第二四八章 六 老人必须及时出门
六 老人必须及时出门
黄昏时，冉阿让出门了，珂赛特动手梳妆。她按照最适宜的方式梳头，穿一件上衣，那上衣的领口由于剪裁稍稍过火，随领口斜线露出一部分颈窝，照姑娘们说来，是“有点不正经”。其实一点也不不正经，不过比平时漂亮些罢了。她这样打扮，自己也不知道为什么要这样。
她打算出门吗？不。
她在等待客人吗？不。
天黑了，她下楼到花园里去。杜桑正在厨房里忙着，那厨房朝着后院。
她在树枝下开始徘徊，有时用手拨开树枝，因为有几根枝子垂得很低。
这样，她走到了那条长凳跟前。
那石头还在原来的地方。
她坐下，温柔地把她的白手放在那块石头上，仿佛是抚摸和感谢它似的。
这时她忽然感觉到，她后面站着一个人，即使她没看见那人，也能感觉到。
她转过头，立起来。
是他。
他光着头。他显得消瘦苍白。几乎看不出他是穿着黑衣服。苍茫的暮色微微映出他清秀的额头，阴暗遮住他的眼睛。他脸上罩着一种无比温柔而又近乎死亡的色彩。他的面容被夕阳的余晖和行将离去的灵魂的思想照亮了。
他似乎还没有变成鬼，但已不是原来的人了。
他仿佛是从暮色里出现的。
他样子既高兴又谦卑，他把帽子扔在几步以外的树丛里，珂赛特虽然快要晕倒，但没有叫一声。她慢慢后退，因为她感到自己被吸引住了。他不动。她看不见他眼睛，但她感到一种无法形容的东西，一种不可言喻的忧郁把她包围了。
珂赛特后退时，碰到一棵树，她便靠在树上。要不是这棵树，她早就倒下了。
这时她听到他的声音，那她确实从没听到过的声音，它低得像树叶的沙沙声：“请原谅，我就在这儿。我心里太满了。我没法照原来那样活下去了，所以我来了。您看了我放在这长凳上的东西吗？您还能认出我来吗？请别怕我。您记得，您望我的那一天是在卢森堡公园里，那角斗士雕像的附近。还有您从我前面走过的一天，是六月十六和七月二日。快一年了。我已经很久没有见您。我问过出租椅子的妇人，她告诉我，她再也没有看见您。您住在西街，一幢新楼的第三层，您看，我知道！我跟您。我还能干什么呢？后来您不见了。有一回，我在奥德翁戏院的走廊里看报，看见您走过。我便跑去追。不对。是个戴同样帽子的人。到了晚上，我就到这里来。别怕，没有人看见我。我靠近来看看您的窗户。我走得很轻，免得您听见，要不您会害怕的。有一晚，我在您后面，您回过身，我便逃走了。还有一回，我听见您唱歌。我多幸福。我通过百叶窗听您唱歌，这不会使您不快吧？不会的，对吗？您明白，您是我的天使！让我来几次吧，我想我快要死了。您知道！我崇拜您！请您原谅，我跟您说话。我不知道我说了些什么，我大概惹您生气了；我让您生气了，是吗？”
“啊！妈妈！”她说。
她像要死过去似的软瘫了。
他把她搂住，她倒下了，他把她抱在怀里，紧紧搂着，自己却不知在做些什么。他踉踉跄跄地扶住她。他觉得他脑子里烟雾弥漫，电光闪闪；他的思想仿佛熄灭了；似乎他觉得这是在完成一桩宗教行为，而且犯了亵渎神明的罪。再说，他对这个可爱的女人丝毫没有欲念。他感到一种无法形容的爱。他心醉神迷地把她紧紧贴在胸口。
她拿起他的手，把它放在胸口。他感到放在那里的纸，他结结巴巴地说：“那么您爱我吗？”
她声音低得几乎听不见，气息犹如微风：“别说话！你知道！”
她把羞红的脸藏进那高傲而陶醉的青年的怀里。
他倒在长凳上，她待在他旁边。他们不再说话。星星开始闪烁。他们的嘴唇怎么相遇的呢？鸟雀怎么歌唱，雪花怎么消融，玫瑰怎么开放，五月怎么吐艳，黎明怎么在山巅颤巍巍的黑暗里泛白呢？
一个吻，就这样完了。
两人吃了一惊，在黑暗中睁着炯炯发亮的眼睛互相望着。
他们既感觉不到夜晚的凉意，也感觉不到石头的寒冷，更感觉不到土地的潮湿；他们相互望着，他们心里满是思绪。他们不知不觉地握着对方的手。
她没有问他，甚至也没有想过，他是从哪里进来的，他又是怎样进这花园的。她觉得他到这里来，那是极其自然的事！
马吕斯的膝头有时碰到珂赛特的膝头，两人觉得一阵战栗。
珂赛特偶尔结结巴巴地说上一句话。她的灵魂仿佛一片露珠，在她嘴上颤抖。
他们渐渐交谈起来。感情洋溢时，往往继缄默以倾诉，那是一种充实。夜静谧而璀璨。这两个纯洁如精灵的人，把他们的一切：他们的梦想，他们的狂喜，他们的狂喜，他们的幻觉，他们的沮丧，他们如何远距离互相崇拜，他们如何渴望互相倾诉，他们在见不到对方之后那种绝望，向对方倾泻。他们在理想化的亲密中，互相倾诉了最隐秘、最神秘的思想。他们以自己幻想的天真信仰，把他们心里所想到的一切：爱情、青春，和他们还保有的那一点点稚气，全都互相倾诉了。他们两人的心互相倾注，一刻钟以后，青年说出了少女的心，少女也说出了青年的心。他们互相渗透，互相陶醉，互相辉映。
当一切说完，她把头靠在他肩上，问他：“您叫什么名字？”
“我叫马吕斯，”他说，“您呢？”
“我叫珂赛特。”
When evening came, Jean Valjean went out; Cosette dressed herself. She
arranged her hair in the most becoming manner, and she put on a dress
whose bodice had received one snip of the scissors too much, and which,
through this slope, permitted a view of the beginning of her throat,
and was, as young girls say, “a trifle indecent.” It was not in the
least indecent, but it was prettier than usual. She made her toilet
thus without knowing why she did so.
Did she mean to go out? No.
Was she expecting a visitor? No.
At dusk, she went down to the garden. Toussaint was busy in her
kitchen, which opened on the back yard.
She began to stroll about under the trees, thrusting aside the branches
from time to time with her hand, because there were some which hung
very low.
In this manner she reached the bench.
The stone was still there.
She sat down, and gently laid her white hand on this stone as though
she wished to caress and thank it.
All at once, she experienced that indefinable impression which one
undergoes when there is some one standing behind one, even when she
does not see the person.
She turned her head and rose to her feet.
It was he.
His head was bare. He appeared to have grown thin and pale. His black
clothes were hardly discernible. The twilight threw a wan light on his
fine brow, and covered his eyes in shadows. Beneath a veil of
incomparable sweetness, he had something about him that suggested death
and night. His face was illuminated by the light of the dying day, and
by the thought of a soul that is taking flight.
He seemed to be not yet a ghost, and he was no longer a man.
He had flung away his hat in the thicket, a few paces distant.
Cosette, though ready to swoon, uttered no cry. She retreated slowly,
for she felt herself attracted. He did not stir. By virtue of something
ineffable and melancholy which enveloped him, she felt the look in his
eyes which she could not see.
Cosette, in her retreat, encountered a tree and leaned against it. Had
it not been for this tree, she would have fallen.
Then she heard his voice, that voice which she had really never heard,
barely rising above the rustle of the leaves, and murmuring:—
“Pardon me, here I am. My heart is full. I could not live on as I was
living, and I have come. Have you read what I placed there on the
bench? Do you recognize me at all? Have no fear of me. It is a long
time, you remember the day, since you looked at me at the Luxembourg,
near the Gladiator. And the day when you passed before me? It was on
the 16th of June and the 2d of July. It is nearly a year ago. I have
not seen you for a long time. I inquired of the woman who let the
chairs, and she told me that she no longer saw you. You lived in the
Rue de l’Ouest, on the third floor, in the front apartments of a new
house,—you see that I know! I followed you. What else was there for me
to do? And then you disappeared. I thought I saw you pass once, while I
was reading the newspapers under the arcade of the Odéon. I ran after
you. But no. It was a person who had a bonnet like yours. At night I
came hither. Do not be afraid, no one sees me. I come to gaze upon your
windows near at hand. I walk very softly, so that you may not hear, for
you might be alarmed. The other evening I was behind you, you turned
round, I fled. Once, I heard you singing. I was happy. Did it affect
you because I heard you singing through the shutters? That could not
hurt you. No, it is not so? You see, you are my angel! Let me come
sometimes; I think that I am going to die. If you only knew! I adore
you. Forgive me, I speak to you, but I do not know what I am saying; I
may have displeased you; have I displeased you?”
“Oh! my mother!” said she.
And she sank down as though on the point of death.
He grasped her, she fell, he took her in his arms, he pressed her
close, without knowing what he was doing. He supported her, though he
was tottering himself. It was as though his brain were full of smoke;
lightnings darted between his lips; his ideas vanished; it seemed to
him that he was accomplishing some religious act, and that he was
committing a profanation. Moreover, he had not the least passion for
this lovely woman whose force he felt against his breast. He was beside
himself with love.
She took his hand and laid it on her heart. He felt the paper there, he
stammered:—
“You love me, then?”
She replied in a voice so low that it was no longer anything more than
a barely audible breath:—
“Hush! Thou knowest it!”
And she hid her blushing face on the breast of the superb and
intoxicated young man.
He fell upon the bench, and she beside him. They had no words more. The
stars were beginning to gleam. How did it come to pass that their lips
met? How comes it to pass that the birds sing, that snow melts, that
the rose unfolds, that May expands, that the dawn grows white behind
the black trees on the shivering crest of the hills?
A kiss, and that was all.
Both started, and gazed into the darkness with sparkling eyes.
They felt neither the cool night, nor the cold stone, nor the damp
earth, nor the wet grass; they looked at each other, and their hearts
were full of thoughts. They had clasped hands unconsciously.
She did not ask him, she did not even wonder, how he had entered there,
and how he had made his way into the garden. It seemed so simple to her
that he should be there!
From time to time, Marius’ knee touched Cosette’s knee, and both
shivered.
At intervals, Cosette stammered a word. Her soul fluttered on her lips
like a drop of dew on a flower.
Little by little they began to talk to each other. Effusion followed
silence, which is fulness. The night was serene and splendid overhead.
These two beings, pure as spirits, told each other everything, their
dreams, their intoxications, their ecstasies, their chimæras, their
weaknesses, how they had adored each other from afar, how they had
longed for each other, their despair when they had ceased to see each
other. They confided to each other in an ideal intimacy, which nothing
could augment, their most secret and most mysterious thoughts. They
related to each other, with candid faith in their illusions, all that
love, youth, and the remains of childhood which still lingered about
them, suggested to their minds. Their two hearts poured themselves out
into each other in such wise, that at the expiration of a quarter of an
hour, it was the young man who had the young girl’s soul, and the young
girl who had the young man’s soul. Each became permeated with the
other, they were enchanted with each other, they dazzled each other.
When they had finished, when they had told each other everything, she
laid her head on his shoulder and asked him:—
“What is your name?”
“My name is Marius,” said he. “And yours?”
“My name is Cosette.”
