第二百七十三章 第三章 理发师的义愤
第三章 理发师的义愤
那位曾把加弗洛什打开大象内部"慈父般"的住所后，追赶两个小家伙的正派理发师，此刻正在他的店里给一位曾在帝国时期服役的退伍老兵刮脸。他们正谈着话。理发师自然先对那位老兵说起了暴动，然后又谈到了拉马克将军，从拉马克将军又扯到了皇帝。这样，理发师和士兵之间就展开了一场谈话，如果普鲁多姆在场，一定会用阿拉伯式的装饰花纹把它点缀一番，并冠以"剃刀与宝剑对话录"的题目。
"先生，皇帝是怎样骑马的？"理发师问。
"骑得不好。他不会摔下来——所以他从没摔过。"
"他应该有漂亮的马吧？他肯定有漂亮的马！"
"他给我颁发勋章那天，我注意过他的坐骑。那是一匹赛马用的母马，全身纯白。它的耳朵分得很开，鞍子很深，头型优美，上面有个黑星，脖子很长，膝关节强壮有力，肋骨突出，肩膀斜削，臀部宽大。身高超过十五掌。"
"好一匹骏马。"理发师评论道。
"那是陛下的坐骑。"
理发师觉得，听了这句话之后，应该沉默片刻，于是他便照做了，然后又接着说：
"皇帝只受过一次伤，是吗，先生？"
老兵用他那身临其境之人的镇定而威严的口吻回答：
"在脚跟。在拉蒂斯邦。我从没见过他那天穿得那么整齐。他干净得像一枚新铸的苏。"
"您呢，老兵先生，您一定经常受伤吧？"
"我？"士兵说，"啊！不算什么。在马伦戈，我颈后被砍了两刀，在奥斯特里茨，右臂中了一枪，在耶拿，左胯中了一枪，在弗里德兰，挨了一刺刀，在那里——在莫斯科瓦河，被长矛戳了七八下，也不知道戳在哪儿，在吕岑，一块弹片碾碎了我一根手指头。啊！还有在滑铁卢，大腿上挨了一颗霰弹，就这些。"
"多么壮烈啊！"理发师用品达体的语调赞叹道，"战死在沙场上！我以人格担保，与其病死在床上，一天天慢慢消瘦，靠吃药、贴膏药、灌肠、喝药水，我宁愿肚子上挨一颗炮弹！"
"您的要求并不高。"老兵说。
他话音刚落，一阵可怕的撞击声震动了整个店铺。橱窗突然碎了。
理发师脸色发白。
"啊，上帝！"他喊道，"是他们中的一个！"
"什么？"
"一颗炮弹。"
"喏，在这儿。"老兵说。
他捡起一个在地上滚动的东西。那是一块石头。
理发师跑到被砸碎的橱窗前，看见加弗洛什正以最快的速度朝圣约翰市场飞奔而去。加弗洛什路过理发店时，心里还惦记着那两个小家伙，忍不住想跟他打个招呼，于是便朝他的窗户扔了块石头。
"你看！"理发师尖叫道，他脸都气青了，"那家伙又回来捣乱了，纯粹是为了取乐。谁招惹那个小流氓了？"
The worthy hair-dresser who had chased from his shop the two little
fellows to whom Gavroche had opened the paternal interior of the
elephant was at that moment in his shop engaged in shaving an old
soldier of the legion who had served under the Empire. They were
talking. The hair-dresser had, naturally, spoken to the veteran of the
riot, then of General Lamarque, and from Lamarque they had passed to
the Emperor. Thence sprang up a conversation between barber and soldier
which Prudhomme, had he been present, would have enriched with
arabesques, and which he would have entitled: “Dialogue between the
razor and the sword.”
“How did the Emperor ride, sir?” said the barber.
“Badly. He did not know how to fall—so he never fell.”
“Did he have fine horses? He must have had fine horses!”
“On the day when he gave me my cross, I noticed his beast. It was a
racing mare, perfectly white. Her ears were very wide apart, her saddle
deep, a fine head marked with a black star, a very long neck, strongly
articulated knees, prominent ribs, oblique shoulders and a powerful
crupper. A little more than fifteen hands in height.”
“A pretty horse,” remarked the hair-dresser.
“It was His Majesty’s beast.”
The hair-dresser felt, that after this observation, a short silence
would be fitting, so he conformed himself to it, and then went on:—
“The Emperor was never wounded but once, was he, sir?”
The old soldier replied with the calm and sovereign tone of a man who
had been there:—
“In the heel. At Ratisbon. I never saw him so well dressed as on that
day. He was as neat as a new sou.”
“And you, Mr. Veteran, you must have been often wounded?”
“I?” said the soldier, “ah! not to amount to anything. At Marengo, I
received two sabre-blows on the back of my neck, a bullet in the right
arm at Austerlitz, another in the left hip at Jena. At Friedland, a
thrust from a bayonet, there,—at the Moskowa seven or eight
lance-thrusts, no matter where, at Lutzen a splinter of a shell crushed
one of my fingers. Ah! and then at Waterloo, a ball from a biscaïen in
the thigh, that’s all.”
“How fine that is!” exclaimed the hair-dresser, in Pindaric accents,
“to die on the field of battle! On my word of honor, rather than die in
bed, of an illness, slowly, a bit by bit each day, with drugs,
cataplasms, syringes, medicines, I should prefer to receive a
cannon-ball in my belly!”
“You’re not over fastidious,” said the soldier.
He had hardly spoken when a fearful crash shook the shop. The
show-window had suddenly been fractured.
The wig-maker turned pale.
“Ah, good God!” he exclaimed, “it’s one of them!”
“What?”
“A cannon-ball.”
“Here it is,” said the soldier.
And he picked up something that was rolling about the floor. It was a
pebble.
The hair-dresser ran to the broken window and beheld Gavroche fleeing
at the full speed, towards the Marché Saint-Jean. As he passed the
hair-dresser’s shop Gavroche, who had the two brats still in his mind,
had not been able to resist the impulse to say good day to him, and had
flung a stone through his panes.
“You see!” shrieked the hair-dresser, who from white had turned blue,
“that fellow returns and does mischief for the pure pleasure of it.
What has any one done to that gamin?”
