第一百二十七章 卷九 修女帽下的一个世纪
卷九 修女帽下的一个世纪
既然我们正在详细叙述小比克布斯修院往昔的情况，又因我们已冒昧地打开了那扇隐修之所的窗户，请允许读者再容忍一次小小离题，这虽与本书完全无关，却颇具特色，且不无裨益——因为它能证明，即使在修道院中也不乏独特的人物。
在小修院里，有一位来自丰特夫罗修道院的老寿星，已年过百岁。她在革命前甚至还在社交界待过。她常常谈起路易十六治下的掌玺大臣米罗梅尼尔先生，以及一位与她过从甚密的杜普拉庭长夫人。她以此为乐，也以此为荣，总找各种借口提起这些名字。她津津乐道于丰特夫罗修道院的奇观，说它像一座城市，修院里甚至有街道。
她说话带着皮卡第口音，惹得修女们忍俊不禁。每年，她都会郑重地重申自己的誓愿，在宣誓的那一刻，她对神父说："圣方济各大人将它传给圣朱利安大人，圣朱利安大人传给圣尤西比乌斯大人，圣尤西比乌斯大人传给圣普罗科皮乌斯大人，等等，等等；因此，父亲，我也这样将它献给您。" 于是女学生们便开始笑起来，不是在袖子里，而是在面纱下；这种被压抑住的迷人轻笑，常引得训导嬷嬷们蹙起眉头。
还有一次，那位百岁老人讲起故事来。她说，在她年轻的时候，贝尔纳修会的修士们一点也不比火枪手逊色。她代表了整整一个世纪在说话，那便是十八世纪。她讲起了革命前在香槟地区和勃艮第地区流行的"四种酒"的习俗。每当一位大人物——法兰西元帅、亲王、公爵兼贵族院议员——途经勃艮第或香槟的某个城镇时，市政官员便会列队出来向他致贺词，并献上四只银制的高脚船形杯，里面盛着四种不同的酒。第一只酒杯上刻着"猴酒"；第二只上刻着"狮酒"；第三只上刻着"羊酒"；第四只上刻着"猪酒"。这四种铭文象征着酗酒者堕落的四个阶段：第一阶段是令人兴奋的醉意；第二阶段是令人暴躁的醉意；第三阶段是令人迟钝的醉意；第四阶段是令人兽化的醉意。
她有一个上了锁的神秘物件，存放在柜子里，视若珍宝。丰特夫罗的会规并不禁止此事。她从不把这个东西拿给任何人看。每次她想端详它时，便会把自己锁在房里（这是会规允许的），躲藏起来。如果她听到走廊里有脚步声，便会用那双苍老的手，尽可能迅速地把柜子重新关上。一旦有人向她问起，她便会缄默不语——她本是那么健谈的人啊。最好奇的人被她的沉默所挫败，最执拗的人也为她的顽固所难倒。于是，这件事成了修院中所有无所事事或感到无聊之人的谈资。这位百岁老人那件既珍贵又神秘的宝物，究竟是什么呢？无疑是一本圣书？一串与众不同的念珠？一件确凿的圣物？大家百思不得其解。待到这位可怜的老太太去世时，大家怀着或许有些过于急迫的心情冲向她的柜子，将它打开。他们在三层亚麻布下面找到了那个物件，就像供奉圣体用的圣盘一样。那是一个法恩扎产的盘子，上面描绘着小爱神们飞走，却被一群手持巨大注射器的药剂师学徒追赶的景象。这场追逐中充满了鬼脸和滑稽姿态。其中一位迷人的小爱神已经被稳稳地刺中了。他挣扎着，拍打着小小的翅膀，仍想飞走，但那个丹德诺式的家伙却带着魔鬼般的笑意。寓意是：爱情被腹痛征服了。这个盘子非常奇特，甚至可能为莫里哀提供过灵感；直到一八四五年九月它还在世，由博马舍大道上的一位旧货商出售。
这位善良的老太太不肯接待外客，"因为"，她说，"会客室太阴暗了。"
Since we are engaged in giving details as to what the convent of the
Petit-Picpus was in former times, and since we have ventured to open a
window on that discreet retreat, the reader will permit us one other
little digression, utterly foreign to this book, but characteristic and
useful, since it shows that the cloister even has its original figures.
In the Little Convent there was a centenarian who came from the Abbey
of Fontevrault. She had even been in society before the Revolution. She
talked a great deal of M. de Miromesnil, Keeper of the Seals under
Louis XVI. and of a Presidentess Duplat, with whom she had been very
intimate. It was her pleasure and her vanity to drag in these names on
every pretext. She told wonders of the Abbey of Fontevrault,—that it
was like a city, and that there were streets in the monastery.
She talked with a Picard accent which amused the pupils. Every year,
she solemnly renewed her vows, and at the moment of taking the oath,
she said to the priest, “Monseigneur Saint-François gave it to
Monseigneur Saint-Julien, Monseigneur Saint-Julien gave it to
Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius, Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius gave it to
Monseigneur Saint-Procopius, etc., etc.; and thus I give it to you,
father.” And the school-girls would begin to laugh, not in their
sleeves, but under their veils; charming little stifled laughs which
made the vocal mothers frown.
On another occasion, the centenarian was telling stories. She said that
_in her youth the Bernardine monks were every whit as good as the
mousquetaires_. It was a century which spoke through her, but it was
the eighteenth century. She told about the custom of the four wines,
which existed before the Revolution in Champagne and Bourgogne. When a
great personage, a marshal of France, a prince, a duke, and a peer,
traversed a town in Burgundy or Champagne, the city fathers came out to
harangue him and presented him with four silver gondolas into which
they had poured four different sorts of wine. On the first goblet this
inscription could be read, _monkey wine_; on the second, _lion wine_;
on the third, _sheep wine_; on the fourth, _hog wine_. These four
legends express the four stages descended by the drunkard; the first,
intoxication, which enlivens; the second, that which irritates; the
third, that which dulls; and the fourth, that which brutalizes.
In a cupboard, under lock and key, she kept a mysterious object of
which she thought a great deal. The rule of Fontevrault did not forbid
this. She would not show this object to anyone. She shut herself up,
which her rule allowed her to do, and hid herself, every time that she
desired to contemplate it. If she heard a footstep in the corridor, she
closed the cupboard again as hastily as it was possible with her aged
hands. As soon as it was mentioned to her, she became silent, she who
was so fond of talking. The most curious were baffled by her silence
and the most tenacious by her obstinacy. Thus it furnished a subject of
comment for all those who were unoccupied or bored in the convent. What
could that treasure of the centenarian be, which was so precious and so
secret? Some holy book, no doubt? Some unique chaplet? Some authentic
relic? They lost themselves in conjectures. When the poor old woman
died, they rushed to her cupboard more hastily than was fitting,
perhaps, and opened it. They found the object beneath a triple linen
cloth, like some consecrated paten. It was a Faenza platter
representing little Loves flitting away pursued by apothecary lads
armed with enormous syringes. The chase abounds in grimaces and in
comical postures. One of the charming little Loves is already fairly
spitted. He is resisting, fluttering his tiny wings, and still making
an effort to fly, but the dancer is laughing with a satanical air.
Moral: Love conquered by the colic. This platter, which is very
curious, and which had, possibly, the honor of furnishing Molière with
an idea, was still in existence in September, 1845; it was for sale by
a bric-à-brac merchant in the Boulevard Beaumarchais.
This good old woman would not receive any visits from outside
_because_, said she, the _parlor is too gloomy_.
