第十章 特许马车每小时两法郎
马吕斯对这一幕幕情景丝毫没有遗漏，但事实上他却什么也没看见。他的目光始终盯着那年轻姑娘，可以说，从她踏进那间破屋的第一步起，他的心就牢牢地抓住了她，完全把她包围了起来。她呆在那里的整个时间里，他一直沉浸在那种欣喜若狂的生活中，这种生活能使物质感官停止活动，而把整个灵魂都倾注在一个焦点上。他凝视的并非那个女孩，而是那团披着缎面披风、戴着天鹅绒帽子的光芒。即使天狼星走进房间，他也不会更眼花缭乱了。
当那年轻姑娘打开包裹，摊开衣物和毯子，亲切地询问生病的母亲和温柔地安慰受伤的小女孩时，他注视着她的每一个动作，竭力捕捉她的话语。他知道她的眼睛、她的额头、她的美貌、她的体态、她的步态，却不知道她声音的韵味。他曾在卢森堡公园隐约听到过她的几句话，但不太确定。为了能听见她的声音，他愿意付出十年的生命，好让他能把这音乐的些许带进他的灵魂里。然而，这一切都被容德雷特那令人悲叹的呼喊和喇叭般的吼叫声淹没了。这使马吕斯的狂喜中增添了一种真正的愤怒。他目光贪婪地注视着她。他不敢相信，自己真的在这个肮脏的魔窟中，在那些卑劣的人中间，看到了这个神圣的造物。在他看来，这就像在蟾蜍中间看到了一只看不见的蜂鸟。
她离开时，他只有一个念头：跟随她，紧紧抓住她的踪迹，直到弄清她住在哪里，绝不再次失去她，至少在他如此神奇地重新发现她之后。他从五斗柜上跳下来，抓起帽子。他的手刚搭上门锁，正要开门时，一个突然的念头使他停住了。走廊很长，楼梯很陡，容德雷特爱说话，白先生无疑还没回到他的马车；如果他在走廊或楼梯上转过身来，发现马吕斯在这栋房子里，他显然会起疑心，设法再次摆脱他，而这一次就彻底完了。他该怎么办？等一会儿？但在他等待的时候，马车可能已经开走了。马吕斯犹豫不决。最后，他冒险离开了房间。
走廊里空无一人。他冲向楼梯。楼梯上也没人。他飞快地跑下楼，到达大街上时，正好看见一辆出租马车转过小银行家街的街角，朝巴黎方向驶去。
马吕斯朝那个方向不顾一切地冲去。到达大街拐角时，他又看见了那辆出租马车，正急速驶下穆夫达街；马车已经走出很远，无法追上了；怎么办？追上去？不可能；再说，车上的人肯定会注意到一个拼命追赶马车的人，那父亲会认出他的。就在这时，神奇而前所未有地走运，马吕斯看到一辆空出租马车正沿着大街驶过。只有一件事可做：跳上这辆马车，跟踪那辆出租马车。这办法稳妥有效，而且没有危险。
马吕斯朝车夫打了个手势，让他停下，喊道：“按小时计费？”
“嗯？”
马吕斯没系领带，穿着他那件没了纽扣的工作服，衬衫胸前的褶子也撕破了一处。
车夫停下车，眨眨眼，向马吕斯伸出左手，拇指轻轻摩擦食指。
“什么事？”马吕斯问。
“先付钱，”车夫说。
马吕斯想起自己身上只有十六个苏。
“多少钱？”他问。
“四十苏。”
“我回来再付。”
“哼！”
车夫唯一的回答是吹起《拉帕利斯》的调子，然后一甩鞭子赶马走了。
马吕斯茫然地望着远去的马车。仅仅因为缺了二十四个苏，他就失去了他的欢乐、他的幸福、他的爱情！他看见了，却又要再次变成瞎子。他痛苦地思考着，必须承认，他深感惋惜地想到他那天早上给了那个可怜女孩的五法郎。要是他有那五法郎，他就得救了，就能重获新生，就能走出迷茫和黑暗，就能摆脱孤独、忧郁和鳏居状态；他就可能将他那黑色的命运之线，重新系到那根美丽的金色丝线上，那根丝线刚刚在他眼前飘过，又立刻断了，再一次断了！他绝望地回到了他的陋室。
他本可以告诉自己，白先生答应晚上再来，他只需把事情安排得更加巧妙，以便到时候跟踪他；但在他那种出神状态下，他是否听到了这句话很值得怀疑。
就在他要上楼时，他看见大街对面，靠近通往戈布兰关口街的那段荒芜的围墙旁，容德雷特裹着那位“慈善家”的大衣，正和一个男人交谈。那男人一脸令人不安的神情，被公众一致称为“关卡流窜犯”；这种人面目可疑，独白可疑，一副心术不正的样子，通常白天睡觉，这暗示他们晚上活动。
这两个人站在那儿，一动不动，在漫天飞舞的雪中交谈，形成了一组警察肯定会注意到的景象，但马吕斯几乎没留意。
不过，尽管他心事重重，还是忍不住对自己说，这个和容德雷特交谈的关卡流窜犯，很像一个名叫潘肖，别名普兰塔尼尔，别名比格雷纳耶的人，古费拉克曾向他指出，那是个十分危险的夜间游荡者。这个人的名字，读者在本书前面已经知道了。这个潘肖，别名普兰塔尼尔，别名比格雷纳耶，后来出现在许多刑事审判中，成了一个臭名昭著的恶棍。当时他不过是个大名鼎鼎的流氓。如今，他在歹徒和杀人犯中已成为一种传奇。在上一朝代的末期，他是某个帮派的头目。每到晚上，在夜幕降临时分，当人们三两成群、低声交谈的时候，人们在拉福斯监狱的狮子坑里讨论他。甚至在那所监狱里，就在一八四三年三十名囚犯在大白天进行那次史无前例的越狱时所用的下水道穿过拱形通道的那个地方，还能看到他的名字PANCHAUD，那是他某次越狱时亲手刻在下水道墙上的，刻得十分大胆。一八三二年，警方已经盯上了他，但他那时还没有开始干真正的坏事。
Marius had lost nothing of this entire scene, and yet, in reality, had
seen nothing. His eyes had remained fixed on the young girl, his heart
had, so to speak, seized her and wholly enveloped her from the moment
of her very first step in that garret. During her entire stay there, he
had lived that life of ecstasy which suspends material perceptions and
precipitates the whole soul on a single point. He contemplated, not
that girl, but that light which wore a satin pelisse and a velvet
bonnet. The star Sirius might have entered the room, and he would not
have been any more dazzled.
While the young girl was engaged in opening the package, unfolding the
clothing and the blankets, questioning the sick mother kindly, and the
little injured girl tenderly, he watched her every movement, he sought
to catch her words. He knew her eyes, her brow, her beauty, her form,
her walk, he did not know the sound of her voice. He had once fancied
that he had caught a few words at the Luxembourg, but he was not
absolutely sure of the fact. He would have given ten years of his life
to hear it, in order that he might bear away in his soul a little of
that music. But everything was drowned in the lamentable exclamations
and trumpet bursts of Jondrette. This added a touch of genuine wrath to
Marius’ ecstasy. He devoured her with his eyes. He could not believe
that it really was that divine creature whom he saw in the midst of
those vile creatures in that monstrous lair. It seemed to him that he
beheld a humming-bird in the midst of toads.
When she took her departure, he had but one thought, to follow her, to
cling to her trace, not to quit her until he learned where she lived,
not to lose her again, at least, after having so miraculously
re-discovered her. He leaped down from the commode and seized his hat.
As he laid his hand on the lock of the door, and was on the point of
opening it, a sudden reflection caused him to pause. The corridor was
long, the staircase steep, Jondrette was talkative, M. Leblanc had, no
doubt, not yet regained his carriage; if, on turning round in the
corridor, or on the staircase, he were to catch sight of him, Marius,
in that house, he would, evidently, take the alarm, and find means to
escape from him again, and this time it would be final. What was he to
do? Should he wait a little? But while he was waiting, the carriage
might drive off. Marius was perplexed. At last he accepted the risk and
quitted his room.
There was no one in the corridor. He hastened to the stairs. There was
no one on the staircase. He descended in all haste, and reached the
boulevard in time to see a fiacre turning the corner of the Rue du
Petit-Banquier, on its way back to Paris.
Marius rushed headlong in that direction. On arriving at the angle of
the boulevard, he caught sight of the fiacre again, rapidly descending
the Rue Mouffetard; the carriage was already a long way off, and there
was no means of overtaking it; what! run after it? Impossible; and
besides, the people in the carriage would assuredly notice an
individual running at full speed in pursuit of a fiacre, and the father
would recognize him. At that moment, wonderful and unprecedented good
luck, Marius perceived an empty cab passing along the boulevard. There
was but one thing to be done, to jump into this cab and follow the
fiacre. That was sure, efficacious, and free from danger.
Marius made the driver a sign to halt, and called to him:—
“By the hour?”
Marius wore no cravat, he had on his working-coat, which was destitute
of buttons, his shirt was torn along one of the plaits on the bosom.
The driver halted, winked, and held out his left hand to Marius,
rubbing his forefinger gently with his thumb.
“What is it?” said Marius.
“Pay in advance,” said the coachman.
Marius recollected that he had but sixteen sous about him.
“How much?” he demanded.
“Forty sous.”
“I will pay on my return.”
The driver’s only reply was to whistle the air of La Palisse and to
whip up his horse.
Marius stared at the retreating cabriolet with a bewildered air. For
the lack of four and twenty sous, he was losing his joy, his happiness,
his love! He had seen, and he was becoming blind again. He reflected
bitterly, and it must be confessed, with profound regret, on the five
francs which he had bestowed, that very morning, on that miserable
girl. If he had had those five francs, he would have been saved, he
would have been born again, he would have emerged from the limbo and
darkness, he would have made his escape from isolation and spleen, from
his widowed state; he might have re-knotted the black thread of his
destiny to that beautiful golden thread, which had just floated before
his eyes and had broken at the same instant, once more! He returned to
his hovel in despair.
He might have told himself that M. Leblanc had promised to return in
the evening, and that all he had to do was to set about the matter more
skilfully, so that he might follow him on that occasion; but, in his
contemplation, it is doubtful whether he had heard this.
As he was on the point of mounting the staircase, he perceived, on the
other side of the boulevard, near the deserted wall skirting the Rue De
la Barrière-des-Gobelins, Jondrette, wrapped in the “philanthropist’s”
great-coat, engaged in conversation with one of those men of
disquieting aspect who have been dubbed by common consent, _prowlers of
the barriers_; people of equivocal face, of suspicious monologues, who
present the air of having evil minds, and who generally sleep in the
daytime, which suggests the supposition that they work by night.
These two men, standing there motionless and in conversation, in the
snow which was falling in whirlwinds, formed a group that a policeman
would surely have observed, but which Marius hardly noticed.
Still, in spite of his mournful preoccupation, he could not refrain
from saying to himself that this prowler of the barriers with whom
Jondrette was talking resembled a certain Panchaud, alias Printanier,
alias Bigrenaille, whom Courfeyrac had once pointed out to him as a
very dangerous nocturnal roamer. This man’s name the reader has learned
in the preceding book. This Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias
Bigrenaille, figured later on in many criminal trials, and became a
notorious rascal. He was at that time only a famous rascal. To-day he
exists in the state of tradition among ruffians and assassins. He was
at the head of a school towards the end of the last reign. And in the
evening, at nightfall, at the hour when groups form and talk in
whispers, he was discussed at La Force in the Fosse-aux-Lions. One
might even, in that prison, precisely at the spot where the sewer which
served the unprecedented escape, in broad daylight, of thirty
prisoners, in 1843, passes under the culvert, read his name, PANCHAUD,
audaciously carved by his own hand on the wall of the sewer, during one
of his attempts at flight. In 1832, the police already had their eye on
him, but he had not as yet made a serious beginning.
