Part 1 Book 2 Chapter 1 The Evening of a Day of Walking

Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was travelling on foot entered the little town of D---- The few inhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at the moment stared at this traveller with a sort of uneasiness. It was difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thickset and robust, in the prime of life. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned and tanned by sun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt of coarse yellow linen, fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor, permitted a view of his hairy breast: he had a cravat twisted into a string; trousers of blue drilling, worn and threadbare, white on one knee and torn on the other; an old gray, tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine; a tightly packed soldier knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new, on his back; an enormous, knotty stick in his hand; iron-shod shoes on his stockingless feet; a shaved head and a long beard.

The sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust, added I know not what sordid quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was closely cut, yet bristling, for it had begun to grow a little, and did not seem to have been cut for some time.

No one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passer-by. Whence came he? From the south; from the seashore, perhaps, for he made his entrance into D---- by the same street which, seven months previously, had witnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from Cannes to Paris. This man must have been walking all day. He seemed very much fatigued. Some women of the ancient market town which is situated below the city had seen him pause beneath the trees of the boulevard Gassendi, and drink at the fountain which stands at the end of the promenade. He must have been very thirsty: for the children who followed him saw him stop again for a drink, two hundred paces further on, at the fountain in the market-place.

On arriving at the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turned to the left, and directed his steps toward the town-hall. He entered, then came out a quarter of an hour later. A gendarme was seated near the door, on the stone bench which General Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to read to the frightened throng of the inhabitants of D---- the proclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly saluted the gendarme.

The gendarme, without replying to his salute, stared attentively at him, followed him for a while with his eyes, and then entered the town-hall.

There then existed at D---- a fine inn at the sign of the Cross of Colbas. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquin Labarre, a man of consideration in the town on account of his relationship to another Labarre, who kept the inn of the Three Dauphins in Grenoble, and had served in the Guides. At the time of the Emperor's landing, many rumors had circulated throughout the country with regard to this inn of the Three Dauphins. It was said that General Bertrand, disguised as a carter, had made frequent trips thither in the month of January, and that he had distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers and handfuls of gold to the citizens. The truth is, that when the Emperor entered Grenoble he had refused to install himself at the hotel of the prefecture; he had thanked the mayor, saying, "I am going to the house of a brave man of my acquaintance"; and he had betaken himself to the Three Dauphins. This glory of the Labarre of the Three Dauphins was reflected upon the Labarre of the Cross of Colbas, at a distance of five and twenty leagues. It was said of him in the town, "That is the cousin of the man of Grenoble."

The man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the country-side. He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with the street. All the stoves were lighted; a huge fire blazed gayly in the fireplace. The host, who was also the chief cook, was going from one stew-pan to another, very busily superintending an excellent dinner designed for the wagoners, whose loud talking, conversation, and laughter were audible from an adjoining apartment. Any one who has travelled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer than wagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and heather-cocks, was turning on a long spit before the fire; on the stove, two huge carps from Lake Lauzet and a trout from Lake Alloz were cooking.

The host, hearing the door open and seeing a newcomer enter, said, without raising his eyes from his stoves:--

"What do you wish, sir?"

"Food and lodging," said the man.

"Nothing easier," replied the host. At that moment he turned his head, took in the traveller's appearance with a single glance, and added, "By paying for it."

The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse,and answered, "I have money."

"In that case, we are at your service," said the host.

The man put his purse back in his pocket, removed his knapsack from his back, put it on the ground near the door, retained his stick in his hand, and seated himself on a low stool close to the fire. D---- is in the mountains. The evenings are cold there in October.

But as the host went back and forth, he scrutinized the traveller.

"Will dinner be ready soon?" said the man.

"Immediately," replied the landlord.

While the newcomer was warming himself before the fire, with his back turned, the worthy host, Jacquin Labarre, drew a pencil from his pocket, then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lying on a small table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and lackey. The landlord whispered a word in the scullion's ear, and the child set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall.

The traveller saw nothing of all this.

Once more he inquired, "Will dinner be ready soon?"

"Immediately," responded the host.

The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it eagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read it attentively, then tossed his head, and remained thoughtful for a moment. Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene.

"I cannot receive you, sir," said he.

The man half rose.

"What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you want me to pay you in advance? I have money, I tell you."

"It is not that."

"What then?"

"You have money--"

"Yes," said the man.

"And I," said the host, "have no room."

The man resumed tranquilly, "Put me in the stable."

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"The horses take up all the space."

"Very well!" retorted the man; "a corner of the loft then, a truss of straw. We will see about that after dinner."

"I cannot give you any dinner."

This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger as grave. He rose.

"Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise. I have travelled twelve leagues. I pay. I wish to eat."

"I have nothing," said the landlord.

The man burst out laughing, and turned towards the fireplace and the stoves: "Nothing! and all that?"

"All that is engaged."

"By whom?"

"By messieurs the wagoners."

"How many are there of them?"

"Twelve."

"There is enough food there for twenty."

"They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance."

The man seated himself again, and said, without raising his voice, "I am at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain."

Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him start, "Go away!"

At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting some brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turned quickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed steadily at him and added, still in a low voice: "Stop! there's enough of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name is Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw you come in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this was the reply that was sent to me. Can you read?"

So saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper which had just travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the town-hall to the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord resumed after a pause.

"I am in the habit of being polite to every one. Go away!"

The man dropped his head, picked up the knapsack which he had deposited on the ground, and took his departure.

He chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a venture, keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not turn round a single time. Had he done so, he would have seen the host of the Cross of Colbas standing on his threshold, surrounded by all the guests of his inn, and all the passers-by in the street, talking vivaciously, and pointing him out with his finger; and, from the glances of terror and distrust cast by the group, he might have divined that his arrival would speedily become an event for the whole town.

He saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behind them. They know but too well the evil fate which follows them.

Thus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasing, traversing at random streets of which he knew nothing, forgetful of his fatigue, as is often the case when a man is sad. All at once he felt the pangs of hunger sharply. Night was drawing near. He glanced about him, to see whether he could not discover some shelter.

The fine hostelry was closed to him; he was seeking some very humble public house, some hovel, however lowly.

Just then a light flashed up at the end of the streets; a pine branch suspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against the white sky of the twilight. He proceeded thither.

It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is in the Rue de Chaffaut.

The wayfarer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into the interior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated by a small lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men were engaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself. An iron pot, suspended from a crane, bubbled over the flame.

The entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an inn, is by two doors. One opens on the street, the other upon a small yard filled with manure. The traveller dare not enter by the street door. He slipped into the yard, halted again, then raised the latch timidly and opened the door.

"Who goes there?" said the master.

"Some one who wants supper and bed."

"Good. We furnish supper and bed here."

He entered. All the men who were drinking turned round. The lamp illuminated him on one side, the firelight on the other. They examined him for some time while he was taking off his knapsack.

The host said to him, "There is the fire. The supper is cooking in the pot. Come and warm yourself, comrade."

He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out his feet, which were exhausted with fatigue, to the fire; a fine odor was emitted by the pot. All that could be distinguished of his face, beneath his cap, which was well pulled down, assumed a vague appearance of comfort, mingled with that other poignant aspect which habitual suffering bestows.

It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. This physiognomy was strangely composed; it began by seeming humble, and ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a fire beneath brushwood.

One of the men seated at the table, however, was a fishmonger who, before entering the public house of the Rue de Chaffaut, had been to stable his horse at Labarre's. It chanced that he had that very morning encountered this unprepossessing stranger on the road between Bras d'Asse and--I have forgotten the name. I think it was Escoublon. Now, when he met him, the man, who then seemed already extremely weary, had requested him to take him on his crupper; to which the fishmonger had made no reply except by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a member half an hour previously of the group which surrounded Jacquin Labarre, and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of the morning to the people at the Cross of Colbas. From where he sat he made an imperceptible sign to the tavern-keeper. The tavern-keeper went to him. They exchanged a few words in a low tone. The man had again become absorbed in his reflections.

The tavern-keeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly on the shoulder of the man, and said to him:--

"You are going to get out of here."

The stranger turned round and replied gently, "Ah! You know?--"

"Yes."

"I was sent away from the other inn."

"And you are to be turned out of this one."

"Where would you have me go?"

"Elsewhere."

The man took his stick and his knapsack and departed.

As he went out, some children who had followed him from the Cross of Colbas, and who seemed to be lying in wait for him, threw stones at him. He retraced his steps in anger, and threatened them with his stick: the children dispersed like a flock of birds.

He passed before the prison. At the door hung an iron chain attached to a bell. He rang.

The wicket opened.

"Turnkey," said he, removing his cap politely, "will you have the kindness to admit me, and give me a lodging for the night?"

A voice replied:--

"The prison is not an inn. Get yourself arrested, and you will be admitted."

The wicket closed again.

He entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some of them are enclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to the street. In the midst of these gardens and hedges he caught sight of a small house of a single story, the window of which was lighted up. He peered through the pane as he had done at the public house. Within was a large whitewashed room, with a bed draped in printed cotton stuff, and a cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a double-barrelled gun hanging on the wall. A table was spread in the centre of the room. A copper lamp illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linen, the pewter jug shining like silver, and filled with wine, and the brown, smoking soup-tureen. At this table sat a man of about forty, with a merry and open countenance, who was dandling a little child on his knees. Close by a very young woman was nursing another child. The father was laughing, the child was laughing, the mother was smiling.

The stranger paused a moment in revery before this tender and calming spectacle. What was taking place within him? He alone could have told. It is probable that he thought that this joyous house would be hospitable, and that, in a place where he beheld so much happiness, he would find perhaps a little pity.

He tapped on the pane with a very small and feeble knock.

They did not hear him.

He tapped again.

He heard the woman say, "It seems to me, husband, that some one is knocking."

"No," replied the husband.

He tapped a third time.

The husband rose, took the lamp, and went to the door, which he opened.

He was a man of lofty stature, half peasant, half artisan. He wore a huge leather apron, which reached to his left shoulder, and which a hammer, a red handkerchief, a powder-horn, and all sorts of objects which were upheld by the girdle, as in a pocket, caused to bulge out. He carried his head thrown backwards; his shirt, widely opened and turned back, displayed his bull neck, white and bare. He had thick eyelashes, enormous black whiskers, prominent eyes, the lower part of his face like a snout; and besides all this, that air of being on his own ground, which is indescribable.

"Pardon me, sir," said the wayfarer, "Could you, in consideration of payment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in the garden, in which to sleep? Tell me; can you? For money?"

"Who are you?" demanded the master of the house.

The man replied: "I have just come from Puy-Moisson. I have walked all day long. I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you?-- if I pay?"

"I would not refuse," said the peasant, "to lodge any respectable man who would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn?"

"There is no room."

"Bah! Impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you been to Labarre?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

The traveller replied with embarrassment: "I do not know. He did not receive me."

"Have you been to What's-his-name's, in the Rue Chaffaut?"

The stranger's embarrassment increased; he stammered, "He did not receive me either."

The peasant's countenance assumed an expression of distrust; he surveyed the newcomer from head to feet, and suddenly exclaimed, with a sort of shudder:--

"Are you the man?--"

He cast a fresh glance upon the stranger, took three steps backwards, placed the lamp on the table, and took his gun down from the wall.

Meanwhile, at the words, Are you the man? the woman had risen, had clasped her two children in her arms, and had taken refuge precipitately behind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger, with her bosom uncovered, and with frightened eyes, as she murmured in a low tone, "Tso-maraude."

Patois of the French Alps: chat de maraude, rascally marauder.

All this took place in less time than it requires to picture it to one's self. After having scrutinized the man for several moments, as one scrutinizes a viper, the master of the house returned to the door and said:--

"Clear out!"

"For pity's sake, a glass of water," said the man.

"A shot from my gun!" said the peasant.

Then he closed the door violently, and the man heard him shoot two large bolts. A moment later, the window-shutter was closed, and the sound of a bar of iron which was placed against it was audible outside.

Night continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing. By the light of the expiring day the stranger perceived, in one of the gardens which bordered the street, a sort of hut, which seemed to him to be built of sods. He climbed over the wooden fence resolutely, and found himself in the garden. He approached the hut; its door consisted of a very low and narrow aperture, and it resembled those buildings which road-laborers construct for themselves along the roads. He thought without doubt, that it was, in fact, the dwelling of a road-laborer; he was suffering from cold and hunger, but this was, at least, a shelter from the cold. This sort of dwelling is not usually occupied at night. He threw himself flat on his face, and crawled into the hut. It was warm there, and he found a tolerably good bed of straw. He lay, for a moment, stretched out on this bed, without the power to make a movement, so fatigued was he. Then, as the knapsack on his back was in his way, and as it furnished, moreover, a pillow ready to his hand, he set about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment, a ferocious growl became audible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog was outlined in the darkness at the entrance of the hut.

It was a dog's kennel.

He was himself vigorous and formidable; he armed himself with his staff, made a shield of his knapsack, and made his way out of the kennel in the best way he could, not without enlarging the rents in his rags.

He left the garden in the same manner, but backwards, being obliged, in order to keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that manoeuvre with his stick which masters in that sort of fencing designate as la rose couverte.

When he had, not without difficulty, repassed the fence, and found himself once more in the street, alone, without refuge, without shelter, without a roof over his head, chased even from that bed of straw and from that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated himself on a stone, and it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim, "I am not even a dog!"

He soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town, hoping to find some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford him shelter.

He walked thus for some time, with his head still drooping. When he felt himself far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and gazed searchingly about him. He was in a field. Before him was one of those low hills covered with close-cut stubble, which, after the harvest, resemble shaved heads.

The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity of night; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed to rest upon the hill itself, and which were mounting and filling the whole sky. Meanwhile, as the moon was about to rise, and as there was still floating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness of twilight, these clouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort of whitish arch, whence a gleam of light fell upon the earth.

The earth was thus better lighted than the sky, which produces a particularly sinister effect, and the hill, whose contour was poor and mean, was outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon. The whole effect was hideous, petty, lugubrious, and narrow.

There was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree, which writhed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer.

This man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits of intelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious aspects of things; nevertheless, there was something in that sky, in that hill, in that plain, in that tree, which was so profoundly desolate, that after a moment of immobility and revery he turned back abruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile.

He retraced his steps; the gates of D---- were closed. D----, which had sustained sieges during the wars of religion, was still surrounded in 1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have been demolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town again.

It might have been eight o'clock in the evening. As he was not acquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random.

In this way he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary. As he passed through the Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church.

At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It is there that the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial Guard to the army, brought from the Island of Elba and dictated by Napoleon himself, were printed for the first time.

Worn out with fatigue, and no longer entertaining any hope, he lay down on a stone bench which stands at the doorway of this printing office.

At that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man stretched out in the shadow. "What are you doing there, my friend?" said she.

He answered harshly and angrily: "As you see, my good woman, I am sleeping." The good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact, was the Marquise de R----

"On this bench?" she went on.

"I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years," said the man; "to-day I have a mattress of stone."

"You have been a soldier?"

"Yes, my good woman, a soldier."

"Why do you not go to the inn?"

"Because I have no money."

"Alas!" said Madame de R----, "I have only four sous in my purse."

"Give it to me all the same."

The man took the four sous. Madame de R---- continued: "You cannot obtain lodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It is impossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, no doubt. Some one might have given you a lodging out of charity."

"I have knocked at all doors."

"Well?"

"I have been driven away everywhere."

The "good woman" touched the man's arm, and pointed out to him on the other side of the street a small, low house, which stood beside the Bishop's palace.

"You have knocked at all doors?"

"Yes."

"Have you knocked at that one?"

"No."

"Knock there."

一八一五年十月初，距日落前约一点钟，有一个步行的人走进了那小小的迪涅城。稀稀落落的居民在他们家门口或窗前，带着一种不安的心情瞧着这个行人。要碰见一个比他更褴褛的过路人是很不容易的了。他是一个中等身材的人，体格粗壮，正在盛年，可能有四十六或四十八岁。一顶皮檐便帽压齐眉心，把他那被太阳晒黑、淌着大汗的脸遮去了一部分。从他那领上扣一个小银锚的黄粗布衬衫里露出一部分毛茸茸的胸脯，他的领带扭得象根绳子，蓝棉布裤也磨损不堪，一个膝头成了白色，一个膝头有了窟窿；一件破旧褴褛的老灰布衫，左右两肘上都已用麻线缝上了一块绿呢布；他背上有只布袋，装得满满的也扣得紧紧的；手里拿根多节的粗棍，一双没有穿袜子的脚踩在两只钉鞋里，光头，长须。

汗、热、奔走和徒步旅行替那潦倒的人添上了一种说不出的狼狈神情。

他的头发原是剃光了的，但现在又茸茸满头了，因为又开始长出了一点，还好象多时没有修剪过似的。

谁也不认识他，他自然只是一个过路人。他是从什么地方来的呢？从南方来的。或是从海滨来的。因为他进迪涅城所走的路，正是七个月前拿破仑皇帝从戛纳去巴黎时所经过的路。这个人一定已走了一整天，他那神气显得异常疲乏。许多住在下城旧区里的妇人看见他在加桑第大路的树底下歇了一回脚，又在那广场尽头的水管里喝了些水。他一定渴极了，因为追着他的那些孩子还看见他在两百步外的那个小菜场的水管下停下来喝了水。

走到了巴许维街转角的地方，他向左转，朝市政厅走去。他进去，一刻钟过后又走了出来。有个警察坐在门旁的石凳上，那正是三月四日德鲁埃将军立上去向着惊骇万状的迪涅民众宣读茹安港①宣言的那条石凳。那汉子脱下他的便帽，向那警察恭恭敬敬行了一个礼。

警察没有答礼，只仔细打量了他一会，眼光送了他一程，就走到市政厅里去了。

当时，迪涅有一家华美的旅舍叫“柯耳巴十字架”。旅舍主人是雅甘·拉巴尔。城里的人都认为他是另外一个拉巴尔的亲族，另外那个拉巴尔在格勒诺布尔开着三太子旅舍，并且做过向导②。据当时传说，正月间贝特朗将军曾经乔装为车夫，在那一带地方往来过多次，把许多十字勋章分给一些士兵，把大量的拿破仑③分给一些士绅。实在的情形是这样的：皇帝进入格勒诺布尔城以后，不愿住在省长公署里，他谢了那位市长，他说：“我要到一个我认识的好汉家里去住。”他去的地方便是那三太子旅舍。三太子旅舍的那个拉巴尔所得的荣耀一直照射到二十五法里以外的这个柯耳巴十字架旅舍的拉巴尔。城里的人都说他是格勒诺布尔那位的堂兄弟。

①茹安港（Juan）在戛纳附近，拿破仑在此登陆时曾发出宣言。

②替拿破仑当向导。

③拿破仑，金币名，值二十法郎。

那人正向着这旅舍走去，它是这地方最好的旅舍了。他走进了厨房，厨房的门临街，也和街道一般平。所有的灶都升了火，一炉大火在壁炉里熊熊地烧着。那旅舍主人，同时也就是厨师，从灶心管到锅盏，正忙着照顾，替许多车夫预备一顿丰盛的晚餐，他们可以听见车夫们在隔壁屋子里大声谈笑。凡是旅行过的人都知道再也没有什么人比那些车夫吃得更考究的了。穿在长叉上的一只肥田鼠夹在一串白竹鸡和一串雄山雉中间，在火前转动。炉子上还烹着两条乐愁湖的青鱼和一尾阿绿茨湖的鲈鱼。

那主人听见门开了，又来了一个新客人，两只眼睛仍望着炉子，也不抬头，他说：

“先生要什么？”

“吃和睡。”那人说。

“再容易也没有，”主人回答说。这时，他转过头，目光射在旅客身上，又接着说：“……要付钱的呀。”

那人从他布衫的袋里掏出一只大钱包，回答说：

“我有钱。”

“好，我就来伺候您。”主人说。

那人把钱包塞回衣袋里，取下行囊，放在门边的地上，手里仍拿着木棍，去坐在火旁边的一张矮凳上。迪涅在山区，十月的夜晚是寒冷的。

但是，旅舍主人去了又来，来了又去，总在打量这位旅客。

“马上有东西吃吗？”那人问。

“得稍微等一会儿。”旅舍主人说。

这时，新来的客人正转过背去烘火，那位象煞有介事的旅舍主人从衣袋里抽出一支铅笔，又从丢在窗台旁小桌子上的那张旧报纸上扯下一角。他在那白报纸边上写了一两行字，又把这张破纸折好，并不封，交给一个好象是他的厨役又同时是他的跑腿的小厮。旅舍主人还在那小伙计耳边说了一句话，小伙计便朝着市政厅的方向跑去了。

那旅客一点也没有看见这些经过。

他又问了一次：

“马上有东西吃吗？”

“还得等一会儿。”旅舍主人说。

那孩子回来了。他带回了那张纸。主人急忙把它打开，好象一个等候回音的人，他仿佛细心地读了一遍，随后又点头，想了想。他终于朝着那心神似乎不大安定的旅客走上一步。

“先生，”他说，“我不能接待您。”

那个人从他的坐位上半挺着身子。

“怎么！您恐怕我不付钱吗？您要不要我先会账？我有钱呢，我告诉您。”

“不是为那个。”

“那么是为什么？”

“您有钱……”

“有。”那人说。

“但是我，”主人说，“我没有房间。”

那人和颜悦色地说：“把我安顿在马房里就是了。”

“我不能。”

“为什么？”

“那些马把所有的地方都占了。”

“那么，”那人又说，“阁楼上面的一个角落也可以。一捆草就够了。我们吃了饭再看吧。”

“我不能开饭给您吃。”

那个外来人对这种有分寸而又坚硬的表示感到严重了，他站立起来。

“哈！笑话！我快饿死了，我。太阳出来，我就走起。走了十二法里①的路程。我并不是不付钱。我要吃。”

①一法里等于现在的四公里。

“我一点东西也没有。”旅舍主人说。

那汉子放声大笑，转身朝着那炉灶。

“没有东西！那是什么？”

“那些东西全是客人定了的。”

“谁定的？”

“那些车夫先生定了的。”

“他们多少人？”

“十二个人。”

“那里有二十个人吃的东西。”

“那都是预先定好并且付了钱的。”

那个人又坐下去，用同样的口吻说：

“我已经到了这客栈里，我饿了，我不走。”

那主人弯下身子，凑到他耳边，用一种使他吃惊的口吻说：

“快走。”

这时，那旅客弯下腰去了，用他棍子的铁梢拨着火里的红炭，他蓦地转过身来，正要开口辩驳，可是那旅舍主人的眼睛盯着他，照先头一样低声说：

“我说，废话已经说够了。您要我说出您的姓名吗？您叫冉阿让。现在您要我说出您是什么人吗？您进来时，我一见心里就有些疑惑，我已派人到市政厅去过了，这是那里的回信。

您认识字吗？”

他一面那样说，一面把那张完全打开了的、从旅舍到市政厅、又从市政厅转回旅舍的纸递给那客人看。客人在纸上瞟了一眼。旅舍主人停了一会不响，接着又说：

“无论对什么人，我素来都是客客气气的，您还是走吧。”

那人低下了头，拾起他那只放在地上的布袋走了。

他沿着那条大街走去。好象一个受了侮辱、满腔委屈的人，他紧靠着墙壁，信步往前走。他的头一次也没有回转过。假使他回转头来，他就会看见那柯耳巴十字架的旅舍主人正立在他门口，旅舍里的旅客和路上的行人都围着他，在那里指手画脚，说长论短；并且从那一堆人的惊疑的目光里，他还可以猜想到他的出现不久就要搞得满城风雨。

那些经过，他完全没有瞧见。心情沮丧的人，总是不朝后面看的。他们只觉得恶运正追着他们。

他那样走了一些时候，不停地往前走，信步穿过了许多街道，都是他不认识的，忘了自身的疲乏，人在颓丧时是常有这种情况的。忽然，他感到饿得难熬。天也要黑了。他向四周望去，想发现一处可以过夜的地方。

那家华丽的旅馆既享以闭门羹，他便想找一家简陋的酒店，一所穷苦的破屋。

恰好在那条街的尽头，燃起了一盏灯，在半明半暗的暮色中，显出一根松枝，悬在一条曲铁上。他向那地方走去。

那确是一家酒店。就是沙佛街上的那家酒店。

那行人停了一会，从玻璃窗口望那酒家底层厅房的内部，看见桌上的灯正点着，壁炉里的火也正燃着。几个人在里面喝酒。老板也傍着火。一只挂在吊钩上的铁锅在火焰中烧得发响。

这家酒店，同时也是一种客栈，它有两扇门，一扇临街，另一扇通一个粪土混积的小天井。

那行人不敢由临街的门进去。他先溜进天井，待了一会，再轻轻地提起门闩，把门推开。

“来的是谁？”那老板问。

“一个想吃晚饭和过夜的人。”

“好的，这儿有饭吃，也有地方可以住。”

跟着，他进去了。那些正在喝酒的人全都转过头来。他这面有灯光照着，那面有火光照着。当他解下那口袋时，大家都打量了他好一会儿。那老板向他说：

“这儿有火，晚餐也正在锅里煮着。您来烤烤火吧，伙计。”

他走去坐在炉边，把那两只累伤了的脚伸到火前，一阵香味从锅里冲出。他的脸仍被那顶压到眉心的便帽半遮着，当时所能辨别出来的只是一种若隐若现的舒适神情，同时又搀杂着另外一种由于长期苦痛而起的愁容。

那是一副坚强有力而又忧郁的侧形。这相貌是稀有的，一眼看去象是谦卑，看到后来，却又严肃。眼睛在眉毛下炯炯发光，正象荆棘丛中的一堆火。

当时，在那些围着桌子坐下的人中有个鱼贩子。他在走进沙佛街这家酒店以前，到过拉巴尔的旅舍，把他的马寄放在马房里，当天早晨他又偶然碰见过这个面恶的外来人在阿塞湾和……（我已忘了那地名，我想是爱斯古布龙）之间走着。那外来人在遇见他时曾请求让他坐在马臀上，他当时已显得非常困顿了，那鱼贩子却一面支吾，一面加鞭走了。半点钟以前，那鱼贩子也是围着雅甘·拉巴尔那堆人中的一个，并且他亲自把当天早晨那次不愉快的遭遇告诉了柯耳巴十字架旅舍里的那些人。这时他从他座上向那酒店老板使了个眼色。酒店老板就走到他身边。彼此低声交谈了几句。那个赶路的客人却正在想他的心事。

酒店老板回到壁炉旁边，突然把手放在那人的肩上，向他说：

“你得离开此地。”

那个生客转过身来，低声下气地说：

“唉！您知道？”

“我知道。”

“他们把我从那个旅舍里撵了出来。”

“又要把你从这儿赶出去。”

“您要我到什么地方去呢？”

“到旁的地方去。”

那人提起他的棍和布袋，走了。

他走出店门，又遇到几个孩子，扔着石子打他，那起孩子是从柯耳巴十字架跟来，专在门口候他出来的。他狼狈地回转来，扬着棍子表示要打，孩子们也就象一群小鸟似的散了。

他走过监狱，监狱的大门上垂着一根拉钟的铁链。他便拉动那口钟。

墙上的一个小洞开了。

“看守先生，”他说，一面恭恭敬敬地脱下他的便帽，“您可愿意开开牢门让我住一宵？”

有个人的声音回答说：

“监牢又不是客栈。你得先叫人逮捕你。这门才会替你开。”

那小墙洞又闭上了。

他走到一条有许多花园的小街。其中的几处只用篱笆围着，那样可以使街道显得更生动。在那些花园和篱笆之间，他看见一所小平房的窗子里有灯光。他从那玻璃窗朝里看，正好象他先头望那酒店一样。那是一大间用灰浆刷白了的屋子，里面有一张床，床上铺着印花棉布的床单，屋角里有只摇篮，几张木椅，墙上挂着一枝双管枪。屋子中间有桌子，桌上正摆着食物。一盏铜灯照着那块洁白宽大的台布，一把灿烂如银的盛满了酒的锡壶和一只热气腾腾的栗黄汤钵。桌子旁边坐着一个四十岁左右喜笑颜开的男子，他用膝头颠着一个小孩，逗他跳跃。一个年纪正轻的妇人在他旁边喂另外一个婴孩的奶。父亲笑着，孩子笑着，母亲也微微地笑着。

这个异乡人在那种温柔宁静的景物前出了一会神。他心里想着什么？只有他自己才能说出来。也许他正想着那样一个快乐的家庭应当是肯待客的吧，他在眼前的那片福地上也许找得着一点恻隐之心吧。

他在玻璃窗上极轻地敲了一下。

没有人听见。

他敲第二下。

他听见那妇人说：

“当家的，好象有人敲门。”

“没有。”她丈夫回答。

他敲第三下。

那丈夫立起来，拿着灯，走去把门开了。

他是一个身材高大，半农半工模样的人。身上围着一件宽大的皮围裙，一直围到他的左肩，围裙里有一个铁锤、一条红手巾、一只火药匣、各式各样的东西，都由一根腰带兜住，在他的肚子上鼓起来。他的头朝后仰着，一件翻领衬衫大大敞开，露出了白皙光滑的牛脖子。他有浓厚的眉毛，腮帮上留着一大片黑胡须，眼睛不凹，下颏突出，在那样的面貌上，有一种说不出的怡然自得的神气。

“先生，”那过路人说，“请原谅。假使我出钱，您能给我一盆汤，让我在园里那棚子里的角上睡一宵？请您说，您可以吗，假使我出钱的话？”

“您是谁？”那房子的主人问。

那人回答说：

“我是从壁马松来的。我走了一整天，我走了十二法里。您同意吗？假使我出钱？”

“我并不拒绝留宿一个肯付钱的正派人，”那农人说，“但是您为什么不去找客栈呢？”

“客栈里没有地方了。”

“笑话！没有的事。今天又不是演杂技的日子，又不是赶集的日子。您到拉巴尔家去过没有？”

“去过了。”

“怎样呢？”

那过路人感到为难，他回答说：

“我不知道，他不肯接待我。”

“您到沙佛街上那叫做什么的家里去过没有？”

那个外来人更感困难了，他吞吞吐吐地说：

“他也不肯接待我。”

那农民的脸上立刻起了戒惧的神情，他从头到脚打量那陌生人，并且忽然用一种战栗的声音喊着说：

“难道您就是那个人吗？……”

他又对那外来人看了一眼，向后退三步，把灯放在桌上，从墙上取下了他的枪。

那妇人听见那农民说“难道您就是那个人吗？……”以后，也立了起来，抱着她的两个孩子，赶忙躲在她丈夫背后，惊慌失措地瞧着那个陌生人，敞着胸口，睁大了眼睛，她低声说：“佐马洛德。”①这些动作比我们想象的还快些。屋主把那“人”当作毒蛇观察了一番之后，又回到门前，说道：

“滚！”

“求您做做好事，”那人又说，“给我一杯水吧！”

“给你一枪！”农民说。

①佐马洛德（tsoCmaraude），法国境内阿尔卑斯山区的方言，即野猫。棗作者原注。

随后他把门使劲关上，那人还听见他推动两条大门闩的声音。过一会儿，板窗也关上了，一阵上铁门的声音直达外面。

天越来越黑了。阿尔卑斯山中已经起了冷风。那个无家可归的人从苍茫的暮色中看见街边的一个花园里有个茅棚，望去仿佛是草墩搭起来的。他下定决心，越过一道木栅栏，便到了那园里。他朝着那茅棚走去，它的门只是一个狭而很低的洞，正象那些筑路工人替自己在道旁盖起的那种风雨棚。他当然也认为那确实是一个筑路工人歇脚的地方，现在他感到又冷又饿，实在难熬。他虽然已不再希望得到食物，但至少那还是一个避寒的地方。那种棚子照例在晚上是没有人住的。他全身躺下，爬了进去。里面相当温暖，地上还铺了一层麦秸。他在那上面躺了一会，他实在太疲倦了，一点也不能动。随后，因为他背上还压着一个口袋，使他很不舒服，再说，这正是一个现成的枕头，他便动手解开那捆口袋的皮带。正在这时，他忽然听见一阵粗暴的声音。他抬起眼睛。黑暗中瞧见在那茅棚的洞口显出一只大狗头。

原来那是一个狗窝。

他自己本是胆大力壮，猛不可当的人，他拿起他的棍子，当作武器，拿着布袋当作藤牌，慢慢地从那狗窝里爬了出来，只是他那身褴褛的衣服已变得更加破烂了。

他又走出花园，逼得朝后退出去，运用棍术教师们所谓“盖蔷薇”的那种棍法去招架那条恶狗。

他费尽力气，越过木栅栏，回到了街心，孤零零，没有栖身之所，没有避风雨的地方，连那堆麦秸和那个不堪的狗窝也不容他涉足，他就让自己落（不是坐）在一块石头上，有个过路人仿佛听见他骂道：“我连狗也不如了！”

不久，他又立起来，往前走。他出了城，希望能在田野中找到一棵树或是一个干草堆，可以靠一下。

他那样走了一段时间，老低着头。直到他感到自己已和那些人家离得远了，他才抬起眼睛，四面张望。他已到了田野中，在他前面，有一片矮丘，丘上覆着齐地割了的麦茬，那矮丘在收获之后就象推光了的头一样。

天边已全黑了，那不仅是夜间的黑暗，仿佛还有极低的云层，压在那一片矮丘上面，继又渐渐浮起，满布天空。但是，由于月亮正待上来，穹苍中也还留着一点暮色的余辉，浮云朵朵，在天空构成了一种乳白的圆顶，一线微光从那顶上反照下来。

因此地面反比天空显得稍亮一些，那是一种特别阴森的景色，那片矮丘的轮廓，荒凉枯瘦，被黑暗的天边衬托得模糊难辨，色如死灰。所有这一切都是丑恶、卑陋、黯淡、无意义的。在那片田野中和矮丘上，空无所有，只见一棵不成形的树，在和这个流浪人相距几步的地方，蜷曲着它的枝干，摇曳不定。

显然，这个人在智慧方面和精神方面都谈不上有那些细腻的习气，因而对事物的神秘现象也就无动于衷；可是当时，在那样的天空中，那样的矮丘上，那样的原野里，那样的树杪头，却有一种惊心动魄的凄凉意味，因此他在凝神伫立一阵以后，也就猛然折回头走了。有些人的本能常使他们感到自然界是含有恶意的。

他顺着原路回去。迪涅的城门都已关上了。迪涅城在宗教战争①中受过围攻，直到一八一五年，它周围还有那种加建了方形碉楼的旧城墙，日后才被拆毁。他便经过那样一个缺口回到城里。

①指十六世纪中叶法国新旧两派宗教进行的战争。

当时应已是晚上八点钟了，因为他不认识街道，他只得信步走去。他这样走到了省长公署，过后又到了教士培养所。在经过天主堂广场时，他狠狠地对着天主堂扬起了拳头。

在那广场角上有个印刷局。从前拿破仑在厄尔巴岛上亲自口授，继又带回大陆的诏书及《羽林军告军人书》便是在这个印刷局里第一次排印的。

他已经困惫不堪，也不再希望什么，便走到那印刷局门前的石凳上躺下来。

恰巧有个老妇人从那天主堂里出来，她看见这个人躺在黑暗里，便说：

“您在这儿干什么，朋友？”

他气冲冲地、粗暴地回答说：

“您瞧见的，老太婆，我在睡觉。”

那老太婆，确也当得起这个称呼，她是R侯爵夫人。

“睡在这石凳上吗？”她又问。

“我已经睡了十九年的木板褥子，”那人说，“今天要来睡睡石板褥子了。”

“您当过兵吗？”

“是呀，老太婆。当过兵。”

“您为什么不到客栈里去？”

“因为我没有钱。”

“唉！”R夫人说，“我荷包里也只有四个苏。”

“给我就是。”

那人拿了那四个苏。R夫人继续说：

“这一点钱，不够您住客栈。不过您去试过没有？您总不能就这样过夜呀。您一定又饿又冷。也许会有人做好事，让您住一宵。”

“所有的门我都敲过了。”

“怎样呢？”

“没有一个地方不把我撵走。”

“老太婆”推着那人的胳膊，把广场对面主教院旁边的一所矮房子指给他看。

“所有的门，”她又说，“您都敲过了？”

“敲过了。”

“敲过那扇没有呢？”

“没有。”

“去敲那扇去。”

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