypsy and the deaf man, the pantomime of which, viewed from afar and commented on by his passion, appeared very tender to him. He distrusted the capriciousness of women. Then he felt a jealousy which be could never have believed possible awakening within him, a jealousy which made him redden with shame and indignation: "One might condone the captain, but this one!" This thought upset him.
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His nights were frightful. As soon as he learned that the gypsy was alive, the cold ideas of spectre and tomb which had persecuted him for a whole day vanished, and the flesh returned to goad him. He turned and twisted on his couch at the thought that the dark-skinned maiden was so near him.
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Every night his delirious imagination represented la Esmeralda to him in all the attitudes which had caused his blood to boil most. He beheld her outstretched upon the poniarded captain, her eyes closed, her beautiful bare throat covered with Phoebus’s blood, at that moment of bliss when the archdeacon had imprinted on her pale lips that kiss whose burn the unhappy girl, though half dead, had felt. He beheld her, again, stripped by the savage hands of the torturers, allowing them to bare and to enclose in the boot with its iron screw, her tiny foot, her delicate rounded leg, her white and supple knee. Again he beheld that ivory knee which alone remained outside of Torterue’s horrible apparatus. Lastly, he pictured the young girl in her shift, with the rope about her neck, shoulders bare, feet bare, almost nude, as he had seen her on that last day. These images of voluptuousness made him clench his fists, and a shiver run along his spine.
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One night, among others, they heated so cruelly his virgin and priestly blood, that he bit his pillow, leaped from his bed, flung on a surplice over his shirt, and left his cell, lamp in hand, half naked, wild, his eyes aflame.
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He knew where to find the key to the red door, which connected the cloister with the church, and he always had about him, as the reader knows, the key of the staircase leading to the towers.
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