第七十一章 第一卷 从尼维尔路上所见
第一卷 从尼维尔路上所见
去年（1861年），一个五月的美好早晨，有位行人——就是叙述这故事的本人——正从尼维尔方面来，向拉羽泊走去。他徒步前进。他在两行树木的大路上走着，路面铺了石块，高低不平，随着接连不断的丘陵，一起一伏，象巨浪似的。
他已走过了利卢瓦和布瓦·色维尔·伊萨克。向西望去，他看见了布赖纳拉勒的石板顶的钟楼，形状象个倒扣的花瓶。他刚走过一片高地上的树林，在一处岔路口，路边有个腐朽的木架，上面写着“第四号古关卡”，旁边有一家酒店，门面墙上写着：“艾肖博，独家咖啡馆”。
再走四分之一法里，他便到了一个小山谷的底里，那里有条溪水，从马路的路堤下流过。路旁只有几棵树，但很青翠，山谷一侧覆盖着草坪，另一侧分散着草场，草场中的树木向布赖纳拉勒方向整齐而优雅地延伸着。
在路的右边，有一家客店，门前停着一辆四轮马车，一大捆蛇麻草，一个犁头，一堆干荆棘，旁边是一排茂密的树篱，一个方坑里冒着石灰的烟，一把梯子斜靠在一个麦秸盖的旧棚子墙上。一个年轻姑娘正在田里锄草，田里有一张巨大的黄色广告，大概是某处庙会之类的宣传品，在风中飘动。客店的一角，在一个鸭群游弋的水塘旁边，一条铺砌得很差的小路伸进了灌木丛。行人便走上了这条小路。
走了百来步，绕过一个十五世纪的墙头，墙上有尖顶，用砖交替砌成，他便走到一扇高大的拱形石门前，门上有直线形的门楣，是路易十四时代的阴沉风格，两旁各有一个扁平的圆形浮雕。一堵庄严的正面墙高踞在这扇门的上方；一堵垂直于正面墙的墙几乎紧挨着门，以突兀的直角将它夹在中间。门前的草地上放着三把钉耙，五月的各种花朵杂乱地开在耙齿之间。门是关着的。两扇破旧的门板装饰着一个锈迹斑斑的旧门环。
阳光明媚，树枝正有着五月间那种轻柔的颤动，那颤动仿佛来自鸟巢，而非来自风。一只勇敢的小鸟，也许是只求偶的鸟，在一棵大树上忘情地歌唱。
行人弯下腰，察看门左首的柱脚石上一个相当大的圆形凹痕，形状象个球窝。
这时，门扉打开了，走出来一个农妇。
她看见了行人，也看见了他正在看的东西。
“这是法国人的一颗炮弹打的。”她对他说。接着她又说：
“您看见那儿，门的上方，靠近那颗钉子，是一个大铁子弹打的洞，那子弹有鸡蛋那么大，却没有打穿木头。”
“这地方叫什么名字？”行人问道。
“乌戈蒙。”农妇说。
行人直起身来。他走了几步，便走出树篱，向远处眺望。在地平线上，透过树林，他望见一座小小的山，在那山上，有一样东西在远处看来象只狮子。
他来到了滑铁卢战场。
Last year (1861), on a beautiful May morning, a traveller, the person
who is telling this story, was coming from Nivelles, and directing his
course towards La Hulpe. He was on foot. He was pursuing a broad paved
road, which undulated between two rows of trees, over the hills which
succeed each other, raise the road and let it fall again, and produce
something in the nature of enormous waves.
He had passed Lillois and Bois-Seigneur-Isaac. In the west he perceived
the slate-roofed tower of Braine-l’Alleud, which has the form of a
reversed vase. He had just left behind a wood upon an eminence; and at
the angle of the crossroad, by the side of a sort of mouldy gibbet
bearing the inscription _Ancient Barrier No. 4_, a public house,
bearing on its front this sign: _At the Four Winds_ (Aux Quatre Vents).
_Échabeau, Private Café_.
A quarter of a league further on, he arrived at the bottom of a little
valley, where there is water which passes beneath an arch made through
the embankment of the road. The clump of sparsely planted but very
green trees, which fills the valley on one side of the road, is
dispersed over the meadows on the other, and disappears gracefully and
as in order in the direction of Braine-l’Alleud.
On the right, close to the road, was an inn, with a four-wheeled cart
at the door, a large bundle of hop-poles, a plough, a heap of dried
brushwood near a flourishing hedge, lime smoking in a square hole, and
a ladder suspended along an old penthouse with straw partitions. A
young girl was weeding in a field, where a huge yellow poster, probably
of some outside spectacle, such as a parish festival, was fluttering in
the wind. At one corner of the inn, beside a pool in which a flotilla
of ducks was navigating, a badly paved path plunged into the bushes.
The wayfarer struck into this.
After traversing a hundred paces, skirting a wall of the fifteenth
century, surmounted by a pointed gable, with bricks set in contrast, he
found himself before a large door of arched stone, with a rectilinear
impost, in the sombre style of Louis XIV., flanked by two flat
medallions. A severe façade rose above this door; a wall, perpendicular
to the façade, almost touched the door, and flanked it with an abrupt
right angle. In the meadow before the door lay three harrows, through
which, in disorder, grew all the flowers of May. The door was closed.
The two decrepit leaves which barred it were ornamented with an old
rusty knocker.
The sun was charming; the branches had that soft shivering of May,
which seems to proceed rather from the nests than from the wind. A
brave little bird, probably a lover, was carolling in a distracted
manner in a large tree.
The wayfarer bent over and examined a rather large circular excavation,
resembling the hollow of a sphere, in the stone on the left, at the
foot of the pier of the door.
At this moment the leaves of the door parted, and a peasant woman
emerged.
She saw the wayfarer, and perceived what he was looking at.
“It was a French cannon-ball which made that,” she said to him. And she
added:—
“That which you see there, higher up in the door, near a nail, is the
hole of a big iron bullet as large as an egg. The bullet did not pierce
the wood.”
“What is the name of this place?” inquired the wayfarer.
“Hougomont,” said the peasant woman.
The traveller straightened himself up. He walked on a few paces, and
went off to look over the tops of the hedges. On the horizon through
the trees, he perceived a sort of little elevation, and on this
elevation something which at that distance resembled a lion.
He was on the battle-field of Waterloo.
