ferragus-第6章

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contempt；　and　continued　her　way；　unaware　that　another　look；　if
surprised　by　her　husband；　might　endanger　not　only　her　happiness　but
the　lives　of　two　men。　Auguste；　frantic　with　anger；　which　he　tried　to
smother　in　the　depths　of　his　soul；　presently　left　the　house；　swearing
to　penetrate　to　the　heart　of　the　mystery。　Before　leaving；　he　sought
Madame　Jules；　to　look　at　her　again；　but　she　had　disappeared。

What　a　drama　cast　into　that　young　head　so　eminently　romantic；　like　all
who　have　not　known　love　in　the　wide　extent　which　they　give　to　it。　He
adored　Madame　Jules　under　a　new　aspect；　he　loved　her　now　with　the　fury
of　jealousy　and　the　frenzied　anguish　of　hope。　Unfaithful　to　her
husband；　the　woman　became　common。　Auguste　could　now　give　himself　up　to
the　joys　of　successful　love；　and　his　imagination　opened　to　him　a
career　of　pleasures。　Yes；　he　had　lost　the　angel；　but　he　had　found　the
most　delightful　of　demons。　He　went　to　bed；　building　castles　in　the
air；　excusing　Madame　Jules　by　some　romantic　fiction　in　which　he　did
not　believe。　He　resolved　to　devote　himself　wholly；　from　that　day
forth；　to　a　search　for　the　causes；　motives；　and　keynote　of　this
mystery。　It　was　a　tale　to　read；　or　better　still；　a　drama　to　be　played；
in　which　he　had　a　part。



CHAPTER　II

FERRAGUS

A　fine　thing　is　the　task　of　a　spy；　when　performed　for　one's　own
benefit　and　in　the　interests　of　a　passion。　Is　it　not　giving　ourselves
the　pleasure　of　a　thief　and　a　rascal　while　continuing　honest　men？　But
there　is　another　side　to　it；　we　must　resign　ourselves　to　boil　with
anger；　to　roar　with　impatience；　to　freeze　our　feet　in　the　mud；　to　be
numbed；　and　roasted；　and　torn　by　false　hopes。　We　must　go；　on　the　faith
of　a　mere　indication；　to　a　vague　object；　miss　our　end；　curse　our　luck；
improvise　to　ourselves　elegies；　dithyrambics；　exclaim　idiotically
before　inoffensive　pedestrians　who　observe　us；　knock　over　old　apple…
women　and　their　baskets；　run　hither　and　thither；　stand　on　guard
beneath　a　window；　make　a　thousand　suppositions。　But；　after　all；　it　is
a　chase；　a　hunt；　a　hunt　in　Paris；　a　hunt　with　all　its　chances；　minus
dogs　and　guns　and　the　tally…ho！　Nothing　compares　with　it　but　the　life
of　gamblers。　But　it　needs　a　heart　big　with　love　and　vengeance　to
ambush　itself　in　Paris；　like　a　tiger　waiting　to　spring　upon　its　prey；
and　to　enjoy　the　chances　and　contingencies　of　Paris；　by　adding　one
special　interest　to　the　many　that　abound　there。　But　for　this　we　need　a
many…sided　soulfor　must　we　not　live　in　a　thousand　passions；　a
thousand　sentiments？

Auguste　de　Maulincour　flung　himself　into　this　ardent　existence
passionately；　for　he　felt　all　its　pleasures　and　all　its　misery。　He
went　disguised　about　Paris；　watching　at　the　corners　of　the　rue　Pagevin
and　the　rue　des　Vieux…Augustins。　He　hurried　like　a　hunter　from　the　rue
de　Menars　to　the　rue　Soly；　and　back　from　the　rue　Soly　to　the　rue　de
Menars；　without　obtaining　either　the　vengeance　or　the　knowledge　which
would　punish　or　reward　such　cares；　such　efforts；　such　wiles。　But　he
had　not　yet　reached　that　impatience　which　wrings　our　very　entrails　and
makes　us　sweat；　he　roamed　in　hope；　believing　that　Madame　Jules　would
only　refrain　for　a　few　days　from　revisiting　the　place　where　she　knew
she　had　been　detected。　He　devoted　the　first　days　therefore；　to　a
careful　study　of　the　secrets　of　the　street。　A　novice　at　such　work；　he
dared　not　question　either　the　porter　or　the　shoemaker　of　the　house　to
which　Madame　Jules　had　gone；　but　he　managed　to　obtain　a　post　of
observation　in　a　house　directly　opposite　to　the　mysterious　apartment。
He　studied　the　ground；　trying　to　reconcile　the　conflicting　demands　of
prudence；　impatience；　love；　and　secrecy。

Early　in　the　month　of　March；　while　busy　with　plans　by　which　he
expected　to　strike　a　decisive　blow；　he　left　his　post　about　four　in　the
afternoon；　after　one　of　those　patient　watches　from　which　he　had
learned　nothing。　He　was　on　his　way　to　his　own　house　whither　a　matter
relating　to　his　military　service　called　him；　when　he　was　overtaken　in
the　rue　Coquilliere　by　one　of　those　heavy　showers　which　instantly
flood　the　gutters；　while　each　drop　of　rain　rings　loudly　in　the　puddles
of　the　roadway。　A　pedestrian　under　these　circumstances　is　forced　to
stop　short　and　take　refuge　in　a　shop　or　cafe　if　he　is　rich　enough　to
pay　for　the　forced　hospitality；　or；　if　in　poorer　circumstances；　under
a　/porte…cochere/；　that　haven　of　paupers　or　shabbily　dressed　persons。
Why　have　none　of　our　painters　ever　attempted　to　reproduce　the
physiognomies　of　a　swarm　of　Parisians；　grouped；　under　stress　of
weather；　in　the　damp　/porte…cochere/　of　a　building？　First；　there's　the
musing　philosophical　pedestrian；　who　observes　with　interest　all　he
sees；whether　it　be　the　stripes　made　by　the　rain　on　the　gray
background　of　the　atmosphere　（a　species　of　chasing　not　unlike　the
capricious　threads　of　spun　glass）；　or　the　whirl　of　white　water　which
the　wind　is　driving　like　a　luminous　dust　along　the　roofs；　or　the
fitful　disgorgements　of　the　gutter…pipes；　sparkling　and　foaming；　in
short；　the　thousand　nothings　to　be　admired　and　studied　with　delight　by
loungers；　in　spite　of　the　porter's　broom　which　pretends　to　be　sweeping
out　the　gateway。　Then　there's　the　talkative　refugee；　who　complains　and
converses　with　the　porter　while　he　rests　on　his　broom　like　a　grenadier
on　his　musket；　or　the　pauper　wayfarer；　curled　against　the　wall
indifferent　to　the　condition　of　his　rags；　long　used；　alas；　to　contact
with　the　streets；　or　the　learned　pedestrian　who　studies；　spells；　and
reads　the　posters　on　the　walls　without　finishing　them；　or　the　smiling
pedestrian　who　makes　fun　of　others　to　whom　some　street　fatality　has
happened；　who　laughs　at　the　muddy　women；　and　makes　grimaces　at　those
of　either　sex　who　are　looking　from　the　windows；　and　the　silent　being
who　gazes　from　floor　to　floor；　and　the　working…man；　armed　with　a
satchel　or　a　paper　bundle；　who　is　estimating　the　rain　as　a　profit　or
loss；　and　the　good…natured　fugitive；　who　arrives　like　a　shot
exclaiming；　〃Ah！　what　weather；　messieurs；　what　weather！〃　and　bows　to
every　one；　and；　finally；　the　true　/bourgeois/　of　Paris；　with　his
unfailing　umbrella；　an　expert　in　showers；　who　foresaw　this　particular
one；　but　would　come　out　in　spite　of　his　wife；　this　one　takes　a　seat　in
the　porter's　chair。　According　to　individual　character；　each　member　of
this　fortuitous　society　contemplates　the　skies；　and　departs；　skipping
to　avoid　the　mud；because　he　is　in　a　hurry；　or　because　he　sees　other
citizens　walking　along　in　spite　of　wind　and　slush；　or　because；　the
archway　being　damp　and　mortally　catarrhal；　the　bed's　edge；　as　the
proverb　says；　is　better　than　the　sheets。　Each　one　has　his　motive。　No
one　is　left　but　the　prudent　pedestrian；　the　man　who；　before　he　sets
forth；　makes　sure　of　a　scrap　of　blue　sky　through　the　rifting　clouds。

Monsieur　de　Maulincour　took　refuge；　as　we　have　said；　with　a　whole
family　of　fugitives；　under　the　porch　of　an　old　house；　the　court…yard
of　which　looked　like　the　flue　of　a　chimney。　The　sides　of　its
plastered；　nitrified；　and　mouldy　walls　were　so　covered　with　pipes　and
conduits　from　all　the　many　floors　of　its　four　elevations；　that　it
might　have　been　said　to　resemble　at　that　moment　the　/cascatelles/　of
Saint…Cloud。　Water　flowed　everywhere；　it　boiled；　it　leaped；　it
murmured；　it　was　black；　white；　blue；　and　green；　it　shrieked；　it
bubbled　under　the　broom　of　the　portress；　a　toothless　old　woman　used　to
storms；　who　seemed　to　bless　them　as　she　swept　into　the　street　a　mass
of　scraps　an　intelligent　inventory　of　which　would　have　revealed　the
lives　and　habits　of　every　dweller　in　the　house；bits　of　printed
cottons；　tea…leaves；　artificial　flower…petals　faded　and　worthless；
vegetable　parings；　papers；　scraps　of　metal。　At　every　sweep　of　her
broom　the　old　woman　bared　the　soul　of　the　gutter；　that　black　fissure
on　which　a　porter's　mind　is　ever　bent。　The　poor　lover　examined　this
scene；　like　a　thousand　others　which　our　heaving　Paris　presents　daily；
but　he　examined　it　mechanically；　as　a　man　absorbed　in　thought；　when；
happening　to　look　up；　he　found　himself　all　but　nose　to　nose　with　a　man
who　had　just　entered　the　gateway。

In　appearance　this　man　was　a　beggar；　but　not　the　Parisian　beggar；
that　creation　without　a　name　in　human　language；　no；　this　man　formed
another　type；　while　presenting　on　the　outside　all　the　ideas　suggested
by　the　word　〃beggar。〃　He　was　not　marked　by　those　original　Parisian
characteristics　which　strike　us　so　forcibly　in　the　paupers　whom
Charlet　was　fond　of　representing；　with　his　rare　luck　in　observation；
coarse　faces　reeking　of　mud；　hoarse　voices；　reddened　and　bulbous
noses；　mouths　devoid　of　teeth　but　menacing；　humble　yet　terrible
beings；　in　whom　a　profound　intelligence　shining　in　their　eyes　seems
like　a　contradiction。　Some　of　these　bold　vagabonds　have　blotched；
cracked；　veiny　skins；　their　foreheads　are　covered　with　wrinkles；　their
hair　scanty　and　dirty；　like　a　wig　thrown　on　a　dust…heap。　All　are　gay
in　their　degradation；　and　degraded　in　their　joys；　all　are　marked　with
the　stamp　of　debauchery；　casting　their　silence　as　a　reproach；　their
very　attitude　revealing　fearful　thoughts。　Placed　between　crime　and
beggary　they　have　no　compunctions；　and　circle　prudently　around　the
scaffold　without　mounting　it；　innocent　in　the　midst　of　crime；　and
vicious　in　their　innocence。　They　often　cause　a　laugh；　but　they　always
cause　reflection。　One　represents　to　you　civilization　stunted；
repressed；　he　comprehends　everything；　the　honor　of　the　galleys；
patriotism；　virtue；　the　malice　of　a　vulgar　crime；　or　the　fine
astuteness　of　elegant　wickedness。　Another　is　resigned；　a　perfect
mimer；　but　stupid。　All　have　slight　yearnings　after　order　and　work；　but
they　are　pushed　back　into　their　mire　by　society；　which　makes　no
inquiry　as　to　what　there　may　be　of　great　men；　poets；　intrepid　souls；
and　splendid　organizations　among　these　vagrants；　these　gypsies　of
Paris；　a　people　eminently　good　and　eminently　evillike　all　the　masses
who　sufferaccustomed　to　endure　unspeakable　woes；　and　whom　a　fatal
power　holds　ever　down　to　the　level　of　the　mire。　They　all　have　a　dream；
a　hope；　a　happiness；cards；　lottery；　or　wine。

There　was　nothing　of　all　this　in　the　personage　who　now　leaned
carelessly　against　the　wall　in　front　of　Monsieur　de　Maulincour；　like
some　fantastic　idea　drawn　by　an　artist　on　the　back　of　a　canvas　the
front　of　which　is　turned　to　the　wall。　This　tall；　spare　man；　whose
leaden　visage　expressed　some　deep　but　chilling　thought；　dried　up　all
pity　in　the　hearts　of　those　who　looked　at　him　by　the　scowling　look　and
the　sarcastic　attitude　which　announced　an　intention　of　treating　every
man　as　an　equal。　His　face　was　of　a　dirty　white；　and　his　wrinkled
skull；　denuded　of　hair；　bore　a　vague　resemblance　to　a　block　of
granite。　A　few　gray　locks　on　either　side　of　his　head　fell　straight　to
the　collar　of　his　greasy　coat；　which　was　buttoned　to　the　chin。　He
resembled　both　Voltaire　and　Don　Quixote；　he　was；　apparently；　scoffing
but　melancholy；　full　of　disdain　and　philosophy；　but　half…crazy。　He
seemed　to　have　no　shirt。　His　beard　was　long。　A　rusty　black　cravat；
much　worn　and　ragged；　exposed　a　protuberant　neck　deeply　furrowed；　with
veins　as　thick　as　cords。　A　large　brown　circle　like　a　bruise　was
strongly　marked　beneath　his　ey