第二百六十四章 马吕斯
第二章 马吕斯
马吕斯绝望地离开了吉诺曼先生家。他进去时只存一丝希望，出来时已是万念俱灰。
然而，那些洞察人心深处的人会明白，那个军官、枪骑兵、傻瓜、表兄忒阿杜勒，丝毫没有在他心中留下痕迹。一丝一毫都没有。戏剧诗人显然会期待祖父对孙子这番直截了当的揭示带来某些复杂纠葛。但戏剧由此得利之处，真相却会失去。马吕斯正处在这样一个年龄：什么都不相信有邪恶；以后才会到什么都相信的年纪。猜疑不过是皱纹。少年时代没有这些。使奥赛罗崩溃的东西，对老实人来说却无害。怀疑珂赛特！马吕斯宁可犯下许多罪行。
他开始在街上游荡，这是痛苦者的消遣。据他后来所能回忆，他什么都没想。凌晨两点，他回到古费拉克的住所，和衣倒在床垫上。当他在可怕的铅一般沉重的睡意中沉入梦乡时，太阳已明亮地照耀着，任由思绪在脑海中来去。醒来时，他看见古费拉克、安灼拉、弗伊和公白飞站在房间里，都戴着帽子，准备出门。
古费拉克对他说：
"你去参加拉马克将军的葬礼吗？"
他觉得古费拉克像在说中文。
他过了一会儿才跟着他们出去。他口袋里装着二月三日那次冒险时沙威给他的那两把枪，它们一直留在他手里。这些枪还装着子弹。很难说他带着它们时心里有什么模糊的想法。
他整日徘徊，不知自己要去哪里；有时下雨，他浑然不觉；晚餐时，他在面包店买了一个一分钱的面包，放进口袋又忘了。看来他曾在塞纳河里洗了个澡却不知道。有时候，人的头颅里会有一座熔炉。马吕斯正经历着这样一个时刻。他不再抱任何希望；自从前一天晚上起，他已经迈出了这一步。他焦躁不安地等待着夜晚降临，脑海中只有一个清晰的想法：那就是九点钟他要见到珂赛特。这最后的幸福如今构成了他的全部未来；此后便是黑暗。他在最荒凉的林荫道上漫无目的地游荡时，偶尔似乎听到巴黎有奇怪的声响。他从沉思中探出头来，说："要开战了吗？"
夜幕降临时，正好九点，正如他向珂赛特许诺的那样，他来到了普吕梅街。当他走近铁栅栏时，他忘记了一切。他已经四十八小时没见到珂赛特了；他将再次见到她；其他所有思绪都消失了，他只感到一种深沉而前所未有的喜悦。那些让人度过几个世纪的时刻，总有一种至高无上的奇妙特性：当它们流逝时，完全填满了心灵。
马吕斯移开铁条，一头冲进花园。珂赛特不在她通常等他的地方。他穿过灌木丛，走近台阶附近的角落："她在那里等我，"
他说。珂赛特不在那里。他抬起眼睛，看见房子的百叶窗关着。他绕花园走了一圈，花园空无一人。然后他回到房子前，因爱情而失去理智，沉醉、恐惧、因悲伤和不安而恼怒，像一个在糟糕时刻回家的主人，他敲了敲百叶窗。他敲了又敲，冒着窗户打开、她父亲阴沉的面孔出现并质问"你要干什么？"的危险。这与他隐约瞥见的状况相比算不了什么。敲过之后，他提高了声音喊珂赛特。——"珂赛特！"他喊道；"珂赛特！"他固执地重复着。没有回答。一切都完了。花园里没有人；房子里没有人。
马吕斯用绝望的目光注视着那座阴暗的房子，它像坟墓一样黑暗寂静，而且更加空旷。他凝视着那个石凳，他曾在那里与珂赛特一起度过了无数可爱的时光。然后他在台阶上坐下，心中充满了甜蜜与决心，他在内心深处祝福自己的爱情，并对自己说，既然珂赛特已经离去，他剩下的唯一出路就是一死。
突然，他听到一个似乎从街上传来、穿过树林呼唤他的声音：
"马吕斯先生！"
他猛地站起来。
"喂？"他说。
"马吕斯先生，你在那里吗？"
"是的。"
"马吕斯先生，"那声音继续说道，"你的朋友们在麻厂街的街垒等着你。"
这个声音对他来说并非完全陌生。它有点像爱潘妮那嘶哑粗糙的声音。马吕斯急忙走到大门前，推开活动的铁条，把头伸过缝隙，看见一个在他看来像是年轻人的人，正跑着消失在黑暗中。
Marius had left M. Gillenormand in despair. He had entered the house
with very little hope, and quitted it with immense despair.
However, and those who have observed the depths of the human heart will
understand this, the officer, the lancer, the ninny, Cousin Théodule,
had left no trace in his mind. Not the slightest. The dramatic poet
might, apparently, expect some complications from this revelation made
point-blank by the grandfather to the grandson. But what the drama
would gain thereby, truth would lose. Marius was at an age when one
believes nothing in the line of evil; later on comes the age when one
believes everything. Suspicions are nothing else than wrinkles. Early
youth has none of them. That which overwhelmed Othello glides innocuous
over Candide. Suspect Cosette! There are hosts of crimes which Marius
could sooner have committed.
He began to wander about the streets, the resource of those who suffer.
He thought of nothing, so far as he could afterwards remember. At two
o’clock in the morning he returned to Courfeyrac’s quarters and flung
himself, without undressing, on his mattress. The sun was shining
brightly when he sank into that frightful leaden slumber which permits
ideas to go and come in the brain. When he awoke, he saw Courfeyrac,
Enjolras, Feuilly, and Combeferre standing in the room with their hats
on and all ready to go out.
Courfeyrac said to him:—
“Are you coming to General Lamarque’s funeral?”
It seemed to him that Courfeyrac was speaking Chinese.
He went out some time after them. He put in his pocket the pistols
which Javert had given him at the time of the adventure on the 3d of
February, and which had remained in his hands. These pistols were still
loaded. It would be difficult to say what vague thought he had in his
mind when he took them with him.
All day long he prowled about, without knowing where he was going; it
rained at times, he did not perceive it; for his dinner, he purchased a
penny roll at a baker’s, put it in his pocket and forgot it. It appears
that he took a bath in the Seine without being aware of it. There are
moments when a man has a furnace within his skull. Marius was passing
through one of those moments. He no longer hoped for anything; this
step he had taken since the preceding evening. He waited for night with
feverish impatience, he had but one idea clearly before his mind;—this
was, that at nine o’clock he should see Cosette. This last happiness
now constituted his whole future; after that, gloom. At intervals, as
he roamed through the most deserted boulevards, it seemed to him that
he heard strange noises in Paris. He thrust his head out of his reverie
and said: “Is there fighting on hand?”
At nightfall, at nine o’clock precisely, as he had promised Cosette, he
was in the Rue Plumet. When he approached the grating he forgot
everything. It was forty-eight hours since he had seen Cosette; he was
about to behold her once more; every other thought was effaced, and he
felt only a profound and unheard-of joy. Those minutes in which one
lives centuries always have this sovereign and wonderful property, that
at the moment when they are passing they fill the heart completely.
Marius displaced the bar, and rushed headlong into the garden. Cosette
was not at the spot where she ordinarily waited for him. He traversed
the thicket, and approached the recess near the flight of steps: “She
is waiting for me there,” said he. Cosette was not there. He raised his
eyes, and saw that the shutters of the house were closed. He made the
tour of the garden, the garden was deserted. Then he returned to the
house, and, rendered senseless by love, intoxicated, terrified,
exasperated with grief and uneasiness, like a master who returns home
at an evil hour, he tapped on the shutters. He knocked and knocked
again, at the risk of seeing the window open, and her father’s gloomy
face make its appearance, and demand: “What do you want?” This was
nothing in comparison with what he dimly caught a glimpse of. When he
had rapped, he lifted up his voice and called Cosette.—“Cosette!” he
cried; “Cosette!” he repeated imperiously. There was no reply. All was
over. No one in the garden; no one in the house.
Marius fixed his despairing eyes on that dismal house, which was as
black and as silent as a tomb and far more empty. He gazed at the stone
seat on which he had passed so many adorable hours with Cosette. Then
he seated himself on the flight of steps, his heart filled with
sweetness and resolution, he blessed his love in the depths of his
thought, and he said to himself that, since Cosette was gone, all that
there was left for him was to die.
All at once he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the street,
and which was calling to him through the trees:—
“Mr. Marius!”
He started to his feet.
“Hey?” said he.
“Mr. Marius, are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Marius,” went on the voice, “your friends are waiting for you at
the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie.”
This voice was not wholly unfamiliar to him. It resembled the hoarse,
rough voice of Éponine. Marius hastened to the gate, thrust aside the
movable bar, passed his head through the aperture, and saw some one who
appeared to him to be a young man, disappearing at a run into the
gloom.
