第三百五十九章 第四章 吸引与熄灭
一八三三年春末夏初，沼泽区难得一见的行人、小店主、倚门闲坐的人，都注意到一个穿着整洁黑衣服的老人，每天傍晚时分，从武人街出来，沿着圣十字街一侧，经过白衣街，走到文化圣卡特琳街，到了肩带街口朝左拐，进了圣路易街。
他在这儿慢慢行走，头向前伸，什么也看不见，什么也听不见，眼睛定定地望着一个点，这个点对他似乎是颗星，永远不会改变，那就是圣女受难街的拐角。他越走近这条街的拐角，目光越明亮，他的瞳孔里闪烁着一种喜悦的光芒，好似内心的曙光，他着了迷，深受感动，嘴唇微微翕动，仿佛在跟一个看不见的人说话，他微微笑着，尽可能走得慢些。仿佛想去又怕到，离吸引他的那条街只有几座房子时，他的脚步放慢了，有时甚至会停下来。他头部的晃动和眼珠的凝视，使人想起指南针在寻找北极。他不管走多久，最后总要走到；他到了圣女受难街；然后停下来，哆嗦着，怯生生地将头从最后一幢房子的墙角伸出来，望着那条街，他那悲惨的目光中，有一种东西酷似不可能之事的令人眼花缭乱的闪光，以及一座对他关闭的天堂的反射。然后，一滴慢慢凝聚在眼角、大得足以掉下来的眼泪，顺着脸颊淌下，有时停在嘴角。老人尝到眼泪的苦涩味道。他像一尊石像，这样待上几分钟，然后按原路和同样步子返回，随着他渐走渐远，目光也渐渐暗淡下来。
渐渐地，这个老人不再走到圣女受难街拐角；他在圣路易街中途停了下来；有时远一点，有时近一点。
有一天，他停在文化圣卡特琳街的拐角，远远地望着圣女受难街。然后，他慢慢地左右摇着头，似乎在拒绝什么，接着又折了回去。
不久，他不再走到圣路易街。他走到铺石街，摇着头又折回；然后，他不再走完三亭街；然后，他不再越过白衣街。就像一个没有上发条的钟摆，来回摆动越来越短，直到最后完全停止。
每天他都在同一时间出门，走同一条路，但不再走完，也许他自己并未意识到，但总在缩短。他整个面部表情只说明一个念头：有什么用呢？他的目光暗淡无光；没有光辉。他的眼泪也流完了；不再凝聚在眼角；那沉思的眼睛是干涩的。老人的头仍然向前伸着；下巴有时动一下，瘦削的脖子上满是皱纹，令人觉得可怜。有时天气不好，他腋下夹着一把伞，但从不打开。
街区的妇女说：“他是个傻子。”孩子们跟在他后面笑他。
During the last months of spring and the first months of summer in
1833, the rare passers-by in the Marais, the petty shopkeepers, the
loungers on thresholds, noticed an old man neatly clad in black, who
emerged every day at the same hour, towards nightfall, from the Rue de
l’Homme Armé, on the side of the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie,
passed in front of the Blancs Manteaux, gained the Rue
Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and, on arriving at the Rue de l’Écharpe,
turned to the left, and entered the Rue Saint-Louis.
There he walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward, seeing
nothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point which
seemed to be a star to him, which never varied, and which was no other
than the corner of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. The nearer he
approached the corner of the street the more his eye lighted up; a sort
of joy illuminated his pupils like an inward aurora, he had a
fascinated and much affected air, his lips indulged in obscure
movements, as though he were talking to some one whom he did not see,
he smiled vaguely and advanced as slowly as possible. One would have
said that, while desirous of reaching his destination, he feared the
moment when he should be close at hand. When only a few houses remained
between him and that street which appeared to attract him his pace
slackened, to such a degree that, at times, one might have thought that
he was no longer advancing at all. The vacillation of his head and the
fixity of his eyeballs suggested the thought of the magnetic needle
seeking the pole. Whatever time he spent on arriving, he was obliged to
arrive at last; he reached the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; then he
halted, he trembled, he thrust his head with a sort of melancholy
timidity round the corner of the last house, and gazed into that
street, and there was in that tragic look something which resembled the
dazzling light of the impossible, and the reflection from a paradise
that was closed to him. Then a tear, which had slowly gathered in the
corner of his lids, and had become large enough to fall, trickled down
his cheek, and sometimes stopped at his mouth. The old man tasted its
bitter flavor. Thus he remained for several minutes as though made of
stone, then he returned by the same road and with the same step, and,
in proportion as he retreated, his glance died out.
Little by little, this old man ceased to go as far as the corner of the
Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; he halted half way in the Rue Saint-Louis;
sometimes a little further off, sometimes a little nearer.
One day he stopped at the corner of the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine
and looked at the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire from a distance. Then he
shook his head slowly from right to left, as though refusing himself
something, and retraced his steps.
Soon he no longer came as far as the Rue Saint-Louis. He got as far as
the Rue Pavée, shook his head and turned back; then he went no further
than the Rue des Trois-Pavillons; then he did not overstep the
Blancs-Manteaux. One would have said that he was a pendulum which was
no longer wound up, and whose oscillations were growing shorter before
ceasing altogether.
Every day he emerged from his house at the same hour, he undertook the
same trip, but he no longer completed it, and, perhaps without himself
being aware of the fact, he constantly shortened it. His whole
countenance expressed this single idea: What is the use?—His eye was
dim; no more radiance. His tears were also exhausted; they no longer
collected in the corner of his eye-lid; that thoughtful eye was dry.
The old man’s head was still craned forward; his chin moved at times;
the folds in his gaunt neck were painful to behold. Sometimes, when the
weather was bad, he had an umbrella under his arm, but he never opened
it.
The good women of the quarter said: “He is an innocent.” The children
followed him and laughed.
