[英语园地] 悲惨世界（Les Miserables）

CHAPTER VII    THE INTERIOR OF DESPAIR Chinese Let us try to say it. It is necessary that society should look at these things, because it is itself which creates them. He was, as we have said, an ignorant man, but he was not a fool. The light of nature was ignited in him. Unhappiness, which also possesses a clearness of vision of its own, augmented the small amount of daylight which existed in this mind. Beneath the cudgel, beneath the chain, in the cell, in hardship, beneath the burning sun of the galleys, upon the plank bed of the convict, he withdrew into his own consciousness and meditated. He constituted himself the tribunal. He began by putting himself on trial. He recognized the fact that he was not an innocent man unjustly punished. He admitted that he had committed an extreme and blameworthy act; that that loaf of bread would probably not have been refused to him had he asked for it; that, in any case, it would have been better to wait until he could get it through compassion or through work; that it is not an unanswerable argument to say, "Can one wait when one is hungry?" That, in the first place, it is very rare for any one to die of hunger, literally; and next, that, fortunately or unfortunately, man is so constituted that he can suffer long and much, both morally and physically, without dying; that it is therefore necessary to have patience; that that would even have been better for those poor little children; that it had been an act of madness for him, a miserable, unfortunate wretch, to take society at large violently by the collar, and to imagine that one can escape from misery through theft; that that is in any case a poor door through which to escape from misery through which infamy enters; in short, that he was in the wrong. Then he asked himself-- Whether he had been the only one in fault in his fatal history. Whether it was not a serious thing, that he, a laborer, out of work, that he, an industrious man, should have lacked bread. And whether, the fault once committed and confessed, the chastisement had not been ferocious and disproportioned. Whether there had not been more abuse on the part of the law, in respect to the penalty, than there had been on the part of the culprit in respect to his fault. Whether there had not been an excess of weights in one balance of the scale, in the one which contains expiation. Whether the over-weight of the penalty was not equivalent to the annihilation of the crime, and did not result in reversing the situation, of replacing the fault of the delinquent by the fault of the repression, of converting the guilty man into the victim, and the debtor into the creditor, and of ranging the law definitely on the side of the man who had violated it. Whether this penalty, complicated by successive aggravations for attempts at escape, had not ended in becoming a sort of outrage perpetrated by the stronger upon the feebler, a crime of society against the individual, a crime which was being committed afresh every day, a crime which had lasted nineteen years. He asked himself whether human society could have the right to force its members to suffer equally in one case for its own unreasonable lack of foresight, and in the other case for its pitiless foresight; and to seize a poor man forever between a defect and an excess, a default of work and an excess of punishment. Whether it was not outrageous for society to treat thus precisely those of its members who were the least well endowed in the division of goods made by chance, and consequently the most deserving of consideration. These questions put and answered, he judged society and condemned it. He condemned it to his hatred. He made it responsible for the fate which he was suffering, and he said to himself that it might be that one day he should not hesitate to call it to account. He declared to himself that there was no equilibrium between the harm which he had caused and the harm which was being done to him; he finally arrived at the conclusion that his punishment was not, in truth, unjust, but that it most assuredly was iniquitous. Anger may be both foolish and absurd; one can be irritated wrongfully; one is exasperated only when there is some show of right on one's side at bottom. Jean Valjean felt himself exasperated. And besides, human society had done him nothing but harm; he had never seen anything of it save that angry face which it calls Justice, and which it shows to those whom it strikes. Men had only touched him to bruise him. Every contact with them had been a blow. Never, since his infancy, since the days of his mother, of his sister, had he ever encountered a friendly word and a kindly glance. From suffering to suffering, he had gradually arrived at the conviction that life is a war; and that in this war he was the conquered. He had no other weapon than his hate. He resolved to whet it in the galleys and to bear it away with him when he departed. There was at Toulon a school for the convicts, kept by the Ignorantin friars, where the most necessary branches were taught to those of the unfortunate men who had a mind for them. He was of the number who had a mind. He went to school at the age of forty, and learned to read, to write, to cipher. He felt that to fortify his intelligence was to fortify his hate. In certain cases, education and enlightenment can serve to eke out evil. This is a sad thing to say; after having judged society, which had caused his unhappiness, he judged Providence, which had made society, and he condemned it also. Thus during nineteen years of torture and slavery, this soul mounted and at the same time fell. Light entered it on one side, and darkness on the other. Jean Valjean had not, as we have seen, an evil nature. He was still good when he arrived at the galleys. He there condemned society, and felt that he was becoming wicked; he there condemned Providence, and was conscious that he was becoming impious. It is difficult not to indulge in meditation at this point. Does human nature thus change utterly and from top to bottom? Can the man created good by God be rendered wicked by man? Can the soul be completely made over by fate, and become evil, fate being evil? Can the heart become misshapen and contract incurable deformities and infirmities under the oppression of a disproportionate unhappiness, as the vertebral column beneath too low a vault? Is there not in every human soul, was there not in the soul of Jean Valjean in particular, a first spark, a divine element, incorruptible in this world, immortal in the other, which good can develop, fan, ignite, and make to glow with splendor, and which evil can never wholly extinguish? Grave and obscure questions, to the last of which every physiologist would probably have responded no, and that without hesitation, had he beheld at Toulon, during the hours of repose, which were for Jean Valjean hours of revery, this gloomy galley-slave, seated with folded arms upon the bar of some capstan, with the end of his chain thrust into his pocket to prevent its dragging, serious, silent, and thoughtful, a pariah of the laws which regarded the man with wrath, condemned by civilization, and regarding heaven with severity. Certainly,--and we make no attempt to dissimulate the fact,-- the observing physiologist would have beheld an irremediable misery; he would, perchance, have pitied this sick man, of the law's making; but he would not have even essayed any treatment; he would have turned aside his gaze from the caverns of which he would have caught a glimpse within this soul, and, like Dante at the portals of hell, he would have effaced from this existence the word which the finger of God has, nevertheless, inscribed upon the brow of every man,--hope. Was this state of his soul, which we have attempted to analyze, as perfectly clear to Jean Valjean as we have tried to render it for those who read us? Did Jean Valjean distinctly perceive, after their formation, and had he seen distinctly during the process of their formation, all the elements of which his moral misery was composed? Had this rough and unlettered man gathered a perfectly clear perception of the succession of ideas through which he had, by degrees, mounted and descended to the lugubrious aspects which had, for so many years, formed the inner horizon of his spirit? Was he conscious of all that passed within him, and of all that was working there? That is something which we do not presume to state; it is something which we do not even believe. There was too much ignorance in Jean Valjean, even after his misfortune, to prevent much vagueness from still lingering there. At times he did not rightly know himself what he felt. Jean Valjean was in the shadows; he suffered in the shadows; he hated in the shadows; one might have said that he hated in advance of himself. He dwelt habitually in this shadow, feeling his way like a blind man and a dreamer. Only, at intervals, there suddenly came to him, from without and from within, an access of wrath, a surcharge of suffering, a livid and rapid flash which illuminated his whole soul, and caused to appear abruptly all around him, in front, behind, amid the gleams of a frightful light, the hideous precipices and the sombre perspective of his destiny. The flash passed, the night closed in again; and where was he? He no longer knew. The peculiarity of pains of this nature, in which that which is pitiless--that is to say, that which is brutalizing--predominates, is to transform a man, little by little, by a sort of stupid transfiguration, into a wild beast; sometimes into a ferocious beast. Jean Valjean's successive and obstinate attempts at escape would alone suffice to prove this strange working of the law upon the human soul. Jean Valjean would have renewed these attempts, utterly useless and foolish as they were, as often as the opportunity had presented itself, without reflecting for an instant on the result, nor on the experiences which he had already gone through. He escaped impetuously, like the wolf who finds his cage open. Instinct said to him, "Flee!" Reason would have said, "Remain!" But in the presence of so violent a temptation, reason vanished; nothing remained but instinct. The beast alone acted. When he was recaptured, the fresh severities inflicted on him only served to render him still more wild. One detail, which we must not omit, is that he possessed a physical strength which was not approached by a single one of the denizens of the galleys. At work, at paying out a cable or winding up a capstan, Jean Valjean was worth four men. He sometimes lifted and sustained enormous weights on his back; and when the occasion demanded it, he replaced that implement which is called a jack-screw, and was formerly called orgueil [pride], whence, we may remark in passing, is derived the name of the Rue Montorgueil, near the Halles [Fishmarket] in Paris. His comrades had nicknamed him Jean the Jack-screw. Once, when they were repairing the balcony of the town-hall at Toulon, one of those admirable caryatids of Puget, which support the balcony, became loosened, and was on the point of falling. Jean Valjean, who was present, supported the caryatid with his shoulder, and gave the workmen time to arrive. His suppleness even exceeded his strength. Certain convicts who were forever dreaming of escape, ended by making a veritable science of force and skill combined. It is the science of muscles. An entire system of mysterious statics is daily practised by prisoners, men who are forever envious of the flies and birds. To climb a vertical surface, and to find points of support where hardly a projection was visible, was play to Jean Valjean. An angle of the wall being given, with the tension of his back and legs, with his elbows and his heels fitted into the unevenness of the stone, he raised himself as if by magic to the third story. He sometimes mounted thus even to the roof of the galley prison. He spoke but little. He laughed not at all. An excessive emotion was required to wring from him, once or twice a year, that lugubrious laugh of the convict, which is like the echo of the laugh of a demon. To all appearance, he seemed to be occupied in the constant contemplation of something terrible. He was absorbed, in fact. Athwart the unhealthy perceptions of an incomplete nature and a crushed intelligence, he was confusedly conscious that some monstrous thing was resting on him. In that obscure and wan shadow within which he crawled, each time that he turned his neck and essayed to raise his glance, he perceived with terror, mingled with rage, a sort of frightful accumulation of things, collecting and mounting above him, beyond the range of his vision,-- laws, prejudices, men, and deeds,--whose outlines escaped him, whose mass terrified him, and which was nothing else than that prodigious pyramid which we call civilization. He distinguished, here and there in that swarming and formless mass, now near him, now afar off and on inaccessible table-lands, some group, some detail, vividly illuminated; here the galley-sergeant and his cudgel; there the gendarme and his sword; yonder the mitred archbishop; away at the top, like a sort of sun, the Emperor, crowned and dazzling. It seemed to him that these distant splendors, far from dissipating his night, rendered it more funereal and more black. All this-- laws, prejudices, deeds, men, things--went and came above him, over his head, in accordance with the complicated and mysterious movement which God imparts to civilization, walking over him and crushing him with I know not what peacefulness in its cruelty and inexorability in its indifference. Souls which have fallen to the bottom of all possible misfortune, unhappy men lost in the lowest of those limbos at which no one any longer looks, the reproved of the law, feel the whole weight of this human society, so formidable for him who is without, so frightful for him who is beneath, resting upon their heads. In this situation Jean Valjean meditated; and what could be the nature of his meditation? If the grain of millet beneath the millstone had thoughts, it would, doubtless, think that same thing which Jean Valjean thought. All these things, realities full of spectres, phantasmagories full of realities, had eventually created for him a sort of interior state which is almost indescribable. At times, amid his convict toil, he paused. He fell to thinking. His reason, at one and the same time riper and more troubled than of yore, rose in revolt. Everything which had happened to him seemed to him absurd; everything that surrounded him seemed to him impossible. He said to himself, "It is a dream." He gazed at the galley-sergeant standing a few paces from him; the galley-sergeant seemed a phantom to him. All of a sudden the phantom dealt him a blow with his cudgel. Visible nature hardly existed for him. It would almost be true to say that there existed for Jean Valjean neither sun, nor fine summer days, nor radiant sky, nor fresh April dawns. I know not what vent-hole daylight habitually illumined his soul. To sum up, in conclusion, that which can be summed up and translated into positive results in all that we have just pointed out, we will confine ourselves to the statement that, in the course of nineteen years, Jean Valjean, the inoffensive tree-pruner of Faverolles, the formidable convict of Toulon, had become capable, thanks to the manner in which the galleys had moulded him, of two sorts of evil action: firstly, of evil action which was rapid, unpremeditated, dashing, entirely instinctive, in the nature of reprisals for the evil which he had undergone; secondly, of evil action which was serious, grave, consciously argued out and premeditated, with the false ideas which such a misfortune can furnish. His deliberate deeds passed through three successive phases, which natures of a certain stamp can alone traverse,--reasoning, will, perseverance. He had for moving causes his habitual wrath, bitterness of soul, a profound sense of indignities suffered, the reaction even against the good, the innocent, and the just, if there are any such. The point of departure, like the point of arrival, for all his thoughts, was hatred of human law; that hatred which, if it be not arrested in its development by some providential incident, becomes, within a given time, the hatred of society, then the hatred of the human race, then the hatred of creation, and which manifests itself by a vague, incessant, and brutal desire to do harm to some living being, no matter whom. It will be perceived that it was not without reason that Jean Valjean's passport described him as a very dangerous man. From year to year this soul had dried away slowly, but with fatal sureness. When the heart is dry, the eye is dry. On his departure from the galleys it had been nineteen years since he had shed a tear.

CHAPTER VIII    BILLOWS AND SHADOWS Chinese A man overboard! What matters it? The vessel does not halt. The wind blows. That sombre ship has a path which it is forced to pursue. It passes on. The man disappears, then reappears; he plunges, he rises again to the surface; he calls, he stretches out his arms; he is not heard. The vessel, trembling under the hurricane, is wholly absorbed in its own workings; the passengers and sailors do not even see the drowning man; his miserable head is but a speck amid the immensity of the waves. He gives vent to desperate cries from out of the depths. What a spectre is that retreating sail! He gazes and gazes at it frantically. It retreats, it grows dim, it diminishes in size. He was there but just now, he was one of the crew, he went and came along the deck with the rest, he had his part of breath and of sunlight, he was a living man. Now, what has taken place? He has slipped, he has fallen; all is at an end. He is in the tremendous sea. Under foot he has nothing but what flees and crumbles. The billows, torn and lashed by the wind, encompass him hideously; the tossings of the abyss bear him away; all the tongues of water dash over his head; a populace of waves spits upon him; confused openings half devour him; every time that he sinks, he catches glimpses of precipices filled with night; frightful and unknown vegetations seize him, knot about his feet, draw him to them; he is conscious that he is becoming an abyss, that he forms part of the foam; the waves toss him from one to another; he drinks in the bitterness; the cowardly ocean attacks him furiously, to drown him; the enormity plays with his agony. It seems as though all that water were hate. Nevertheless, he struggles. He tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he makes an effort; he swims. He, his petty strength all exhausted instantly, combats the inexhaustible. Where, then, is the ship? Yonder. Barely visible in the pale shadows of the horizon. The wind blows in gusts; all the foam overwhelms him. He raises his eyes and beholds only the lividness of the clouds. He witnesses, amid his death-pangs, the immense madness of the sea. He is tortured by this madness; he hears noises strange to man, which seem to come from beyond the limits of the earth, and from one knows not what frightful region beyond. There are birds in the clouds, just as there are angels above human distresses; but what can they do for him? They sing and fly and float, and he, he rattles in the death agony. He feels himself buried in those two infinities, the ocean and the sky, at one and the same time: the one is a tomb; the other is a shroud. Night descends; he has been swimming for hours; his strength is exhausted; that ship, that distant thing in which there were men, has vanished; he is alone in the formidable twilight gulf; he sinks, he stiffens himself, he twists himself; he feels under him the monstrous billows of the invisible; he shouts. There are no more men. Where is God? He shouts. Help! Help! He still shouts on. Nothing on the horizon; nothing in heaven. He implores the expanse, the waves, the seaweed, the reef; they are deaf. He beseeches the tempest; the imperturbable tempest obeys only the infinite. Around him darkness, fog, solitude, the stormy and nonsentient tumult, the undefined curling of those wild waters. In him horror and fatigue. Beneath him the depths. Not a point of support. He thinks of the gloomy adventures of the corpse in the limitless shadow. The bottomless cold paralyzes him. His hands contract convulsively; they close, and grasp nothingness. Winds, clouds, whirlwinds, gusts, useless stars! What is to be done? The desperate man gives up; he is weary, he chooses the alternative of death; he resists not; he lets himself go; he abandons his grip; and then he tosses forevermore in the lugubrious dreary depths of engulfment. Oh, implacable march of human societies! Oh, losses of men and of souls on the way! Ocean into which falls all that the law lets slip! Disastrous absence of help! Oh, moral death! The sea is the inexorable social night into which the penal laws fling their condemned. The sea is the immensity of wretchedness. The soul, going down stream in this gulf, may become a corpse. Who shall resuscitate it?

八　波涛和亡魂 英 文 一个人落在海里了！ 有什么要紧！船是不会停的。风刮着，这条阴暗的船有它非走不可的路程。它过去了。 那个人灭了顶，随后又出现，忽沉忽浮，漂在水面，他叫喊，扬手，却没有人听见他的喊声。船呢，在飓风里飘荡不定，人们正忙于操作，海员和旅客，对那个落水的人，甚至连一眼也不再望了，他那个可怜的头只是沧海中的一粟而已。 他在深处发出了悲惨的呼号。那条驶去的帆船简直是个鬼影！他望着它，发狂似的望着它。它越去越远，船影渐淡，船身也渐小了。刚才他还在那船上，是船员中的一员，和其余的人一道在甲板上忽来忽往，他有他的一份空气和阳光，还是一个活生生的人。现在，出了什么事呢？他滑了一交，掉了下去，这就完了。 他被困在惊涛骇浪中。他的脚只能踏着虚空，只能往下沉。迎风崩裂的波涛狠狠地包围着他，波峰波谷带着他辗转上下，一缕缕的白练飞腾在他的头上，一阵阵的狂澜向他喷唾，巨浪的口把他吞没殆半；他每次下沉，都隐约看见那黑暗的深渊，一些未曾见过的奇怪植物捉住他，缠着他的脚，把他拉向它们那里去；他觉得自己也成了旋涡，也成了泡沫的一部分，波涛把他往复抛掷；他喝着苦汁，无情的海水前仆后继，定要把他淹没，浩瀚的泽国拿他的垂死挣扎来取乐。好象这里的水对他全怀着仇恨。 但是他仍旧挣扎，尽力保卫自己，他振奋精神，努力泅泳。 他微弱的力气立刻告竭了，仍旧和无边无际的波涛奋斗。 船到哪里去了？在前面。在水天相接、惨淡无光的地方，仿佛还隐约可辨。 狂风在吼，无穷的浪花在向他猛扑。他抬起眼睛，只见行云的灰暗色。他气息奄奄地目击浩海的疯狂，而这种疯狂已把他置于绝地了。他听见一片从未听过的怪声，仿佛是从世外，从不知何处恐怖的国度里飞来。 在云里有许多飞鸟，如同在人生祸患的上面有许多天使。但是它们和他有什么相干呢？它们飞、鸣、翱翔；至于他，他呼号待毙。 他觉得自己同时被两种广大无边的东西所掩埋：海和天，一种是墓穴，一种是殓衣。 黑夜来了，他已经泅泳了几个钟头，力气使尽了，那条船，那条载着一些人的远远的船，已经不见了。他孤零零陷在那可怕的，笼罩在暮色中的深渊里，他往下沉，他挣扎，他扭动身体，在他的底下他觉得有些目不能见的渺茫的怪物。他号着。 人全不在了。上帝在什么地方呢？ 他喊着，救命呀！救命呀！他不停地喊着。 水边没有一点东西，天上也没有一点东西。 他向空际、波涛、海藻、礁石哀求；它们都充耳不闻。他向暴风央求；坚强的暴风只服从太空的号令。 在他四周的是夜色、暮霭、寂寥、奔腾放逐的骚乱、起伏不停的怒涛。他的身体中只有恐怖和疲惫。他的脚下只有一片虚空。没有立足的地方。他想到他的尸体漂浮在那无限凄凉的幽冥里。无底的寒泉使他僵直。他的手痉挛，握着的是虚空。风，云，漩流，狂飙，无用的群星！怎么办呵？那失望的人只得听从命运摆布了，穷于应付的人往往坐以待毙，他只得听其自然，任其飘荡不再抵抗了，看呵，他从此跌入灭亡的阴惨深渊里了。 呵，人类社会历久不变的行程！途中多少人和灵魂要丧失！人类社会是所有那些被法律抛弃了的人的海洋！那里最惨的是没有援助！呵，这是精神的死亡！ 海，就是冷酷无情的法律抛掷它牺牲品的总渊薮。海，就是无边的苦难。 漂在那深渊里的心灵可以变成尸体，将来谁使它复活呢？

CHAPTER IX    NEW TROUBLES Chinese When the hour came for him to take his departure from the galleys, when Jean Valjean heard in his ear the strange words, Thou art free! the moment seemed improbable and unprecedented; a ray of vivid light, a ray of the true light of the living, suddenly penetrated within him. But it was not long before this ray paled. Jean Valjean had been dazzled by the idea of liberty. He had believed in a new life. He very speedily perceived what sort of liberty it is to which a yellow passport is provided. And this was encompassed with much bitterness. He had calculated that his earnings, during his sojourn in the galleys, ought to amount to a hundred and seventy-one francs. It is but just to add that he had forgotten to include in his calculations the forced repose of Sundays and festival days during nineteen years, which entailed a diminution of about eighty francs. At all events, his hoard had been reduced by various local levies to the sum of one hundred and nine francs fifteen sous, which had been counted out to him on his departure. He had understood nothing of this, and had thought himself wronged. Let us say the word--robbed. On the day following his liberation, he saw, at Grasse, in front of an orange-flower distillery, some men engaged in unloading bales. He offered his services. Business was pressing; they were accepted. He set to work. He was intelligent, robust, adroit; he did his best; the master seemed pleased. While he was at work, a gendarme passed, observed him, and demanded his papers. It was necessary to show him the yellow passport. That done, Jean Valjean resumed his labor. A little while before he had questioned one of the workmen as to the amount which they earned each day at this occupation; he had been told thirty sous. When evening arrived, as he was forced to set out again on the following day, he presented himself to the owner of the distillery and requested to be paid. The owner did not utter a word, but handed him fifteen sous. He objected. He was told, "That is enough for thee." He persisted. The master looked him straight between the eyes, and said to him "Beware of the prison." There, again, he considered that he had been robbed. Society, the State, by diminishing his hoard, had robbed him wholesale. Now it was the individual who was robbing him at retail. Liberation is not deliverance. One gets free from the galleys, but not from the sentence. That is what happened to him at Grasse. We have seen in what manner he was received at D----

九　新的损失 英 文 当冉阿让出狱时，他听见有人在他耳边说了这样一句奇特的话“你自由了”，那一片刻竟好象是不真实的，闻所未闻的；一道从不曾有过的强烈的光，一道人生的真实的光突然射到他的心里。但是这道光，一会儿就黯淡下去了。冉阿让起初想到自由，不禁欣然自喜，他以为得着新生命了。但他很快又想到，既然拿的是一张黄护照，所谓自由也就是那么一回事。 而且在这件事上也还有不少的苦情。他计算过，他的储蓄，按照他在狱中度过的岁月计算，本应有一百七十一个法郎。还应当指出，十九年中，礼拜日和节日的强迫休息大致要使他少赚二十四个法郎，他还忘了把那个数目加入他的账目。不管怎样，他的储蓄经过照例的七折八扣以后，已减到一百○九个法郎十五个苏。那就是他在出狱时所领到的。 他虽然不了解这其中的道理，但他认为他总是吃了亏。让我们把话说明白，他是被人盗窃了。 出狱的第二天，他到了格拉斯，他在一家橙花香精提炼厂的门前，看见许多人在卸货。他请求加入工作。那时工作正吃紧，他们同意了。他便动起手来。他聪明、强壮、伶俐，他尽力搬运，主人好象也满意。正在他工作时，有个警察走过，注意到他，便向他要证件。他只好把那黄护照拿出来。警察看完以后，冉阿让又去工作。他先头问过一个工人，做那种工作每天可以赚多少钱。那工人回答他说：“三十个苏。”到了晚上，他走去找那香精厂的厂主，请把工资付给他，因为他第二天一早便得上路。厂主没说一句话，给了他十五个苏。他提出要求。那人回答他说：“这对你已是够好的了。”他仍旧要。那主人睁圆了两只眼睛对他说：“小心黑屋子。” 那一次，他又觉得自己被盗窃了。 社会、政府，在削减他的储蓄上大大地盗窃了他一次，现在是轮到那小子来偷窃他了。 被释放并不等于得到解放。他固然出了牢狱，但仍背着罪名。 那就是他在格拉斯遇到的事，至于后来他在迪涅受到的待遇，我们已经知道了。

CHAPTER X    THE MAN AROUSED Chinese As the Cathedral clock struck two in the morning, Jean Valjean awoke. What woke him was that his bed was too good. It was nearly twenty years since he had slept in a bed, and, although he had not undressed, the sensation was too novel not to disturb his slumbers. He had slept more than four hours. His fatigue had passed away. He was accustomed not to devote many hours to repose. He opened his eyes and stared into the gloom which surrounded him; then he closed them again, with the intention of going to sleep once more. When many varied sensations have agitated the day, when various matters preoccupy the mind, one falls asleep once, but not a second time. Sleep comes more easily than it returns. This is what happened to Jean Valjean. He could not get to sleep again, and he fell to thinking. He was at one of those moments when the thoughts which one has in one's mind are troubled. There was a sort of dark confusion in his brain. His memories of the olden time and of the immediate present floated there pell-mell and mingled confusedly, losing their proper forms, becoming disproportionately large, then suddenly disappearing, as in a muddy and perturbed pool. Many thoughts occurred to him; but there was one which kept constantly presenting itself afresh, and which drove away all others. We will mention this thought at once: he had observed the six sets of silver forks and spoons and the ladle which Madame Magloire had placed on the table. Those six sets of silver haunted him.--They were there.--A few paces distant.--Just as he was traversing the adjoining room to reach the one in which he then was, the old servant-woman had been in the act of placing them in a little cupboard near the head of the bed.-- He had taken careful note of this cupboard.--On the right, as you entered from the dining-room.--They were solid.--And old silver.-- From the ladle one could get at least two hundred francs.-- Double what he had earned in nineteen years.--It is true that he would have earned more if "the administration had not robbed him." His mind wavered for a whole hour in fluctuations with which there was certainly mingled some struggle. Three o'clock struck. He opened his eyes again, drew himself up abruptly into a sitting posture, stretched out his arm and felt of his knapsack, which he had thrown down on a corner of the alcove; then he hung his legs over the edge of the bed, and placed his feet on the floor, and thus found himself, almost without knowing it, seated on his bed. He remained for a time thoughtfully in this attitude, which would have been suggestive of something sinister for any one who had seen him thus in the dark, the only person awake in that house where all were sleeping. All of a sudden he stooped down, removed his shoes and placed them softly on the mat beside the bed; then he resumed his thoughtful attitude, and became motionless once more. Throughout this hideous meditation, the thoughts which we have above indicated moved incessantly through his brain; entered, withdrew, re-entered, and in a manner oppressed him; and then he thought, also, without knowing why, and with the mechanical persistence of revery, of a convict named Brevet, whom he had known in the galleys, and whose trousers had been upheld by a single suspender of knitted cotton. The checkered pattern of that suspender recurred incessantly to his mind. He remained in this situation, and would have so remained indefinitely, even until daybreak, had not the clock struck one--the half or quarter hour. It seemed to him that that stroke said to him, "Come on!" He rose to his feet, hesitated still another moment, and listened; all was quiet in the house; then he walked straight ahead, with short steps, to the window, of which he caught a glimpse. The night was not very dark; there was a full moon, across which coursed large clouds driven by the wind. This created, outdoors, alternate shadow and gleams of light, eclipses, then bright openings of the clouds; and indoors a sort of twilight. This twilight, sufficient to enable a person to see his way, intermittent on account of the clouds, resembled the sort of livid light which falls through an air-hole in a cellar, before which the passersby come and go. On arriving at the window, Jean Valjean examined it. It had no grating; it opened in the garden and was fastened, according to the fashion of the country, only by a small pin. He opened it; but as a rush of cold and piercing air penetrated the room abruptly, he closed it again immediately. He scrutinized the garden with that attentive gaze which studies rather than looks. The garden was enclosed by a tolerably low white wall, easy to climb. Far away, at the extremity, he perceived tops of trees, spaced at regular intervals, which indicated that the wall separated the garden from an avenue or lane planted with trees. Having taken this survey, he executed a movement like that of a man who has made up his mind, strode to his alcove, grasped his knapsack, opened it, fumbled in it, pulled out of it something which he placed on the bed, put his shoes into one of his pockets, shut the whole thing up again, threw the knapsack on his shoulders, put on his cap, drew the visor down over his eyes, felt for his cudgel, went and placed it in the angle of the window; then returned to the bed, and resolutely seized the object which he had deposited there. It resembled a short bar of iron, pointed like a pike at one end. It would have been difficult to distinguish in that darkness for what employment that bit of iron could have been designed. Perhaps it was a lever; possibly it was a club. In the daytime it would have been possible to recognize it as nothing more than a miner's candlestick. Convicts were, at that period, sometimes employed in quarrying stone from the lofty hills which environ Toulon, and it was not rare for them to have miners' tools at their command. These miners' candlesticks are of massive iron, terminated at the lower extremity by a point, by means of which they are stuck into the rock. He took the candlestick in his right hand; holding his breath and trying to deaden the sound of his tread, he directed his steps to the door of the adjoining room, occupied by the Bishop, as we already know. On arriving at this door, he found it ajar. The Bishop had not closed it.

十　那人醒了 英 文 天主堂的钟正敲着早晨两点，冉阿让醒了。 那张床太舒服，因此他醒了。他没有床睡，已经快十九年了，他虽然没有脱衣，但那种感受太新奇，不能不影响他的睡眠。 他睡了四个多钟头，疲乏已经过去。他早已习惯不在休息上多花时间。 他张开眼睛，向他四周的黑暗望了一阵，随后又闭上眼，想再睡一会儿。 假使白天的感触太复杂，脑子里的事太多，我们就只能睡，而不能重行入睡，睡容易，再睡难。这正是冉阿让的情形。 他不能再睡，他便想。 他正陷入这种思想紊乱的时刻，在他的脑子里有一种看不见的、来来去去的东西。他的旧恨和新愁在他的心里翻来倒去，凌乱杂沓，漫无条理，既失去它们的形状，也无限扩大了它们的范围，随后又仿佛忽然消失在一股汹涌的浊流中。他想到许多事，但是其中有一件却反反复复一再出现，并且排除了其余的事。这一件，我们立即说出来，他注意了马格洛大娘先头放在桌上的那六副银器和那只大汤勺。 那六副银器使他烦懑。那些东西就在那里。只有几步路。刚才他经过隔壁那间屋子走到他房里来时，老大娘正把那些东西放在床头的小壁橱里。他特别注意了那壁橱。进餐室，朝右走。那些东西多重呵！并且是古银器，连那大勺至少可以卖二百法郎。是他在十九年里所赚的一倍。的确，假使“官府”没有“偷盗”他，他也许还多赚几文。 他心里反反复复，踌躇不决，斗争了整整一个钟头。三点敲过了。他重行睁开眼睛，忽然坐了起来，伸手去摸他先头丢在壁厢角里的那只布袋，随后他垂下两腿，又把脚踏在地上，几乎不知道怎样会坐在床边的。 他那样坐着，发了一阵呆，房子里的人全睡着了，惟有他独自一人醒着，假使有人看见他那样呆坐在黑暗角落里，一定会吃一惊的。他忽然弯下腰去，脱下鞋子，轻轻放在床前的席子上，又恢复他那发呆的样子，待着不动。 在那种可怕的思考中，我们刚指出的那种念头不停地在他的脑海里翻搅着，进去又出来，出来又进去，使他感受到一种压力；同时他不知道为什么，会带着梦想中那种机械的顽固性，想到他从前在监狱里认识他一个叫布莱卫的囚犯，那人的裤子只用一根棉织的背带吊住。那根背带的棋盘格花纹不停地在他脑子里显现出来。 他在那样的情形下呆着不动，并且也许会一直呆到天明，如果那只挂钟没有敲那一下棗报一刻或报半点的一下。那一下仿佛是对他说：“来吧！” 他站起来，又迟疑了一会，再侧耳细听，房子里一点声音也没有，于是他小步小步一直朝前走到隐约可辨的窗边。当时夜色并不很暗，风高月圆，白云掩映；云来月隐，云过月明，因此窗外时明时暗，室内也偶得微光。那种微光，足使室内的人行走，由于行云的作用，屋内也乍明乍暗，仿佛是人在地下室里，见风窗外面不时有人来往一样，因而室内黯淡的光也忽强忽弱。冉阿让走到窗边，把它仔细看了一遍，它没有铁闩，只有它的活梢扣着，这原是那地方的习惯。窗外便是那园子。他把窗子打开，于是一股冷空气突然钻进房来，他又立刻把它关上。他仔仔细细把那园子瞧了一遍，应当说，研究了一遍。园的四周绕着一道白围墙，相当低，容易越过。在园的尽头，围墙外面，他看见成列的树梢，彼此距离相等，说明墙外便是一条林荫道，或是一条栽有树木的小路。 瞧了那一眼之后，他做了一个表示决心的动作，向壁厢走去，拿起他的布袋，打开，从里面搜出一件东西，放在床上，又把他的鞋子塞进袋里，扣好布袋，驮在肩上，藏上他的便帽，帽檐齐眉，又伸手去摸他的棍子，把它放在窗角上，回到床边，毅然决然拿起先头放在床上的那件东西。好象是根短铁钎，一端磨到和标枪一般尖。 在黑暗里我们不易辨出那铁钎是为了作什么用才磨成那个样子的，这也许是根撬棍，也许是把铁杵。 如果是在白天，我们便认得出来，那只是一根矿工用的蜡烛钎。当时，常常派犯人到土伦周围的那些高丘上去采取岩石，他们便时常持有矿工的器械。矿工的蜡烛钎是用粗铁条做的，下面一端尖，为了好插在岩石里。 他用右手握住那根烛钎，屏住呼吸，放轻脚步，走向隔壁那间屋子，我们知道，那是主教的卧房。走到门边，他看见门是掩着的，留着一条缝。主教并没有把它关上。

十一　他干的事 英 文 冉阿让张耳细听。绝没有一点声响。 他推门。 他用指尖推着，轻轻地、缓缓地、正象一只胆怯心细、想要进门的猫。 门被推以后，静悄悄地移动了几乎不能察觉的那么一点点，缝也稍微宽了一丝。 他等待了一会，再推，这次使力比较大。 门悄然逐渐开大了。现在那条缝已能容他身体过去。但是门旁有一张小桌子，那角度堵住了路，妨碍他通过门缝。 冉阿让知道那种困难。无论如何，他非得把门推得更开一些不可。 他打定主意，再推，比先头两次更使劲一些。这一次，却有个门臼，由于润滑油干了，在黑暗里突然发出一种嘶哑延续的声音。 冉阿让大吃一惊。在他耳里门臼的响声就和末日审判的号角那样洪亮骇人。 在开始行动的那一刹那间，由于幻想的扩大，他几乎认为那个门臼活起来了，并且具有一种非常的活力，就象一头狂叫的狗要向全家告警，要叫醒那些睡着的人。 他停下来，浑身哆嗦，不知所措，他原是踮着脚尖走路，现在连脚跟也落地了。他听见他的动脉在两边太阳穴里象两个铁锤那样敲打着，胸中出来的气也好象来自山洞的风声。他认为那个发怒的门臼所发出的那种震耳欲聋的声响，如果不是天崩地裂似的把全家惊醒，那是不可能的。他推的那扇门已有所警惕，并且已经叫喊；那个老人就要起来了，两个老姑娘也要大叫了，还有旁人都会前来搭救；不到一刻钟，满城都会骚乱，警察也会出动。他一下子认为自己完了。 他立在原处发慌，好象一尊石人，一动也不敢动。 几分钟过去了。门大大地开着。他冒险把那房间瞧了一遍。丝毫没有动静，他伸出耳朵听，整所房子里没有一点声音。 那个锈门臼的响声并不曾惊醒任何人。 这第一次的危险已经过了，但是他心里仍旧惊恐难受。不过他并不后退。即使是在他以为一切没有希望时，他也没有后退。他心里只想到要干就得赶快。他向前一步，便跨进了那房间。 那房间是完全寂静的。这儿那儿，他看见一些模糊紊乱的形体，如果在白天便看得出来，那只是桌上一些零乱的纸张、展开的表册、圆凳上堆着的书本、一把堆着衣服的安乐椅、一把祈祷椅，可是在这时，这些东西却一齐变为黑黝黝的空穴和迷蒙难辨的地域。冉阿让仍朝前走，谨慎小心，唯恐撞了家具。 他听到主教熟睡在那房间的尽头，发出均匀安静的呼吸。 他忽然停下来。他已到了床边。他自己并没有料到会那样快就到了主教的床边。 上天有时会在适当时刻使万物的景象和人的行动发生巧妙的配合，从而产生出深刻的效果，仿佛有意要我们多多思考似的。大致在半个钟点以前，就已有一大片乌云遮着天空。正当冉阿让停在床前，那片乌云忽然散开了，好象是故意要那样做似的，一线月光也随即穿过长窗，正正照在主教的那张苍老的脸上。主教正安安稳稳地睡着。他几乎是和衣睡在床上的，因为下阿尔卑斯一带的夜晚很冷，一件棕色的羊毛衫盖住他的胳膊，直到腕边。他的头仰在枕头上，那正是恣意休息的姿态，一只手垂在床外，指上戴着主教的指环，多少功德都是由这只手圆满了的。他的面容隐隐显出满足、乐观和安详的神情。那不仅仅是微笑，还几乎是容光的焕发。他额上反映出灵光，那是我们看不见的。心地正直的人在睡眠中也在景仰那神秘的天空。 来自天空的一线彩光正射在主教的身上。 同时他本身也是光明剔透的，因为那片天就在他的心里。 那片天就是他的信仰。 正当月光射来重叠（不妨这样说）在他心光上的时候，熟睡着的主教好象是包围在一圈灵光里。那种光却是柔和的，涵容在一种无可言喻的半明半暗的光里。天空的那片月光，地上的这种沉寂，这个了无声息的园子，这个静谧的人家，此时此刻，万籁俱寂，这一切，都使那慈祥老人酣畅的睡眠有着一种说不出的奇妙庄严的神态，并且还以一种端详肃静的圆光环绕着那些白发和那双合着的眼睛，那种充满了希望和赤忱的容颜，老人的面目和赤子的睡眠。 这个人不自觉的无比尊严几乎可以和神明媲美。冉阿让，他，却待在黑影里，手中拿着他的铁烛钎，立着不动，望着这位全身光亮的老人，有些胆寒。他从来没有见过那样的人。他那种待人的赤忱使他惊骇。一个心怀叵测、濒于犯罪的人在景仰一个睡乡中的至人，精神领域中没有比这更宏伟的场面了。 他孤零零独自一人，却酣然睡在那样一个陌生人的旁边，他那种卓绝的心怀冉阿让多少也感觉到了，不过他不为所动。 谁也说不出他的心情，连他自己也说不出。如果我们真要领会，就必须设想一种极端强暴的力和一种极端温和的力的并立。即使是从他的面色上，我们肯定不能分辨出什么来。那只是一副凶顽而又惊骇的面孔。他望着，如是而已。但是他的心境是怎样的呢？那是无从揣测的。不过，他受到了感动，受到了困扰，那是很显明的。但是那种感动究竟属于什么性质的呢？ 他的眼睛没有离开老人。从他的姿势和面容上显露出来的，仅仅是一种奇特的犹豫神情。我们可以说，他正面对着两种关口而踟蹰不前，一种是自绝的关口，一种是自救的关口。 他仿佛已准备要击碎那头颅或吻那只手。 过了一会，他缓缓地举起他的左手，直到额边，脱下他的小帽，随后他的手又同样缓缓地落下去。冉阿让重又堕入冥想中了，左手拿着小帽，右手拿着铁钎，头发乱竖在他那粗野的头上。 尽管他用怎样可怕的目光望着主教，但主教仍安然酣睡。 月光依稀照着壁炉上的那个耶稣受难像，他仿佛把两只手同时伸向他们两个人，为一个降福，为另一个赦宥。忽然，冉阿让拿起他的小帽，戴在头上，不望那主教，连忙沿着床边，向他从床头可以隐隐望见的那个壁橱走去，他想起那根铁烛钎，好象要撬锁似的，但是钥匙已在那上面，他打开橱，他最先见到的东西，便是那篮银器，他提着那篮银器，大踏步穿过那间屋子，也不管声响了，走到门边，进入祈祷室，推开窗子，拿起木棍，跨过窗台，把银器放进布袋，丢下篮子，穿过园子，老虎似的跳过墙头逃了。

CHAPTER XI    WHAT HE DOES Chinese Jean Valjean listened. Not a sound. He gave the door a push. He pushed it gently with the tip of his finger, lightly, with the furtive and uneasy gentleness of a cat which is desirous of entering. The door yielded to this pressure, and made an imperceptible and silent movement, which enlarged the opening a little. He waited a moment; then gave the door a second and a bolder push. It continued to yield in silence. The opening was now large enough to allow him to pass. But near the door there stood a little table, which formed an embarrassing angle with it, and barred the entrance. Jean Valjean recognized the difficulty. It was necessary, at any cost, to enlarge the aperture still further. He decided on his course of action, and gave the door a third push, more energetic than the two preceding. This time a badly oiled hinge suddenly emitted amid the silence a hoarse and prolonged cry. Jean Valjean shuddered. The noise of the hinge rang in his ears with something of the piercing and formidable sound of the trump of the Day of Judgment. In the fantastic exaggerations of the first moment he almost imagined that that hinge had just become animated, and had suddenly assumed a terrible life, and that it was barking like a dog to arouse every one, and warn and to wake those who were asleep. He halted, shuddering, bewildered, and fell back from the tips of his toes upon his heels. He heard the arteries in his temples beating like two forge hammers, and it seemed to him that his breath issued from his breast with the roar of the wind issuing from a cavern. It seemed impossible to him that the horrible clamor of that irritated hinge should not have disturbed the entire household, like the shock of an earthquake; the door, pushed by him, had taken the alarm, and had shouted; the old man would rise at once; the two old women would shriek out; people would come to their assistance; in less than a quarter of an hour the town would be in an uproar, and the gendarmerie on hand. For a moment he thought himself lost. He remained where he was, petrified like the statue of salt, not daring to make a movement. Several minutes elapsed. The door had fallen wide open. He ventured to peep into the next room. Nothing had stirred there. He lent an ear. Nothing was moving in the house. The noise made by the rusty hinge had not awakened any one. This first danger was past; but there still reigned a frightful tumult within him. Nevertheless, he did not retreat. Even when he had thought himself lost, he had not drawn back. His only thought now was to finish as soon as possible. He took a step and entered the room. This room was in a state of perfect calm. Here and there vague and confused forms were distinguishable, which in the daylight were papers scattered on a table, open folios, volumes piled upon a stool, an arm-chair heaped with clothing, a prie-Dieu, and which at that hour were only shadowy corners and whitish spots. Jean Valjean advanced with precaution, taking care not to knock against the furniture. He could hear, at the extremity of the room, the even and tranquil breathing of the sleeping Bishop. He suddenly came to a halt. He was near the bed. He had arrived there sooner than he had thought for. Nature sometimes mingles her effects and her spectacles with our actions with sombre and intelligent appropriateness, as though she desired to make us reflect. For the last half-hour a large cloud had covered the heavens. At the moment when Jean Valjean paused in front of the bed, this cloud parted, as though on purpose, and a ray of light, traversing the long window, suddenly illuminated the Bishop's pale face. He was sleeping peacefully. He lay in his bed almost completely dressed, on account of the cold of the Basses-Alps, in a garment of brown wool, which covered his arms to the wrists. His head was thrown back on the pillow, in the careless attitude of repose; his hand, adorned with the pastoral ring, and whence had fallen so many good deeds and so many holy actions, was hanging over the edge of the bed. His whole face was illumined with a vague expression of satisfaction, of hope, and of felicity. It was more than a smile, and almost a radiance. He bore upon his brow the indescribable reflection of a light which was invisible. The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a mysterious heaven. A reflection of that heaven rested on the Bishop. It was, at the same time, a luminous transparency, for that heaven was within him. That heaven was his conscience. At the moment when the ray of moonlight superposed itself, so to speak, upon that inward radiance, the sleeping Bishop seemed as in a glory. It remained, however, gentle and veiled in an ineffable half-light. That moon in the sky, that slumbering nature, that garden without a quiver, that house which was so calm, the hour, the moment, the silence, added some solemn and unspeakable quality to the venerable repose of this man, and enveloped in a sort of serene and majestic aureole that white hair, those closed eyes, that face in which all was hope and all was confidence, that head of an old man, and that slumber of an infant. There was something almost divine in this man, who was thus august, without being himself aware of it. Jean Valjean was in the shadow, and stood motionless, with his iron candlestick in his hand, frightened by this luminous old man. Never had he beheld anything like this. This confidence terrified him. The moral world has no grander spectacle than this: a troubled and uneasy conscience, which has arrived on the brink of an evil action, contemplating the slumber of the just. That slumber in that isolation, and with a neighbor like himself, had about it something sublime, of which he was vaguely but imperiously conscious. No one could have told what was passing within him, not even himself. In order to attempt to form an idea of it, it is necessary to think of the most violent of things in the presence of the most gentle. Even on his visage it would have been impossible to distinguish anything with certainty. It was a sort of haggard astonishment. He gazed at it, and that was all. But what was his thought? It would have been impossible to divine it. What was evident was, that he was touched and astounded. But what was the nature of this emotion? His eye never quitted the old man. The only thing which was clearly to be inferred from his attitude and his physiognomy was a strange indecision. One would have said that he was hesitating between the two abysses,-- the one in which one loses one's self and that in which one saves one's self. He seemed prepared to crush that skull or to kiss that hand. At the expiration of a few minutes his left arm rose slowly towards his brow, and he took off his cap; then his arm fell back with the same deliberation, and Jean Valjean fell to meditating once more, his cap in his left hand, his club in his right hand, his hair bristling all over his savage head. The Bishop continued to sleep in profound peace beneath that terrifying gaze. The gleam of the moon rendered confusedly visible the crucifix over the chimney-piece, which seemed to be extending its arms to both of them, with a benediction for one and pardon for the other. Suddenly Jean Valjean replaced his cap on his brow; then stepped rapidly past the bed, without glancing at the Bishop, straight to the cupboard, which he saw near the head; he raised his iron candlestick as though to force the lock; the key was there; he opened it; the first thing which presented itself to him was the basket of silverware; he seized it, traversed the chamber with long strides, without taking any precautions and without troubling himself about the noise, gained the door, re-entered the oratory, opened the window, seized his cudgel, bestrode the window-sill of the ground-floor, put the silver into his knapsack, threw away the basket, crossed the garden, leaped over the wall like a tiger, and fled.

十二　主教工作 英 文 次日破晓，卞福汝主教在他的园中散步。马格洛大娘慌慌张张地向他跑来。 “我的主教，我的主教，”她喊着说，“大人可知道那只银器篮子在什么地方吗？” “知道的。”主教说。 “耶稣上帝有灵！”她说。“我刚才还说它到什么地方去了呢。” 主教刚在花坛脚下拾起了那篮子，把它交给马格洛大娘。 “篮子在这儿。” “怎样？”她说。“里面一点东西也没有！那些银器呢？” “呀，”主教回答说，“您原来是问银器吗？我不知道在什么地方。” “大哉好上帝！给人偷去了！是昨天晚上那个人偷了的！” 一转瞬间，马格洛大娘已用急躁老太婆的全部敏捷劲儿跑进祈祷室，穿进壁厢，又回到主教那儿。 主教正弯下腰去，悼惜一株被那篮子压折的秋海棠，那是篮子从花坛落到地下把它压折了的。主教听到马格洛大娘的叫声，又立起立。 “我的主教，那个人已经走了！银器也偷去了。” 她一面嚷，眼睛却落在园子的一角上，那儿还看得出越墙的痕迹。墙上的垛子也弄掉了一个。 “您瞧！他是从那儿逃走的。他跳进了车网巷！呀！可耻的东西！他偷了我们的银器！” 主教沉默了一会，随后他张开那双严肃的眼睛，柔声向马格洛大娘说： “首先，那些银器难道真是我们的吗？” 马格洛大娘不敢说下去了。又是一阵沉寂。随后，主教继续说： “马格洛大娘，我占用那些银器已经很久了。那是属于穷人的。那个人是什么人呢？当然是个穷人了。” “耶稣，”马格洛大娘又说，“不是为了我，也不是为了姑娘，我们是没有关系的。但是我是为了我的主教着想。我的主教现在用什么东西盛饭菜呢？” 主教显出一副惊奇的神气瞧着她。 “呀！这话怎讲！我们不是有锡器吗？” 马格洛大娘耸了耸肩。 “锡器有一股臭气。” “那么，铁器也可以。” 马格洛大娘做出一副怪样子： “铁器有一股怪味。” “那么，”主教说，“用木器就是了。” 过了一会，他坐在昨晚冉阿让坐过的那张桌子边用早餐。卞福汝主教一面吃，一面欢欢喜喜地叫他那哑口无言的妹子和叽哩咕噜的马格洛大娘注意，他把一块面包浸在牛奶里，连木匙和木叉也都不用。 “真想不到！”马格洛大娘一面走来走去，一面自言自语，“招待这样一个人，并且让他睡在自己的旁边！幸而他只偷了一点东西！我的上帝！想想都使人寒毛直竖。” 正在兄妹俩要离开桌子时，有人敲门。 “请进。”主教说。 门开了，一群狠巴巴的陌生人出现在门边。三个人拿着另一个人的衣领。那三个人是警察，另一个就是冉阿让。 一个警察队长，仿佛是率领那群人的，起先立在门边。他进来，行了个军礼，向主教走去。 “我的主教……”他说。 冉阿让先头好象是垂头丧气的，听了这称呼，忽然抬起头来，露出大吃一惊的神气。 “我的主教，”他低声说，“那么，他不是本堂神甫了……” “不准开口！”一个警察说，“这是主教先生。” 但是卞福汝主教尽他的高年所允许的速度迎上去。 “呀！您来了！”他望着冉阿让大声说，“我真高兴看见您。怎么！那一对烛台，我也送给您了，那和其余的东西一样，都是银的，您可以变卖二百法郎。您为什么没有把那对烛台和餐具一同带去呢？” 冉阿让睁圆了眼睛，瞧着那位年高可敬的主教。他的面色，绝没有一种人类文字可以表达得出来。 “我的主教，”警察队长说，“难道这人说的话是真的吗？我们碰到了他。他走路的样子好象是个想逃跑的人。我们就把他拦下来看看。他拿着这些银器……” “他还向你们说过，”主教笑容可掬地岔着说，“这些银器是一个神甫老头儿给他的，他还在他家里宿了一夜。我知道这是怎么回事。你们又把他带回到此地。对吗？你们误会了。” “既是这样，”队长说，“我们可以把他放走吗？” “当然。”主教回答说。 警察释放了冉阿让，他向后退了几步。 “你们真让我走吗？”他说，仿佛是在梦中，字音也几乎没有吐清楚。 “是的，我们让你走，你耳朵聋了吗？”一个警察说。 “我的朋友，”主教又说，“您在走之先，不妨把您的那对烛台拿去。” 他走到壁炉边，拿了那两个银烛台，送给冉阿让。那两个妇人没有说一个字、做一个手势或露一点神气去阻扰主教，她们瞧着他行动。 冉阿让全身发抖。他机械地接了那两个烛台，不知道怎样才好。 “现在，”主教说，“您可以放心走了。呀！还有一件事，我的朋友，您再来时，不必走园里。您随时都可以由街上的那扇门进出。白天和夜里，它都只上一个活闩。” 他转过去朝着那些警察： “先生们，你们可以回去了。” 那些警察走了。 这时冉阿让象是个要昏倒的人。 主教走到他身边，低声向他说： “不要忘记，永远不要忘记您允诺过我，您用这些银子是为了成为一个诚实的人。” 冉阿让绝对回忆不起他曾允诺过什么话，他呆着不能开口。主教说那些话是一字一字叮嘱的，他又郑重地说：“冉阿让，我的兄弟，您现在已不是恶一方面的人了，您是在善的一面了。我赎的是您的灵魂，我把它从黑暗的思想和自暴自弃的精神里救出来，交还给上帝。”