the magic skin(驴皮记)-第48章

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with　horror；　he　took　refuge　among　the　highest　summits　of　the
mountains；　and　stayed　there　till　the　evening；　but　yet　he　could　not
drive　away　the　gloomy　presentiments　awakened　within　him　in　such　an
unfortunate　manner　by　a　cruel　solicitude　on　his　account。

The　Auvergne　peasant　herself　suddenly　appeared　before　him　like　a
shadow　in　the　dusk；　a　perverse　freak　of　the　poet　within　him　found　a
vague　resemblance　between　her　black　and　white　striped　petticoat　and
the　bony　frame　of　a　spectre。

〃The　damp　is　falling　now；　sir；〃　said　she。　〃If　you　stop　out　there；　you
will　go　off　just　like　rotten　fruit。　You　must　come　in。　It　isn't　healthy
to　breathe　the　damp；　and　you　have　taken　nothing　since　the　morning；
besides。〃

〃TONNERRE　DE　DIEU！　old　witch；〃　he　cried；　〃let　me　live　after　my　own
fashion；　I　tell　you；　or　I　shall　be　off　altogether。　It　is　quite　bad
enough　to　dig　my　grave　every　morning；　you　might　let　it　alone　in　the
evenings　at　least〃

〃Your　grave；　sir！　I　dig　your　grave！and　where　may　your　grave　be？　I
want　to　see　you　as　old　as　father　there；　and　not　in　your　grave　by　any
manner　of　means。　The　grave！　that　comes　soon　enough　for　us　all；　in　the
grave〃

〃That　is　enough；〃　said　Raphael。

〃Take　my　arm；　sir。〃

〃No。〃

The　feeling　of　pity　in　others　is　very　difficult　for　a　man　to　bear；　and
it　is　hardest　of　all　when　the　pity　is　deserved。　Hatred　is　a　tonicit
quickens　life　and　stimulates　revenge；　but　pity　is　death　to　usit
makes　our　weakness　weaker　still。　It　is　as　if　distress　simpered
ingratiatingly　at　us；　contempt　lurks　in　the　tenderness；　or　tenderness
in　an　affront。　In　the　centenarian　Raphael　saw　triumphant　pity；　a
wondering　pity　in　the　child's　eyes；　an　officious　pity　in　the　woman；
and　in　her　husband　a　pity　that　had　an　interested　motive；　but　no　matter
how　the　sentiment　declared　itself；　death　was　always　its　import。

A　poet　makes　a　poem　of　everything；　it　is　tragical　or　joyful；　as　things
happen　to　strike　his　imagination；　his　lofty　soul　rejects　all　half…
tones；　he　always　prefers　vivid　and　decided　colors。　In　Raphael's　soul
this　compassion　produced　a　terrible　poem　of　mourning　and　melancholy。
When　he　had　wished　to　live　in　close　contact　with　nature；　he　had　of
course　forgotten　how　freely　natural　emotions　are　expressed。　He　would
think　himself　quite　alone　under　a　tree；　whilst　he　struggled　with　an
obstinate　coughing　fit；　a　terrible　combat　from　which　he　never　issued
victorious　without　utter　exhaustion　afterwards；　and　then　he　would　meet
the　clear；　bright　eyes　of　the　little　boy；　who　occupied　the　post　of
sentinel；　like　a　savage　in　a　bent　of　grass；　the　eyes　scrutinized　him
with　a　childish　wonder；　in　which　there　was　as　much　amusement　as
pleasure；　and　an　indescribable　mixture　of　indifference　and　interest。
The　awful　BROTHER；　YOU　MUST　DIE；　of　the　Trappists　seemed　constantly
legible　in　the　eyes　of　the　peasants　with　whom　Raphael　was　living；　he
scarcely　knew　which　he　dreaded　most；　their　unfettered　talk　or　their
silence；　their　presence　became　torture。

One　morning　he　saw　two　men　in　black　prowling　about　in　his
neighborhood；　who　furtively　studied　him　and　took　observations。　They
made　as　though　they　had　come　there　for　a　stroll；　and　asked　him　a　few
indifferent　questions；　to　which　he　returned　short　answers。　He
recognized　them　both。　One　was　the　cure　and　the　other　the　doctor　at　the
springs；　Jonathan　had　no　doubt　sent　them；　or　the　people　in　the　house
had　called　them　in；　or　the　scent　of　an　approaching　death　had　drawn
them　thither。　He　beheld　his　own　funeral；　heard　the　chanting　of　the
priests；　and　counted　the　tall　wax　candles；　and　all　that　lovely　fertile
nature　around　him；　in　whose　lap　he　had　thought　to　find　life　once　more；
he　saw　no　longer；　save　through　a　veil　of　crape。　Everything　that　but
lately　had　spoken　of　length　of　days　to　him；　now　prophesied　a　speedy
end。　He　set　out　the　next　day　for　Paris；　not　before　he　had　been
inundated　with　cordial　wishes；　which　the　people　of　the　house　uttered
in　melancholy　and　wistful　tones　for　his　benefit。

He　traveled　through　the　night；　and　awoke　as　they　passed　through　one　of
the　pleasant　valleys　of　the　Bourbonnais。　View　after　view　swam　before
his　gaze；　and　passed　rapidly　away　like　the　vague　pictures　of　a　dream。
Cruel　nature　spread　herself　out　before　his　eyes　with　tantalizing
grace。　Sometimes　the　Allier；　a　liquid　shining　ribbon；　meandered
through　the　distant　fertile　landscape；　then　followed　the　steeples　of
hamlets；　hiding　modestly　in　the　depths　of　a　ravine　with　its　yellow
cliffs；　sometimes；　after　the　monotony　of　vineyards；　the　watermills　of
a　little　valley　would　be　suddenly　seen；　and　everywhere　there　were
pleasant　chateaux；　hillside　villages；　roads　with　their　fringes　of
queenly　poplars；　and　the　Loire　itself；　at　last；　with　its　wide　sheets
of　water　sparkling　like　diamonds　amid　its　golden　sands。　Attractions
everywhere；　without　end！　This　nature；　all　astir　with　a　life　and
gladness　like　that　of　childhood；　scarcely　able　to　contain　the　impulses
and　sap　of　June；　possessed　a　fatal　attraction　for　the　darkened　gaze　of
the　invalid。　He　drew　the　blinds　of　his　carriage　windows；　and　betook
himself　again　to　slumber。

Towards　evening；　after　they　had　passed　Cesne；　he　was　awakened　by
lively　music；　and　found　himself　confronted　with　a　village　fair。　The
horses　were　changed　near　the　marketplace。　Whilst　the　postilions　were
engaged　in　making　the　transfer；　he　saw　the　people　dancing　merrily；
pretty　and　attractive　girls　with　flowers　about　them；　excited　youths；
and　finally　the　jolly　wine…flushed　countenances　of　old　peasants。
Children　prattled；　old　women　laughed　and　chatted；　everything　spoke　in
one　voice；　and　there　was　a　holiday　gaiety　about　everything；　down　to
their　clothing　and　the　tables　that　were　set　out。　A　cheerful　expression
pervaded　the　square　and　the　church；　the　roofs　and　windows；　even　the
very　doorways　of　the　village　seemed　likewise　to　be　in　holiday　trim。

Raphael　could　not　repress　an　angry　exclamation；　nor　yet　a　wish　to
silence　the　fiddles；　annihilate　the　stir　and　bustle；　stop　the　clamor；
and　disperse　the　ill…timed　festival；　like　a　dying　man；　he　felt　unable
to　endure　the　slightest　sound；　and　he　entered　his　carriage　much
annoyed。　When　he　looked　out　upon　the　square　from　the　window；　he　saw
that　all　the　happiness　was　scared　away；　the　peasant　women　were　in
flight；　and　the　benches　were　deserted。　Only　a　blind　musician；　on　the
scaffolding　of　the　orchestra；　went　on　playing　a　shrill　tune　on　his
clarionet。　That　piping　of　his；　without　dancers　to　it；　and　the　solitary
old　man　himself；　in　the　shadow　of　the　lime…tree；　with　his　curmudgeon's
face；　scanty　hair；　and　ragged　clothing；　was　like　a　fantastic　picture
of　Raphael's　wish。　The　heavy　rain　was　pouring　in　torrents；　it　was　one
of　those　thunderstorms　that　June　brings　about　so　rapidly；　to　cease　as
suddenly。　The　thing　was　so　natural；　that；　when　Raphael　had　looked　out
and　seen　some　pale　clouds　driven　over　by　a　gust　of　wind；　he　did　not
think　of　looking　at　the　piece　of　skin。　He　lay　back　again　in　the　corner
of　his　carriage；　which　was　very　soon　rolling　upon　its　way。

The　next　day　found　him　back　in　his　home　again；　in　his　own　room；　beside
his　own　fireside。　He　had　had　a　large　fire　lighted；　he　felt　cold。
Jonathan　brought　him　some　letters；　they　were　all　from　Pauline。　He
opened　the　first　one　without　any　eagerness；　and　unfolded　it　as　if　it
had　been　the　gray…paper　form　of　application　for　taxes　made　by　the
revenue　collector。　He　read　the　first　sentence：

〃Gone！　This　really　is　a　flight；　my　Raphael。　How　is　it？　No　one　can　tell
me　where　you　are。　And　who　should　know　if　not　I？〃

He　did　not　wish　to　learn　any　more。　He　calmly　took　up　the　letters　and
threw　them　in　the　fire；　watching　with　dull　and　lifeless　eyes　the
perfumed　paper　as　it　was　twisted；　shriveled；　bent；　and　devoured　by　the
capricious　flames。　Fragments　that　fell　among　the　ashes　allowed　him　to
see　the　beginning　of　a　sentence；　or　a　half…burnt　thought　or　word；　he
took　a　pleasure　in　deciphering　thema　sort　of　mechanical　amusement。

〃Sitting　at　your　doorexpectedCapriceI　obeyRivalsI；　never！
thy　Paulineloveno　more　of　Pauline？If　you　had　wished　to　leave　me
for　ever；　you　would　not　have　deserted　meLove　eternalTo　die〃

The　words　caused　him　a　sort　of　remorse；　he　seized　the　tongs；　and
rescued　a　last　fragment　of　the　letter　from　the　flames。

〃I　have　murmured；〃　so　Pauline　wrote；　〃but　I　have　never　complained；　my
Raphael！　If　you　have　left　me　so　far　behind　you；　it　was　doubtless
because　you　wished　to　hide　some　heavy　grief　from　me。　Perhaps　you　will
kill　me　one　of　these　days；　but　you　are　too　good　to　torture　me。　So　do
not　go　away　from　me　like　this。　There！　I　can　bear　the　worst　of　torment；
if　only　I　am　at　your　side。　Any　grief　that　you　could　cause　me　would　not
be　grief。　There　is　far　more　love　in　my　heart　for　you　than　I　have　ever
yet　shown　you。　I　can　endure　anything；　except　this　weeping　far　away
from　you；　this　ignorance　of　your〃

Raphael　laid　the　scorched　scrap　on　the　mantelpiece；　then　all　at　once
he　flung　it　into　the　fire。　The　bit　of　paper　was　too　clearly　a　symbol
of　his　own　love　and　luckless　existence。

〃Go　and　find　M。　Bianchon；〃　he　told　Jonathan。

Horace　came　and　found　Raphael　in　bed。

〃Can　you　prescribe　a　draught　for　mesome　mild　opiate　which　will
always　keep　me　in　a　somnolent　condition；　a　draught　that　will　not　be
injurious　although　taken　constantly。〃

〃Nothing　is　easier；〃　the　young　doctor　replied；　〃but　you　will　have　to
keep　on　your　feet　for　a　few　hours　daily；　at　any　rate；　so　as　to　take
your　food。〃

〃A　few　hours！〃　Raphael　broke　in；　〃no；　no！　I　only　wish　to　be　out　of　bed
for　an　hour　at　most。〃

〃What　is　your　object？〃　inquired　Bianchon。

〃To　sleep；　for　so　one　keeps　alive；　at　any　rate；〃　the　patient　answered。
〃Let　no　one　come　in；　not　even　Mlle。　Pauline　de　Wistchnau！〃　he　added　to
Jonathan；　as　the　doctor　was　writing　out　his　prescription。

〃Well；　M。　Horace；　is　there　any　hope？〃　the　old　servant　asked；　going　as
far　as　the　flight　of　steps　before　the　door；　with　the　young　doctor。

〃He　may　live　for　some　time　yet；　or　he　may　die　to…night。　The　chances　of
life　and　death　are　evenly　balanced　in　his　case。　I　can't　understand　it
at　all；〃　said　the　doctor；　with　a　doubtful　gesture。　〃His　mind　ought　to
be　diverted。〃

〃Diverted！　Ah；　sir；　you　don't　know　him！　He　killed　a　man　the　other　day
without　a　word！Nothing　can　divert　him！〃

For　some　days　Raphael　lay　plunged　in　the　torpor　of　this　artificial
sleep。　Thanks　to　the　material　power　that　opium　exerts　over　the
immaterial　part　of　us；　this　man　with　the　powerful　and　active
imagination　reduced　himself　to　the　level　of　those　sluggish　forms　of
animal　life　that　lurk　in　the　depths　of　forests；　and　take　the　form　of
vegetable　refuse；　never　stirring　from　their　place　to　catch　their　easy
prey。　He　had　darkened　the　very　sun　in　heaven；　the　daylight　never
entered　his　room。　About　eight　o'clock　in　the　evening　he　would　leave
his　bed；　with　no　very　clear　consciousness　of　his　own　existence；　he
would　satisfy　the　claims　of　hunger　and　return　to　bed　immediately。　One
dull　blighted　hour　after　another　only　brought　confused　pictures　and
appearances　before　him；　and　lights　and　shadows　against　a　background　of
darkness。　He　lay　buried　in　deep　silence；　movement　and　intelligence
were　completely　annihilated　for　him。　He　woke　later　than　usual　one
evening；　and　found　that　his　dinner　was　not　ready。　He　ran