stories by english authors in france(旅法英国作家的故事)-第3章
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rousing night in some wild tavern vanished utterly away。 And it was not
only pleasure that fled laughing from his grasp； positive discomfort；
positive pain； attacked him as he stood ruefully before the porch。 His
perspiration had dried upon him； and although the wind had now fallen； a
binding frost was setting in stronger with every hour； and he felt
benumbed and sick at heart。 What was to be done？ Late as was the hour；
improbable as was his success； he would try the house of his adopted
father； the chaplain of St。 Benoit。
He ran all the way； and knocked timidly。 There was no answer。 He
knocked again and again； taking heart with every stroke； and at last steps
were heard approaching from within。 A barred wicket fell open in the iron…
studded door； and emitted a gush of yellow light。
〃Hold up your face to the wicket；〃 said the chaplain from within。
〃It's only me；〃 whimpered Villon。
〃Oh； it's only you； is it？〃 returned the chaplain； and he cursed him with
foul； unpriestly oaths for disturbing him at such an hour； and bade him be
off to hell； where he came from。
〃My hands are blue to the wrist；〃 pleaded Villon； 〃my feet are dead
and full of twinges； my nose aches with the sharp air； the cold lies at my
heart。 I may be dead before morning。 Only this once； father； and； before
God； I will never ask again！〃
〃You should have come earlier；〃 said the ecclesiastic； coolly。 〃Young
men require a lesson now and then。〃 He shut the wicket and retired
deliberately into the interior of the house。
Villon was beside himself； he beat upon the door with his hands and
feet； and shouted hoarsely after the chaplain。
〃Wormy old fox！〃 he cried。 〃If I had my hand under your twist； I
would send you flying headlong into the bottomless pit。〃
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A door shut in the interior； faintly audible to the poet down long
passages。 He passed his hand over his mouth with an oath。 And then the
humour of the situation struck him； and he laughed and looked lightly up
to heaven； where the stars seemed to be winking over his discomfiture。
What was to be done？ It looked very like a night in the frosty streets。
The idea of the dead woman popped into his imagination； and gave him a
hearty fright； what had happened to her in the early night might very well
happen to him before morning。 And he so young！ And with such immense
possibilities of disorderly amusement before him！ He felt quite pathetic
over the notion of his own fate； as if it had been some one else's； and made
a little imaginative vignette of the scene in the morning when they should
find his body。
He passed all his chances under review； turning the white between his
thumb and forefinger。 Unfortunately he was on bad terms with some old
friends who would once have taken pity on him in such a plight。 He had
lampooned them in verses； he had beaten and cheated them； and yet now；
when he was in so close a pinch； he thought there was at least one who
might perhaps relent。 It was a chance。 It was worth trying at least； and he
would go and see。
On the way； two little accidents happened to him which coloured his
musings in a very different manner。 For； first； he fell in with the track of a
patrol； and walked in it for some hundred yards； although it lay out of his
direction。 And this spirited him up； at least he had confused his trail； for he
was still possessed with the idea of people tracking him all about Paris
over the snow； and collaring him next morning before he was awake。 The
other matter affected him quite differently。 He passed a street…corner
where； not so long before； a woman and her child had been devoured by
wolves。 This was just the kind of weather； he reflected； when wolves
might take it into their heads to enter Paris again； and a lone man in these
deserted streets would run the chance of something worse than a mere
scare。 He stopped and looked upon the place with an unpleasant interestit
was a centre where several lanes intersected each other； and he looked
down them all； one after another； and held his breath to listen； lest he
should detect some galloping black things on the snow or hear the sound
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of howling between him and the river。 He remembered his mother telling
him the story and pointing out the spot； while he was yet a child。 His
mother！ If he only knew where she lived； he might make sure at least of
shelter。 He determined he would inquire upon the morrow； nay； he would
go and see her； too； poor old girl！ So thinking； he arrived at his
destinationhis last hope for the night。
The house was quite dark； like its neighbours； and yet after a few taps
he heard a movement overhead； a door opening； and a cautious voice
asking who was there。 The poet named himself in a loud whisper； and
waited； not without some trepidation； the result。 Nor had he to wait long。
A window was suddenly opened； and a pailful of slops splashed down
upon the door…step。 Villon had not been unprepared for something of the
sort； and had put himself as much in shelter as the nature of the porch
admitted； but for all that he was deplorably drenched below the waist。 His
hose began to freeze almost at once。 Death from cold and exposure stared
him in the face； he remembered he was of phthisical tendency； and began
coughing tentatively。 But the gravity of the danger steadied his nerves。 He
stopped a few hundred yards from the door where he had been so rudely
used； and reflected with his finger to his nose。 He could only see one way
of getting a lodging； and that was to take it。 He had noticed a house not far
away； which looked as if it might be easily broken into； and thither he
betook himself promptly； entertaining himself on the way with the idea of
a room still hot； with a table still loaded with the remains of supper； where
he might pass the rest of the black hours； and whence he should issue； on
the morrow； with an armful of valuable plate。 He even considered on what
viands and what wines he should prefer； and as he was calling the roll of
his favourite dainties； roast fish presented itself to his mind with an odd
mixture of amusement and horror。
〃I shall never finish that ballade；〃 he thought to himself； and then； with
another shudder at the recollection； 〃Oh； damn his fat head！〃 he repeated；
fervently； and spat upon the snow。
The house in question looked dark at first sight； but as Villon made a
preliminary inspection in search of the handiest point of attack； a little
twinkle of light caught his eye from behind a curtained window。
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〃The devil！〃 he thought。 〃People awake！ Some student or some saint；
confound the crew！ Can't they get drunk and lie in bed snoring like their
neighbours？ What's the good of curfew； and poor devils of bell… ringers
jumping at a rope's end in bell…towers？ What's the use of day； if people sit
up all night？ The gripes to them！〃 He grinned as he saw where his logic
was leading him。 〃Every man to his business； after all；〃 added he； 〃and if
they're awake； by the Lord； I may come by a supper honestly for once； and
cheat the devil。〃
He went boldly to the door and knocked with an assured hand。 On
both previous occasions he had knocked timidly and with some dread of
attracting notice； but now when he had just discarded the thought of a
burglarious entry； knocking at a door seemed a mighty simple and
innocent proceeding。 The sound of his blows echoed through the house
with thin； phantasmal reverberations； as though it were quite empty； but
these had scarcely died away before a measured tread drew near； a couple
of bolts were withdrawn； and one wing was opened broadly； as though no
guile or fear of guile were known to those within。 A tall figure of a man；
muscular and spare； but a little bent； confronted Villon。 The head was
massive in bulk； but finely sculptured； the nose blunt at the bottom； but
refining upward to where it joined a pair of strong and honest eyebrows；
the mouth and eyes surrounded with delicate markings； and the whole face
based upon a thick white beard； boldly and squarely trimmed。 Seen as it
was by the light of a flickering hand… lamp； it looked perhaps nobler than
it had a right to do； but it was a fine face； honourable rather than
intelligent； strong； simple； and righteous。
〃You knock late； sir；〃 said the old man； in resonant； courteous tones。
Villon cringed； and brought up many servile words of apology； at a
crisis of this sort； the beggar was uppermost in him； and the man of genius
hid his head with confusion。
〃You are cold；〃 repeated the old man； 〃and hungry？ Well； step in。〃 And
he ordered him into the house with a noble enough gesture。
〃Some great seigneur；〃 thought Villon； as his host； setting down the
lamp on the flagged pavement of the entry； shot the bolts once more into
their places。
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〃You will pardon me if I go in front；〃 he said； when this was done； and
he preceded the poet upstairs into a large apartment； warmed with a pan of
charcoal and lit by a great lamp hanging from the roof。 It was very bare of
furniture； only some gold plate on a sideboard； some folios； and a stand of
armour between the windows。 Some smart tapestry hung upon the walls；
representing the crucifixion of our Lord in one piece； and in another a
scene of shepherds and shepherdesses by a running stream。 Over the
chimney was a shield of arms。
〃Will you seat yourself；〃 said the old man； 〃and forgive me if I leave
you？ I am alone in my house to…night；
