第三百五十七章 二 又后退了一步
二 又后退了一步
第二天，同样的时间，冉阿让又来了。
珂赛特不再问他什么，她不再惊奇，不再叫冷，不再提客厅的事了，她避免说“父亲”或“让先生”的话。她让他称您。她让他称夫人。只是她的快乐已经有点减退。如果她可能感到忧愁，她会忧愁的。
可能是她和马吕斯之间有过一次谈话，在那次谈话中马吕斯说了他爱听的话，没有解释什么，却使他心爱的女人满意了。情人们的种种好奇心在他们的爱情范围里通常是不会超出一天的。
楼下那间屋子经过了一番小小的整顿。巴斯克消除了瓶子，妮珂莱特消灭了蜘蛛。
往后的日子天天如此。冉阿让每天都来。总是那个时间。马吕斯已经养成了习惯，冉阿让来的时候，他总不在场。全家也习惯了福施勒旺先生的新方式。杜桑也帮了忙，她常说：“先生向来是如此的。”祖父下的结论是：“他是个怪人。”一句话就结了。再说，到了九十六岁，不会再有什么交情了，只能是新添个邻居了，什么事情都是格格不入的。没有多余的位置了。凡是老习惯，一个也不能少。福施勒旺先生，特郎舍勒旺先生，吉诺曼先生认为只要不再听到那个绅士的谈话就好了。他还说：“再没有比这种怪人更平常的了。他们总是做些稀奇古怪的事。没有原因。德·卡纳普勒侯爵还要怪呢。他买了座宫殿却住在顶楼上。这些现象是千奇百怪的。”
谁也没有看见什么隐晦的底细。而且，谁又能猜到这种事呢？印度的沼泽里就有这种水。这些水看来很不一般，无法解释，无风也会荡漾，该平静的地方却动荡不安。人们望着这些无端的涨落，却看不见水底下藏着的一条海蛇。
好些人就有这样一条秘密的海蛇，一条他们自己不知道的孽龙，一种使他们无法安眠的邪念。这种人无所表现，和别人一样。他们来来去去，没有人知道他们内心隐藏着一种可怕的、千口百牙的寄生虫，它住在那不幸的人的心里，教他无法生存。没有人知道这个人是个无底洞。他外表平静得象一池水，实际很深。常常有些谁也料不到的小风波。表面的水面，皱起又消失，出现又隐没，形成一个水泡又破裂了。这是一只不知名的野兽在呼吸。
有些奇怪的习惯：在别人离开时到达，在别人炫耀时躲闪，在所有场合都保持所谓的“壁色”外衣，喜欢独自行走，爱走僻静的街道，不参加任何交谈，避开人群和节庆，生活舒适却显得清贫，钥匙在口袋里，蜡烛在门房那里，不论多有钱，总是走侧门，上小楼梯。所有这些细微的独特性，表面上的一瞬间的皱褶，往往来自一个可怕的底层。
就这样过了好几个星期。珂赛特渐渐习惯了这种新生活：婚姻带来的种种关系，去拜访亲友，管理家务，寻欢作乐，这些都是大事。珂赛特的快乐并不昂贵，只集中在一件事上：和马吕斯在一起。她生活的最大乐趣就是和他一起出去，和他待在一起。对他们来说，大白天毫无遮拦地手挽着手走在街上，面对太阳，面对所有人，两个人单独在一起，这永远是新的欢乐。
珂赛特有一件尴尬事：杜桑和妮珂莱特合不来，两个老姑娘不可能合得来，她走了。祖父身体很好。马吕斯偶尔出庭辩护一两回。吉诺曼姨妈勉强维持着身边那种足以自我满足的生活，陪在这新家庭旁边。冉阿让每天都来。
你我称呼取消了，换成了您、夫人和让先生。他在珂赛特眼里成了另一个人。他自己费了很大心思，要珂赛特离开他，而他的目的也已达到。她越来越快活，越来越不爱他了。然而她仍旧真心爱他，他感觉得到。
有一天，她忽然对他说：“您从前是我的父亲，现在不是了；您从前是我的叔叔，现在也不是了；您从前是福施勒旺先生，现在却是让了。您到底是谁呀？我不喜欢这一切。要是我不晓得您心好，我会怕您的。”
他仍旧住在武人街，因为他下不了决心离开珂赛特居住的地区。
起初，他只和珂赛特待几分钟就走了。
他逐渐养成了使他的拜访时间延长些的习惯。可以说是他在利用白天变长的机会，来得更早，走得更晚。
有一天，珂赛特脱口说了声“父亲”。冉阿让忧愁的老脸上闪过一道快乐的光芒。他拦住她：“说让。”“啊！真的，”她笑着回答说，“让先生。”“好的。”他说。他转过身去，好让她看不见他擦眼泪。
On the following day, at the same hour, Jean Valjean came.
Cosette asked him no questions, was no longer astonished, no longer
exclaimed that she was cold, no longer spoke of the drawing-room, she
avoided saying either “father” or “Monsieur Jean.” She allowed herself
to be addressed as _you_. She allowed herself to be called Madame.
Only, her joy had undergone a certain diminution. She would have been
sad, if sadness had been possible to her.
It is probable that she had had with Marius one of those conversations
in which the beloved man says what he pleases, explains nothing, and
satisfies the beloved woman. The curiosity of lovers does not extend
very far beyond their own love.
The lower room had made a little toilet. Basque had suppressed the
bottles, and Nicolette the spiders.
All the days which followed brought Jean Valjean at the same hour. He
came every day, because he had not the strength to take Marius’ words
otherwise than literally. Marius arranged matters so as to be absent at
the hours when Jean Valjean came. The house grew accustomed to the
novel ways of M. Fauchelevent. Toussaint helped in this direction:
“Monsieur has always been like that,” she repeated. The grandfather
issued this decree:—“He’s an original.” And all was said. Moreover, at
the age of ninety-six, no bond is any longer possible, all is merely
juxtaposition; a newcomer is in the way. There is no longer any room;
all habits are acquired. M. Fauchelevent, M. Tranchelevent, Father
Gillenormand asked nothing better than to be relieved from “that
gentleman.” He added:—“Nothing is more common than those originals.
They do all sorts of queer things. They have no reason. The Marquis de
Canaples was still worse. He bought a palace that he might lodge in the
garret. These are fantastic appearances that people affect.”
No one caught a glimpse of the sinister foundation. And moreover, who
could have guessed such a thing? There are marshes of this description
in India. The water seems extraordinary, inexplicable, rippling though
there is no wind, and agitated where it should be calm. One gazes at
the surface of these causeless ebullitions; one does not perceive the
hydra which crawls on the bottom.
Many men have a secret monster in this same manner, a dragon which
gnaws them, a despair which inhabits their night. Such a man resembles
other men, he goes and comes. No one knows that he bears within him a
frightful parasitic pain with a thousand teeth, which lives within the
unhappy man, and of which he is dying. No one knows that this man is a
gulf. He is stagnant but deep. From time to time, a trouble of which
the onlooker understands nothing appears on his surface. A mysterious
wrinkle is formed, then vanishes, then reappears; an air-bubble rises
and bursts. It is the breathing of the unknown beast.
Certain strange habits: arriving at the hour when other people are
taking their leave, keeping in the background when other people are
displaying themselves, preserving on all occasions what may be
designated as the wall-colored mantle, seeking the solitary walk,
preferring the deserted street, avoiding any share in conversation,
avoiding crowds and festivals, seeming at one’s ease and living poorly,
having one’s key in one’s pocket, and one’s candle at the porter’s
lodge, however rich one may be, entering by the side door, ascending
the private staircase,—all these insignificant singularities, fugitive
folds on the surface, often proceed from a formidable foundation.
Many weeks passed in this manner. A new life gradually took possession
of Cosette: the relations which marriage creates, visits, the care of
the house, pleasures, great matters. Cosette’s pleasures were not
costly, they consisted in one thing: being with Marius. The great
occupation of her life was to go out with him, to remain with him. It
was for them a joy that was always fresh, to go out arm in arm, in the
face of the sun, in the open street, without hiding themselves, before
the whole world, both of them completely alone.
Cosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not get on with Nicolette,
the soldering of two elderly maids being impossible, and she went away.
The grandfather was well; Marius argued a case here and there; Aunt
Gillenormand peacefully led that life aside which sufficed for her,
beside the new household. Jean Valjean came every day.
The address as _thou_ disappeared, the _you_, the “Madame,” the
“Monsieur Jean,” rendered him another person to Cosette. The care which
he had himself taken to detach her from him was succeeding. She became
more and more gay and less and less tender. Yet she still loved him
sincerely, and he felt it.
One day she said to him suddenly: “You used to be my father, you are no
longer my father, you were my uncle, you are no longer my uncle, you
were Monsieur Fauchelevent, you are Jean. Who are you then? I don’t
like all this. If I did not know how good you are, I should be afraid
of you.”
He still lived in the Rue de l’Homme Armé, because he could not make up
his mind to remove to a distance from the quarter where Cosette dwelt.
At first, he only remained a few minutes with Cosette, and then went
away.
Little by little he acquired the habit of making his visits less brief.
One would have said that he was taking advantage of the authorization
of the days which were lengthening, he arrived earlier and departed
later.
One day Cosette chanced to say “father” to him. A flash of joy
illuminated Jean Valjean’s melancholy old countenance. He caught her
up: “Say Jean.”—“Ah! truly,” she replied with a burst of laughter,
“Monsieur Jean.”—“That is right,” said he. And he turned aside so that
she might not see him wipe his eyes.
