第二百三十二章 第四卷 马吕斯眼前的幽灵
第四卷 马吕斯眼前的幽灵
在马博夫农民家中那次“幽灵”来访后的几天里，有一个星期一——正是马吕斯向古费拉克借那一百苏给德纳第的那天——马吕斯把那枚钱币揣进口袋，在送去书记室之前，他先去“散了一小会儿步”，希望回来能好好干活。其实，他每天都这样。一起床，他就坐到一本书和一沓纸前，胡乱翻译点什么；他当时的工作是把德国人之间一场著名的争吵，即甘斯和萨维尼的论战，译成法文。他拿起萨维尼，又拿起甘斯，读了四行，试着写一行，写不出来，看见自己和纸之间有一颗星星，便从椅子上站起来，说：“我要出去走走。这样能让我精神焕发。”
于是他就去了云雀场。
在那儿，他看见星星比任何时候都多，而萨维尼和甘斯却比任何时候都少。
他回到家，试图重新干他的活，但干不下去；他大脑里断裂的线头没有一根能重新接上。于是他对自已说：“我明天不出去。这样会妨碍我工作。”但他每天都出去。
他住在云雀场的时间比在古费拉克家住的时间还多。那才是他真正的地址：健康大道，克鲁勒巴尔布街过来的第七棵树。
那天早上，他离开第七棵树，坐到了戈布兰河边的护栏上。和煦的阳光透过新绽开的闪亮树叶照下来。
他在想着“她”。而他的冥想变成了自责，又落回自己身上；他沮丧地想着自己的懒惰、精神的麻痹，这惰性正越来越占据他，想着他面前那越来越浓的夜色，浓到他连太阳都看不见了。
然而，在这种连独白都算不上的模糊思绪的痛苦解脱中，他的行动力已经如此微弱，连绝望的力气都没有了，在这种忧郁的专注中，外界的感受还是传到了他这里。他听见身后、脚下、河两岸，戈布兰的洗衣妇在捶打衣物，头顶上，鸟儿在榆树间叽叽喳喳地歌唱。一边是自由的声音、带翅膀的闲暇的无忧无虑的快乐；另一边是劳作的声音。让他深思，几乎陷入沉思的，是这两种欢快的声音。
忽然，在他沮丧的迷醉中，他听见一个熟悉的声音说：
“瞧！他在这儿！”
他抬起眼睛，认出了那个不幸的孩子，就是有天早上来找他的那个，德纳第家的大女儿，爱波妮；现在他知道她的名字了。奇怪的是，她变得更穷了，也更漂亮了，这两步似乎是走不出来的。她完成了双重的进步：走向光明，也走向苦难。她赤着脚，衣衫褴褛，就像那天她那样坚决地走进他房间时一样，只是现在她的破烂多了两个月的岁月，洞更大了，破布片更脏了。还是那粗犷的声音，那被晒黑并布满皱纹的额头，那自由、野性、游移不定的目光。而且，她脸上比从前更多了那种莫名的恐惧和哀伤，那是监狱生活给苦难增添的东西。
她头发里有稻草和干草屑，不像奥菲利娅那样是因为哈姆雷特的疯狂传染而发疯，而是因为她睡在某个马厩的阁楼上。
尽管如此，她还是美的。青春啊，你是何等的星辰！
这时，她停在马吕斯面前，苍白的脸上带着一丝喜悦，以及某种类似微笑的东西。
她站了一会儿，好像说不出话来。
“我终于找到你了！”她终于说，“马博夫老爹说得对，就是在这条林荫道上！我找了你多久啊！你要是知道就好！你知道吗？我坐过牢了。十五天！他们放我出来了，因为查不出我有什么罪，而且我还没到刑事责任年龄。我还差两个月就到了。哦！我找你找得好苦！这六个星期！你不住那儿了吧？”
“不在了，”马吕斯说。
“啊！我明白了。是因为那件事。那种抓人真讨厌。你搬走了。喂！你怎么戴这样旧的帽子！你这样的年轻人应该穿好衣服。你知道，马吕斯先生，马博夫老爹叫你‘马吕斯男爵’，我也不知道为什么。你不是男爵吧？男爵都是些老头，他们去卢森堡公园，城堡前面，太阳最足的地方，花一个苏买《每日新闻》看。我曾经给一个那样的男爵送过信。他一百多岁了。喂，你现在住哪儿？”
马吕斯没有回答。
“啊！”她接着说，“你衬衫上有个洞。我得给你缝上。”
她重新开口，脸上渐渐笼上阴影：
“你好像看见我不高兴。”
马吕斯默不作声；她停了一会儿，然后喊道：
“可是，只要我愿意，我还是能让你高兴起来！”
“什么？”马吕斯问，“你这是什么意思？”
“哼！你以前叫我‘你’的，”她反驳道。
“那好，你想说什么？”
她咬咬嘴唇；她似乎犹豫了，像是在进行某种内心斗争。最后她好像下了决心。
“算了，我不管了。你愁眉苦脸的，我想让你高兴。你只要答应我笑一笑就行。我想看见你笑，听见你说：‘哦，那太好了。’可怜的马吕斯先生！你知道吗？你答应过我要给我我想要的东西——”
“是啊！你尽管说！”
她直视着马吕斯的眼睛，说：
“我有地址了。”
马吕斯脸色苍白。所有的血都涌回了心脏。
“什么地址？”
“你要我弄到的地址！”
她好像很吃力地补充道：
“那个地址——你很清楚！”
“是的！”马吕斯结结巴巴地说。
“那小姐的地址。”
说出这个词，她深深地叹了口气。
马吕斯从坐着的护栏上跳下来，发疯般地抓住她的手。
“哦！好！带我去！告诉我！你要什么我都给你！在哪儿？”
“跟我来，”她回答，“我不太清楚是哪条街和门牌号；它完全在另一头，但我认识那房子，我带你去。”
她抽出手，用一种能让旁观者心碎、却丝毫没触动马吕斯那沉醉狂喜的心弦的语调继续说：
“哦！你多高兴啊！”
一片乌云掠过马吕斯的额头。他抓住爱波妮的胳膊：
“向我发誓一件事！”
“发誓！”她说，“那是什么意思？来吧！你要我发誓？”
她笑了起来。
“你父亲！答应我，爱波妮！向我发誓你不会把地址告诉你父亲！”
她转过身，一脸惊愕。
“爱波妮！你怎么知道我叫爱波妮？”
“答应我要求的！”
但她似乎没听见他的话。
“真好！你叫了我爱波妮！”
马吕斯同时抓住她的双臂。
“但你回答我呀，看在老天的份上！听着我对你说的话，向我发誓你不会把你知道的这个地址告诉你父亲！”
“我父亲！”她说，“啊，对，我父亲！你放心。他在隔离监禁。再说，我管我父亲干什么！”
“但你还没答应我！”马吕斯喊道。
“放开我！”她说着，爆发出一阵大笑，“你摇得我好厉害！好的！好的！我答应你！我向你发誓！这关我什么事？我不会告诉我父亲地址。行了吧？这样够了吗？”
“也不告诉任何人？”马吕斯说。
“不告诉任何人。”
“现在，”马吕斯接着说，“带我去。”
“马上？”
“马上。”
“走吧。啊！他多高兴啊！”她说。
走了几步，她停下来。
“你跟得太近了，马吕斯先生。让我走在前面，你跟着我，别让人看出来。像你这样的好青年不该跟我这样的女人走在一起。”
任何语言都无法表达这个孩子嘴里说出的“女人”这个词所蕴含的全部意味。
她走了十来步，又停下来；马吕斯赶上她。她侧着身子，不回头地对他说：
“对了，你知道你答应过我什么吗？”
马吕斯在口袋里摸索。他所有的一切就是准备付给德纳第老爹的那五法郎。他取出来放在爱波妮手里。
她松开手指，让钱币掉到地上，阴沉沉地看着他。
“我不要你的钱，”她说。
Some days after this visit of a “spirit” to Farmer Mabeuf, one
morning,—it was on a Monday, the day when Marius borrowed the
hundred-sou piece from Courfeyrac for Thénardier—Marius had put this
coin in his pocket, and before carrying it to the clerk’s office, he
had gone “to take a little stroll,” in the hope that this would make
him work on his return. It was always thus, however. As soon as he
rose, he seated himself before a book and a sheet of paper in order to
scribble some translation; his task at that epoch consisted in turning
into French a celebrated quarrel between Germans, the Gans and Savigny
controversy; he took Savigny, he took Gans, read four lines, tried to
write one, could not, saw a star between him and his paper, and rose
from his chair, saying: “I shall go out. That will put me in spirits.”
And off he went to the Lark’s meadow.
There he beheld more than ever the star, and less than ever Savigny and
Gans.
He returned home, tried to take up his work again, and did not succeed;
there was no means of re-knotting a single one of the threads which
were broken in his brain; then he said to himself: “I will not go out
to-morrow. It prevents my working.” And he went out every day.
He lived in the Lark’s meadow more than in Courfeyrac’s lodgings. That
was his real address: Boulevard de la Santé, at the seventh tree from
the Rue Croulebarbe.
That morning he had quitted the seventh tree and had seated himself on
the parapet of the River des Gobelins. A cheerful sunlight penetrated
the freshly unfolded and luminous leaves.
He was dreaming of “Her.” And his meditation turning to a reproach,
fell back upon himself; he reflected dolefully on his idleness, his
paralysis of soul, which was gaining on him, and of that night which
was growing more dense every moment before him, to such a point that he
no longer even saw the sun.
Nevertheless, athwart this painful extrication of indistinct ideas
which was not even a monologue, so feeble had action become in him, and
he had no longer the force to care to despair, athwart this melancholy
absorption, sensations from without did reach him. He heard behind him,
beneath him, on both banks of the river, the laundresses of the
Gobelins beating their linen, and above his head, the birds chattering
and singing in the elm-trees. On the one hand, the sound of liberty,
the careless happiness of the leisure which has wings; on the other,
the sound of toil. What caused him to meditate deeply, and almost
reflect, were two cheerful sounds.
All at once, in the midst of his dejected ecstasy, he heard a familiar
voice saying:—
“Come! Here he is!”
He raised his eyes, and recognized that wretched child who had come to
him one morning, the elder of the Thénardier daughters, Éponine; he
knew her name now. Strange to say, she had grown poorer and prettier,
two steps which it had not seemed within her power to take. She had
accomplished a double progress, towards the light and towards distress.
She was barefooted and in rags, as on the day when she had so
resolutely entered his chamber, only her rags were two months older
now, the holes were larger, the tatters more sordid. It was the same
harsh voice, the same brow dimmed and wrinkled with tan, the same free,
wild, and vacillating glance. She had besides, more than formerly, in
her face that indescribably terrified and lamentable something which
sojourn in a prison adds to wretchedness.
